Promise of the Rose

by Brenda Joyce

  Henry shrugged. “But not without invitation,” he said. “Never without an invitation.”

  “There will be no invitation here,” Stephen rejoined without rancor. He spoke as if stating a fact.

  “Do you grow soft?” Henry appeared amused once again, and incredulous. When Stephen only smiled, he shrugged. “Come,” he said, with an expansive sweep of one arm, “it is chill and your bride shivers. From the cold, of course.”

  “Of course,” Stephen said, molding her arm to his body.

  Mary could barely breathe. She sensed a firm friendship between the two men, but she also sensed a strange rivalry. Surely they were not arguing over her! She almost whimpered as her temples began to pound with splitting intensity. She had the unparalleled urge to climb into bed and pull the covers up over her head.

  They climbed up the wooden front steps of the keep and entered the second-story hall. Officially it belonged to the Constable of the Tower and was filled to overflowing with ladies in their finest gowns and jewels, with noblemen in brightly colored tunics and hose, and others looking as if they had ridden for many days, so mud-spattered and begrimed were they. Because there were so many within the four walls, it was hot and suffocating. There was no hint of the evening’s air or fall’s advent there. And the noise! Mary would have had to shout to make herself heard to Stephen if she had any desire at all to speak with him, which she did not. He, meanwhile, had to shove his way rudely through the crowd, guiding her across the hall and to the next set of stairs. To her surprise, Henry left them there, giving her another sardonic look along with a courtly bow.

  On the landing it was quieter. Mary’s heart began to slow its pounding, so relieved was she for this moment of respite. She massaged her throbbing temples. “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “To greet the King, of course.”

  Her heart slammed again. Sick dread welled up in her.

  On the landing above they encountered a group of descending noblewomen, a flurry of rich silks and bright brocades, heady with perfumes and painted with powders. Stephen politely stepped aside, still gripping Mary’s elbow. The ladies passed them with many covetous looks at her captor and wide-eyed glances at her. One woman paused. She faced them, making Mary’s stomach coil up into even tighter knots of apprehension. The woman ignored her, having sultry eyes only for Stephen. “My lord,” she said, her voice husky and low, and she sank into a deep curtsy.

  “There is no need for that, my lady,” Stephen said.

  She straightened, barely condescending to notice Mary. She was strikingly beautiful, tall and voluptuous, her hair blacker than midnight, her eyes as dark and beguiling. Mary had not a doubt that this was one of his mistresses, so seductive was she.

  “I want to wish you felicitations, my lord,” the temptress said softly.

  “That is very generous of you.”

  Her lashes swept down, long and black, then she gave him a look, one that scandalized Mary. “I hope we can still be friends.” Her tone was even more promising, and Mary was certain he was intimate with this woman.

  Stephen’s mouth curled in what appeared to be a smile: “As you wish, my lady,” he said, bowing abruptly. Then he pulled Mary with him, leaving the woman standing there on the landing.

  Mary hated the other woman. The hatred filled her with such force that it left her heart thundering and her lungs breathless. She had understood their wordplay too well! His mistress intended to continue their relations in spite of his marriage to Mary.

  “You are shaking anew,” he commented, eyeing her.

  “You promised me …” She could not get the word out. And even as she spoke, she knew with her brain that she should not care—but she did. God help her, she did.

  His dark, intense gaze locked with hers. “Fidelity? So I have, Mary, and you can rest assured.”

  Some of her anger—and her incredible jealousy—dimmed. He might be a treacherous Norman, but Mary thought him a man of his word. Whatever had been between him and the other woman was now over.

  “You must trust me, Mary,” Stephen murmured.

  His kind words, intended to soothe, brought forth the overpowering urge to weep. She was seriously overwrought.

  They had entered another hall, this one high-ceilinged and vast, far grander than the one below, obviously a part of the royal suite. Here only a dozen men or so, and as many women, waited and were engaged in conversation that was much less animated than that downstairs. Mary’s heart pumped fiercely now. She tried to convince herself that she had no real cause for fear.

