Promise of the Rose (54 page)

“But I am your wife! If you trusted me …” She trailed off. What was there to say? He did not trust her with his secrets—had he not said he would never forget her treachery? The old hurt was there, gnawing at her deep within her bones, for it had never gone away, it had only been buried deeply and purposefully. She had thought she could leave it there in its grave forever, apparently she was wrong.

“You are my wife, and I suggest you behave in a wifely manner, madame, unless you wish to bring this marriage down around our heads.” Stephen stalked to the door and through it without giving her another glance.

Once he was gone, Mary rushed as best she could to the door and slammed it closed behind him, as hard as she could. Then she gave in to her tears.

What kind of marriage did they have? Damn him! He was a pigheaded, arrogant man! She had a right to know what he intended, for her brothers were now her responsibility with their parents dead. Their only hope lay in Edgar one day seizing the throne. Even if they were free to depart London, they dared not leave the refuge Rufus had provided them. Men had murdered one another over Scotland’s throne; the nation had a long and bloody history. Donald Bane had already issued an invitation to her brothers, one they dared not accept. Undoubtedly the moment they arrived in Scotland, they would become lifetime prisoners, or lifeless corpses.

Thus Edgar had little choice now but to remain at Court in London, currying favor with the King, in the hope that one day Rufus would help him in his quest to gain the Scottish throne. His future hinged upon Rufus’s goodwill, as did that of his brothers, who were allied with him. One day, if Edgar became King, they would become great lairds in their own right.

Mary did not want to fight with her husband. These past weeks they had enjoyed a triumphant peace—one she wished to endure for a lifetime. But she was not a woman to remain meek and ignorant, yet he refused to share his affairs with her. Where did that leave them?

Perhaps, if the subject were not so dear to her, it would not matter. But her brothers were her affair—more than Stephen’s. She had every right to urge her husband to a solution that would assure their futures. Why could he not understand that?

Because he still does not trust me, she thought bleakly. If he trusted me, I would be his dearest ally, and he would whisper all his secrets willingly.

Mary wanted to be his dearest ally. She wanted that more than anything other than his love. She despaired. If Stephen could not forget the past, it would never come to pass.

There was a knock on the chamber door, and Mary turned as a maid entered. The young woman hesitated, seeing her mistress’s distress, undoubtedly having heard some, if not all, of her fight with Stephen. “My lady? I have come to help you pack.”

“Please.” Mary gestured for the girl to come in. Slowly, her back aching, she focused on the task at hand. But all the joy had gone out of the prospect of going home.

   Stephen and Mary did not speak with each other except to maintain a semblance of impersonal courtesy. Although Stephen’s goal in returning to Alnwick was to raise troops and summon his vassals quickly to the war, he kept the entourage at a pace befitting his wife’s condition, and it took two full days for them to journey to Alnwick. Mary could not be grateful. She was too distraught. She catered to her husband as she should, but the pleasant camaraderie,
the warmth and the lust, had vanished. Stephen was stiff and formal with her, clearly as upset as she. Quivering tension strained their relations.

Stephen did not remain at Alnwick for even a night. He deposited Mary at the keep’s front steps while awaiting a fresh mount “I bid you adieu, madarne. Unfortunately, I cannot tarry even awhile.” Suddenly his expression softened. “I would delay if I could, madame,” he said low, stving at her, “and put an end to this foolish war once and for all.”

Mary almost begged him to stay. She understood his meaning. He would make love to her and show her with his body that he was master, but in so doing, he would also reveal that be was the slave. In bed they were equals. In bed he gave all of himself to her, without restraint. Mary knew they would never have such equality out of it—that was a ridiculous notion—but one day, she vowed, he would give all of himself willingly outside the cloak of passion.

He misread her expression. Concern tightened his features. “Do not worry, Mary. My mother has reassured me that she will remain with you for the rest of your confinement. She will arrive here within a sennight. If I do not return soon, you will not be alone.”

Mary was startled. “Do you think to be gone so long?”

“I do not know. Once Duncan seizes power, he cannot be left alone until his position is secure.”

Mary regained her composure. “I am not worried,” she lied. She would not send Stephen off to war with needless anxiety for her state of mind. In fact, every woman she knew was afraid of childbirth. Too many died from the ordeal. She herself was no exception, but so far she had avoided facing her fear, and she would not do so now, at their parting.

“Then you are braver than I had thought, Mary. You are indeed a brave Scottish lass.”

Mary looked at her handsome husband, her heart turning over. He was worried and he was concerned, and his praise was so dear after the horribly cruel words Malcolm had insulted her with. Her love threatened to overwhelm her, rendering her weak-kneed. Dear God, she did not want him to go to war, especially not for such a cause as this. But she
must be as brave as Stephen thought her to be. “Godspeed, my lord. I know you will triumph.”

He leaned down from his mount, holding her gaze with his. “And will you rejoice?”

Mary inhaled but no longer hesitated. It was her place to support him. “Yes.” She fought sudden tears, assuring herself that she was not abandoning her brothers. “When you triumph, my lord, I will rejoice.”

Stephen stared.

It was hard to smile while crying, but Mary managed it.

“Thank you, madame wife,” Stephen said. And his eyes had become suspiciously moist.

   In mid-May the army finally moved. It marched unerringly towards Stirling, meeting with little resistance. When an opposing army finally came to fight them, the Normans were already close to the royal tower. The battle was surprisingly short. The Scot forces were in disarray, clearly lacking a unified command. Donald Bane and Edmund both fled the moment defeat became obvious. In the last week of May a victorious Norman army marched into Stirling, with Duncan at its head. He was crowned the very same afternoon.

