by Brenda Joyce
He was still angry with her for the conversation she had had with Doug, although, had he overheard it all, he would know that she had refused to elope with the Scot. He had barely spoken to her since escorting her from the Tower yesterday. Mary’s stomach was in knots. They would get past this small moment of conflict, of course, but it was a rude way to begin one’s married life, with a coldly distant groom and the threat of never-ending war.
The archbishop bid them rise and join hands. Mary was jerked back to the present. Her knees were stiff, and Stephen’s strength as he helped her up was welcome. She tried to meet his eyes, and was finally rewarded. Their glances held. No matter what ill-placed jealousy he might be feeling, when their gazes collided, something vibrant and powerful sparked between them, something potent and exciting.
Mary was stricken with the urge to tell him many things, to tell him that she would be a good, dutiful, and loyal wife, to tell him that he could trust her, to tell him that she would do her best to ease his life. His gaze was assessing. Mary’s heart wrenched. She would give her right hand to have him trust her wholely and love her in such an unyielding manner.
Vows were made, and finally Stephen placed his ring upon her third finger. The archbishop blessed them, smiling, and Stephen leaned forward to kiss the bride.
Mary strained towards him, dazed, as his lips brushed hers. Stephen moved away, obviously intending only a ceremonial kiss. Mary, on her toes and leaning forward, stumbled against him.
Stephen steadied her. Mary blushed hotly. His eyes were unmistakably warm now. “I am glad you like my kisses so much, madame,” he murmured. “There will be many more, far more bold, in the course of our lifetime.”
Mary held his regard, her pulses skittering, her wits scattered, thrilled.
He escorted her down the long aisle. The crowd, all the greatest Norman and English nobles of the land, cheered. As they exited the church, rye seeds rained down upon them. Mary laughed exultantly. To her surprise, as the rain of seeds became a torrent, Stephen also chuckled.
“With so many seeds, I imagine our union cannot be anything but fecund,” he said.
He still gripped her hand. Mary’s laughter died. His genuine pleasure had lit up his saturnine face, causing her heart to leap uncontrollably. “I hope so, my lord,” she said earnestly.
His own smile died.
Mary’s expression became impish. “After all, my mother had six sons and two daughters. Would that not be enough for you?”
But Stephen was solemn. “Give me one son, Mary, just one son, and I will give you your heart’s fondest desire.”
The wedding celebration was at the Tower in the Great Hall. The hall was overflowing with nobles, overcrowded and stifling warm. Mary and Stephen sat upon the raised dais alone, with King Rufus just below them on one side of the long trestle table, Northumberland on the other. Malcolm was seated after the de Warennes. It was a deliberate insult.
Geoffrey had no appetite. He wondered at his King for humiliating the bride’s father so deliberately, for his never-ending provocation of Malcolm. Fortunately, Malcolm carried no weapons and would not dare to strike out now in his anger, and it was too late for the union to be destroyed. But not too late for the alliance to suffer, he thought grimly, knowing that in a few days they would strike Carlisle.
Geoffrey abruptly rose from his seat, ignoring his father’s inquiring glance. He did not want to watch the bride and groom any longer as they fed each other and gazed cow-eyed at each other. He was not jealous, but he was envious—and he had no right to such an emotion.
Hadn’t he made his choice deliberately?
Geoffrey walked through the performing clowns, passed the dancing girls, and almost stepped upon a small trick dog. He found an empty corner somewhat removed from the press of humanity. He leaned his shoulder against the wall, and unable to help himself, his regard wandered back to the bridal couple upon the dais. Stephen whispered in Mary’s ear. She pinkened and gave her husband an exceedingly bold look.
Geoffrey’s chest ached.
What would it be like, to have such a wife?
He tore his gaze away, angry with himself, and watched the dancing girls. They sought to tease and provoke. He found them attractive, as any man would; they were barely clad, dark-skinned and exotic. Then he saw Adele Beaufort suddenly rise from her seat. His interest in the dancing girls waned. As Adele walked into the crowd of dancing revelers, he lost sight of her briefly.
