by Brenda Joyce
She was afraid to visit even briefly with her family. She was afraid of what might happen, of what she might learn.
As they drew closer to the Tower—and to her parents—Mary realized that Stephen thought he did her a great favor by bringing her here for this visit. As Mary did not want to face her own feelings herself, she could not share her reluctance with him. But with every step that brought them closer to the Tower, her heart beat faster, her stomach tied itself into a tighter knot.
She had learned that Malcolm had arrived at the gates of London with a sizable army. He had only been admitted, however, with a few dozen men, and those men had been required to surrender their weapons once inside the bailey of the Tower. William Rufus was taking no chances with his most bitter enemy.
As she traveled across London, Mary worried. She knew her father well. He was undoubtedly furious at being forced to leave his men and weapons behind. She knew how quick he was to strike back when enraged. Would Malcolm disrupt the alliance at this last moment, or even disrupt the wedding itself? Mary was afraid. How she had changed. She did not want anything to interfere with their wedding, not even Malcolm. He was so ruthless with his enemies, and there was no doubt that he still hated Northumberland—and Stephen.
The King’s Tower came into sight. It soared above the walls of the bailey and reflected upon the smooth surface of the Thames. Mary had kept the curtains of the litter open. She began to tremble. Stephen rode ahead of her on his brown destrier, behind his standard bearer and the red rose of Northumberland. A score of heavily armed knights escorted them.
From the moment they crossed the drawbridge and entered the bailey, they were given a royal armed escort into the keep. Stephen helped her from the litter, surrounded not by his own knights now, but by the King’s men. Mary had been in the exact same situation before, and again she felt fearful and powerless. She did not release Stephen’s hand, and he gave hers a reassuring squeeze. Of course, the King himself would never disrupt their marriage now, he would not dare.
As they climbed the steps to the keep with their escort, Mary wondered if she would always fear and dislike the English Court, if she would always feel like an alien among the enemy. It was another sobering thought when she wanted to feel nothing but bridal jitters and real gaiety on the eve of her wedding.
Their party entered the Great Hall. Conversation dimmed and ceased. Every lord and lady they passed turned to regard their group, eyes bright with speculation. Mary regretted ever having attempted to escape. Stephen could not be pleased that her defiance had been so publicly aired. She had little doubt that many of the jealous lords here had been thrilled with Stephen’s brief humiliation.
As they crossed the hall, Mary glanced at him. His head was high, his gaze trained ahead, his expression unreadable. She thought she heard someone snicker and mention Stephen in the same breath as they passed, but when her gaze flew to the crowd, she could not find the culprit.
In time, she thought vehemently, the whole world would know of her love for Stephen and her loyalty. She would make it up to him.
They went directly to the King’s private rooms on the third floor. As soon as they entered, Mary saw that Malcolm and Margaret and three of her brothers were already within, her parents conversing rather stiffly with the Earl and Countess of Northumberland, near the dais where Rufus sat upon his throne. Mary was very surprised to see Doug Mackinnon standing between Edward and Edgar, and when he caught her eye, she quickly looked away.
She was horrified that he was here. She could not imagine why he had accompanied her parents. Also, she was struck by the knowledge that since the day she had first been captured by Stephen, she had hardly spared him a single thought. How could she have ever thought herself to be in love with him? And how would she ever face him now?
Mary peeked at Stephen, but he was expressionless. She realized he did not know who Doug was, and she found herself inordinately relieved. She knew him well enough now to be certain that he would not be pleased to make Doug’s acquaintance.
Her parents saw her. Mary was frozen, unable to move. She had avoided looking at her father except for a single first glance. She managed to smile at her mother, who appeared close to tears. She ignored Malcolm. She could not look at him.
Stephen and Mary greeted the King.
“I am glad to see you so well. Princess,” Rufus said expansively, red-cheeked and smelling of wine. There was a gloating look about him. “You do not look as if you have suffered from your near-death.”
“I am recovered. Sire.”
