by Brenda Joyce
Mary was not sure she could go through with it. She kept recalling Malcolm’s words that day upon the moors. “Mackinnon brings me vast support. What do you bring me?” And she kept seeing Stephen as she had last seen him that afternoon, his face dark with disappointment when she failed to thank him for his gift.
“Mary,” Adele whispered in her ear. “ ’Tis time, you must go!”
Now was not the time to have second thoughts. Mary slipped from the bed, trembling. Her gaze met Adele’s. The heiress’s black eyes glittered with triumph. Soon she would have Stephen to herself—as she planned.
Stephen de Warenne poised the largest threat to the scheme Adele had designed. He was too shrewd, suspecting what was afoot. That night, at supper, Mary had followed Adele’s suggestion and put several drops of poppy into his wine. Stephen had downed several glasses of the narcotic-laced burgundy, and Mary had watched him growing sleepier and sleepier. When she had left him at her chamber door, he had been blinking at her, bleary-eyed. She had not a doubt that right now he was sound asleep, and would sleep that way for many hours more.
Adele gave Mary a shove. Mary could delay no longer. Outside the narrow window, through the costly colored glass, the night was no longer ink-black. Quickly Mary slipped on the clothes she had left within easy reach. Adele crept back to bed but watched her like a cat. None of the other women in the chamber stirred, and it was so quiet, she could hear her own slightly uneven breathing. She hurriedly pulled on her slippers, and feeling very much like a thief, she stole one of the lady’s cloaks.
Adele waved at her furiously to hurry and go.
The first gray light of dawn began to filter into the room as Mary let herself out. The guards questioned her while she explained that she needed to use the garderobe, shivering as if with cold, an explanation for the cloak. Her gaze drifted over Stephen. It was very dark in the corner where he’d made his pallet, and it was impossible to see him clearly, but he did not even snore. At least she need not worry about him; he would still be under the influence of the poppy. Her nerves fluttering, Mary followed one guard down the dark, empty corridor.
She slipped into the garderobe, ignoring the foul smells, waiting. It struck her then that she would never see Stephen again—unless Malcolm sent her back. Jesu, what was she doing!
Mary jumped, hearing a loud thump. She dared to slip out. The guard lay upon the floor as if dead, while another man stood over him, his face masked. He gestured at her angrily and then fled before her down the back stairs.
Mary dared not pause, just as she dared not think, other than to pray that the guard had not been killed on her account. She saw no one who was awake as she flew down the back stairs in the wake of the man hired by Adele.
Mary exited through the kitchens. By now she had her cloak pulled up over her head, shadowing her face. Once outside, she began to run.
If anyone saw her as she darted across the open courtyard to the stable she had been directed to, no one called out. She did not expect anyone to. With her mantle pulled up over her head, she could be any woman, and no doubt these guards had seen more females furtively crossing the bailey for their assignations than not. Mary rounded the stable and hurried through a door in the thick outer wall, down steep stone steps, across a narrow corridor, and out another door. She was outside and beneath the castle walls, on the wharf. She had made it.
Why did she not feel triumph?
The day was growing light. The rising sun appeared as a fuzzy apricot ball on the smoky horizon. It was fiercely cold, and for a moment, as Mary stood there searching for the oarsman, she was strangely elated, thinking he had not come. Then she saw a small boat being rowed towards the dock, and her heart hammered wildly. This was it. If she wished to leave, she must do so now.
She paused on the edge of the dock, trembling with the awesome decision she must make—a decision she had thought firmly made. It was hardly that, she realized, for she was filled with hesitation, with reluctance. She edged closer to the landing’s edge, fists clenched, praying for guidance. Stephen’s image haunted her.
She was suddenly loath to leave. In the span of a fortnight, he had become the focus of her life.
Slowly the rowboat approached. Mary began to cry. At first she was not aware of it, but then she felt the wetness on her cheeks. Was he really to blame for all that had passed?