  “The King’s chambers are over there.” Stephen nodded across the room where two sergeants stood guarding massive, closed oak doors.

  Mary hated herself for her cowardice and followed Stephen, glad now for his grip upon her arm. He spoke briefly to the sergeants, and one disappeared within. A moment later the man returned and stepped aside so they could enter, escorted by two ushers.

  The King stood in the center of the chamber while a cleric droned on, reading from scrolls, an account that sounded to Mary like an inventory of an estate. The King was not listening. He was staring in their direction with a look of great expectation.

  For a moment Mary saw nobody else in the room, so colorful was William Rufus.

  His long undertunic was a startling silver, his surcote the brightest purple Mary had ever seen, both gowns heavily embroidered in silver and gold thread. His gold girdle was several handspans wide and blinding in its brightness, encrusted with rubies and sapphires. His shoes were gilt, and upon the pointy toes were tassels strewn with more gems. He wore several heavy necklaces, many large rings, and of course, the crown of England.

  Three courtiers lounged on chairs behind the King, listening to the cleric. All attention focused instantly upon the two of them as they entered the room. The cleric finally realized no one was paying him any mind, and his voice trailed off. Stephen led Mary across a silent chamber.

  William Rufus smiled. To Mary’s surprise, he did not look at her, staring instead at Stephen. Mary did not understand. She glanced up at Stephen and saw that his expression was immobile and unreadable, as if carved in stone. When she turned again toward the King, he was finally remarking her, coldly and intensely, and somehow, he seemed displeased.

  She knew she should not stare back, but she could not help herself, having never seen this man before, a man whom she had been taught to hate ever since she had been born.

  She had heard he was a peacock as well as a sodomite, and that he spent lavish amounts of silver upon his wardrobe; still, his appearance surprised her. He exuded enough power that it stopped just short of being comical. He was of average height, florid, and just going to fat. Once he might have been attractive, but not anymore. His eyes were a bit small but unmistakably shrewd, and when he finally smiled, with real warmth, she saw that he was missing one tooth. He smiled only at Stephen.

  “Welcome, Stephen, welcome. We did not expect you, only your bride.”

  “Indeed?” Stephen said, his tone silky-soft. Mary realized in the instant that he spoke that he disliked this man immensely. His eyes were dark, his mouth tight, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in his tone. “You thought I would send my bride to you alone?”

  Rufus shrugged. “But we are pleased to see you after such a lapse on your part. It has been too long since last you visited. We have much to discuss, you and I.” Rufus held out his hand. “You will dine with us tonight.”

  Stephen bent on one knee and took the King’s hand, kissing the air above it. His movement was graceful, yet somehow lacking, for there was something disdainful in the set of his shoulders and his head. Rufus finally turned to Mary, who came forward until she stood beside Stephen. She curtsied deeply, and remained so until he told her to rise.

  “So you are Malcolm’s daughter,” he mused. “Why has he waited so long to wed you? And how old are you? You appear more of a child than a woman.”

  Mary bristled. She could not care for his cond
escension. As she raised her eyes, she was aware that she had the attention of every man in the room. She should not defy this man, England’s King, but she was loath to answer him. Finally, reluctantly, she answered one of his questions. “I am sixteen.”

  Rufus’s regard had long since wandered to Stephen, who stood unmoving at Mary’s side. “Does she please you, Stephen?”

  Mary gasped. What kind of question was this?

  The King continued blandly—as if she were not present. “She is nothing like Adele, so small and pale—she could pass for a boy if it were not for her hair.”

  Mary was enraged. She was also incredulous, that he would insult her so. She turned to Stephen, expecting a defense.

  But Stephen shrugged. His mouth was tight. “You know I do not like boys.”

  Rufus began to smile. “No—your women have always been fleshy and ripe.”

  His tone as bland as the King’s, Stephen agreed with him.

  “So she does not please you?” Rufus’s eyes gleamed now.

  “She is Malcolm’s daughter. That pleases me, Sire.”

