Promise of the Rose

by Brenda Joyce

  Now the fear de Warenne raised in him increased his ire. How Duncan despised him. But he did not hate him as much as he hated de Warenne’s bride, for Mary was his own flesh and blood.

  Duncan could not help but turn his gaze onto Mary again. She had grown up in the bosom of their family, as he should have. He could not look at her without thinking of their father, whom he despised more than he despised anyone. The illustrious Malcolm Canmore. The heroic Scot King. The father who had given over his eldest son as a hostage to William the Conqueror for his own good behavior—then proceeded to violate his oath again and again, careless of how he endangered his son. The fact that Duncan survived was due solely to his own shrewdness, even as a boy.

  Malcolm’s days of glory were numbered. He was old and one day soon, Duncan hoped, he would underestimate one of his enemies and succumb to a fatal blow. Then the throne of Scotland would be ripe for the plucking, and Duncan intended to be the one who plucked it.

  Duncan would not let anyone stand in his way, certainly not his sister and her husband. While Northumberland had always remained loyal to the Crown, while it had always been instrumental in crushing rebellions, Northumberland had never before been allied to its enemy, Scotland. Duncan was shrewd enough to glimpse possibilities that boded ill for his ambitions. Northumberland might remain firm in its support for William Rufus—and thus for him—but what if it did not? The frightening ambition of the de Warennes was well known. What if they chose to support Malcolm’s choice of successor, his eldest, Edward, or attempted to thrust one of their own upon the throne? Mary’s unborn son had as much a claim to Scotland as anyone.

  There was no question that this marriage was going to take place in three weeks time. Unless, of course, there was an accident…

  Chapter 13

  Stephen wandered among the stalls and vendors at Cheap-side. Repeatedly he was waylaid by the merchants, all of whom recognized a wealthy lord and prospective buyer when they saw one.

  Several days had passed since he and Mary had arrived at Court, but little had changed. She made no secret of her hostility to him, their marriage, and the King. His sympathy for her distress had long since evaporated; his annoyance threatened to bloom into full-fledged anger. What woman refused to resign herself to her fate? Only Mary could be so bold and so determined.

  Their union was still the talk of the Tower. Now speculation ran rampant. Stephen knew the lords and ladies of the Court expected him to bring Mary to heel, and soon, even if it meant beating her soundly for her defiance. They were beginning to snicker about his unwieldy relationship with his bride.

  Stephen had no intention of beating her. No matter how much trepidation she raised within him, her astounding sense of honor was admirable. If ever he might come to own her loyalty, he would be a very lucky man, indeed.

  But he did not fool himself with misplaced hope. He thought it unlikely that he would ever see that day.

  And for a bare moment, he was bitter. A woman like Mary could so ease his life. Why did the image of Mary with her arms outstretched, a smile on her face, awaiting him on the steps of Alnwick, continue to haunt him?

  He told himself that he was becoming a soft and weak fool. He was a battle-hardened knight; one day he would be a ranking earl, one of the greatest lords in the realm. He had relied on himself since he was six; he could rely on himself until he was sixty. If his wife refused to give him succor, he should not even dwell on the lack thereof.

  He did not want to become softhearted. In this world, only the strong survived. It did no good to crave her in such a manner. He had not thought about Adele Beaufort so foolishly when they had been betrothed. Indeed, he had not thought about her at all, just about her dowry.

  Nor had Adele Beaufort created the kind of lust he was constantly afflicted with. Mary’s mere presence seemed to generate a heavy pulse between his legs. It was no easy thing. But tonight, and tomorrow, and for many days to come, even now, he would continue to ignore it.

  He could look forward to one thing. Once married, his wife might be of little comfort to him outside of bed, but within it, she exceeded his wildest expectations.

  No, he would not beat her. As he would tame a wild falcon, he would woo her with gentleness. Today he would buy her a gift and bring her a peace offering. This dispute had gone on long enough.