She shoved a fist against her mouth so she would not make any sound and alert the guards upon the watchtower. She was the one who had slipped from Liddel in disguise against all better judgment in order to rendezvous with Doug. She was the one who had refused to yield her identity to Stephen, yielding instead her virtue. And dear, sweet Lord, Malcolm was the one who had handed her over to Stephen, without even giving her a single word of comfort, without even waiting to see if she was really with child.
Stephen hardly deserved the blame she had cast upon him. It was easier to blame Stephen than to blame herself, or worse, to blame Malcolm.
Mary covered her face with her hands. Her thoughts were terrible, terrifying. She was nothing but a political sacrifice. She realized with startling clarity that she might escape, but she could not go home. She could never go home again. She had no home.
Consumed with grief, she never heard the man approaching her from behind. And just as the sun slid past the murky horizon, vivid and yellow, she felt someone’s hand upon her shoulder.
For the briefest of instants she thought it was Stephen, that he was not still drugged after all, that he had followed her from the keep and now prevented her escape. She turned, not to protest her innocence—but with open arms, with relief.
A masked man pushed her violently backwards.
Mary screamed as she fell. Time seemed to stand still as she floated through the air. In that endless moment as she fell backwards, Mary realized with horror that she had been pushed into the Thames, and that she was likely to drown.
She hit the water with a splash and went under. At first Mary could not move. The water was freezing cold, stunning her. An intense desire to survive brought her out of her stunned state, but her cloak and skirts were tangled about her limbs, trapping her as she sank rapidly through the blackness. Panic exploded in her as she began to feel the effects of holding her breath. Mary began to thrash, but only became more coiled in her clothing, sinking even deeper.
Dear Lord, she was going to die.
She was going to die without ever seeing those she loved again, without ever saying good-bye. Dear, cherished faces flashed through her mind, her mother, her brothers, her young sister, Maude. Malcolm. Regret swelled in her heart. And Stephen, she thought of Stephen, whom she had so grievously betrayed.
Mary did not want to die. She was too young to die. She had not lived yet. She realized that she had been upon the precipice of a whole new life, as Stephen’s wife, and suddenly, fervently, she knew she must live in order to explore it.
But she sank deeper and deeper. She began to cough. Water flooded her lungs, and she began to choke. Her body throbbed painfully from the pressure of the river pushing in upon her, and her lungs felt as if they were about to explode.
Shards of light splintered in her brain, and just before the blackness, Mary knew it was too late.
Chapter 14
Stephen saw the masked man as he pushed Mary into the River Thames.
He had never imbibed any of the drugged wine. Having been suspicious of his bride’s intentions to begin with, he had seen her furtively slip the contents of a vial into his wine that evening. He only pretended to drink several glasses of the burgundy, recognizing quickly enough the odor that tinged it. A small portion of his fury was mitigated when it became obvious that she did not intend to kill him, merely to drug him.
He had feigned the effects of the drug, waiting for her next move. Soon it became clear that she thought to escape. When she left the Tower, he followed, finally hiding in the shadowed doorway of the keep’s outer wall. He could hardly believe the extent of her defiance.
Now all fury fled. With a roar, Stephen catapulted from the doorway as the black river sucked Mary under.
At the dock he halted, wrenching off his sword belt while he scanned the rippling surface of the water, hoping to see her rise once more. He tore off his tunics in frantic haste, then his boots. There was no trace of Mary. The water had become smooth and unblemished where she had fallen in.
His heart pumping painfully, Stephen dove in after her.
Less than a half a minute had gone by since she had disappeared beneath the water’s surface. But as he plummeted through the dark depths, completely blinded by the blackness, he could not find her.
The momentum of his dive ended. Stephen swam with furious intention now. He thrashed through the water, churning his arms madly. His lungs began to ache, began to burn. Where was she?
He refused to give up. He could not give up. If he did, she would die.
