Promise of the Rose

by Brenda Joyce

  Carlisle. What did they plan? Could they be planning war? Could they?

  It was not possible, Mary cried to herself in silence. For just that dawn Stephen had held her so tenderly after their lusty lovemaking, and his sleepy smile had spoken of love. Just yesterday he had given her the rose, his promise of undying love—or so she had thought. If he loved her, just a little, he would not make war with her family over Carlisle.

  She had to find out their plans. Yet how could she eavesdrop without alerting the countess? Mary looked at Stephen’s mother and turned a guilty red, for the woman was regarding her somberly, making no attempt to wield her needle and thread, as if she comprehended what Mary intended. Mary felt like a lowly ’traitor, but she reminded herself that she was not about to betray anyone. She merely wanted to learn if her husband intended to war on her people or not. She had to know.

  He must love me a little, she thought desperately. Just a little. In which case there would be no war—Stephen would refuse to participate.

  “Excuse me, madame,” Mary said to the countess, “I am not feeling very well. I think I shall go upstairs to lie down.” How she hated deceiving her mother-in-law.

  “Shall I have some fare sent up to you?” Lady Ceidre asked, standing now and watching Mary too closely, even gravely.

  Mary had no appetite, and she declined. Then, nervously, she slipped from the solar.

  As the women’s chamber opened directly upon the hall, she was once again interrupting the men’s conversation. They saw her instantly and all talk ceased. Mary ignored them, although her face burned with humiliation. She hurried from the hall. Only when she was halfway upstairs and she heard their voices resume did she pause, trembling, pressing against the wall.

  And even as she did so, she was close to tears. She was newly wed and in love with her husband, but she was about to spy upon him.

  She could not hear them well. Mary began inching silently downstairs. When she was on the second landing she could go no farther, for to turn the corner would be to reveal herself. But now she could hear their every word, and they were talking about all that she had feared—treachery against her father—an attack upon Carlisle.

  “He summons every knight I can muster,” Geoffrey was saying.

  “How do you stand with Anselm?” Stephen asked, his voice strangely toneless.

  “We are enemies. He is far more zealous than I ever dreamed,” Geoffrey said grimly. “But Rufus needs Canterbury now more than ever. My spies say that the prince is so enraged with your wedding, he refuses to spend himself on this cause. While I have beggared myself to muster these men, as Canterbury’s treasury is dry.”

  “Your duty is clear. And though you may be impoverished now, do not forget how close you are to reaping your true reward,” Rolfe said firmly. “No price is too dear should you succeed in gaining an appointment from the King.”

  Geoffrey said nothing in reply.

  Rolfe continued. “Do not be fooled. Henry chooses to keep his nose clean now only so he can bloody it another day. Is it not better for all of us to fight as one—and to be weakened as one? Who better to next step into the breach than the ever clever prince?”

  “Hopefully Carlisle will fall easily, sparing us too many losses and sparing me unnecessary coin,” Geoffrey said wryly after another pause. “And absolving Henry of the need to step into any breach.”

  Finally Stephen spoke again. “The rain works against us,” he said flatly. “We rely on our mounted knights heavily. Horses move with difficulty in the mud.”

  “I would have preferred such an action a month ago, if action we must take, but we have little choice now,” Rolfe said. “The King has made up his mind. There is no moving it.”

  “Yes,” Stephen said, “Rufus made up his mind long ago, and nothing will hold him back from his cause, nothing and no one.”

  “At least we take Malcolm by surprise,” Geoffrey remarked, again wry. “After all, you have just wed his daughter.”

  “Yes,” Stephen said, “we will definitely take Malcolm by surprise.”

  Mary choked. Stephen had echoed his brother so dispassionately. How could he be objective, so wholly without emotion, when discussing treachery against her country, her kind, her kin? The full import of what she had overheard suddenly hit her. Her marriage was a mockery, she thought bitterly. She was no beloved wife, merely a leman and serving woman combined. He did not care one whit about her after all, or he would at least have expressed some small regret for breaking the alliance he had made with her father! Mary wanted to weep, she wanted to shout and scream. Their marriage meant little or nothing to him beyond its political utility—and undoubtedly she meant even less. She clung to the railing, panting, trying not to weep.

