Promise of the Rose

by Brenda Joyce

  After dinner there was the usual entertainment, a minstrel, a bard, jongleurs, a clown. Mary excused herself early, frankly pleading fatigue. But instead of going to her bed, she sought a moment of fresh air on the ramparts outside. In all likelihood the morrow would bring more rain, if the starless night was any indication.

  The watchmen murmured polite greetings, then ignored her, leaving her to her own thoughts. Mary had wrapped herself in a fur-lined cloak and she hugged it to her, staring out at the many dying campfires spread out on the moors below. Laughter and song, some of it female, and the sad, slow tune of a gittern, drifted to her. She had no urge to go inside, to go to the chamber she shared with Stephen. She suspected he would stay up late, plotting and planning with Henry now. The two of them got on very well; they seemed to be solid friends. She could not understand why. Henry did have a certain magnetism, but he was ruthless in a way her husband was not, and it frightened her. Like Stephen, he was powerful; unlike Stephen, he was the youngest son, and the Conqueror had given him nothing but immense wealth. Henry had taken for himself what he needed, and today he had power well suited to a prince. Perhaps Stephen’s friendship with Henry was more political than personal. Unfortunately, Mary did not think so.

  Mary did not want to think about Stephen. Not if she could avoid it. Instead, she looked out upon the night-blackened moors, the rough landscape illuminated slightly by the many small, glowing fires, and her heart tightened. She realized that she was facing north, facing Scotland, but she was not homesick. She had not been homesick in a very long time.

  What has happened to me? she wondered. I love my country, but it is no longer my home. How did that happen, and so swiftly? Alnwick has become my home. Today I wanted to kill the men for hurting my bondswoman—my bondswoman. Dear God, perhaps I am becoming an Englishwoman after all.

  But would it be so bad? Her destiny was now Northumberland; one day she would be its countess. And she was one-half English, a fact she had ignored for most of her lifetime—her mother was the granddaughter of a Saxon King. Mary’s smile was sad. She had always felt completely Scottish, and she still did, but somehow she had gone further than coming to accept her marriage and her new home, somehow she had grown sincerely loyal, sincerely fond, of this place and its people. She was even accepted by them all, by the greatest vassal and the lowest serf. No, she thought quickly, with a terrible pang, she was not accepted by them all. She was not accepted by her lord, who still saw her as an outsider and worse—as a vile traitor.

  In one instant their marriage had crumbled again. And she had even told him, in so many words, that she loved him. And he had laughed at her, mocked her, in so many words accusing her of lying. Mary wanted to hate him. But she could not.

  A hand was laid on her from behind. Mary jumped in fright. Henry smiled at her. “I did not mean to startle you.”

  Quickly Mary’s glance slid past him—but her husband was not behind Henry. She and the prince were alone. For an instant the icy fingers of panic curled about her. No, she thought wildly, they were not alone—the two guards were also on the ramparts. She spotted them with relief.

  Henry guessed her feelings. “Do not fear, my lady, your reputation is safe. We are chaperoned.” As usual, there was dry mockery in his tone.

  Mary managed a smile. “I am not worried, my lord. Why should I be?”

  Henry smiled and leaned against the wall, facing her, his eyes intent. Mary tensed, not liking the gleam she saw there. “Imagine my surprise,” he said softly, “taking a moment of air and finding you here.”

  It was an unfortunate coincidence, but Mary did not say so. She hugged the fur to her more tightly. “Has Stephen gone to bed?”

  “No,” Henry purred, his smile one that had probably set more than a few female hearts pounding, “he is downstairs, contemplating the fire.”

  “Perhaps I should go.” If Mary had any doubts before, Henry’s smile chased them all away. He did find her attractive, and his manner was definitely predatory. She did not think herself in any real jeopardy, not here, in her husband’s keep, but she did not like the way he looked at her, and she despised his manner, for it was not just predatory, it was also amused—he enjoyed toying with her. Mary moved to go past Henry, but he restrained her with one hand, the same confident, amused smile flashing. “Are you afraid of me, Mary?”

