by Brenda Joyce
War. Did they ride to war today—to war upon her people?
Mary slid from the bed, shivering when her bare feet touched the cold stone floor, and rushed to the window. She peered out. Her heart immediately sank.
Perhaps fifty knights, all fully armed with mace and shield, sword and lance, and in complete armor, were mounting up. In their midst the standard bearer already waved the tricolored banner with the oversized bloodred rose in its center. Mary shuddered, her body’s reaction having little to do with the cold. She knew that the force that she gazed upon was nothing in comparison to the one the de Warennes would ultimately cast upon the battlefield. Northumberland had hundreds of vassals. If the earl chose, he could field close to four hundred men—Mary knew it for a fact because Malcolm had told her so.
She looked down on the small force assembled below her and wanted to cry. Despair shredded her already broken heart. She was watching an army that was about to make war upon her own people. How could he do this?
It occurred to her that this marriage had been insanity, doomed from the start.
Yet her mind dared to recall the last few days, Stephen’s warm glances, his slight smile, and the way he looked at her when his intentions were wicked. She recalled when he had given her the rose.
Mary choked. Her glance slid across the throng below, at first unconsciously and then deliberately searching for her husband. She found him quickly, for he towered above those around him with his great height despite being still on foot. A tear seeped. He was riding off to war on her people; perhaps he would even cross swords with her own kin. Mary hugged herself, filled with anguish. She wondered if she would ever want to forgive him.
Yet she could not take her eyes from him. He had not donned his helmet, so his face was completely revealed, but from this distance, Mary could not make out his expression except as being grim and set. Surely he could feel her watching him. Surely he would know that she would watch him. Could he not at least look up, just once?
With a start Mary realized that despite the fact of their horrible argument the night before, she still felt something for him. Some kind of tendre. In the current situation she could not deny it. For he was going to war. He appeared immortal, but he was not. In any battle, even in a mock tourney, there was always the possibility of death. What if he was hurt today, or even killed? She was sickened by the thought. She was horrified by the thought. Mary gripped the rough stone ledge and leaned forward, impulsively calling out. “Stephen! Stephen!”
He did not hear her, immersed in a dialogue with his squire, and Mary was dismayed. She panted, her heart beat hurtfully; she could not let him leave like this. How wrong she had been to let him leave last night! Determination to attract his attention overwhelmed her. “Stephen!” she shouted. “Stephen!”
He heard her and froze. Then, slowly, he turned his head and looked up at her.
Across the distance separating them, their gazes riveted and held. Mary did not know what to say. She wanted to say that she was sorry, but for what, she was not sure—perhaps for the impasse they had been brought to by their mistrust of each other, perhaps for the era in which they lived. Yet she was angry and she was dismayed; he was so easily riding into battle against her father, just days after their wedding, and his crime was so great that she doubted she would ever forget it. Too, she doubted that they could ever recover what they had once enjoyed, and she despaired of the future that lay in wait for them. But he was her husband—perhaps she was even with his child, a possibility that grew each and every day—and she did not want him to die. Dear Lord, she did not. “God keep you,” she whispered finally, knowing he could not hear her, and that even if he guessed what she said, it probably made little difference to him now.
Stephen turned away. Mary wished she had been able to see his face more clearly, to see into his eyes, to glimpse his soul. Too late, she wished they had not fought, she wished she had defused his anger, that she had spent more time denying what he falsely believed, had succeeded in convincing him of her innocence. She wished, too, impossibly, that she had not accused him of treachery. And mostly she wished that last night had been spent altogether differently, not her alone, cold and weary, emotionally beaten and physically battered, in punishment, but the two of them together the way it had been before.
She watched him slip on his helmet. The Norman helm with its nosepiece instantly transformed him, making his appearance sinister and frightening. Stephen mounted his war-horse. Mary inhaled. Fully armed and armored, astride the destrier, he was unrecognizable except as a stranger and an enemy. The urge to cry overcame her.
The knights began to swiftly form into organized lines. She could hear the harsh grating noise of the portcullis being winched up, and the groaning of the wooden drawbridge being lowered. It was hard to breathe, hard to see. She watched through a sudden mist, one formed from the moisture in her eyes, as Stephen rode to the head of one of the columns. The troops moved out.
Mary watched Stephen leave the bailey; quickly he passed through the barbican, and she could not see him anymore. Still, she watched all of the troops as they left, until the large court was empty and silent, until she heard the portcullis slamming closed, the sound reverberating with finality. She gazed upon the vast, empty bailey, then, as servants began to appear, hurrying to their tasks, she turned and returned to the bed.
She was numb with cold. Before she had barely noticed; now she shivered violently, her teeth chattering. Crawling under the covers, she recalled Stephen as she had last seen him. It was impossible not to be aware of her feelings, which were far from hatred. Mary realized that she had a lot of thinking to do in the time left to her until Stephen returned.
