by Brenda Joyce
Mary knew Isobel did not mean to insult her, but her size, which always made people assume her to be younger than her age, had always dismayed her. “I am almost seventeen. Far older than you.”
“Old enough to be wed.”
“I am a maid.” Mary thought about her captor for the first time since Isobel had entered her chamber.
“You are so small, not much bigger than me, that from a distance, one would think you a child.”
“And you are very tall for such a young girl.”
“Undoubtedly my husband will be much shorter than I.” Isobel laughed at the idea. “But I do not care what he looks like, as long as he is powerful and strong.”
Mary stared at Isobel as her earlier statement sank in, her heart jumping. She and Isobel resembled each other.
“Stephen is powerful and strong,” Isobel said rather coyly.
Mary did not respond. She did not even hear Isobel. Her mind whirled. It was true. She and Isobel had similar appearances. Not only were they about the same height and size, they were both fair and long-haired. Mary thought that, in shadow and from a distance, a man would not be able to tell the two of them apart, not if Mary bound her small breasts and wore Isobel’s clothes.
“Lady—is something wrong?”
Mary was quivering with excitement and fear. She gazed blankly at Isobel. “I beg your pardon?” It was her duty to escape.
Isobel repeated the question, but Mary did not listen. Instead, she knew that it was more than her duty to escape, it was a necessity. For in time, whether it be a day or two or even a week, Stephen de Warenne would learn from his man Will or other spies about the disappearance of Malcolm’s daughter. He would instantly comprehend that she was the Scots princess.
“Madam?”
Mary jerked to attention. “I am sorry, I did not sleep well last night, and my concentration wavers.” But her mind raced on. Somehow she would have to borrow Isobel’s clothes and get into the bailey, and as there was no way she could do so by walking past her captor or his brothers, perhaps when Isobel went out, she could join her. And once in the bailey, without escort, thought to be the young girl, there would be opportunities for escape. There must be.
Isobel was asking, with a sly smile, “Don’t you like my brother now?”
Mary realized that Isobel was waiting for a reply. With an effort she recalled the question. Then she comprehended the child’s meaning—that after last night, a night she had spent in Stephen’s chamber, she must have some fondness for her captor. Her eyes were wide and she stood up. “No, Isobel, I am sorry to say that I do not!”
Isobel started. “But how is that possible? All the maids I know pray for him to take them into his bed. And afterwards, they are always very pleased—indeed, they pray he might notice them again.”
Mary folded her arms very tightly against her chest. “I suppose he—Stephen—takes ladies to his bed often.”
“Very often,” Isobel said, not quite smiling. “But not ladies, just kitchen maids and strumpets. You look peculiar.”
Mary said nothing. She walked over to the window slit and stared out of it. She decided that she would attempt to escape immediately. She hugged herself harder.
“Do you not find Stephen handsome?”
Mary refused to answer. She was having trouble dislodging an unwelcome image from her mind, of Stephen and some hussy in a torrid embrace. She gripped the rough stone ledge. Her back was to Isobel. “Isobel, as we are the same size, is it possible you might find me a garment that is more pleasing to look upon than these poorly mended rags I now wear?”
Isobel blinked.
Mary’s heart pounded. She had hardly been subtle. But the urge to flee was one she now could not resist.
And Isobel beamed. “Of course; why did I not think of it? You are a lady, and no lady could tolerate those filthy clothes for long. I am happy to give you something of mine.”
Clad in an ice blue tunic and a silver girdle, silver hose, and dark blue slippers, her purple mantle lined in squirrel, Mary slowly descended the staircase with Isobel. As the morning had passed, they had become good friends, and Mary regretted using her. Isobel was clever, witty, and headstrong, and she reminded Mary in no small way of herself. There were more similarities between them as well, for, like Mary, Isobel had been raised with a batch of brothers by powerful yet fond parents. Mary thought that if circumstances were different, their friendship would blossom when the child matured into an adult.
But of course, that was not to be.