One single afternoon could not make up for many months of abstinence. But if he dared to identify some of the anguish he carried, he might realize that the gaping wound left behind by his rendezvous could never be healed by sexual indulgence.
Geoffrey did not hate himself. But he despaired. His worldly inclinations were still more powerful than his holy ones. But hadn’t it always been that way?
He had been cloistered with monks at St. Augustine’s from the age of thirteen for three long years, and as a novitiate he had taken vows of chastity, among many others. But he had been young, his blood hot, and he had been unable to uphold his vows—unwilling to uphold them. Fortunately there were no opportunities to chase the fairer sex in a monastery, but at night, alone and in bed, he had engaged in the loneliest, lowest sexual act a man could. The few times he had left the cloister on Church affairs, always with Lanfranc, he had stolen away in the night and lifted whatever skirts he could find. Guilt had been a heavy cross to bear, and Geoffrey had been certain that his mentor always knew of his midnight excursions. But Lanfranc had never lost faith in him. Somehow Geoffrey kept faith in himself, too.
His will was now a man’s and far stronger than that of an adolescent boy’s. He abstained for long periods of time. Until the yearning of his flesh overrode all his holy intentions. But—he was not ordained. Most archdeacons were ordained priests. Certainly all bishops were—even if the ordination was merely a ceremonial show.
If such an appointment came, he would have achieved a lifelong ambition.
If such an appointment came, there would be no turning back.
He had avoided ordination because he knew that if he made the required vows to God, if he became one of God’s representatives on earth, he could never forsake those vows. Unlike other clerics, who made vows and broke them, sometimes in the same breath, he could not—he would not.
He was not ready for that final step, for that final commitment. Maybe he would never be ready. Or maybe he was afraid to make such vows, afraid that ultimately he would fail both God and himself.
And Geoffrey, like all the de Warennes, could not tolerate failure. It was unacceptable, impossible.
Geoffrey realized that Adele was leaving the hall. He ordered himself to go back to the table. Where she was going—even to whom—was not his concern.
But he was aching, an ache in his chest that he wanted to confuse with the ache in his loins. He followed her.
He did not have far to go. On the landing below the hall he found her staring out of the window, her back to him. Her shoulders were shaking. Geoffrey was startled when he realized she wept. He walked closer, almost touching her. “Lady Beaufort?”
She jumped. She saw him and batted her thick black lashes furiously. He was surprised to see her features ravaged by her tears. “You have startled me!”
“That was not my intention.” He almost touched his finger to her damp cheek. She pulled back before he could make contact, squaring her shoulders. “Why do you cry?” Geoffrey asked. How well he understood her. She hated him seeing her in a moment of weakness.
“The King gives me to Henry Ferrars!” she cried, then she wept again.
Geoffrey hesitated, then, as her distress was real, he took her into his arms. He was well aware that Ferrars was not comparable to Stephen. The knight had been awarded a huge estate at Tutberry for his loyalty, and he was a great soldier, but of humble origin. “He is a good man, Adele. I imagine he is in love with you—or he soon will be.” He held her almost gingerly. This was a role he was n
ot used to.
Adele pushed back to gaze at him, startled. Then her nostrils flared. “I care not what he feels! The King has insulted me—and all because of my damned brother, Roger! And Stephen and Mary, even now, they make a fool of me with their open show of love and lust!”
“Lady Beaufort,” Geoffrey said, trying very hard not to shake, his body impossibly aware of her, “no one would ever laugh at you.”
She did not move. In that instant her attention shifted; he knew she became aware of him and his growing lust. “You have avoided me,” she whispered, placing her hands on his shoulders.
“Yes. I have.”
“Why?”
