Promise of the Rose

by Brenda Joyce

  Stephen had been at Abernathy two years ago when Malcolm had sworn homage to William Rufus. Malcolm had also sworn fealty many years before to Rufus’s father, the Conqueror, breaking it time and again as he willed. He had only pledged himself at Abernathy to William Rufus after having been soundly defeated and failing in yet another attempt to extend his border south. He was a shrewd and treacherous man, and not to be trusted.

  Stephen had already thought long and hard about how he would handle this interview with Malcolm. Although he was determined to wed the princess, not only did he need Malcolm’s agreement, he also needed both his father’s and his King’s approval—which would not be forthcoming until Geoffrey reached London, spoke with Rolfe, and Rolfe in turn spoke with the King. Therefore Stephen was in a precarious position. He was usurping tremendous authority in negotiating his marriage, but he had little choice if he was to attain his goal and take Mary to wife.

  He was prepared to offer Malcolm whatever he must, and he was not worried about his father; he fully expected the earl to be pleased with the sudden turn of events. King William Rufus was a different matter.

  Would Rolfe be able to persuade the King? Thinking about Rufus caused Stephen’s expression to tighten, his eyes to darken. He was a loyal vassal, as duty demanded, but that did not mean he liked his King, whom he had never forgiven for his betrayal so many years ago. Somehow, the little, lonely boy still lived on, somewhere deep in the shadows of his soul. Rufus had not changed in the ensuing seventeen years since Stephen had first arrived at court as a hostage for his father’s continuing support. He was treacherous, he was shrewd, he was arbitrary. Too often he acted upon whim, seeking only his own pleasure and his own satisfaction. Stephen could not be sure that William Rufus would agree to this marriage. He might perversely enjoy thwarting the de Warennes, he might perversely enjoy thwarting Stephen—which was far more likely. Or he might hesitate, understandably so, to join Northumberland with his deadliest northern enemy.

  The two groups of riders stopped, facing each other. Stephen was flanked by Brand and Geoffrey, the latter an oddity on this battlefield, in his cross and dark robes. Malcolm sat a magnificent chestnut stallion, surrounded by three men Stephen recognized as Malcolm’s sons.

  Malcolm edged his mount forward; so did Stephen. The Scot King’s lined face was as immobile as carved granite. Only his blue eyes burned with rage. “What do you demand, swine of swine?”

  “No formalities?” Stephen asked.

  “Do not mock now! You had no regard for formalities when you kidnapped my daughter, bastard!”

  Stephen did not flinch. That his enemies still called him bastard was to be expected—nothing could change the fact of his birth. It was not pleasant, but he had learned to ignore such insults as a young boy. “When I happened upon your daughter, she was ill dressed and chose to tell me that she was the bastard, the bastard of some puny northern laird.”

  For a brief instant, that threw Malcolm. He recovered as quickly. “God’s blood! She was always too damn original! What do you demand of me, de Warenne?”

  “A bride.”

  The men facing him all stiffened, stunned. Except for Malcolm, whose eyes flashed. Then one of them reached for his sword, drawing it. Before he had even finished the action, Brand had unsheathed his blade as well, with Geoffrey suddenly wielding a mace, and so quickly did everyone move that it was almost a single simultaneous flash of dulled metal. Then, as Edgar cried, “Skewer him!” both armies drew their swords. The plain clanged with the vibrant sound of a hundred blades being swept from a hundred scabbards at the same time.

  Only Malcolm and Stephen remained unarmed, yet both men had their hands upon their hilts, their knuckles white.

  Sweat dotted Stephen’s brow. A similar glimmer stained Malcolm’s face. Tension vibrated visibly between the two armies; the moors crackled with it. No one moved, no one even breathed, and Stephen knew that if someone did, the two armies would leap at one another instantaneously.

  “Peace,” Stephen said firmly, his words carrying. “You come in peace, I wish to speak in peace.” No man, of course, sheathed his weapon, but some of the tension seemed to drain out of the many armed men.

  “’Twas not very peaceful of you to take my daughter,” Malcolm mocked. “ ’Tis easy, is it not, to speak of peace now?”