Mary tensed. The Norman was below, and she could clearly hear his voice as they went downstairs. He was immersed in affairs of the estate in the hall below with his chamberlain, his steward, and both of his brothers. Mary listened to his strong, slightly husky tone. Apparently he was with a tenant as well, one who now was asking for some small boon.
Would she be allowed to leave the keep with Isobel?
With some encouragement from Mary, Isobel had offered to show her her pony, which happened to be from the Hebrides, not only a group of western islands belonging to Scotland, but the place of her uncle Donald Bane’s exile. Mary had accepted. Undoubtedly this would be her one and only chance to escape before nightfall. Mary did not want to think further than that, about what awaited her if she did not succeed in escaping now. There seemed to be a thick lump in her chest.
Isobel grasped her hand firmly. “Do not be afraid of him. He is not as bad as you think.”
Mary wet her dry lips. “I am not afraid of your brother, Isobel.”
Isobel appeared skeptical.
“But I am quite certain that your brother will not allow me to go with you out of this keep.”
Isobel snorted. “He will if I ask him!”
Determined to be calm and not give away her scheme, Mary followed Isobel into the hall. Gaily Isobel ran to her brothers. While Geoffrey greeted her with some joke that made her giggle, Stephen ceased his directives abruptly, favoring Mary with an interested and speculative stare. She was aware of the admiration in his gaze as he eyed her clad in his sister’s fine clothes. “A vast improvement, mademoiselle,” he murmured.
Mary tensed her jaw, refusing to hold his regard. Her heart was beating so wildly, she was afraid he could hear it, and guess that all was not as it seemed.
Isobel interrupted. “I want to show Mairi King Rufus, Steph. Can we? Please?”
Thinking of escape, waiting for his reply, Mary was sweating.
Stephen barely looked at his sister. “Interested in ponies?”
“I adore horses,” Mary managed.
Stephen eyed her for another lingering moment, then patted Isobel. “You may go.”
Isobel shrieked and hugged him, then flew across the hall. Mary turned to follow, unable to believe her luck, feeling his gaze on her, burning holes in her back.
“Beware,” he said softly, ominously. “You will not be able to leave Alnwick, mademoiselle, in case you happen to think otherwise.”
Somehow he guessed her intentions, somehow she did not miss a stride. But nothing was going to stop her now, nothing.
Outside, Mary was pulled along by Isobel, who chattered away. Mary did not pay her attention. Had he really surmised that she intended to escape? Or were his last words merely a warning? Surely if he guessed her plans, he would not allow her from his sight!
They traipsed along to the stables, Isobel skipping ahead while Mary, her throat dry and her pulses skittering, began to look for an opportunity to seize. She began to lag behind isobel, which was not difficult as the child raced on.
The bailey was as crowded as it had been yesterday when Mary had first entered its confines. A bevy of laundresses were washing clothes in a huge cistern, other servants were moving purposefully to and fro, on business for their master, the blacksmith was still at work, his anvil ringing, and a shepherd had brought a small flock within, no doubt for the cook pot. His herd was milling everywhere, creating more confusion and more noise. Two small, shaggy dogs wer
e taking frantic pleasure in chasing their charges while the shepherd ran to and fro, chasing first a ewe, then a lamb. Two knights were riding through the portcullis.
Far ahead of her now, Isobel paused, calling, “Can’t keep up? Want to race?” Laughing, she took off at a run.
Mary came to a halt, watching the child disappear in the throng of bondsmen and freemen. She looked around carefully, but no one was observing her. Abruptly she darted into the long shadows of the knights’ hall, where she paused.
She was out of breath, trembling with fear and excitement. Quickly she raised her cloak, pulling it up over her head. Two men in leather hauberks, wearing swords, strolled past her. Mary looked away from them. One of them waved at her, Mary waved back.
Her heart pounded. She had been assumed to be Isobel—her plan was working.
