by Brenda Joyce
Mary was frozen. She regarded him uncertainly, fixedly. He did not look at her, entering with a tired, slow stride, his page already helping him out of his mail. Realizing how exhausted he was wrung a response from Mary that, given his recent antipathy towards her, she would have preferred to ignore. But it was impossible; her instinct was to rush to him and help him, soothe him.
She did not. Mary realized that she was not breathing, that her heart was hammering much too quickly, and she took a few steadying breaths. Stephen had shrugged out of the leather vest he wore beneath the armor. She realized that he was finally looking at her.
“Good day, madame,” he said, inclining his head.
“Good day, my lord.” she breathed.
Silence reigned. The page quickly stripped her husband, a job that belonged to Mary since she was present. Stephen had turned his back to her. As she knew very well that he had no modesty, it was an obvious rejection. Small but real, and it hurt. The tub was full, the servants gone. Stephen lowered himself into the bath, facing away from her, another sign that all was not yet well. Then he told the young squire that he might go. The boy obeyed and they were left alone.
Mary was uncertain. Stephen was obviously calm and rational. Yet she did not think he had forgotten her trespass, or forgiven her for it. Giving her his back, not once but twice, was significant. Perhaps it was a warning, a signal to her to keep her distance.
The last time she had helped him bathe flashed through Mary’s mind. Hopelessly she succumbed to intense yearning. She was quite sure that there would never be a repeat of such unabashed, open passion, such mutually flagrant need.
“Shall I help you, my lord?”
Stephen was in the midst of sponging himself with soap and water. He did not turn his head when he spoke. Although fatigue was evident in his tone, he said, “Perhaps another time.”
Mary could not move. She had not misread him at all. He had not forgotten anything, he had not forgiven anything. Mary almost sobbed but managed to muffle the sound of despair instead. This man was as far removed from the warm, ardent lover he had been before their fight as he could be.
She was uncertain. She decided to tend the fire, having nothing else to do. She jammed the poker at the dead wood, releasing some of her anger and frustration, but by no means enough of it. Clearly he was intent on avoiding her. But for how long? Recalling the impossibly high stakes—their future—she knew this situation could not continue. She must not allow it to continue in this vein.
Stephen had finished washing himself, and now he lunged to his feet. Mary turned, trembling. A second later he had wrapped his powerful, naked body in a blanket. He did not look at her.
Stephen began to dress. He did not speak. Mary was afraid to approach in order to help him, quite certain her efforts would be rejected yet again. He was making himself very clear. She could not keep her silence. “Will you shun me for the rest of our lives, my lord?”
“Shun you?” Stephen whirled. “I have no intention of shunning you, madame. But if you think to get a warm welcome from me, you have been mistaken.”
Her head came up, her nostrils flared. “You are still angry.”
He laughed, the sound harsh, unpleasant. “I am still angry, but do not fear. I am in complete control.” His gaze was open now, so open that she could see the anger in it, and it was hard and cold.
“I have been punished. But I have not apologized.” Knowing she was innocent of treachery made it difficult to continue. “I am sorry.”
He stared in some amount of incredulity. “How sincere you seem!”
“I am sorry!” Mary cried. “Stephen, I swear to you that I never intended to betray you to my father.”
He cocked his head. “Do you not think your avowal a bit untimely?”
“It may be untimely, but ’tis the truth.”
“I doubt you comprehend the meaning of the word ’truth,’ madame.”
Mary inhaled. “You are cruel.”
“Why do you seek to convince me now? Were you not spying?”
“Yes, but—”
“Do you plot anew against me? Do you seek to soften me once again, in order to wield another blow?”
“No!”
“If I thought your regret sincere, ’twould be enough—I could not ask for more than genuine repentance. But no apology, sincere or not, is enough to undo my regrets, nor my anger. I do not take betrayal lightly, not from my wife, never from my wife.”
“But I swear I am telling you the truth—I never intended betrayal!”