  Mary was sick. It was the final, fatal blow. She clenched her fists, her own nails cutting her palms, nearly causing them to bleed. She told herself she would not throw up her noon meal, not now, not here, in front of everyone.

  In the short silence that followed, Stephen gripped her arm, steadying her, for she was shaking again. Furiously Mary tried to jerk free. His hold was so tight, she was immobilized, and she quickly gave up. To her horror, her lids began to sting.

  But Rufus had changed the topic. He began to ask Stephen if all was well in Northumberland. Mary did not listen, too devastated now to comprehend their words. She only wanted to get out of the royal chamber as quickly as possible, away from the horrible King, away from Stephen, away from the realizations that danced in her head.

  But suddenly Rufus was addressing her. “How is your father?”

  As Mary had been trying with all of her will not to think of Malcolm, she could not respond, not even when Stephen poked her. She blinked at the King, determined not to cry. Not here, not now, please, dear God.

  “Your father, Princess,” Rufus repeated as if to an idiot. “How is your father? You do speak French?”

  Mary tried to speak. But if she opened her mouth, she would sob or scream.

  Rufus turned to Stephen. “Is she a dimwit? Is her mind sound? I would not marry you to one who would breed you fools.”

  “She is of sound mind, Sire, she is just overtired and, I think, distraught.”

  Mary dared not look anywhere but at the floor. A few tears had managed to spill down her cheeks.

  “I must trust your judgment, then, for always it is sound. Get rid of her. Send her to the chamber she shall share with some of the other ladies who sojourn here. We must talk. We have much to discuss after so many years.”

  Stephen bowed, still gripping Mary’s arm firmly. “Sire.”

  They moved away. Mary was barely aware of being marched across the hall and from the room. She moved like the dimwit she had been accused of being. Once outside the chamber doors, Mary gulped the air.

  Stephen spoke quietly with a man-at-arms. Mary’s vision cleared. Her breasts began to rise and fall more rapidly than usual. She did not protest when Stephen again took her hand, and she ignored him when he gave her a long, searching look as they followed the soldier upstairs. “Mademoiselle?”

  Her jaw clenched, she did not speak. She no longer breathed.

  Stephen also fell silent. The guard cheerfully told them that this was her chamber, flinging open a door. Mary shrugged off Stephen, who let her go, and marched inside. He followed her, as she had known he would do, and then the guard was gone.

  They were finally alone. “Mary,” Stephen began.

  Mary screamed. As she screamed, and screamed and screamed, a scream of rage and agony, she raised her arm and open-handedly lashed him with all her might across his face. The sound of flesh cracking against flesh actually echoed. “Get away!” Mary cried. “Get away from me this instant!”

  Chapter 12

  For a moment, Stephen was frozen.

  So was Mary.

  And the sound of her hand cracking across his flesh seemed to linger in the stone chamber.

  His disbelief coalesced into anger. “Mary,” Stephen said grimly. He took a step towards her.

  “No!” she cried, raising her hands as if to ward him off. And the denial released a harsh sob.

  He halted. He had sensed her nervousness as they entered the King’s bailey, had watched it grow ever since. He sorely regretted having to act as he had in front of the King, but he’d had no choice, knowing Rufus as he did. He did not blame her for slapping him after all. “Mary, I must explain to you my behavior in the King’s chamber.”

  “No!” She backed away from him until her legs hit one of the room’s three beds. Instantly she jumped aside and backed into the wall—which was as far from him as she could possibly go.

  “Mary,” Stephen said, forcing himself to remain calm, speaking as he might to an invalid, or someone deranged, “I could not let the King see how pleased I am with our forthcoming union. You must trust me. In time I will explain more fully, when you are reconciled to our union, when you are loyal.”

  “I will never be reconciled—I will never be loyal!”

  Stephen flinched.

  “How I hate you!” Mary cried, choking on another huge sob. “Dear Lord God, we are truly to be wed!”

  Stephen started, wondering if she was going insane. “Of course we are truly to be wed. ’Twas decided days ago.”