  “Lady Mary,” she said breathlessly. He had not released her arm. She could not believe it. But she would pretend that nothing untoward was happening. “And no, why should I be?”

  “I think you dissemble.” His laughter was pleased. Then it died. He searched her gaze. “You appear to have spent a bad night. Is all well?”

  “Of course,” she lied. Again she moved, hoping to discreetly dislodge his grip, but he was unshakable. It was a careful game they were playing. Mary did not want to overtly protest. Right now they were both ensconced in propriety. And Henry knew the game well, knew her fears of ending it well. He pretended politeness, pretended to have a casual hand upon her, when there was nothing casual about his intent. He knew she would not demand he release her, and in so doing, expose the polite exchange as a sham, subjecting them both to open hostility.

  “The last time I saw you, Mary, you glowed. Rarely have I seen a woman more beautiful. Clearly marriage—and Stephen—agreed with you.”

  Mary could not smile. He spoke in the past tense.

  “How tired you now appear. How distraught. Does not Stephen please you anymore?”

  Mary could not hold her tongue a moment longer. “What kind of question is that! Of course he pleases me.”

  Henry laughed. “I do not mean in bed, my dear. Do not look shocked. I have known Stephen since we were both boys, he six, myself just one year older. We have wenched together on many occasions—I know just what he is capable of.”

  Mary made no more pretenses. She yanked her arm free. “How dare you,” she hissed. She knew now, with a combination of fury, horror, and indignation, that Henry had imagined all the ways Stephen made love to her. She felt as if he had actually been in their chamber spying upon them. “How dare you intrude upon us that way!”

  “Have I intruded?” He still laughed, his gaze feigned innocence. “How have I intruded, Mary? Because I know Stephen well? Because I know him better even than you in some ways?”

  Mary said nothing, boiling.

  “Has he forgiven you, Mary? Will he? I do not think so.” Henry still smiled. “You were very foolish, as was he. I cannot believe he allowed you to visit alone with your brother. Do not look surprised. I know every happenstance of import in this realm.”

  “You keep a spy here?” Mary gasped.

  “All great men keep spies everywhere, Mary; surely you know that. Does not your father keep you here?”

  Mary tried to slap him. He caught her arm, and suddenly her cape fell away and she was pressed against the rough stone wall—and Henry’s hard body was pressed against hers. “Release me, this instant. Stephen will kill you.” She did not call out, though. She saw that the guards were on the other side of the ramparts, their backs to them, and thus unaware of what was happening. As Henry obviously knew.

  “Or I will kill him.” Henry laughed. Mary was horrified. “But I won’t tell him about our tête-à-tête if you do not.”

  Mary stared at his handsome face, at his glittering eyes. She wanted to spit and claw, but he held her too tightly. She knew she would say nothing, because Henry was the King’s brother, and because he was also a fearless knight. She did not want to take the chance of him killing her husband.

  “Relax,” Henry said huskily. “You are a beauty, to be sure, but in truth I am only protecting Stephen—and my own interests. I have no intention of raping you, sweet, no matter how I’d like to feel you beneath me. Surely it is your body that keeps Stephen derelict in his duty to himself and his patrimony. I am more than curious, I admit. Now, an invitation is another matter. That, I would accept.” Henry straightened, releasing her.

  Mary
was still cornered by his body, her back to the wall. She shook, she so badly wanted to strike him. “You will never get an invitation of any kind from me!” Her bravery was a sham. For she was also shaking with fright. Had the guards been absent, Henry could have raped her in an instant, and she would have been powerless to stop him. She did not put such behavior past him. Not anymore.

  “But you are a real woman, beneath that fragile, seemingly innocent facade, I know; I sensed it the moment we met. You cannot do without a man. And Stephen will not suffer your treachery for long. One day you will make a fatal mistake, Mary. Fatal. He will never forgive you, and he will send you away as he should have already done. But do not fear. I will not forget you. Even if you are cloistered, I will not forget you.”