Mary glanced around. Her gaze settled on the carpenter and his apprentices, unloading a wagon of lumber near the small building that they were constructing. It was apparent to Mary, as the oxen remained hitched, that the wagon’s work was not done for the day. Mary sucked up her courage and left the safety of the shadows. Keeping her face downward, she approached. Her steps slowed. Mary stepped closer to a mountain of stacked wine caskets. The men finished unloading the lumber and returned to their work, while the carter climbed back onto his seat. The wagon was now empty, except for a tarp which had previously protected the wood from any rain.
This was her chance—maybe it was her only chance. The carter would be leaving in a moment. Mary was frozen, her heart tripping wildly. She looked around. There were so many people running and milling about—but no one was looking at her. Those who were not going about their business were watching, with much laughter, the antics of the shepherd chasing his flock. She looked at the wagon. It had started to move forward. The carter cracked his whip, yelling at the oxen.
Mary did not pause. Her heart in her throat, she hoisted her skirts and scrambled into the back of the wagon.
She skinned her knees in the mad climb. She dove under the sacking, curling up, her heart banging madly, waiting for cries of discovery. She had made noise as she dove aboard; surely the carter had heard her. She was afraid to move, afraid to breathe. She closed her eyes and prayed briefly to the Virgin Mother.
Miraculously, no one whipped the sacking from her, no one hauled her by her ear from the wagon. No shouts of alarm went up. The wagon continued to roll forward.
Stephen pounded down the narrow spiral staircase. He was grim and unsmiling as he strode into the hall. Will had returned from Liddel, and if he had returned so quickly, it meant that he had undoubtedly found out his captive’s identity. He was no longer sure he wanted to learn the truth. Foreboding filled him.
Will was already at the table, quaffing wine and being served refreshments by one of the maids. Geoffrey stood near him, arms crossed, looking on. Brand, seated by Will, was asking wryly, “So what have you discovered? Is my brother’s little captive little Mairi after all? Or does she belong to some great Scottish lord?”
Will grimaced. When Stephen paused in front of him, he instantly knew that his vassal had discovered Mary’s true identity and that the discovery foretold trouble. At Stephen’s entrance, Will leapt to his feet, his eyes dark with warning. “Stephen,” he said, hesitating. “Liddel is in an uproar.”
“Speak up.”
Will swallowed. “And Malcolm Canmore is in a rage.”
Brand’s mocking smile vanished. Geoffrey stared. And Stephen was silent. Already grasping what was to come, but unable to believe it, his mind reeled. He echoed, “Malcolm Canmore?”
“She is no laird’s by-blow, I fear,” Will said grimly.
And Stephen knew the worst. “Who is she?”
“King Malcolm’s daughter.”
A stunned silence filled the hall.
As if he thought they did not understand, Will said gingerly, “You have taken the princess Mary as your prisoner, my lord.”
Stephen still reeled. For another moment he could not speak. “Malcolm’s daughter? Are you sure?”
Will nodded.
Stephen was stunned, too stunned to think clearly. Malcom’s daughter, Malcolm’s daughter—the refrain chanted in his head. He saw his brothers, equally shocked, exchange glances. “Jesu,” he said hoarsely, “what have I done?”
“His full-blooded daughter,” Will added, another blow. “She is betrothed to Doug Mackinnon, heir to the laird of Kinross. I did not linger to gain more information, but you may be certain that you have the princess. And—” Will grimaced “—’tis already known that it was you who abducted her—many locals saw the red rose.”
Stephen winced. But his mind had come to life with a vengeance. If Malcolm Canmore knew that he had his daughter, Stephen could expect to hear from him immediately. And knowing Malcolm, he had best prepare his defenses. He turned to his brothers. “She is betrothed to Kinross. How come we have not heard of this alliance before?”
Geoffrey’s gaze was sharp. “They must have gone to great ends to keep it secret.”
The brothers all looked at one another, each of them fully understanding all of the myriad political implications unfolding with the facts. Malcolm’s brother was in exile in the Hebrides. He was a legitimate contender to the Scottish throne, for any adult male kin could be nominated tanist during the King’s lifetime to succeed him. Donald Bane enjoyed extraordinary support among the people of the Hebrides—the Isle of List, of Skye, of Lewes, and along the coast in northeast Scotland. These were areas where many of the clan Mackinnon ruled. By wedding his daughter to a Mackinnon, even one not residing in the Hebrides, Malcolm was hoping to lure the rest of this powerful clan to his cause, which was well known. He wanted one of his own sons named tanist before he died.
