Promise of the Rose

by Brenda Joyce

  Stephen stilled. “What game is this?”

  “He obviously wishes to humiliate Malcolm by having the nuptials take place there. However, the betrothal can take place here upon the morrow.”

  Stephen nodded; briefly his eyes flashed with satisfaction. Then he said, “Rufus will undoubtedly try to provoke Malcolm by reminding him that he has sworn fealty to him on bended knee. And Malcolm’s temper is hot.”

  “Do not fret. We shall make certain that Malcolm and William Rufus do not come to blows—nothing is to interfere with this union. Rufus has also stated that Mary is to be his guest at Court until the wedding.”

  “Why?” Stephen asked harshly. “What does he think to gain, to prove? Does he think to hold her captive until we are wed?” Stephen was on his feet, and his eyes were wild.

  “Do not agitate yourself,” Rolfe said as Stephen began to pace.

  “Or does he intend treachery?” Stephen demanded. “What game does he play now with me and mine?”

  Rolfe hesitated. The question burned. A question he had wanted to ask for the past ten years, one he had not dared ask, afraid as he was of the answer.

  But Stephen was about to wed. Private times between them were so rare. He might never have this chance again. “Stephen. For many years I have wondered why you dislike Rufus so.”

  Stephen just looked at him, his thoughts unreadable. The brief moment of wildness had been locked away.

  “Is there something I should know about, something that occurred, perhaps, when you were a fosterling in his father’s household?”

  “No, Father, there is nothing you should know about.”

  Stephen’s tone was quiet but firm, yet Rolfe felt as if he had been soundly slapped. Immediately he withdrew, for Stephen was a man, and he had every right to his privacy. Still, Rolfe could not help but wonder if, had the past been different, had there been more time, Stephen would have confided in him.

  “I will never let her sojourn there alone,” Stephen said firmly. “I will remain at Court with her.”

  Rolfe also knew that Stephen despised the Court. Not that he blamed him; a man could only be on his guard for so long without respite. “I am glad you wish to accompany her. You and Mary can leave for Court immediately after the betrothal tomorrow. I will join you once I have met with Malcolm to finalize the details of this marriage.”

  “Have no fear, Father. Until we are wed, I intend to remain alert. Too many will try to wreck this alliance otherwise.”

  Rolfe laid his hand upon Stephen’s arm. His voice low, he said, “It might be politic to get her with child as swiftly as possible, just in case problems do arise.”

  Stephen stared. Then, very firmly, he said, “I shall deal with any problems as they come. But Mary will not share my bed until after we have wed.”

  Rolfe was startled. Then, wisely, he said no more. There was far more here than met the eye. He had never dreamed to see his son enamored of his bride. He turned away, hiding his pleasure.

  Chapter 11

  “‘Tis your brother, Sire, Prince Henry. He requests an audience with you,” the sergeant said.

  Rufus scowled. He was alone with his squire in his private chamber, in the midst of completing a change of habit for a royal hunt that would take place that afternoon. “Balk him. I am in no mood for my brother now.”

  The door to the royal chamber burst open. Prince Henry stood on the threshold, his face strained with anger, his eyes blazing. Behind him two other sergeants were ashen at having their Majesty so interrupted.

  Rufus glared at his brother. “What display is this? I am not available, dear little brother.”

  “Then make yourself available, Sire,” Henry almost snarled, striding into the room. He was tall and muscular as their father had been, topping his older brother by more than a hand. Unlike his brother, now clad in a vivid red surcote trimmed in ermine and matching ankle boots, he wore muted shades of gray and blue, his tunic and mantle spotted with mud from a long, hard ride. “I have heard a rumor that could not possibly be true.”

  Rufus sighed, and snapped his fingers. Instantly the three sergeants were gone, the door closed behind them. He faced his page. “Bring me the crimson mantle, the one lined in sable, and my crimson and gold hat.”

  The young, pretty page scurried across the room to obey.

  “Tell me it is not true,” Henry said, his handsome face contorted. “Tell me you have not allowed a betrothal between Stephen de Warenne and Malcolm Canmore’s daughter!”