  Mary did not move. Henry’s confidence and arrogance were frightening. She could not miss the intent behind his words. If she was exiled, as he thought she would soon be, he would be there to ease her distress. Sexually. She shuddered. God help her, but if she was ever sent away, she had not a doubt that Henry would come to her door. “I will never betray him.”

  Henry was quiet, regarding her. Then he said, “How strange, I almost believe you.”

  “He errs. I have not betrayed him, and I will not. Not ever.”

  “No? Perhaps I have judged you wrongly. Perhaps you have yet to betray your husband, my friend. But what if I tell you the real purpose for my visit this night to Alnwick?”

  Mary’s heart began to beat with dread. “What real purpose? Surely you seek a bed and a roof over your head—nothing more!”

  Henry laughed. “I know you are not so naive! I have already told Stephen, now I shall tell you, news he will undoubtedly keep to himself. Your father, your illustrious sire, is amassing the largest army Scotland has ever seen.”

  Mary could not move. She tried to speak, but no words came out. She had to swallow and wet her lips first. “Why?” It was a croak. She already knew.

  “To retaliate, of course. More specifically, Malcolm has sworn to bring England to its knees, and his invasion of Northumberland is imminent.”

  Chapter 22

  Mary fled. She thought that Henry’s soft laughter followed her, but in her shock, she could not be sure. She rushed down the steep, spiral stairs and fell. Fortunately she was at the bottom when she did, and it was only down the last step, but it was enough to make her pause before getting up, panting.

  She clutched her abdomen. Dear God, what was she doing? She must take care! She would never forgive herself if she lost her babe through her own lack of caution, her own recklessness. For the child’s sake, she must begin to use restraint.

  Mary rose to her feet. Her head pounded, but she forced herself to think. She did not doubt Henry’s words—how she wished she did. But she knew her father. He would never let a transgression go unchecked. She moaned. He had to be stopped! She could only imagine what a full-scale war would do to them all, the Scots, the Normans, Malcolm, Stephen, herself.

  “Mary?”

  Mary jerked at the sound of her husband’s voice. He stood in the narrow, dark hall, holding up a taper. Mary realized that she was clinging to the wall, not having moved from the foot of the stairwell where she had fallen. She stared at Stephen as if he were a stranger.

  “Are you all right? Did you fall?” Swiftly he came forward.

  He was obviously concerned. With a small, glad cry, Mary leapt into his arms. Not only did he care about her a little, she needed him now! She needed him to be her ally in this dark, frightening time, she needed comfort and hope, she needed his strength. To her dismay, Stephen did not hold her. Firmly he set her away, his face grim, as if he did not want to touch her. “Did you fall?” he repeated. “Are you hurt?”

  “I am all right,” she said, clenching her fists so she would not reach out to him again. He might be concerned, but he had yet to forgive her anything, and Edward’s visit was obviously still fresh upon his mind. “Is it true? Does Malcolm intend war? Does he plan an invasion of Northumberland even now? Is it imminent?”

  Stephen’s eyes narrowed. “And how, dare I ask, did you find out about such things?”

  She had been certain Henry spoke the truth, but even so, she cried out in anguish when Stephen’s words confirmed it. Still, she could not miss his bitter sarcasm. “I did not spy!” she shouted. She shook. “Your dear friend Henry told me. Think you on that!”

  Mary pushed herself abruptly from the wall and marched past Stephen. He instantly came to life, catching her arm and hustling her forward into their chamber. He released her in order to shut the door. Mary went to the fire to warm herself, putting her back to him, still shaking, with anger, with fearful dread.

  She knew Stephen watched her. Finally she turned to meet his stare, which was piercing. “Henry told me,” she repeated. “Even now he is on the ramparts. Ask him if you doubt me.”

  “I do not doubt you, not this time,” Stephen said quietly. “Henry thinks himself a puppeteer, pulling the strings of all those around him. But, unlike the puppeteer, he is never quite certain what actions his puppets will take. I think that is where he gains most of his enjoyment.”

  “And he is your friend?”