  She moaned.

  He felt helpless then, not understanding this at all. “You are distraught. When you are calmer—”

  Her wild laughter cut him off, choked with tears. “Of course I am distraught! Can you blame me, Sir Norman? How would you like to be imprisoned here?!”

  He stood unmoving, expressionless, except for the tightness of his jaw. A long pause ensued, in which he did not speak, his eyes pitch black, while she wept, almost silently. “You are not a prisoner, demoiselle,” he finally said, his tone harsh. “You are my bride, soon to be my wife.”

  No sooner had he spoken than she covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking. This time her sobs were audible.

  Obviously the thought of marriage moved her to this hysteria. He did not understand why she should have this crisis now, instead of earlier, and could only guess that his having humiliated her in front of the King had set it off. Stephen was unmoving, torn with guilt. Guilt not just for the crisis he had provoked, but because he was forcing her against her will to this marriage—a fact he could no longer ignore. Was he any different from William Rufus?

  He was as horrified as he had ever been in his life. But Rufus had not been offering him respectability, power, or marriage, he reminded himself. Rufus had wanted to use him, abuse him. Still, the parallels truly frightened him.

  Yet he was helpless, too, a prisoner of his own lust and ambition. He could not free her, he would not.

  “You are not a prisoner,” he repeated, but whether to convince her or himself, he dared not know. “You shall be my wife! Everything that is mine shall be yours.”

  She dropped her hands, her face glazed with tears, her eyes wild with rage. “There is nothing you have that I want!”

  She had goaded him as only a woman can a man. “Do not make me prove the falsehood you have just uttered!” He found himself leaning over her. “In bed you are hardly unwilling!”

  She choked. “Not in bed—no—for you are a devil who has ensorcelled me—but otherwise I am only unwilling—and I will never let you forget it!”

  He could not move away from her even though he longed to then, transfixed by her hatred. “Unwilling, disloyal, it hardly matters,” he said heavily. There would be no turning back. “We will be wed, as your father and I have planned.”

  “Do not speak to me of Malcolm!” she screamed.

  And
Stephen had a glimpse of what moved her to such fury, and he was aghast. “Mary, you are angry with Malcolm?”

  “I hate you!” she screamed. Suddenly she drove herself off the wall, launching herself at him. Stunned, Stephen caught her as he stumbled backwards. She pummeled him with her fists. Stephen fell onto the bed, trying to embrace her even as she beat him. Enraged that she could not hurt him, she curled her fingers into claws. Stephen winced as one of her nails ripped a deep scratch along his cheek. He had no choice then but to throw her on the bed. Standing, he held the stinging scratch and felt the moisture of his blood.

  Mary doubled over into a ball, hugging her abdomen, moaning.

  Stephen forgot the small wound. How could he not go to her—despite how she felt about him? He sat beside her, taking her into his arms, stroking her hair as she wept openly against his chest. How could he soothe her? God damn Malcolm Canmore to hell! God damn himself!

  She stiffened when she realized that he held her, and wrenched free. She leapt from the bed, maniacal. “ ’Tis your fault!”

  He was motionless, except for the slight tremor that afflicted him. He opened his mouth to defend himself, recalled abducting her and seducing her, and promptly shut it. Even if he dared defend himself, to do so would only cast more blame upon her father, which he was reluctant to do.

  Mary pointed a finger at him, unable to keep it steady. “You did this! You came between us! You turned Malcolm from me! ‘Tis all your fault!”

  How she hated him. It flashed through his mind that he had secretly anticipated something far more than a marriage of either resignation or hostility. He had envisioned warmth and sweet succor, gentle laughter and genuine loyalty. Pain pierced his breast. For both his bride and himself.

  He slowly rose to his feet. His own fists were tightly clenched. With an effort, he relaxed them. “I am sorry you lay the entire blame for this affair at my feet,” he said stiffly. “But perhaps you are right. For I do want to wed you—and I will, no matter how you hate me.”