  Rufus smiled. “Jealous?”

  Henry inhaled, his fists clenched at his sides. “Are you daft? Have you completely lost your wits? To give Northumberland such power?”

  “Power that belongs irrevocably to me,” Rufus countered, no longer smiling. He locked stares with his brother. “De Warenne is beholden to me more than ever before.”

  “Rolfe, yes. But the son? We all know how fond he is of you, brother.” And now Henry was mocking, knowing as he did his brother’s darkest dreams.

  Rufus’s ruddy face gorged with blood. “Do not think that I would be soft upon Stephen de Warenne. Should he prove a traitor, he will suffer the same as anyone. And he has everything to lose, unlike you, who has nothing.”

  Henry made an effort to control his rage, having an infamous temper exactly like that of their sire, William the Conqueror. “You jump ahead of my meaning,” he finally managed. “Who spoke of treason?” And he shrugged.

  Rufus smiled, pleased at winning that battle.

  “Sire,” Henry continued coldly, “You must think on what you do. ’Tis exceeding folly to give Northumberland such power. Especially as the land concerned is all in the North. Soon Stephen will rule in his father’s stead. What if he allies himself with Scotland against you?”

  Rufus’s face was bloodred again. “Oh? So now you think to protect my interests?” But he began to wonder if he had made a mistake.

  “I do.”

  “Hah!” Rufus was barely amused, for while they both knew that Henry was indeed a formidable knight and commander, his loyalty was questionable. On more than one occasion he had allied himself with their oldest brother, Robert, the Duke of Normandy, against William Rufus. By playing brother against brother, he had succeeded in gaining a territorial base for himself in the fortress town of Domfront, and was a count in the Cotentin. His growing might was both a help and a hindrance to Rufus, for Henry could be seduced into loyalty if the price paid was high enough, but likewise, he could be pried away in exactly the same manner. Rufus was no fool. He understood his brother’s ambitions exactly, and coin was not the issue.

  Rufus accepted his mantle from his page, allowing the lad to help him slip it on. “Fetch me the ruby brooch,” he ordered. He turned to his brother. “And I value your loyalty,” Rufus finally said.

  Henry was silent.

  Rufus smiled. “In truth, I thought a bit about marrying her myself; after all, eventually I must wed. But—” he sighed dramatically “—apparently Stephen could not restrain himself. She might be with his child.”

  Henry was grim.

  “Of course, this fact prevents me from even considering wedding with her, for my heir must be mine.” He studied his brother. “Come now, be honest, Henry. You are distraught. But is it the thought of my unborn heir that upsets you now or your friend’s betrothal? Did you not come here to beg me to give you the princess?”

  Henry said nothing.

  “It did cross my mind,” Rufus said. “After all, you are my brother. A prince and a princess make a perfect match, do they not? Still, I decided I prefer Northumberland. Him I know.”

  Henry said, “But I am your brother. You can trust me.”

  Rufus raised a brow, and was unable to resist another jab, “Perhaps I will give you FitzAlbert’s daughter.”

  Henry’s face grew even darker. “She is a baron’s daughter, with naught but a lowly manor or two.”

  Rufus laughed softly. “As you have naught but a petty estate or two, then a
ren’t you both equally, perfectly matched as well?”

  Henry could not contain himself any longer. “You are going to regret this, brother.”

  Despite himself, Rufus felt a twinge of fear. For he did not trust Henry for an instant. He was too much like their father. The time had come to placate him. “There is another sister, one unsoiled, in the convent, actually, and as yet too young to wed.”

  Henry’s interest was immediate. “Malcolm will never marry both of his daughters to Normans.”

  “But Malcolm will not live forever. And when he is gone, his realm shall be ripe for the plucking, as shall be his daughter, Maude.”

  Henry stared, unsmiling. And Rufus felt a moment of intense regret for offering something so great to his brother—who was sometimes his greatest ally and always his deadliest enemy.