“You would not understand.” And Geoffrey regretted touching her, knowing he was poised on the brink of surrender to his lust—and simultaneously he did not regret it at all. How could he survive this battle he was forever waging, one far more important than any other, the battle he waged for control of his own soul? If he had an ounce of holiness in him, he would back away. He did not move.
Adele gripped his shoulders tightly. “Why are you being so kind to me?”
“You were distressed.”
She blinked as more tears seemed to fill her eyes. “No one has ever been kind to me, not once in my entire life. Is that not amusing?”
“You exaggerate, Lady Beaufort.”
“No.” She shook her head wildly. “My parents were indifferent as I was not the boy they so greatly desired. Then my father died when I was still in swaddling and my mother was given to William Beaufort. When I was ten I was orphaned—you did not know? Beaufort and my mother were killed in an ambush by rebels in the North. My stepbrother—” she spat the word “—did not even come to see me for two long years—and he was my guardian. Then, then he only wanted one thing.” Her mouth formed into an ugly line. “Do not speak of what you do not know! I do not exaggerate!”
“I am sorry,” he said, and he pulled her up against his body, kissing her as he might a lover, with thorough gentleness.
The kiss meandered lazily, then abruptly changed course. Their tongues thrust deep, mating. Adele withdrew, gasping. “I thought you hard and dangerous. I did not think you kind.”
“I do not feel kind right now, Lady Beaufort.” His blue eyes blazed.
She stared into his eyes. “I do not want your kindness just now, my lord.”
“Then let us celebrate the nuptials together,” Geoffrey said. But even as he took her mouth with his, he knew that he could only assuage the ache in his loins, not in his chest. He knew that afterwards the emptiness inside him would be far greater than before.
Stephen attended Mary as if she were his lover. They shared the bride-ale, and every morsel that passed through Mary’s lips was chosen carefully for her by her husband and fed to her by him as well. It was not a time for words; indeed, Mary could not have found her tongue if she tried. It was a time of acute awareness and long, deliberate looks. Mary knew Stephen was thinking about the night to come, too.
Hours must have passed before the twelve-course meal was finished, but it seemed like minutes. There had been entertainment throughout—dancing, clowns, jongleurs, trick dogs, minstrels, and a monkey man. Now the crowd was frenzied in pursuit of their pleasure, in their dancing, in the last sweatmeats, in the mead and wine. Stephen gave her a look that was so blatant, so sexual, that Mary trembled. Surely they could leave now.
“Might I speak with my daughter and wish her well?”
Mary looked up to see Malcolm smiling at both her and Stephen, standing beside them on the dais. Stephen stood, unperturbed, even smiling himself. “Of course.” His glance stroked Mary. “I will be back in a few minutes, madame.”
Mary’s chest was tight, her heart pounding. He kissed her hand, his mouth lingering, his breath feathering her flesh.
As Stephen stepped off of the dais, instantly surrounded by well-wishing, raucous males, Malcolm slipped into his seat. He put his arm around Mary. Mary firmly shoved her ungenteel thoughts out of her mind. She was thrilled that her father had come to sit beside her and wish her well.
“You seem very pleased, daughter, with this union.”
“Oh, Father, I am. Although at first I fought it and was disappointed with the union, I have now accepted Stephen with all my heart.”
“ ’Tis a good thing for you to accept what must be, Mary,” Malcolm said, no longer smiling. He studied her closely.
Mary tensed, touched with a finger of foreboding. She did not care for the look in her father’s eye. “Father? Is it possible that now that Stephen and I are wed, there might truly be peace upon the border?”
His expression was impossibly hard. “How quickly you forget!”
“Forget what?” she asked. “Blood and death?”
“How quickly you forget who you are, Mary.”
“Am I not Stephen’s wife?”
“You are my daughter. You will always be my daughter, and that can never change.”
Had his exact words been spoken in a different context, in a different manner, Mary would have been thrilled. Instead, she was held in the grip of gut-wrenching tension. “Of course, Father. That will never change.”
“You are still Scotland’s daughter.”
Mary gripped the table, finding it difficult to breathe. “Yes, I am that, too.”