Pain began to distract him, threatening to overwhelm him. Stephen forced his mind to function—he must not lose sight of his goal, he must find Mary! He thrashed about in a circle, forcing his body even deeper, lights beginning to explode in his brain. Panic started to sear him, an animal panic that had no logic. The instinct for survival, the instinct that screamed at him to cease this madness and swim for the surface, now, warred with his determination to find her. But he must find her. He could not live without her. How he needed her. It was all so very clear.
He could no longer breathe.
Apparently he would die with her this day.
Brilliant white light consumed his brain, and with it, pain. His fingers brushed fabric.
Stephen began to choke. But he had already grabbed a fistful of silk tunic. A moment later he had her in one of his arms. Kicking furiously, pawing the water with his one free arm, he forced them both upwards, upwards and upwards, through the thick, heavy, punishing torrents of water. He vowed that they would make it.
His head broke the surface of the river first. He gulped air into his burning lungs, hazily aware of men shouting from the dock, their images blurred and out of focus. Mary floated loosely in his arms. His vision sharpened. Horror seized him. Her face was pinched blue, lifeless.
“Stephen,” someone shouted. It was Brand. A second later his brother was beside him in the water, taking Mary from him and swimming with her to the shore. Stephen followed. Many arms reached for him, pulling him onto the wooden dock.
Stephen shrugged off the men. He crawled to Mary, who lay on her back. She was not breathing.
“Stephen,” Brand panted, gripping his arm. There was commiseration in his tone.
Violently Stephen flung him off. He flipped Mary onto her stomach. He smacked her hard on the back. She spewed up gallons of water. He smacked her there again, and more water came from her in a rush like a geyser.
He flipped her onto her back. “Breathe!” he cried. “Breathe, Mary, please!”
She was unmoving, a corpse.
Brand gripped him again from behind. “Stephen … she is dead.”
“No!” he cried. In that moment he knew nothing other than that no one, not even God, would cheat him of his wife. She needed air. He would give her his.
He bent over her, touching his lips to hers. He forced open her mouth. He forced his own life breath into her. Again and again. He thought that her body quivered ever so slightly—and savage hope seared him.
“Stephen, stop,” Brand finally said from somewhere above him, agonized.
Stephen did not hear him. His hands found her narrow rib cage. He pushed it in as he pumped more of his own air into her lungs. He found a rhythm not unlike that of his own natural breathing.
Mary seemed to grow warm beneath his cheek.
He paused, grabbing her face in his hands, staring down at her. She seemed less blue, she seemed to move … Dear God, she was breathing!
With a cry that sounded like a sob, Stephen collapsed beside her on the dock.
“She’s breathing!” someone exclaimed. “De Warenne’s given her back her life!”
Stephen flung his arm over his eyes so no one would see him crying. He could not stop the flood of tears. He had not cried in seventeen years. It was amazing, for he had thought that he had forgotten how.
“Get a physic and furs,” Brand was ordering. A moment later Stephen was aware of his brother wrapping a tunic around his mostly naked body. He had been clad in nothing but braies and hose. He began to shiver. But he threw off the tunic, ignoring Brand’s protest, sitting up. Mary had been covered as well. He pulled her into his arms and rose to his feet with his brother’s aid. Mary was alive; nevertheless, she was barely breathing and as pale as any ghost. His gaze met Brand’s.
“Bring me a horse,” he said. “Then send the physic to Graystone.”
Stephen laid Mary on his bed, quickly and efficiently stripped her of her sodden clothing, and wrapped her in several woolen blankets and a heavy fox fur. She was still a deathly shade of white, and from time to time a shudder swept her. She was unconscious.
Without hesitation, Stephen stripped off his own wet underclothes and crawled into the bed with her. He pulled her into his arms and between his legs. He began to massage her icelike hands.
Not for the first time Stephen looked at Mary, his face a mask of bitterness, anger, and fear. How, he despaired, how could she hate him so much? Had he not known Mary, he would think this all a bad dream. It was incredible that a woman would go to such lengths to avoid wedlock. And who, who had dared to try and take her life? Who was behind the masked assassin?