  “As I have said, she was dressed like a villein, she even disguised her speech and manner, then dared to tell me her name was Sinclair.”

  “Perhaps I will kill you anyway—whoreson,” Malcolm hissed. His eyes glittered.

  Instantly Stephen spoke, for it was obvious to him that Malcolm was more interested in battling him than in speaking of his daughter. “Perhaps there is much to be gained for the both of us from this circumstance.”

  “The only thing that I wish to gain, you have,” Malcolm said with a cold smile. “Your life and your patrimony.”

  Stephen’s hand tightened on the reins. His stallion, conveyed an imperceptible message, began to dance, readying himself. Yet Stephen truly wished to avoid battle. His goal remained unchanged, to gain Malcolm’s approval for Mary’s hand, and he would do what he had to do, say what he had to say, in order to achieve it. “Let us cease this warfare. Let us think on the future. For once and forever, let us unite our families. Let me take her to wife. And one day, her son shall rule Northumberland.”

  Malcolm shrieked a terrifying war cry, raised his sword, and brutally swung it at Stephen as he rode forward. Their steeds clashed, two tons of animal, the one against the other. The heavy broadsword, swung with both hands, hit the heavy shield Stephen quickly raised. The blow sounded loudly. Malcolm swung again; and again Stephen deflected the sword with his shield, making no attempt to raise any weapon of his own. The sound of metal clashing echoed across the moors. Men on both sides of the battle stood tensed and ready. Mercilessly swinging his sword again and again, Malcolm drove Stephen backwards. If Stephen were not one of the foremost warriors in the land, if he were only a fraction less strong, he would have not been able to take the powerful, ruthless blows. One such thrust, should it be successful, would cleave him in two; Malcolm wanted to kill him. Had it been Stephen’s daughter, he would try and kill the usurper of her innocence as well. But he knew that Malcolm sought to kill him for the simple fact that he hated him.

  Malcolm’s blows grew slower, as if the huge sword he wielded grew heavier. Stephen’s arms, shoulders, and back ached from absorbing the full impact of each stroke; even his hands hurt from their relentless grip on his shield. Sweat began to interfere with his vision; it also drenched Malcolm, whose face was nearly purple from exertion. Finally the King of Scotland tried to raise his sword and failed; abruptly he let it hang. “Fight, damn you!”

  “I will not. Think, Malcolm Canmore, think! Do not let your passions interfere with your wisdom. We can unite our families to both of our benefits!”

  Malcolm panted heavily.

  Stephen, his arms in agony, feeling as if they were wrenched fully from their sockets, slipped his shield back on his shoulder, not even flinching from the instant screaming pain. He did not wipe the sweat from his brow and his temples, either, nor did he labor to catch his breath.

  “Even now,” Stephen said, “honor demands that I wed your daughter.”

  Malcolm was not surprised by his admission, nor had Stephen expected him to be. Obviously he had already assumed his daughter to be ruined. “She is betrothed,” Malcolm finally said heavily, still breathless.

  A savage satisfaction stirred within Stephen. That Malcolm would now discuss the issue was a victory—another one. “Betrothals are made, they can be unmade,” Stephen said.

  “Father,” Malcolm’s oldest son, Edward cried, spurring his mount forward, his face flushed with anger, “before this goes any further, let us see Mary, so we might know that she is unharmed—and alive!”

  Silently Stephen applauded the young man for his concern for his sister. “Do you wish to see your daughter?” he asked Malcolm.


  Malcolm nodded curtly. “Send for her.”

  Stephen did not have to say a word; he merely glanced over his shoulder. Geoffrey had already turned and was cantering towards the drawbridge, which began to lower to admit him.

  The silence thickened, lengthened, became endless. Horses stomped restlessly, nickered. Saddle leather creaked. A breeze whispered about their heads. Stephen held Malcolm’s stare, aware of how much the other man hated him—and how much he was enjoying this confrontation.

  Stephen shot a glance at Brand and then over his shoulder. There was no sign of Geoffrey and Mary. Where were they? His impatience turned to apprehension. Had the clever minx decided to use the furor to escape?

  “Perhaps she is dead!”