  There was no point in lingering, she decided, forcing herself to come to her senses, aware of the silence in the hall below. She had learned what she had come to learn, what she did not want to learn, what she feared to learn. How it hurt. It was so hard not to cry. She imagined each man absorbed now in anticipation of the battle to come. Damn them all! And God damn Stephen, her husband! Mary turned to go upstairs.

  In her agitation, she slipped. She cried out as she slid down several steps. Horrified, certain one and all in the hall below had heard her, she froze on her hands and knees, a scant instant from leaping to her feet and fleeing. But it was too late. Her husband was faster, far faster, than she.

  Mary recognized the feel of his hand and the strength of him instantly. He hauled her upright by the scruff of her neck, whirled her around, and released her.

  Mary stumbled, as much from the force with which he handled her as from the expression on his face. He was stunned and disbelieving.

  In that moment she did not care, in that moment she was too enraged to care. “Damn you,” she hissed, then regretted her words immediately. His shock turned to fury. She turned and ran.

  The enormity of what she had done struck Mary—eavesdropping on her husband, and worse, being caught at it and thus appearing to be a spy. She cried out as she heard the sound of Stephen pounding up the stairs, closing the gap between them. Terrified now, Mary raced into the chamber they were using, just a step or two ahead of him, and turned to pull the door shut—hoping to lock him out. Too late, he was on the threshold, and he slammed the door back against the wall with one outflung arm as if it were mere beech wood and not heavy, triple-layered oak.

  Mary jumped back from him. Tears stained her face.

  Stephen towered over her, his eyes wide, his face hard, his body trembling in rage. “You spy upon me—your husband?”

  “You war upon my people?” Mary cried back.

  Stephen stared.

  “How could you?” Mary cried, her heart pumping madly. “How could you go to war now?”

  “You question me?” he asked finally, low and strained. The muscles in his jaw bulged, so tightly was it clenched. “You accuse me? I do my duty, madame, just as you do yours.”

  Mary did not respond. She was shaking.

  “Madame,” he said, very stiffly, and he was shaking, too. “War is not your concern. You have but one concern, and that is seeing to my comfort.”

  “Yes, your comfort is my concern,” Mary said unsteadily. “But when you war upon my family, my home—then my concern becomes that war! Do not ask me to remain ignorant now!”

  “I do not ask you to remain ignorant. But I ask you this—do I have your loyalty, Mary?”

  She opened her mouth, and said, “Do you go to war against Scotland, Stephen? Do you?”

  “You have not answered me, Mary.” His expression, his stance, his tone, had all become dangerous.

  “Nor have you answered me,” Mary whispered brokenly. Her palms pressed against her breast, against her aching heart.

  “Answer me, Mary!” Stephen demanded.

  “Yes,” Mary said, the way a villein might answer him, with a broken spirit. “Yes.”

  “Do you lie now?” His tone was higher. His gaze was more wild. �
��Did you not spy?”

  “Yes.” She closed her eyes, just for a moment.

  “How can you be my loyal wife, madame, if you spy upon me?”

  She did not answer.

  “Answer me!” he roared. He raised his hand. Mary flinched. He froze in the act of striking her, then grabbed her by her shoulder, shaking her, and Mary was afraid, knowing he was on the brink of brutality. “You spy upon me in my own home! Is that not disloyalty?”

  “I hate you,” Mary whispered. She realized she was weeping. Just hours ago she had been in his embrace—just hours ago she had been filled to overflowing with love for this man. This man who cared so little about her.

  For an instant they were eye to eye as he dragged her up close. “So now we arrive at the truth!”

  “The truth,” she said, “is that you are no different from my father, marrying me in order to use me, to aid you in your ugly treachery.”

  He threw her upon the bed. Mary cringed, waiting for his blows. They did not come.