“As you swore before God to honor and obey me?” He held up a hand; his eyes flashed waringly, dangerously.
Mary could not back down. “I did not break my vows.”
“I have had enough of this, madame,” Stephen said very tightly.
He was staring at her. Mary realized she was glaring at him through a veil of tears. She fought for composure.
“Your confinement is ended, if that is any help,” Stephen told her. “I expect you to join us downstairs for dinner. My bath is still warm. Why do you not take advantage of it?”
“How charitable you are.”
His own fists clenched, his eyes darkened even more. “Once I was very charitable towards you, or have you forgotten? You are lucky, madame, extremely lucky, that I am ending your punishment, as light as it was, and that I am intent on keeping you as my wife, as deceitful as you are.”
Mary was quick to protest, unable to keep the bitterness from her tone. “You have no choice, my lord, and you know it. We are wed before God until death!”
“There are many ways to end a marriage such as ours,” Stephen remarked pointedly.
Mary was shaken, frightened and aghast. Surely she was misunderstanding—he could not be threatening her with—“What—what do you say, my lord?”
“I am suggesting that you tread cautiously, madame, if you wish to fare well with me.”
“Would you ask for an annulment?” she asked in horror.
“Did I say that? No, madame, I would never ask for an annulment. You have yet to give me my heir; need I remind you of that?”
Mary met his cool stare.
Then he smiled, but it was hardly pleasant. “Should there be another instance of treachery, madame, I will exile you. If I am generously disposed, it would be to Tetly, a personal manor of mine on the coast; if not, a convent in France.”
Mary was white. “And—if I should bear your heir?”
Stephen’s smile was cold and brief. “That would change nothing, madame; children are born to exiled wives every day, as you well know.” Stephen turned on his heel. “Do not keep us waiting.” He shut the door behind him.
Mary was still, but only for a moment. Then she picked up his helm, which lay on the chest beside her, and threw it furiously at the door. It made a resounding crash, which barely pleased her. She sank onto the chest, scattering his clothes and mail, shaking.
Dear God. She felt as if she were a hairsbreadth away from a fate almost as horrible as death, and perhaps as irrevocable. Exile. He had no feelings left for her, and he would exile her in an instant. That, too, seemed abundantly clear. Mary wanted to cry.
Mary cradled her abdomen with her hands. He had said he would exile her even if she was with child. His statement was proof that he still expected her to give him an heir. She was glad she had not said anything. She was likely with child, for this month she’d had no flux. The secret she kept might very well prove to be the only weapon she had left, if ever she dared to use it. That was why she did not go to him and tell him what he would be glad to hear. And her restraint had nothing to do with ridiculous romanticism. Certainly now, after the past hour, she could not be such a fool to think that there would come a time of ease between them, a time of light and laughter, a time when she might bring him such joyous tidings in love, instead of undeclared war.
At dinner Mary learned the details of what had transpired at Carlisle. The countess wanted to be apprised of it all, and her
questions were sharp, pointed, and endless. The earl had remained in the North, restoring order, Geoffrey had returned to Canterbury, but Brand, on his way back to London with his men, had stopped at Alnwick for the night. However, it was Stephen who answered his mother’s questions, his tone level and dispassionate. How easily he spoke of his triumph over her land and her people.
Mary listened and said nothing. After the disastrous encounter with her husband earlier, she was in a sore and wary mood, and to hear of how quickly Carlisle had fallen did nothing to improve it.
Too, it was the first time that Mary had seen anyone other than Stephen since being punished for spying. She was guilty of eavesdropping but innocent of treachery, yet she was afraid to look the countess in the eye. She knew how intelligent that woman was, how much she loved her husband and Alnwick, which had once been a Saxon fief belonging to her father. Mary imagined that Lady Ceidre was furious with her—as well as terribly disappointed.
So Mary was startled when the countess addressed her, her tone kind. “I am sure this must be difficult for you, Mary.”