Three days later, as dusk settled over the land, Stephen stood in the entrance of the tent he shared with his father on the edge of the ground that had been turned into a large, muddy battlefield. Once, this land had been green, verdant, and unblemished; now pieces of metal, twisted or broken, and shreds of wool littered the arena; more than a few dead horses were rotting carcasses yet to be removed, picked at by the greedy vultures, and even several human corpses still remained. The stench of death was pervasive.
Stephen stepped outside. Sounds from the makeshift camp drifted to him, most of it weary laughter but some of it female, coming from the many camp whores who always materialized after war to earn a few coins as they relieved the bloodlust of the men. Stephen was very tired and very dirty, and as Me was in no mood to talk, he was thankful that he was alone.
Alone for the first time since the battle had begun, Stephen picked his way carefully amongst the leftover debris of war, until the bloody battleground was far behind him. He paused on the edge of a stream, his back shielded by pine trees, and pulled off his leather boots, and then all of his clothing. Stark naked, he waded into the frigid water, then doused himself completely.
He came up shivering and gasping, but it was not enough. Nothing would ever be enough, he suspected, to cleanse either his body or his soul after battle. He submerged himself again.
It had been a long, bloody two-day battle, but Carlisle had fallen, as had been inevitable.
Carlisle was a large town guarded by one single keep which had been built in haste some dozen years ago, and the walls surrounding it were still the original wood. Such construction usually dictated recourse to fire in battle, but the past month’s endless rain had determined a wiser course of action, one including both catapult and battering ram. The rotten walls, which should have been replaced years ago, had fallen instantly. The keep had surrendered within the hour.
The real fighting had begun shortly after that when the local lairds had rallied to the area’s defense, but they were routed by nightfall, their numbers seriously decimated. When Malcolm’s army had next appeared at dawn and attacked in the hope of regaining Carlisle, the Norman forces had already taken up strategic positions and were firmly in control. Still Malcolm had attacked, and the savage warfare had continued for another day.
When the Scot army had finally retreated, seeing their cause as lost—and rightly so—Stephen had seen Malcolm standing in his stirrup irons and shaking his fist at him. It was clear that Canmore was cursing him and vowing revenge.
Stephen sighed, but as his teeth were chattering so badly, it sounded more like a moan. Hurriedly he dressed in the clean clothes he had brought with him. He did not want to recall Malcolm in his defeat and his fury, for to think of him reminded him of his wife. His wife. He did not want to think of her either. In fact, he had avoided thinking about her ever since he had ordered her confined to her chamber.
There was a new hardening in his heart. There was also bitterness, one stemming from a horrendous disillusionment, one a man of his age and experience had no right to. Stephen knew he was a fool, but the knowledge did not soothe him.
For Mary had surprised him in the days following their wedding. The sneaky, politically wise, too clever minx had been transformed overnight into a gentle and womanly wife. She had become the perfect wife with such ease, as if she had yearned for such a role her entire life. Stephen knew that could not be true. His wife was no common woman, and no ordinary princess either, the role she would have yearned after undoubtedly could only suit a man. Mary would have much preferred to sit at the war table than at the spinning wheel, or so he would have thought. But once wed to him, it was as if nothing else mattered, as if he were her fondest dream.
His mouth turned down. There was the flash of pain in his chest again, and the very rotten, roiling feeling of betrayal. It had all been an illusion, now shattered thoroughly.
Had he not known it would come to this?
Had he not known that when forced to choose, she would ally herself with Malcolm?
Stephen felt no more guilt, no more regret. He had done his duty, as he must always do. His own personal feelings could not ever interfere in his loyalty to his King. In a savage way, he was glad it had come to this. The King’s treacherous invasion of Carlisle had revealed Mary for what she was, a traitor in his own home.
How it hurt.
Briefly he had been overwhelmed with her, briefly he had thought their union a success beyond all expectation. Briefly he had forgotten the short, hate-filled history they shared. How she had pleased him in the past few days! He had known each and every small way she had interjected herself into his life, he had been aware of each and every effort, no matter how small or how large, that she had made to ease his existence, and he had been profoundly pleased and absurdly grateful. It had seemed as if she took joy in what she did for him, in the pleasure she gave him. It had seemed as if she had grown genuinely fond of him. It had almost seemed as if she loved him.
Stephen laughed out loud, the sound bitter and self-mocking. Perhaps he was the weak, besotted fool she had taken him for. His wife did not love him. It had all been a ploy on her part; there was no other explanation. To mend his clothes, see to his meals, even anticipate his moods, to lie with him with the passion of a strumpet, and then, then to spy upon him as he sat in a conference of war—it could only mean that her actions as his wife were insincere.
Stephen paced across foul battleground and ducked into his tent. It was the act of deception that haunted him. It was posing as a perfect wife, not the act of betrayal, spying upon him and his family, that was the source of his ice-cold rage.