  Stephen’s hands, rough and hard, forced her onto her back so that she had no choice but to look up at him. He leaned over her. “My treachery? My treachery? Still you dare to accuse me? I wish you to explain your treachery, madame wife! Explain yourself now!”

  Mary could not think of a single thing to say in her own self-defense; in truth, she had no desire to defend herself, not to him, not now.

  “Where is that clever, cunning wit now? Do you not at least deny the accusation?”

  Mary swiped her eyes with the back of her hand, fiercely mute.

  Stephen pressed her into the bed. “You are my wife, madame, my wife. Our vows were made before God. What of your vows, madame?”

  She had no choice but to answer, he was so enraged. “You will not believe me if I tell you the truth.”

  “Oh ho! And what truth are you going to foist upon me now, Mary?” He straightened, looming over her. “That you love me? That you would never betray me?” He was shouting.

  Mary trembled, for it did not seem possible that she had thought herself in love with this man such a brief time ago. She sat up, clutching the blanket beneath her in her fists.

  “Why did you spy?” He ground out the words.

  “To learn your intentions!” Tears filled her eyes again. “And how vile your intentions are!”

  “To learn my intentions.” Stephen’s mirthless laugh was harsh and grating. “And to warn Malcolm. To warn Malcolm against me. To betray me.”

  “No!”

  For an instant he did not speak, he only stared at her. “Give me cause, Mary. Give me cause to believe you.”

  Mary was panting. “Have I not given you cause, these past few days, to trust me?”

  “You expect me to trust you!” Stephen was momentarily in disbelief. “From the moment we first met, you have sought to deceive me. Repeatedly. It would take more than a few days of shared lust, Mary, for me to come to trust you, or do you perceive me to be a weak, besotted fool?”

  Mary flinched. How hurtful his words were. She had seen these past few days as more than “shared lust”; she had seen them as the beginning of a shared lifetime. More tears swelled and fell. Her husband was an unfeeling brute—how could she have ever thought otherwise?

  Finally she met his cold, unwavering stare, and when she spoke, her tone was bitter. “Treachery suspects treachery, does it not?”

  Stephen moved so quickly that Mary had no time to react. He hauled her to her knees and up against his body. “I am so angry that if you continue in this vein, I will lose all control, Mary. You do not want to be near me when that happens. You would not survive should that happen.”

  Mary did not doubt it. She could feel him shaking with his fury. They were almost nose to nose and eye to eye. His gaze was black, livid. He was terrifying under these circumstances. His grip hurt her tender flesh, too, but in a way, she welcomed the physical pain, for it was easier to bear than the other. She choked on the pain in her heart. “If you cared for me at all, you would not do this.”

  “If I cared for you, Mary, all that is dear to me would be lost. How clear that is! And even if I cared for you, you could not sway me from my duty to my King.” His jaw tightened, their gazes held. “Never could I love an unfaithful wife.”

  Mary was still. The way he stared at her made her want to tell him that she was not unfaithful, to insist again that she had not been ready to betray him. He almost seemed to be waiting for such a denial, but surely she was wrong. Surely there was no hint that he might love her if she were loyal to him. His manner, his words of the day before when he had given her the red rose, swept through her with stunning force. She began to cry. “Stephen—”

  His smile was twisted and he held up his hand, halting her before she could begin she knew not what. “Enough. Cease your tears, cease them now. Your actions have proven your guilt more than any words—or tears—can ever prove your innocence.”

  “No,” Mary whispered, aware of the crushing pain of heartbreak. It flashed through her mind that nothing but a future of misery could await her now—as she had foreseen. Unless they stopped this now. But, dear God, how?

  He turned away from her abruptly. He was leaving, and their marriage had been shredded, her love trampled into dust. She raised herself up onto her hands, staring after him. She was almost compelled to run after him. She should not let him leave her upon this note. But then Mary thought about what he intended, and was choked with bitterness, unable to go after him, unable to call out.

  He paused abruptly in the doorway, standing with his back rigidly to her. He appeared to be waiting. Mary told herself to speak before it was too late, before their marriage was forever destroyed. She opened her mouth but only sucked air.