“You have truly outdone yourself this time, brother,” Brand remarked.
Anger began to seep into Stephen’s veins. “What a fool she must think me. What a fool I have been.” It flashed through his mind that she had indeed been the victor in their battle of wills and wits. He had not been able to seduce the truth out of her, which had been his ambition when he took her to bed. He had not intended to take her virginity, yet he had, unable to stop himself from completing what he had begun.
Stephen’s anger died. He had lost that one battle, both with himself and with her, but he had hardly lost the war. For a man must pay the price for a lady’s virtue. There might yet be a way to turn this to his advantage.
“What could she have hoped to gain?” Brand asked, puzzled. “Did she really think to deceive you for any amount of time? If she had told you the truth, you would not have lain with her and you would have ransomed her back to Malcolm.”
Stephen knew that Brand thought he spoke the truth, but Stephen was not so sure. If he had discovered her identity, would he have kept his word, left her untouched and freed her? He was not a man who gave his word lightly—always before it had been inviolable. Perhaps this time the temptation the princess offered would have been far greater than he could resist—in more ways than one.
Stephen turned his thoughts to the immediate future. “Malcolm will seek vengeance.”
“He will seek your head,” Geoffrey said bluntly. “And rightly so. Apparently you are the one to bring another war down about our heads, not Malcolm and not King Rufus.”
“Not necessarily,” Stephen said. A strange smile, both hard and determined, changed his expression. His eyes were narrowed, focused not on those around him, but on the distant future. The peace was so dear. It did not have to be destroyed. If he could head off Malcolm, and convince him to acquiesce, and of course, convince Rufus …
Stephen turned abruptly, striding for the stairs. In the next second he recalled that Main—no. Princess Mary—had left the tower with his sister. A premonition of disaster filled him. He had not one doubt, not now, knowing of her royal blood, that she was intent on escaping. The stakes had changed. They were far more precious than he had dreamed. She was now the crucial pawn in a
war that had outlasted generations. Mary was a great prize could he but win her. A prize that promised hope, and peace.
And he would win the prize. He would take the princess Mary to wife.
She must not escape. He wheeled, running to the door. At that precise moment, Isobel flew through it, weeping copiously. And Stephen knew it was too late.
He grabbed his sister. “Where is she?”
At his harsh, fury-filled tone, Isobel covered her face with her hands and sobbed harder.
“Do not indulge in theatrics now, Isobel!” Stephen said. “Where is she?”
Isobel dropped her hands, wide-eyed and tearless. “’Twas not my fault,” she cried, looking from Stephen to the others. “She was following me, and when I turned around, she was gone! I’ve looked everywhere,” she howled, and then she covered her face again, with more tearful shudders and moans.
“Raise the alarm,” Stephen ordered. Geoffrey was already rushing up the stairs to the ramparts to sound the horn. Stephen hurried through the hall. Brand and Will on his heels, Isobel chasing after him. “You stay here!” he snapped.
“Am I in trouble?”
Stephen did not answer; he was already out the door. “I think you are in a great deal of trouble,” Brand said harshly. “Go to your room Isobel, and await Stephen there.” He followed his brother outside; Isobel fled up the stairs.
His men had already gathered. Stephen gave crisp orders and they began to search the bailey. All work was temporarily suspended, all of the keep’s inhabitants assembled and questioned. No one had seen the prisoner in the bailey, much less escaping the castle’s gates. It had already occurred to Stephen why his captive princess was so invisible. As she was clad in Isobel’s clothes, no one had paid any attention to her, thinking her to be his sister. Stephen hurried to the barbican. One thought filled his mind. She had outwitted him—again.
Within a matter of minutes Stephen had learned that an empty wagon had left the keep not more than half an hour ago, and that prior to that, Isobel had been remarked loitering nearby.