News of the great event reached Alnwick the following day. There was great rejoicing at the keep. Mary could not participate in the spontaneous celebration. She left the feast, adjourning to her chamber. There she stared out of the window slit, unable not to condemn Stephen no matter how she resolved to be loyal to him.

She thought of her three brothers, having no choice but to remain in London, and she was unbearably saddened. What would happen to them now? Someone, perhaps even Duncan himself, had tried to murder her, and she was no threat compared to them. One day any one of her brothers could claim Scotland’s throne, raise an army, and march to seize it by force. How afraid she was for them now! Each and every one of them stood in the way of Duncan’s lifelong ambition.

The next day Mary received word from Stephen that he would not be returning immediately—he would spend several weeks in Stirling with his army, as he had forecast. Apparently Duncan’s position was not terribly secure.
That did hearten Mary, yet she could not be completely glad, for still she was determined to be loyal to Stephen, even though she disagreed with him, even though she had become very worried over the fates of her brothers. And Mary missed Stephen desperately—as her time drew near, how she yearned for him to come home to her.

   No day could be better for an outing, Mary thought with excitement. It was warm and pleasant out, the sun shone brightly, and blue jays cried out cheerfully from the leafy treetops overhead. The countess and Isobel were astride palfreys, both riding beside the litter Mary was in. Two household knights accompanied them, and two maids were on foot. Mary suspected the countess sought to distract her from her increasing boredom and anxiety with this short jaunt. The pregnancy had become endless, while her fears of childbirth had begun to grow. Mary both anticipated and dreaded the moment she must deliver the babe.

Within a few minutes they reached the village that lay just below Alnwick. Mary insisted upon walking, determined to explore the busy summer marketplace. She wanted to buy some trinkets, and she could not browse comfortably among the vendors and stalls while in the litter. And she wanted to buy something for Stephen, a gift that would tell him how much she missed him, how much she loved him. But she never had a chance.

For as Mary walked slowly to a stall to inspect fabrics, with the countess beside her, Isobel running ahead to buy a sweetmeat, someone knocked into Lady Ceidre.

Mary saw the entire incident and she was aghast, because the villein had pushed the countess on purpose. As Ceidre reeled into the merchant’s table, tipping it and all his goods to the floor, causing an uproar, the villein jerked Mary roughly to him. He clamped a hand over her mouth, cutting off her cry.

Then he lifted her off her feet and moved her away from the scene of confusion. Realizing his intent, Mary began to struggle.

But an instant later he had thrown her upon a waiting horse, leaping up behind her. Mary screamed.

The countess, finally aware of what was happening, shouted, and the two knights drew their swords.

Terrified, not for herself but for the babe, Mary clung to the horse’s mane as it bolted. Another rider, materializing out of the throng, joined them in a dead gallop. Vendors and buyers leapt out of their way as they galloped through the market, knocking over stalls and carts and anything else in their way.

Still Mary clung. In disbelief she glanced over her shoulder. She saw the countess racing after her on foot, hopelessly. The din behind her was deafening, but Mary thought she heard someone cry, “They’ve stole his lordships’s wife!” And then the two knights emerged from the crowd, running for their steeds.

Mary collapsed against the mare’s neck, beginning to shake.
Dear God, sweet Mother Mary, she had been abducted!
Coldly, calculatedly abducted! Where were they taking her? Who was responsible? And how, sweet Lord, how would she and her baby survive?

S
tephen was livid. “What do you mean, you did not see any harm in an outing?” he roared.

The countess shrank away from him. “She was so anxious …”

Disbelief contorted his features. He could not speak. Rolfe moved between his son and his wife. “Your mother is sick to death with distress. The abduction was not her fault,” the earl said harshly. “If anyone is to blame, it is Will and Ranulph.”

Stephen’s jaw tightened. What his father had said was obvious, yet he could not, would not, forgive his mother. He had left explicit orders that Mary remain within the keep. He turned from her coldly, uncaring of her hurt. Dear God, if anything happened to Mary …

Sheer, sickening terror clawed at him. Never in his life had he been afraid, not like this. Even now she was out there somewhere, with her abductors, perhaps hurt and in pain. Or worse. Abruptly he pulled himself together. He had no time to dwell upon the possibilities, he must act. Stephen turned his frozen stare upon the two knights who had failed in their duty to protect Mary. “Tell me again what happened.”

Word of Mary’s abduction had reached him some five or six hours ago in Edinburgh, where Duncan now held court. He had been roused from his pallet at midnight by his mother’s messenger. Stephen had immediately left for Alnwick, pausing only to inform his father of where he was going and why. Rolfe had decided to come with him instantly. Both men had been wished well by Scotland’s new King; Duncan had also been roused by the news.

It was now dawn. Stephen had practically killed his horse in order to return so swiftly; he had arrived just a few moments ago. He had quickly learned that Mary had been abducted the afternoon before. She had literally been stolen out from the two knights’ midst by two horsemen. His men had tracked the duo into the forest, but once there, they had lost them.

“My lord, they were dressed as common freemen, but they rode like seasoned knights,” Will was saying. “ ’Tis clear the entire event was planned well before yesterday. I think the men must have been waiting for any opportunity to arise in which they could seize her ladyship.”

Stephen already knew it was no common abduction. No lout would dare to abduct his wife, or even be capable of such a feat in the face of his own vassals. The fact was that one of his enemies had captured Mary—and Stephen could only think that it was an act of revenge. And he was sick again with fear.

All denial, all protestations, were useless now. He loved his wife to the point of madness; he would do anything to get her back. And once he had her back, he would give her all that she wanted—he would deny her nothing.