  Stephen’s gaze riveted to the youth who had spoken, a slim boy hardly older than Mary, pale with tension and distress. “Your sister is not dead.”

  The youth fixed him with a look of wrath. “You bastard, I would kill you myself!”

  His oldest brother placed a restraining hand upon the boy’s arm.

  “Here they come!” Brand cried, relief in his tone.

  Stephen shifted in the saddle. Geoffrey rode towards them at a gallop, Mary behind him, her long gold hair waving like a banner. He pulled up his mount abruptly, causing the animal to rear. Geoffrey kept a firm hold on Mary, who was white with fright and wide-eyed. Stephen knew her fright had nothing to do with the mad gallop from the keep.

  “I’m sorry,” Geoffrey said shortly. “I had some difficulty finding her—she was not in the solar, but on the walls.”

  Stephen’s gaze pinned her, but she was looking only at her father. “Father!” she cried. Then she stared at Stephen, appearing dazed. “You did not kill him,” she whispered.

  Malcolm spoke, not that Stephen intended a reply. “Daughter, you do not appear hurt. Are you virgin?”

  It did not seem possible, but Mary, already white, blanched even more.

  “Daughter?” Malcolm’s gaze was hard.

  Stephen was furious. “Did you bring her here to see that she is unharmed—or to humiliate her?”

  Malcolm moved his mount closer to Mary. “Well?”

  “No,” she said, so softly it was hardly audible. Tears had formed in the corners of her eyes.

  Malcolm turned to face Stephen, smiling in a hard, dangerous way. “Mackinnon brings me vast support. What do you bring?”

  For a moment Stephen was so taken aback, he could not speak. His voice harsh, he said, “She may be with my child.” He found himself looking not at Malcolm, but at Mary.

  She sat unmoving behind Geoffrey, her face a mask of shock and horror.

  Malcolm was cool. “There is always the cloister.”

  “Father?” Mary whispered in abject disbelief.

  “Enough!” Stephen snapped, livid. He gestured at Geoffrey hard. “Take her back. Take her back, now.”

  “No!” Mary cried, but it was too late. Geoffrey was galloping away.

  Stephen was shaken. Recollections of his own captivity flashed through his mind. Firmly he shoved them away. Now was not the time to dwell upon the bitter past. Not in the midst of a war of wits with Malcolm over the prize of his daughter. “Do not let your hatred steer you, Canmore. There is much to be gained, and you know it. An alliance between our families can mean peace.”

  “You offer me peace. Hah! There will never be peace, not until I regain what is rightfully mine!”

  Stephen knew he spoke about Northumberland, not about his daughter. “You have spent some thirty years trying to conquer this land, land given by another Conqueror to my family, land we hold now without dispute. You will never seize Northumberland from us, and you must face the fact. You are old. Your sons are young, but do you really think they can achieve what you have failed to do?”

  Malcolm almost smiled. “What a silver tongue you have.”

  “The best you can hope for, before you die, is to know that one day one of your line will inherit a land that once, many generations ago, was ruled by ancient Scot Kings.” Stephen added, “And think about what is also dearest to you, and on the might of Northumberland.”

  Malcolm did not hesitate, which told Stephen that the shrewd King had already guessed where he was leading. “What do you offer?” Malcolm demanded. “Other than peace and your patrimony for my grandson?”

  For some men, that might have been enough, but not for Malcolm, as Stephen had already known. The time had come to reveal his hand and set in motion the dangerous course it would take him on. “I promise you the might of Northumberland.” Stephen smiled then. “For your eldest son. I will swear upon whatever you may choose that, when you are dead, I shall see him crowned Scotland’s King.”

  Stephen’s thoughts were spinning as he rode through the barbican and into the bailey. He had pledged upon a holy relic, a small pouch containing true slivers of the holy cross, which Malcolm carried in his sword hilt, to use his power to make Malcolm’s eldest son, presumably Edward, Scotland’s King. The pledge had been made in the presence of Malcolm’s three sons and his brothers, all of whom were witnesses, and all of whom had afterwards been sworn to secrecy.