“How glad We are.” But Rufus was hardly interested in her. He was smiling at Stephen.
Stephen did not smile back. “Sire,” was all he said.
Mary looked at the man she loved, then at the King. Stephen’s face was unreadable, but the King’s expression was animated, his eyes sparkling. Mary could not move, could not even drop her gaze from William Rufus’s countenance. How well she recognized such an expression now. Dear God, the King is in love with Stephen!
Rufus finally looked at her, catching her staring, his smile vanishing, his gaze becoming cold. “Your father waits to greet you, Princess.”
Immediately Mary turned away, but she was still shocked with what she had discovered—for she had not a single doubt that it was true.
She had no choice but to look up at Malcolm. He was smiling at her as he always had, and her heart twisted painfully. Tears formed in her eyes. His gaze was warm, affectionate. It was as if that horrid moment upon the moors had never happened, as if there had been no negotiation over her as if she were mere chattel, and unloved at that. It was as if he was glad to see her. “F-Father,” she managed.
“Daughter! How pretty you are, as always! Are you well?”
Mary nodded, trembling. She stared at her father, wishing desperately that he might take her in his arms. Of course, Malcolm had never been one to show such exuberant affection. She did not expect him to do so now.
But in that blink of an eye, Mary knew she loved her father and she always would. She knew he loved her as well. He had given her to Stephen for politics, but that was every bride’s end. She had never expected to marry for love—yet through an incredible twist of fate, she was. Her feelings of betrayal had been generated by mere appearances that day upon the moors. But ’twas only that, appearances. Malcolm had seemed harsh and singularly unconcerned for her welfare, and there was no explanation, not when faced with his warmth now. Perhaps he had been so hard because he was dealing with the enemy, and not just his enemy but the man who had abducted and ruined his daughter. Mary could not know. It did not matter. She loved him, and she forgave him with all her heart.
Mary turned to her mother, who stretched out her arms. Mary released a harsh sob, rushing into her dear and familiar and oh so comforting embrace. Margaret rocked her as if she were in swaddling. When the embrace ended, Mary smiled up at her mother through her tears, and saw that Margaret was crying, too.
“You are finally to be wed,” Margaret whispered. “My little minx is finally to be wed.”
“I am happy, Mother.”
“Oh, thank God!”
They hugged each other again. Then Edgar swooped down upon her, demanding after her welfare. Because they were so close in age, they had been nearly inseparable as children, and of all her brothers, Mary was closest to him. He was grim, clearly unhappy with her betrothal and worried about her, reminding Mary once again of the political realities. She glanced at Edward, the oldest brother, and the most practical. Mary was used to turning to him for wisdom and advice. So often he had rescued her from her mischievous deeds, calming her when distraught, defending her when accused. He, too, was somber. And Edmund was openly displeased.
Mary was dismayed. And suddenly she became aware of tension seething at her back. She turned from her brothers to witness Malcolm and Stephen exchanging terse, barely civil, greetings. Mary’s heart sank.
How they despised each other. There was no amiability between her
father and her betrothed, just cold, hard-edged, hate-filled politeness—if that.
The memory flashed through her mind. The winter-white day, cold and bleak, the bare, gaunt trees, the freezing wind. Stephen, hard and proud, standing behind Rufus at Abernathy, while Malcolm pledged his fealty to the King of England on bended knee. Malcolm’s face had been a mask of hatred and fury.
Nothing had changed, except that Stephen appeared to detest Malcolm with an equal fervor.
Mary told herself that she could bring Stephen and Malcolm together—she could. Once upon a time she would have never considered such a possibility. Now she must do more than consider it, she must breathe life into the event of peace. Surely one and all could see the logic of an alliance between her family and Stephen’s. There had been so much bloodshed over the past two generations; was it not time for a lasting peace?
Mary was determined. For she had the horrible feeling that she would be the one to pay the price of war, she and Stephen.