He should have known. Mary had lied to him repeatedly from the moment he had first met her, and from that same moment she had been unwavering in her devotion to her country and her kin. He should have known that she would not change, could not change, not in her loyalty, and that the minx could never metamorphose into a dear and gentle wife. He should have known it was an outrageous act. Had she continued to openly defy him after the marriage, and then dared to spy, he might have forgiven her, for he would at least understand her, and even, perhaps, respect her. But she had played a dangerous game, with him and his feelings, and there would not be any forgiveness.
Now that he knew, of course, he would be more careful.
She would not have the opportunity to spy again, or do worse. And still she would be his wife, in fact and in deed, if nothing else. She would manage his household and see to all of his needs. He would give her children; she would bear them, raise them. Yes, she would be his wife in deed, but not in any other way—not in his heart. Never could such a woman have a place in his heart. And the worst of it was that just before he had discovered her treachery and her deception, he had been falling in love with her.
Stephen knew that sleep would elude him for most of this night. Now that the war no longer preoccupied him, it would be impossible to chase his treacherous wife from his thoughts. If only she had denied what she had done. If only …
He was a man who dealt in realities, so he must not yearn for what would not be. Tomorrow he was returning to Alnwick. Where once there was joy and comfort in the thought, no more. He settled down upon his pallet, fully clothed. He thought about the greeting he would receive the next day, thought about returning home to a woman who was a more dangerous adversary than any he had ever met upon the battlefield because of the position she held in his home. God, he was tired. So sick and tired of politics and intrigue. How he yearned to return home to open arms and a real embrace. Instead, he would return to Alnwick, where Mary awaited him, his beautiful, traitorous wife.
He pressed his cheek into the straw. A lump rose suddenly in his throat. Dear God, if he faced the truth, he would admit that he felt like a boy of six again, alone and abandoned, confronting his very first bitter betrayal.
Chapter 20
Mary sat on the edge of the bed, her feet dangling over, her back straight, her shoulders erect, her hands clasped in her lap. She had finger-brushed her hair the best that she could and rebraided it, replacing her wimple. Unfortunately she had no clean gown to change into, but she had been able to wash herself somewhat with the water that was brought to her each day. She hoped she looked well. She tried to appear calm and dignified. In case Stephen should come to her directly.
He and his men had ridden into the bailey a few minutes ago. It was impossible not to hear them, they entered with such loud, animated conversation, with a fanfare of horns and happy cries and even some laughter. Mary had been waiting for Stephen to return, aware that it could be just a few days before he did, but her first reaction was dismay. She understood the tenor of the hubbub the returning knights were making well enough—they were victorious. Carlisle had fallen.
How could she not be saddened? She knew that this was only the beginning. Even if the Normans would be satisfied with just this addition to their territory, it could not stop here. Malcolm had never intended to keep the peace anyway, and now he would seek revenge. And this time he was undoubtedly doubly furious, for one of the principals who had betrayed him was his daughter’s husband, and not just his daughter’s husband but his age-old enemy as well.
She would not think about Carlisle and the political future anymore. Not when her husband had just returned. Not when, even now, he might be climbing the stairs and walking towards her chamber. It was hard to breathe slowly, evenly. It was hard to be calm. What would happen when they next met? Mary trembled.
It had been a half sennight since she had been imprisoned in her room—since she and Stephen had fought so bitterly. Mary knew he was all right, unhurt by the battle, because she had been unable to restrain herself, and she had flown to the window slit to watch as the knights entered the bailey. She had spotted her husband at once, sitting his brown destrier tall and erect, his mail splashed with mud, his helm in the crook of his arm. Had he been wounded, he would not be mounted so. Mary was relieved.
She had brooded many long hours upon her feelings for her husband, upon her past relationship with him and upon the future that now lay in wait for them. Mary had never guessed that she could love such a man, but no matter how it hurt, she did. She was not pleased to love him; how could she be? He had betrayed her father and family for the sake of ruthless, greed
y ambition. And he had betrayed her and their marriage. It was unforgivable. But forgive him, she would.
And her forgiveness had less to do with love than it had to do with practicality. She would remain his wife even if she hated him, even if she never forgave him, even if she denied him until he raped her and defied him until he beat her. But she did love him, God help her. So Mary was forgiving him all, and she could only hope that her sensible response to the insanity of the situation would be matched, in the near future, by the mellowing of his own temper and feelings.
And she was not prepared to speculate further. She was not prepared to analyze the extent of her own wants, her own needs, and her own secret longings. It would be enough if an enduring peace could be established between them. She would do her best to continue to see to his comfort, and maybe, one day, he would understand her loyalty. Maybe, in time, he would forget that she had spied upon him, maybe he would one day believe her innocence. She must try to convince him of her innocence now as she had not even attempted to do before.
Mary stiffened as the door to her chamber was unbolted and unlocked. An eternity passed as the heavy door slid open. Disappointment seared her when she saw a servant on the threshold, not her husband. She blinked back a blinding tear, then realized that a big copper bathtub was being carried into the room. More important, Stephen was walking in behind the servants bearing the steaming water.