  The Earl of Kent kept a manor on the south side of London on the banks of the Thames. It spoke of the wealth of Kent. It was freshly whitewashed, the great front door mahogany and engraved with the family’s crest. It boasted not one but two Great Halls and many chambers, a luxurious chapel, and separate buildings for the kitchens, buttery, and alehouse. Within, downstairs, the table and benches were of the finest wood, intricately carved, the thronelike chair reserved solely for the earl upholstered in crimson velvet. Upstairs, in the private rooms, exotically designed carpets from Persia covered the floors, and the walls were hung with bright, vivid tapestries.

  Roger Beaufort sat negligently in another thronelike chair in his private bedchamber, sipping a fine wine from Normandy. Adele Beaufort paced in front of him, back and forth across one singularly bold red carpet, the fire in the hearth casting her form into long, misshapen shadows. There was nothing restless about her movements; rather, they were volatile and filled with fury.

  She stopped, hands on her hips, her beautiful breasts heaving. “Have you nothing to say? Nothing at all?”

  “Do not screech,” he said. Despite the fact that he was convinced her misfortune was due to the King’s current annoyance with him—and her misfortune was his—he was enjoying her rage. Rarely did one best Adele.

  “God, how I hate you! I am cast aside like some worthless doxy, and you do nothing, nothing!”

  He decided to dig the barb in deeper. “There have been a half dozen offers for you since the betrothal was broken a sennight ago. Henry of Ferrars was most persistent. You will not die a spinster, darling.”

  “You jest! He is a nobody, a nobody!”

  “I do not jest.”

  “Whom,” she spat, “whom could he be intending to wed? Whom could he want more than me? Who is she!” she screamed.

  Roger’s smile was lazy as he eyed his stepsister with interest. “You should not be in here, Adele, and now you shout to bring the household down.”

  She stared, panting from her rage, flinging back her long black hair, which was unbound. “You know. You know who it is! You have found out!”

  He smiled again, taking another slow sip of wine.

  “You bastard!” she cried, and she smacked the wine out of his hand.

  It spilled on his crimson hose and the embroidered hem of his velvet tunic. He leapt to his feet, grabbing her wrist and yanking her painfully against him. He slapped her hard across the face.

  Adele screamed in fury, struggling to break free. He hit her once more, just to teach her her place. Then he released her. Enraged, she backed away, her bosom heaving heavily. He noticed that her nipples were taut. But then, he was taut, too.

  “Who is it!” she demanded, her cheek a fierce pink from the blows.

  “ ’Tis Malcolm Canmore’s daughter,” he said, with real satisfaction.

  She gasped, stunned. “He weds a King’s daughter?”

  “He weds a princess,” he smirked.

  Adele made a strangled sound and turned away, shaking, to face the fire. He came up behind her, touching her shoulders, so close that his full groin brushed her buttocks. “Even you cannot rival a princess, dear heart, and they say she is a beauty.”

  She wrenched away from him. She said nothing—there was nothing to say.

  Mary rode beside Stephen on a dainty white palfrey, he on his massive brown destrier. Two dozen knights trailed them, and just behind them, one retainer held the Northumberland flag. The crimson rose on the black, white, and gold field waved above them, proclaiming their arrival into Londontown.

  Tolling bells from the royal chapel announced their arrival as they rode sedately towards the drawbridge being lowered to accommodate them. At another time, perhaps, Mary might have been interested by the sight of this palace. Begun by the Conqueror—constructed upon an old Roman site, ancient Roman walls actually a part of the fortifications—it was comprised of the whitewashed tower, four stories high, its battlements crenellated, and a large bailey with curtained walls, and the surrounding wharves. Watchmen paced the towers, and archers guarded the walls. The wharf was quiet now, with many barges and smaller vessels placidly at anchor, including some obviously of exotic origin.

  Mary saw nothing but the walls and the Tower. Her stomach was in knots. As it had been ever since she had knelt in the chapel at Alnwick and been formally betrothed yesterday.

  The betrothal was official. The betrothal had been real. It was no trick. And now she was within moments of entering the Tower. Seeing the immense fortress now, one still not complete, Mary was stricken with the realization that Malcolm could not possibly free her once she was within those unbreachable walls.

  Mary began to shake.