  As he ventured among the merchants, he had the impulse to buy several items for his bride, especially a delicately carved wooden box so small it was almost useless except as an object to be looked upon, a brooch set with one large garnet in what was almost the shape of a heart, and a yard of fine Flanders wool in a brilliant hue of scarlet. Practicality ruled and he chose the wool, envisioning Mary clad in it.

  But when it came time to leave, instead of mounting his horse, he turned around, went back, and bought the box and the brooch as well.

  By the time Stephen returned to the Tower, it was almost nonce; he had spent several hours among the merchants, making his decisions. He hurried up the stairs to the chamber Mary shared with several other women, beginning to anticipate her surprise—and her delight—when he gave her the fine gifts.

  Rufus had one of his sergeants guarding Mary day and night—but so did Stephen. He nodded to both men and rapped sharply on the door. Mary opened the door herself. Stephen was surprised to see that she was with Adele Beaufort, who sat upon one of the chamber’s three beds. Mary flushed with guilt when she saw him. What scheme was she up to now? Or was it distress he read in her green gaze?

  “You seem dismayed to see me, demoiselle.”

  “Of course I am dismayed,” she said, seeking as she did so often these days to annoy him. “How I have enjoyed being rid of my shadow.”

  Since they had come to Court, he had hardly let her out of his sight; in fact, at night he slept upon a straw pallet in the corridor not far from her door. “Well can I imagine your joy.” He took her arm. She tensed, inhaling. The contact jolted him as well; already he grew stiff with lust he would not assuage until their wedding night. “What are you hiding, Mary?”

  She refused to look at him. “Nothing. I… I am tired. Please—”

  Adele came forward, her stride sinuous, hips swaying provocatively. “Good day, my lord,” she murmured in her husky voice.

  Stephen did not return her smile. God’s blood, but was it possible that these two conspired against him? Every instinct he had said it was so.

  Adele boldly touched his sleeve, and let her hand linger. “I have been explaining to your bride the order of the ceremony. She is not familiar with our Norman ways.”

  Stephen stared at Adele, whose regard was decidedly seductive. “How very generous you are, Lady Beaufort, again.”

  Adele shrugged, finally dropping her hand, turning to Mary. “I can see that Lord Stephen wishes a moment of privacy with you, Princess. Perhaps we can conclude our discussion another time.”

  Mary looked from Stephen to Adele and back again. “Yes. Thank you.”

  Adele swept from the room, brushing past Stephen as she did so. When he looked at Mary, he saw that she was very unhappy—even irate. “How interesting. The two of you have become such fast friends.”

  Mary blanched, then found her tongue. “But we are hardly as friendly as you and she!”

  Stephen took her hand, gripping it far harder than he intended. “Jealous, chère?”

  “Of course not!” She tried to jerk free of him and failed.

  Stephen was a heartbeat away from pulling her even closer, so she might understand the full extent of his frustration. But her glance was flickering over his obviously swollen loins, which his tunic could not hide, and that aroused him even further. He released her. He had no desire to torture himself now with what he could not have for another three weeks.

  “What do you hide from me, demoiselle?”

  She paled again. “I am not hiding anything from you! Adele spoke the truth! She has so kindly offered to help me prepare for the nuptials!” Tears had gathered in his bride�
�s eyes.

  “I lived in the King’s household for nigh on ten years,” he told her. “I recognize intrigue easily enough when confronted with it. Adele Beaufort is like most of the ladies here, vain, selfish, and ambitious in the extreme. What do the two of you scheme, Mary?”

  Mary said nothing, tight-lipped. He could see her mind racing. When she spoke, he knew she lied, and although he had expected it, his disappointment left a bilious taste in his mouth. “I have been imprisoned in this airless tomb for almost a week! A single Scotswoman amongst a hundred Normans. Yet you begrudge me my single friend. You cannot keep us apart.”

  “She has not a generous nature, demoiselle. She befriends no one unless it furthers her own cause. Mark my words, Mary. If you believe her to be your friend, you are mistaken. In fact, there is no such thing as friends in a life such as this.”

  She eyed him, defiant, frightened, trembling.

  “Whatever you are planning,” he said abruptly, “I suggest you end it, now.”