  His shoulders stiffened. “I am a fool,” he said harshly—and then he was gone.

  “No!” Mary cried. It struck her then that despite his treachery and his betrayal, it could not end like this. She lunged to her feet and ran after him, out into the hall. “Stephen! Stephen!”

  But it was too late. There was no response—he was gone. Mary sank down on the floor, awash freely now in bitter tears and heartache.

  Chapter 19

  Mary had been confined to her chamber as punishment for her treachery. She had not cared at the time, but she quickly lost her indifference. When her tears finally subsided, she realized that it had grown dark outside, that the stone floor beneath her body was terribly cold, and that she was chilled to the bone herself. She was shivering. Although exhausted from the fight and the emotional upheaval that had accompanied it, she got to her feet.

  Her glance took in the small chamber, lost in the night’s dark shadows. No fire burned upon the hearth, no tapers were lit, and although she was not hungry, she was thirsty, but no pitcher of water was present. Most of all, she would love to drown her sorrow in a cup of spiced wine. But she might as well ask for Stephen to return to her now, on bended knee, begging her forgiveness.

  Mary moved to the bed, suddenly realizing just what her confinement meant. Her husband might very well make her suffer with the cold and with the lack of the usual comforts of food and water, but she could survive that. She wondered, though, if she could survive the humiliation of her punishment. Everyone at Alnwick would soon know of it. By now Stephen’s family and retainers certainly knew she was in a forced confinement. Her absence at the dinner table had surely been remarked, and Mary did not doubt that Stephen would explain just why she had failed to appear. He had no reason to dissemble. He was not the kind of man to dissemble in this instance. Mary’s cheeks flushed.

  She was not the first wife to be so shamed, but that did not matter. She had never expected her marriage to Stephen to come to this! By tomorrow, when Stephen left to make war upon Scotland, all of Alnwick would know that its new mistress was in her chamber in confinement. Mary folded her arms and hugged herself, wondering how she would face his family once she was able to do so, how she would face the lowest of servants.

  It
was not fair. She had spied, and perhaps that was wrong, but she had never intended to betray him. While he, he had betrayed her, marrying her while intending to war upon her family. Nevertheless she had taken vows, vows to honor and obey him, vows she would keep. They might never recover from this terrible time, they might never recapture the brief joy they had known, but she was his wife regardless of any and all circumstance until God saw fit to pan them.

  Slowly she adjourned to the bed. She moved like an old woman, but not because of her aching body; because of her aching heart.

  Mary had a blanket and a fur with which to ward off the night’s chill, fortunately. She curled up beneath the covers. Sleep refused to come, although the oblivion it brought would be so welcome. She wanted to escape her grief—oh, how she wanted to escape—but the argument she had just had with her husband replayed itself over and over again in her mind. She had little strength left in her exhausted state, not enough with which to remain hot and angry, and there was only despair and sorrow vying for her heart instead. And pain.

  Sounds began to drift to her, piercing her painful thoughts. She could hear the rumble of deep male voices from the ramparts outside as Alnwick’s retainers engaged in some form of unusual nocturnal activity. She dared not imagine what it might be. She was too tired. But she found herself trying to distinguish her husband’s voice from the lot. It was probably better that she could not. Look at what her prior lapse into eavesdropping had done. Yet she found herself wondering if he felt any remorse at all for the death of their relationship, if he felt any of the pain.

  Mary awoke at dawn. She had slept so heavily that for a moment she was confused, searching for Stephen’s big, warm body in bed beside her. However, the sounds that had awoken her, sounds from the bailey below, quickly became recognizable. Mary sat up, fully awake. Stephen was not beside her; last night he had accused her of treachery, and she was in solitary confinement as punishment for her crimes. Mary’s stomach wrenched with dismay, his furious image coming quickly to her mind. Last night he had revealed his own treachery. And outside, outside she could hear the ebullient chatter of many men and the stamping hooves and snorts of many mounts, along with the jangle of spurs and bits and bridles, the creaking of leather and the clang of metal weapons.