“She was trying to escape,” Stephen said some time later in the hall below. All the de Warenne men were gathered there, even Geoffrey, who had spent the night and had been planning to adjourn to Canterbury that morning. “But alas, her plans went awry. For as she waited for the boat, a masked man came upon her from behind, and pushed her into the River Thames.”
A grim silence followed his words. Finally Rolfe spoke. “We shall have to watch her carefully to make certain she does not try such foolishness again. And of course, as the attempt of murder failed, we must be on guard to see that the murderers do not practice such treachery another time.”
Very weary, Stephen sat down at the long trestle table, his head in his hands. “I think Adele Beaufort was involved in the plan to escape.”
“Adele Beaufort?” Geoffrey said, his brows raised, his skin white. “Do you really think she could be involved?”
“She cannot be pleased that I wed with Mary,” Stephen said, looking up.
Geoffrey said nothing.
Brand coughed. “I hate to remark this, but she was there this morning.”
“What?”
“I was returning to the Tower after a night of, er, well, sport. I heard the cries and came to investigate. I was shocked when I was told that you had dived into the Thames—many minutes ago. As I waited for you to come up, I saw Adele from the corner of my eye. She appeared as shocked as anyone else, I think. She was hiding in the shadows by the walls. When she saw me, she turned and fled.”
“Surely she is no murderess,” Geoffrey said tightly.
“There are other parties who might have had a hand in the deed, as well,” Rolfe pointed out. “Duncan, Montgomery, and Roger Beaufort all are most displeased with the forthcoming union. Speculation leads us nowhere. We must seek to ferret out-hard information, cold fact. If we can find one of the hirelings, undoubtedly he can be coaxed to speak.”
“Any hirelings are by now mid-Channel, bound for France,” Brand said. “If they are wise.”
“Hirelings tend to lack wit,” Rolfe said wryly. “Let us conclude the business at hand. Nasty rumors will soon fly. They must be nipped in the bud. I will put out word that Mary was abducted and thrown into the river. I will make clear the displeasure of Northumberland. Any would-be assassins will think twice, I promise, before striking again.”
“She will not leave Graystone until we are wed,” Stephen suddenly said. His tone was hard, his eyes ice. “And if
the King attempts to take Mary from this threshold, I will meet him and his men personally with my sword.”
For just a moment, everyone in the hall stared at Stephen. For such defiance, if it came to that, would be nothing short of treason.
Rolfe walked to his firstborn son and put his arm around his shoulder. “You are distraught. We can move the King to our cause far more easily with seduction than with swords. Come, Stephen—”
Stephen stood. “She does not leave the manor, Father.” It was a challenge.
Father and son stared at each other. Rolfe finally spoke. “I am in agreement with you, Stephen—we are allies, not enemies. I, too, wish for her to remain here until you have wed with her. Let me speak on this to the King. I shall also gain his consent to hasten the nuptials.”
“And how will you do that?” Stephen was sarcastic. “After all, now that Rufus has revealed his plans to invade Carlisle, I doubt he thinks the wedding will ever take place!”
“Unfortunately, Rufus is often impossible to second-guess. However, as he dearly loves to goad his foes, I can impress upon him that Malcolm will be doubly goaded if his daughter is wed to you before we take Carlisle.”
Stephen’s jaw was clenched. “He is a lackwit! This union promises peace—but he will undo all we have so far achieved, and for what? For what? For an extra piece of land? To lord over a few more warring clans? To harden Malcolm into an even more bitter enemy?”
Rolfe touched his shoulder. “Do not fear. A day will not go by that I will not whisper in his ear, softly wooing him away from his bloody scheme.” He gripped his son reassuringly, then turned to Brand. “Come, we will return to Court. I will inform Rufus of all that has passed and begin to press for a more timely wedding.”