Malcolm smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “I am depending on you, Mary.”
“Depending on me?” she echoed, a hollowness forming in her heart and in her very soul.
“I am depending on your loyalty.”
“What are you saying?” she cried, on her feet.
Malcolm stood, too. “What I am saying is that you belong to Scotland before you belong to de Warenne.”
Mary’s nails clawed into the wooden table. This could not be happening, it could not! Her father could not be saying such a thing—and surely he would not continue in such a vein!
“You must, of course, be a good wife, a dutiful wife. But you must not forsake me, you must not forsake Scotland.”
Tears were blurring her vision. She could not speak, not even in denial, so filled with despair, with horror, was she.
“You must spy for me, Mary,” Malcolm said. His eyes were brilliant.
Mary felt faintness come over her. She clutched the table. “You ask me to spy? You ask me to spy upon my husband and his people?”
“You must! For nothing has changed. The Normans hate me, and I, them. Northumberland still encroaches upon me, Rufus still seeks Scottish soil. You must remember who you are. You are a princess of Scotland first, de Warenne’s wife second. No opportunity could be more perfect. Why do you think I allowed you to marry him in the first place?”
Mary could not look at her father another moment. And not because of the tears that blinded her. “This is my wedding,” she whispered.
“And you are a beautiful bride,” Malcolm said, patting her shoulder. “Wipe your tears, your groom approaches. Remember, Mary, who you are and where your duties lie.”
Part Three
Into the Darkness
Chapter 18
Three days later they returned to Alnwick.
The past few days had passed too quickly, in a haze of torrid lovemaking and sated bliss. The newlyweds had not left their bedchamber. Mary had no time to think or reflect—nor had she wanted to. Stephen was a demanding lover, voracious and insatiable, but never selfish or cruel, and Mary found herself his equal when it came to the passion he aroused in her. She had no will to deny him anything, and quickly learned how to entice him. If she was not pregnant before, she imagined that after these two days, she must certainly be carrying his child.
Alnwick loomed ahead of them. The daylong journey had brought with it the unwelcome intrusion of cold, frightening reality. Under normal circumstances, if Stephen were not a de Warenne and if she were not a Scott princess, she would be thrilled to be adjourning to her new home and to her new life as Stephen’s wife. If circumstances were different, she would be fil
led with eagerness and excitement, the future beckoning bright and full of promise. But the circumstances were what they were—her husband was Northumberland’s heir, she was Malcolm’s daughter—and instead, Mary was torn with foreboding.
How she wanted to begin the lifetime that now belonged to her and Stephen; how afraid she was of what the future might bring. Now, in the light of a new day, Malcolm’s words haunted her, a terrible reminder of the reality that their marriage was doomed by who they were.
She had not had a single moment to dwell upon what her father had asked of her at her wedding feast. Today’s long journey encouraged a reflection and remembrance she was desperate to avoid. Yet she could not. Not now, and no longer. Malcolm had asked her to spy for him. To spy upon her husband. Mary was in shock.
The whole reason he had arranged the marriage to begin with was to plant her as a spy in Northumberland’s midst.
Mary was not just shocked, she was devastated, and she was furious.
Was this the man she had loved and worshiped her entire life? The man who had laughed at her boyish antics while her mother scolded? The man who had been so proud of her wit and beauty as she grew older? Was this the great Scot King?
How could he do this to her?
For there was no question that she still loved her country and her kin—her marriage did not, could not, change that. There was no question that she wished to see Scotland remain whole and independent. She could not, would not, wish to see Northumberland make further inroads across the treacherous borders.
But there was also no question that she would refuse to do as her father wished. She had made her vows before God, and she had meant them. Her duty was to her husband first, before anyone or anything else—even before her duty to her father or her country. But sweet, merciful Jesus, now that she fully understood Malcolm’s intentions, now that she understood that there was no alliance, how would she survive? How would her marriage survive?