  “Your imagination runs wild,” she said through stiff lips. “There is no scheme between us.”

  “We shall soon see. I suspect,” he said flatly. “Are you interested in joining me for the noon meal?”

  “No,” she said. “No, I have a terrible headache, I cannot.”

  There was nothing graceful about his acceptance of her words; irritation and anger hardened his features one by one. Mary ducked her head away from him and turned to leave him. He stopped her, gripping her shoulder. “Wait.” He gestured to one of his men, who had followed him up the stairs, who now came forward with the bolt of Flanders wool, carefully wrapped in cheap colorless linen. His mouth turned down. There was no pleasure in the giving, none at all.

  “What is this?” Mary whispered, her eyes huge.

  “For you, mademoiselle,” Stephen said curtly. He nodded in parting. “I hope your megrim soon eases.” He found he could not give her the rest of her gifts. Apparently the war was not over yet.

  Geoffrey strode through the great hall. His golden face was flushed with anger, anger he must at all costs hide. For the third time in as many weeks, he had received a royal summons. But this time he was not being made to wait. This time the summons had been delivered by the King’s own men, who had escorted him posthaste back to London, who even now accompanied him to the King.

  The sergeants who stood at attention outside the royal chamber stiffened and stepped aside. Geoffrey was ushered within immediately, and only then did the two knights leave his side.

  Geoffrey almost faltered as he came across the room, approaching Rufus, who sat upon a throne that was the exact replica of the one in the hall outside. For three men were present with him, Duncan, Montgomery, and his father, Rolfe de Warenne.

  The Earl of Northumberland’s eyes flashed to his, with warning.

  “How pleased We are, dear Geoffrey, to see that you have come to Us so swiftly,” Rufus said.

  Geoffrey’s mind whirled. He could think of no reason for this summons other than to be put to the test—the King would demand the knights owed him.

  Geoffrey knelt briefly on one knee and rose at the King’s bidding. “Sire?”

  “The time has come for you to make your choice,” Rufus said, smiling as if he had just asked Geoffrey about the weather.

  Geoffrey’s heart skidded wildly, then resumed its steady beat.

  “Will you swear fealty to your King, Archdeacon? In front of these three men, with God also as Our witness?”

  Geoffrey blanched. He had been wrong. The King was not demanding mere service after all.

  He was demanding far more: that Geoffrey swear homage to him in front of witnesses. Recently some churchmen claimed that no cleric should ever swear fealty to their King, that their real allegiance was only to God, and therefore, the Pope. These reformers refused upon investiture to make such vows, and their refusal was encouraged by Rome. These prelates also disputed the King’s power to appoint and invest clerics. So far, Rufus continued to follow in the footsteps of his father, demanding and exercising his rights over the Church when it was necessary, such as when he had appointed Anselm Canterbury’s archbishop. He was demanding those rights now, from Geoffrey.

  “And when would this act take place?” Geoffrey asked. His mouth was dry; he wet his lips. He was sweating.

  “Today. Here. Now.”

  Geoffrey forced his stunned mind to think. There was no time to maneuver himself out of this new dilemma. The King demanded homage now. Normally an archdeacon was hardly a significant prelate. In fact, having run Canterbury ever since Lanfranc’s death, Geoffrey had risen to an unprecedented position of power and preeminence. For the past four years, in the absence of an archbishop, he had battled the Crown head-on as he ruled Canterbury. Rufus was pushing their ongoing battle to its final conclusion. For Geoffrey had two choices, yea or nay, and he had little doubt that refusal would precipitate his direct descent to the dungeons below. Rufus had done far worse to those who defied him.

  “You hesitate,” Rufus said, his smile no longer pleasant. “Are you a fanatic then?”

  His jaw clenched; a muscle ticked there. “I am no fanatic.” Geoffrey forced himself to smile. “As you wish, Your Majesty.” And he dropped to his knees.

  Someone gasped, perhaps Montgomery.

  Geoffrey was not a fanatic, yet his cause was the Church. He supported most of the suggested reforms, he supported the rights of the Church against the claims of the King, and he would continue to do so. But the past four years had proved that he could not best the King in open war. To what good had all his efforts so far been? The King’s last accounting had resulted in another rape of the see to the tune of several thousand pounds.