  The betrothal was official, there had been no rescue from Alnwick or since leaving it, and there would be no rescue now or in the future. To think so, to hope so, was sheer insanity. Dear Lord, there was no trick.

  There was no trick. Her father had handed her over to Stephen de Warenne without even a fare-thee-well. She was nothing but a political sacrifice.

  The pain began to rise up in her, and Mary had to shut off her thoughts. If she did not, she might very well enter the King’s household in a tearful fit.

  They trotted over the drawbridge, beneath the black fangs of the portcullis, and into the bailey. Once inside, they were instantly surrounded by armed knights wearing the King’s colors in a fashion that was far from reassuring. Mary could not move. Stephen slid from his destrier. His strong hands closed around her waist, and his eyes met hers. “Do not fear,” he breathed. “ ’Tis but a show.”

  He pulled her down from the palfrey and into his arms. Mary was trembling and panting. The moment she realized that she was in his embrace—and he was Stephen de Warenne, the man she would truly wed, the man her father had coldly given her to—she twisted free abruptly. The many royal knights circled them, cutting them off from Stephen’s own men. “Why have the King’s men surrounded us?” she cried.

  In a near panic it blazed through her mind that she would be taken from Stephen, becoming not his wife but the King’s prisoner. As much as she hated being Northumberland’s bride, it was nothing compared to the thought of being torn from him and thrown in the Tower’s dungeons.

  Stephen put his arm around her comfortingly, but his face was drawn tightly, his gaze cold and dangerous, belying his gesture and his tone. “ ’Tis a show, Mary, a show for me and for my enemies. You are to be my wife. Rufus knows better than to go back on his word. He would never infuriate my family so—he needs us far too much.”

  Mary was not calmed. How could she be? She was surrounded by the enemy, he was the enemy, and no matter what Stephen said, she was obviously to be detained. Besides, she did not believe that he had confidence in his own avowals, for he was rigid with tension and anger, too. Mary was overwhelmed. Emotions she was determined to crush threatened to overpower her. She was truly betrothed to Stephen de Warenne; in a matter of weeks, she would be his wife, and in another minute she would enter the Tower as the King’s “guest,” and dear, sweet, merciful Jesus, her father had not even waited to see if she was with child before handing her over to his greatest enemy!

>   Mary had to close her eyes and take a breath, feeling faint. She realized that she clutched Stephen’s hand.

  It occurred to her that despite the betrayal, he was her anchor in this storm-tossed sea. Furious with herself, with him, with everyone and everything, she wrenched her hand free.

  A man detached himself from the dozen knights ringing them, a winsome smile on his bold features. “I have come to greet you. Stephen, in the name of my brother, the King.”

  Stephen placed his arm around Mary’s stiff shoulders, turning towards Prince Henry. “I am honored, Henry.”

  Henry grinned at him, then focused on Mary. She stared at him as if he had two heads.

  She had seen the prince at Abernathy as well, and as he was of the royal household—when it suited him—she knew of him. His reputation as a prolific ladies’ man was renowned. ’Twas said he had sired more than a half dozen bastards already, but the look he gave her now was not quite as lustful as it was intense. Her wits were too scrambled for her to fully decipher it. Regardless, he unnerved her, and she flushed.

  “Welcome to the Tower, Princess,” he said amiably.

  Mary knew her manners, and as much as she did not like it, she curtsied. Stephen was forced to drop his arm from her shoulders.

  Henry put his hands on hers, raising her to her feet. He was slow to remove them. “A real beauty, more beautiful even than Adele Beaufort.” He was amused, imagining she knew not what.

  Mary had not forgotten that hated name. She did not actually believe the prince, and found herself wondering if the Essex heiress might even now be within the Court.

  Stephen said nothing, but he took Mary’s arm, entwining it with his, the gesture possessive, his hard gaze on the prince.

  Henry raised a brow, then laughed. “Do not fear me. Are we not longtime allies? I will not trespass, dear Stephen.”

  Stephen’s smile was winter-bare. “Then you have changed since we last met, mon ami, for you have enjoyed trespassing upon other men’s properties for as long as I can remember.”