Mary looked up, startled, finally meeting the countess’s gaze. “Your pardon, madam?”
“How difficult this must be for you, to be married to my son, a Norman, who wars upon your country—and your family.”
Mary was pale. She felt every eye at the long table below upon her, as well as her husband’s, who sat beside her on the dais. Yet the countess was genuinely sympathetic, Mary was sure. But how could that be? “Yes,” she finally croaked. “It is very difficult, very upsetting.” To her horror, a tear slipped from her eyes.
The countess sat on Stephen’s other side, but she leaned across her son to pat Mary’s hand. “Stephen probably has not told you, but he told me that all of your family is well, Mary.”
Mary drew in a breath. She had worried, too, about one of her brothers or her father being hurt or killed. It seemed that, even though she had learned just how ruthless Malcolm could be, she could not be oblivious to him—he would always be her father. Unable to keep the eagerness from her voice, she faced her husband for the first time since she had come downstairs. “You are certain?”
He stared at her. “As certain as can be. I believe that Edgar was wounded, but I saw him fighting until the end, so it could not have been too grave.”
“Edgar!” Mary’s heart twisted. “You are sure he is well enough?”
Stephen nodded, still watching her.
Mary sighed with relief, trembling. It struck her that her current predicament could be so much worse. She and Stephen could be at this impasse, yet it could be complicated by the death of someone she loved. Mary prayed that would never be. But if Northumberland’s forces kept clashing with Malcolm’s, was it not inevitable? She shivered, struck with horrible premonition.
“It was not easy for me either, once upon a time,” the countess was saying.
When Mary looked at the countess again, she could not help peeking at Stephen, who now regarded his glass of wine, grimly. Had she somehow displeased him again?
Mary turned to his mother, her curiosity genuine. “Because you were Saxon?”
“I was not just Saxon, but my father’s by-blow,” Lady Ceidre admitted candidly. “And Rolfe, as you must have heard, was one of the Conqueror’s most trusted men. The gulf between us could not have been wider, especially as he personally was given the responsibility for bringing the North to its knees. Although William determined the policy, it was brutal and cruel. When I first met my husband, he was ordering a small village burned to the ground for harboring Saxon archers, archers who had ambushed his men. He ordered it burned, every square inch of it, even the com, which meant that one and all would not just freeze that winter, but starve as well. I begged him for mercy, but he refused. How I hated him.”
Mary stared, stunned. “But—if you hated him so, how could you have come to love him as you do?” As Mary waited for the countess to reply, she was even more aware of Stephen sitting beside her. Only an inch or two separated their bodies, so it had been impossible not to be aware of him and become somewhat distressed by his proximity the longer they sat together, but now he did not move and did not breathe, as keenly interested in the conversation between her and his mother as she was, or so it seemed.
“Well—” Lady Ceidre smiled slightly “—he is one of the handsomest men you have ever seen, is he not? I could not help noticing. And, as you know, my husband is a good man—he was obeying his King, nothing more, as we all must do. Although I secretly supported my rebel brothers, I fell in love with him. To make matters worse, he was soon married to my sister, Alice, my father’s legitimate daughter. We were enemies from the start, but we fell in love.” For a moment she was obviously lost in the past, her face suddenly young, a trick of the rosy light, her eyes shining, which was no trick at all. She sighed. “It was not easy. I betrayed him again and again, believing it to be my duty. He was so furious. But… time heals all wounds, Mary. Time healed ours. And when the wounds were less painful, the love was still there, stronger than before.”
Mary wondered what had happened to Alice, the earl’s first wife. Obviously she had died in a timely manner, allowing the earl to marry his lady love. “ ’Tis somehow a sad story,” Mary said, aware of Stephen listening to her intently, “but beautiful, so beautiful.”
“I am a very lucky woman,” Ceidre said. She smiled gently. “And so are you, my dear, even if you do not yet know it. Sometimes the path to happiness is long and difficult, but the trial in getting there makes the final reward so much sweeter.”