  The time had come to change his tactics. Could he not become an ally of the Crown, yet surreptitiously continue to further the interest of the Church and God?

  “How wisely you have chosen,” Rufus murmured. Then his voice turned sharp. “Let us be done with it!”

  Before the gathered witnesses, Geoffrey swore to uphold and obey his liege lord, King William of England, in all manner and for all time. In turn, Rufus surprised him by granting him a small but exceedingly rich manor farther in the south. Geoffrey kissed the King’s knee and was allowed to rise.

  Their gazes met. There was no mistaking Rufus’s satisfaction. “Prove that you are worthy of the trust I place in you, and you shall go far,” Rufus said.

  Geoffrey could not mistake his meaning. The test was not done yet. And should he continue to submit to the King’s will, there would be more for him personally to gain. As he was only an archdeacon, Rufus very obviously referred to a more significant appointment. Geoffrey did not feel elated. Instead, his insides constricted painfully. Instead, he felt a moment of frightening despair.

  The choice he had just made would be nothing like the choice he must soon make, if the King spoke true.

  Rolfe came over and gripped his arm, his smile reassuring but not overly bright. As he prepared to leave, the King called out. “Wait, dear archdeacon, wait.”

  Slowly Geoffrey turned.

  Rufus smiled. “I am afraid your work has hardly begun. You see, just this morning Anselm has refused me. He will not muster the knights owed to me. He refuses to use the power of Canterbury, he says, to further my own bloody ambition.” Rufus stared. His next words rang like a question. “You, of course, will bring me the vassals owed.”

  It was the first test. Geoffrey did not pause. Regardless of what might eventually come. “When—and where?”

  “In two weeks time we advance upon Carlisle.”

  Geoffrey reeled. Beside him, his father stared at the King in shock. Then the father and son who were such exact replicas of each other exchanged glances, alarm mirrored equally in both of their eyes.

  Rufus smiled and rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Malcolm will never suspect our plans, coming as they do just days before the union of his dear daughter and our dear Stephen.” Rufus crowed. “We cannot possibl
y fail! The Scot is finally doomed!”

  Mary could not sleep. At supper Adele had given her the “yes” signal that they had agreed upon. She was filled with despair. If she dared to analyze her thoughts more closely, she might very well learn that she had no real wish to escape her betrothed.

  But she must. She must flee this hateful marriage. How could she wed him now, after all that had passed?

  Had he not destroyed her life?

  She rolled onto her side. The bell had tolled lauds and soon the sky would gray, soon she must begin her attempt to flee all that was abhorrent to her. For some wild reason, a sob seemed to be working its way up from her chest. She gulped it down. An image of the gorgeous red wool, the gift Stephen had brought her, filled her mind yet again.

  His page had made sure she knew that his lord had ridden all the way to Cheapside to do the picking himself.

  Mary turned onto her stomach, feeling lost. She could not fathom why he had brought her the present that he had after she had flung her hatred of him in his face. It was making her feel miserable. For tonight she would repay him with treachery.

  His dark image swam before her. His even darker words as he told her that she should be wary of Adele, that friends did not exist. He was a lonely man. How clearly she recognized that now. He most certainly needed a friend, a helpmeet, a wife.

  But it would not be her. He had ruined her life. He had, and Mary knew she would never be able to forgive him for it.

  Her temples throbbed as they so often did since she had arrived at Court and learned the obvious truth, that her father intended no ruse, but a real alliance. Mary closed her eyes. Still, tears seeped. Although she intended escape, what would happen to her once she reached her home? Would Malcom welcome her—or send her back?

  If he was the man she thought he was, he would welcome her with open arms, and he would be proud of how she had deceived the Norman enemy. Surely he had been coerced into forsaking her. Mary had thought long and hard and had yet to find a single advantage that her marriage would bring to Scotland, other than peace. And Malcolm scoffed at peace, bent as he was on extending his borders until Scotland was as it had once been.