Margaret smiled and touched her cheek, breaking into her thoughts. “Come. We have permission to adjourn to the next room.”
Surprised, Mary glanced at Stephen, to see him nod. Then she realized that it would only be her mother and herself enjoying a private moment; undoubtedly her mother thought she must impart some maternal advice to her daughter on the eve of her wedding.
Mary made sure not to glance at Doug as she passed him, following her mother behind one of the oak partitions. But she sensed that he was both determined and desperate, and she was filled with trepidation. Was her plate not full enough already? She could not handle anything more, not today!
Margaret did not waste time. “Are you all right, dear?”
“I am fine, Mother.”
“Are you with child?”
Mary blushed and was ashamed. “I do not know yet. Mother—forgive me.”
Margaret’s smile was tender and forgiving, but she said, “I cannot do that, my dearest. Only God can forgive you—God and yourself.”
“I love him, Mother,” Mary said almost shyly.
Margaret burst into tears, taking Mary’s hands. “How happy I am! Oh, ’tis so rare to marry and find love, too!”
“You love Father.”
“Aye, I do.” Margaret cupped her chin. “Need I remind you of your duties? As a good, Christian wife?”
“I promise to be obedient, Mother. To Stephen and to God.”
“Do not forget your duties to those who depend upon you, Mary. Do not forget that you shall be responsible for all those who toil for your lord, both vassals and villeins. And do not neglect the poor and the sick, my dear.”
“I won’t. Mother.”
Margaret softened. “From what I can see, Stephen de Warenne is a good man.”
Mary was relieved. “He is! Mother—if only you could persuade Father that Stephen is not the Devil’s own, and that our families are now allies—not enemies!”
“ ’Tis hard to persuade Malcolm in matters of state, dear,” Margaret said gently. “You know I do not like to interfere. But I shall try.”
“Thank you,” Mary said fervently.
They spoke for a few more minutes, then together they returned to the other chamber. Mary was disappointed when she realized that Stephen had left. She turned to her brothers, glad to have a moment to converse with them, unsure of how many more moments there would be after her wedding.
But Edmund said, in her ear, “Do you carry his brat yet, little sister?”
She drew away.
“ ’Tis an honest question, an important one,” Edmund continued, his eyes holding hers.
“Go to hell,” she whispered furiously, turning her back on him.
Edward grabbed him, spinning him around. “You oaf! Can you not at least ask if she is well?”
“I can see that she is well!” Edmund retorted.
“Do not start, not now, not here,” Mary whispered angrily. She had played the peacemaker often with her brothers, and under her unrelenting stare, they finally relaxed.
“Mary?”
Mary froze, recognizing the voice behind her, a voice with an urgent tone. Reluctantly she turned to face Doug, whom she had hoped to avoid. As if they were alone, Doug gripped her arms. Mary stiffened. “Doug—”
“We must speak!”
She was stunned. His expression was intense and strained, and there was no mistaking the wild, desperate light in his eyes. “What is it? What is wrong?” Even as she spoke, she glanced quickly around, to reassure herself that Stephen had not returned to witness Doug touching her in such a manner. Relieved, she shrugged free of Doug’s grasp.
“I had to beg your father to let me accompany him, Mary,” Doug said, low.
“I do not understand why you have come.”
He appeared confused. “Why I have come? To see you, of course!”
Mary’s eyes widened. Was it possible that Doug still cared for her?
“Mary—are you all right?”
“I am fine.”
“Has he hurt you?” Doug demanded.
Mary wondered if he was asking her if Stephen had used her. “No, he has not hurt me.”
Doug flushed. He gripped her arms again, bending over her. Mary grew nervous. “Are you with his child, Mary?”
She wet her lips. “I do not know.” She was scarlet.
He grimaced.
Mary waited for him to berate her, but he did not.
“I do not care,” he finally said. “If you bear his child, I do not care.”
Mary was too surprised to respond.
He said urgently, “Do you still love me?”
“Doug!”