  “As much of a friend as one who is not family can be,” Stephen said. “Henry enjoys causing trouble. I imagine he has caused enough this night. Now what? Are you going to weep and shriek and beg me to avoid this encounter?”

  “If my father invades your land, you must defend what is yours. Your armies shall meet head-on.” Mary trembled, imagining two gigantic armies rushing at one another, hearing the ringing blows of metal upon metal, hearing the screams of anguish and death.

  “Yes.”

  Mary suddenly froze. A horrible inkling, a premonition of disaster, of death, struck her. Who? Who would it be? Not Stephen! Please, God, not Stephen. She swallowed and found her voice. “But it does not have to be. It is not yet too late. Malcolm has not yet invaded. Please, Stephen, you must go to him!”

  “You would send me into the jaws of the enemy on the eve of war?”

  Mary rushed to her husband and gripped his hands. “This war can be avoided!”

  He flung them off. “Are you mad? Or do you think me mad?”

  “You do not understand!” she cried. Her mind was whirling, her pulse roared in her ears. She would beg if she must, on her hands and her knees, the stakes were so high. The war between her father and her husband must be stopped, she could not bear it. And still she was shaken by the premonition, one she fully believed, it was so strong. Someone was going to die, someone cherished and dear—she knew it, she felt it—but not if this horrible confrontation never took place.

  “Oh, well do I understand you, madame,” Stephen said coldly.

  Mary jerked. “You do not think I send you into a trap?!”

  “Could you be such a treacherous bitch?”

  Mary backed up. “No, Stephen, you have not understood me—once again.” Her voice shook. But she comprehended why he thought as he did—because yesterday she had met privately with Edward.

  “What fable will you tell me now?”

  “You must parley with my father!” she screamed, close to hysteria. “Can you not see that? Words, Stephen, words, might restore a truce—and avert catastrophe!”

  “I do not believe that you are so naive, Mary, to truly think to send me to your father to speak of peace. You send me to my death—or to a lifetime of imprisonment. I do not like it.” His last words came out as a low growl. Mary had been holding out her hands in the gesture of one making a plea, and he pushed them away. His eyes were black with fury.

  “No,” Mary whispered, stumbling from the shove. “I am sincere.”

  “You are sincere? You expect me to believe that you are sincere? You have fought me since we first met, despising everything about me, especially my name and country. You fought our marriage until the end. Not a few days after making your wedding vows, you broke them in a heartbeat.” Stephen’s smile was cold. “And your broth
er was here yesterday.”

  Mary shrank away from Stephen, who loomed over her now, his face etched with tightly reined in fury. “No!” she cried. But she realized how it must seem. Edward’s untimely visit was the coup de grace. Stephen could not think it innocent, not with war brewing, not so soon after Carlisle’s defeat, and not after her supposed treachery. In his mind, Edward’s visit was no mere coincidence, but an event filled with purpose. How her plea did seem like enticement, like a trap. “No, Stephen, you are wrong.”

  Stephen straightened. “I am weary of your games, madame,” he said very coldly. “Listen well. Tomorrow I go to war. There is no avoiding it.”

  “Stephen, please! This time you must trust me!”

  He turned his back on her. A moment later he had left the room. When Mary arose the next morning after a long and sleepless night, he still had not returned. It was many weeks before she saw him again.

  Mary dared not think about where Stephen had slept that night. Instead, she thought about the war soon to sweep the land. Four times Malcolm had invaded England, invading de Warenne territory, and four times he had been defeated and forced to swear fealty to the English King. Mary saw no reason to believe that this time would be any different, yet this time was so very different. For this time she was on the other side of the Scot border. This time she would not be with her mother at Edinburgh, awaiting word, praying and cheering wholeheartedly for a Scot victory. Any victory would be a tragedy for Mary. Should her father miraculously win, Stephen would lose, and how could she be gladdened by that? Yet if Malcolm lost again, she would also weep. She could not be impervious to the beating Scotland suffered, not ever. There would be a victor in the war to come, but it would not be Mary; she had already lost.