Mary looked down at the trencher she shared with her husband. Although they shared it, although he chose her portions for her as he should, there had been no warmth, no love, in his actions. They had been politeness and duty and nothing more. Mary was assaulted by the foolish romanticism she sought to avoid. How she found herself wishing for the kind of love that the countess had found with the earl, a love strong enough to endure the worst of times—a love grand enough for all time.
The hall was unusually quiet. Mary realized that the many retainers seated below them had been listening to the countess’s every word—and hers. Suddenly she looked up, well aware of what everyone was thinking, the countess included. They were all convinced of her guilt. Thinking that she, like the Lady Ceidre, had committed treachery against her husband, foolishly but deliberately. In a love story told on a full belly and in the haze brought on by good wine, it was acceptable and even romantic; in reality it was not. She met the countess’s gaze. “I did not betray my husband, madame,” she said to her alone. But her voice rang clear, and everyone heard it. “I would never break my wedding vows.”
Stephen avoided retiring for the night. Even though he was exhausted, enough so that, as he sat in the Great Hall before the dying fire, the many retainers asleep on their pallets, his mother and sister long since gone to their beds, and his wife as well, he could feel his lids growing heavier by the moment. But still he stared into the glowing cinders and watched the occasional flame. Mary’s vehement denial of duplicity echoed in his mind.
The front door groaning open and then banging closed roused him. Brand sauntered into the hall. He saw Stephen and started, then grinned. “What? You are not yet to bed?” He came closer. There was no mistaking what had kept him out so late. He wore a heavy, sated air, and when he slid into the seat beside his brother, Stephen remarked that his blond hair was tousled, disheveled with straw.
“If I had such a bride, I would not linger here.” Brand said, grinning.
“Perhaps that is the problem.”
Brand’s smile died. “What ails you, Stephen? Your unhappiness is evident.”
“You need to ask?” He heard how bitter he sounded, and resolved to speak with more detachment.
“I know you were not pleased to go to war against Scotland,” Brand said slowly. “But you had no choice. Surely she understands.”
“She does not understand me—nor do I understand her.” Stephen s
tood, placing his back to his brother. Brand did not respond, so he turned slightly. “Tell me, brother, what do you think of my wife?”
Brand grew wary. “ ’Tis quite the question.”
“Does she not appear the angel? Beauty, perfection, and innocence?”
“Yes.”
Stephen laughed, once. “There is nothing perfect or innocent about her.”
Brand stood. “Stephen, I know what happened. Geoffrey told me.”
“Then you know that she is a little liar.”
Brand hesitated. “ ’Tis a good thing that you have found out her true inclinations. Now forget it. Go and get an heir upon her, and then, if she dares to repeat her behavior, banish her as you must do.”
“How simple you make it sound.” Stephen faced Brand, his smile mocking. “I fear I will be reluctant to send her into exile if the time should come that I must.”
Brand stared. “You would have to, Stephen. This time her spying came to naught, but what if she had succeeded in warning Malcolm? Many Normans would be dead this day—perhaps even you or I.”
His jaw was tight. “You think I do not know this? I know it too well!”
“Then just make sure you do not forget it,” Brand said very seriously. Then he smiled and gripped his brother’s shoulder. “It is late. I know the cure for what ails you. Go to your beautiful bride and beget that heir. I guarantee it will ease your mind.” Brand grinned.
Stephen watched him walk across the hall to the pallet he had made. He could not reveal to his brother that he lingered in the hall because he was afraid. Celibacy, even if only in regard to his wife, was out of the question—at least until she had conceived or given him an heir. Thus he had every intention of taking Mary as he willed, as he must in order to beget an heir, but how could he control himself? For he was afraid he might still be overwhelmed by uncontrollable passion, in spite of her treachery. If that was the case, Mary would recognize it immediately and would gain the upper hand.