“Mary—we can run away. We can run away tonight, to France. We can still be married, and I will rear the child as my own. ’Tis not too late.”
Mary stared.
“Just say yes,” Doug cried, “and I will get word to you this night. I have a plan, Mary, and we can succeed.”
“Doug,” Mary whispered, aghast. He still loved her enough to forgive her for her loss of virtue and to accept another man’s child, which was overwhelming enough, but the suggestion itself was even more shocking. “You must be mad! I cannot run away with you, I cannot!”
“Mary—think about it.”
“I do not have to think about it. It has been agreed, I am to wed with Stephen.”
Doug paled.
Mary knew, and she whirled.
Stephen smiled at them both, coldly.
Chapter 17
To Doug’s credit, he did not flinch despite the unwavering stare Stephen subjected him to.
Stephen said, “Do you subvert my bride, Mackinnon?”
Doug squared his shoulders. “She would not be your bride, de Warenne, had you not abducted her and raped her.”
Mary winced, as pale as Doug now, expecting Stephen to cruelly expose the truth of her participation in his seduction.
Stephen smiled again, unpleasantly. “But that is all the past, is it not? And tomorrow she will be my wife. So cleanse your mind, Mackinnon. Mary will have no suitors other than myself.”
Mary was terribly relieved that Stephen had spared her such humiliation. She dared not intervene, though. But that immediately proved to be a mistake.
Doug’s amber eyes flashed. “You can marry her, de Warenne, but you cannot take away what we share, she and I.”
Stephen was still. His eyes had become black. “And just what is that, Mackinnon?”
Doug smiled, and it was his turn to be cold, even triumphant. “Love.”
Mary closed her eyes, choking off a moan. Her heart twisted for Doug. He still loved her, and he thought that she still loved him. She was dismayed. She should have told him forthrightly that her heart now belonged to another. And she dreaded Stephen’s response, sure he would be frightening in his fury.
But he only laughed and shrugged. “Love is for fools like you, lad, not for a man like me.” He turned to Mary, his regard chilling her. “ ’Tis time for us to return to Gray
stone, demoiselle.”
Mary knew he was angry with her, without cause. Tears glinted in her eyes, as much for the unjustice as for poor Doug, and she touched Doug’s arm. “Tomorrow Stephen and I shall be wed, Doug, as our fathers have agreed. Please, please give us your blessing.”
Doug stared into her eyes, communicating silently with her, pleading with her. Mary’s heart sank. He still thought to persuade her to agree to his mad scheme to run away and elope. “Doug?”
“Do not ask the impossible of me, Mary,” he said stiffly. Clenching his fists, he turned and stalked away.
Stephen gripped her arm. “You surely must be overwrought by now.”
“Stephen …” Mary balked, facing him.
His smile was sardonic. “What are you going to say now, Mary, in order to appease me? That you do not love him? Do not delude yourself—you may love him. I do not care—not as long as it is my keep you inhabit, my bed you warm, and my children that you bear.”
Mary wanted to cry. He did not understand her at all.
It was a fine day to be wed.
The skies had cleared, giving way to a winter sun, and the previous week’s chill had relented; the day was sunny and warm. Mary barely noticed. She was consumed with nervousness as she had been all that night before, for soon she would wear Stephen de Warenne’s ring, soon she would be his lawful wife. She was eager, but she could not help feeling fear. She was about to wed a stranger, to join with him for the rest of her lifetime; she was about to marry her family’s archenemy. Once joined, their union could not be breached; they would remain man and wife until death parted them, despite any and all circumstance. If in the future there was war, how would she survive?
Her knees hurt. The mass was endless, but Mary, so familiar with the ceremony, was barely aware of Archbishop Anselm as he led the congregation. She knelt beside Stephen. He was as still as a statue; he had not moved once since sinking down onto his knees on the floor. Even now, as Mary tilted her head slightly so she could see his hard profile as he bowed his head, he did not even shift. He had not looked at her since she had come up the aisle, escorted by her father.