  Stephen could not be sure that his father would have made the same pledge. As much as Stephen disliked the thought of Rolfe’s death, it was inevitable that one day he himself would become Northumberland’s earl. He had every right, then, to choose policies he would act upon in that future time. And though Malcolm was not young, for he was sixty, he had the heart and soul of a man in his prime. Barring an unfortunate accident, Stephen thought that the Scot King might live for many more years. Any actions he might have to take to fulfill his oath would not be anytime soon.

  Stephen dismounted, his thoughts turning to Mary. He was far more concerned about her than he was about the promise he had made to make Edward Scotland’s future King.

  He trembled with suppressed rage. How could Malcolm not have shown the slightest concern for his daughter? Mary’s white, shocked face haunted him.

  Stephen entered the keep, several of his men just ahead of him. His loyal knights were smiling and elated because of his success. Although his pledge was a secret, his forthcoming marriage was not. Hearing them, the ladies came hurrying out of the solar, Isobel first. Stephen said, “Where is Mary?”

  “She is in the solar—she will not come out,” Isobel cried. “Steph, what happened? Why has she been struck dumb?”

  Stephen barely heard her, hurrying past his sister. He paused on the threshold of the solar, his gaze flying to Mary. She faced the window, unmoving, her small body held tense and still. His heart clenched. He understood well her feelings of betrayal and disbelief.

  “Mary?” he said softly.

  She flinched. Slowly she turned her head, her eyes glazed with tears she refused to shed, trembling. “Wh-What happened?”

  Stephen hesitated. What would his stubborn little bride do when he told her of her fate? Stephen did not delude himself; he did not think she would melt into his arms. “We are going to be wed,” Stephen said gently. “You and I, in four weeks time.”

  “Sweet Mother of God,” Mary gasped, collapsing.

  Stephen caught her, cradling her in his arms. He had seen her shock, and her anguish. Understanding her as he did now, he was not angry. He was fiercely moved.

  In his embrace, her breasts crushed beneath his chest, her thighs against his rigid loins, she went from being pliant with grief to rigid with denial. Her fingers curled, digging into his mail. She gazed up at him. “I do not believe this!”

  “Your father and I have agreed,” Stephen said carefully.

  “I do not believe you!” Mary pushed away from him, and he let her go. She faced him in horror, her bosom heaving. “ ’Tis a trick!”

  “You were there.” He ached for her.

  “ ’Tis a trick!” Mary cried again. “Malcolm hates you and your family more than he hates anyone other than your wretched King! He has railed against Northumberland ever since I can remember!
He would never give me to you, never!”

  Stephen could not be angry. It had been obvious to him for some time that Mary dearly worshiped her father. She saw him as a god, not as a scoundrel. She actually did not believe that Malcolm had consented to their union. And not only had he consented, he had done so for his own purposes, to fulfill his own ambitions; not once had he even asked after his daughter’s welfare. Stephen was a man who dealt in realities, but this time he wanted to spare her the truth.

  Mary was shaking her head, as if in bewilderment. “Is it not a trick?” she begged.

  Stephen wanted to sweep her into his arms and hold her as he might Isobel. He found himself touching her cheek. “I am not tricking you, Mary.”

  She did not jerk away. She was wide-eyed, misty-eyed.

  He would hide the truth of her father’s real nature from her. He smiled kindly. “Malcolm wanted to kill me because of what I had done, but upon learning of your loss of virtue, he had no choice but to succumb.”

  “He … did?” There was hope in her tone.

  “You need not know all the details, for they are far too grand, but the alliance serves us both well in the end. This marriage will not be so reprehensible, Mary; in truth, once you come to accept it, it will be far from abhorrent for us both.”

  She was unmoving. Stephen smiled another kind smile and leaned closer. He took her chin in his hand and bent to brush her mouth with his. It was a sweet kiss, nothing more, hardly intimate, but desire shafted him. As he hovered over her, his eyes turned black and all thoughts of kindness became obsolete.

  He still touched her chin. The kiss had rekindled Mary, too. She swatted his hand away, then jumped back from him. “I do not need your pity, Norman!”

  “I hardly pity you, mademoiselle.”