Promise of the Rose

by Brenda Joyce

  Mary rose to her feet, her knees stiff and aching terribly from the long hours she had spent kneeling at her mother’s side. Indeed, her entire body ached and hurt, but that was nothing compared to the pain in her chest. “She did not take the news of Malcolm’s death well,” Mary said unsteadily. Edgar’s appearance threatened to unravel her precious emotional control. She took a deep, calming, breath. “When I arrived here I found her in a frightful state. She hadn’t eaten or slept in days, she had worried herself sick. It seems,” she said, and her voice cracked, “that she had a premonition of Malcolm’s death.”

  Tears glazed Edgar’s eyes. “He died a warrior’s death. He died the way he wanted to die, the way all men hope to die, in the midst of battle, proudly, bravely.”

  Mary shuddered. Quickly she crossed her arms and hugged herself. She must not think about Malcolm now, she must not. Tomorrow, when Margaret was better, why, then she could allow herself to grieve.

  Edgar interrupted her thoughts. “Edward is dead.”

  Mary cried out.

  Edgar moved quickly, crossing the small chamber and taking her into his arms. Mary screwed her eyes closed tight. Hot tears gathered against her lids, exerting pressure, but she refused to open them and release the flood. Edward, not Edward, her oldest brother, her dear friend, her hero! She did not believe it, she would not!

  Edgar spoke into her ear, one of his hands stroking her back. Edgar—who had never embraced her or openly shown his love for her in any tender way. Edgar, who yesterday had been a boy of seventeen, and who today had become a man of fifty. “The wound was mortal. He lost too much blood. He died in his sleep, thank God for that, without pain.”

  Edward was dead. “I cannot,” Mary began in a hoarse voice.

  Suddenly Edgar pushed away from Mary. “Your husband is at their head,” he spat.

  Mary straightened.

  “He is the invincible one! He has pushed far into our ranks, alone and repeatedly, exposing himself to our men again and again—yet no one can approach him without falling victim to his sword. He strikes down all in his path. They say he is possessed; either that, or he is Death himself.” Suddenly Edgar fought for some degree of calm and gained it.

  Mary was rigid, unmoving. Somehow Stephen had learned of her escape. She had not one doubt. Stephen was not possessed by the Devil, merely possessed by an inhuman rage. And she was chilled with fear.

  Edgar jerked on her arm. “He has sworn to beat a path of destruction to your door, Mary. He released one of the prisoners to convey that message to us. His exact words are that he wants you back, not in spite of your treachery—but because of it.”

  Mary began to tremble. “He wishes to punish me,” she whispered.

  “I imagine he wishes to kill you,” Edgar said. “I glimpsed his face at Alnwick, and even I was struck with terror.”

  Mary whimpered. She had seen Stephen in a red rage. Could he hate her now so much that he wished to kill her? Could he wish her dead?

  Two days later, Margaret was dead.

  Mary was numb, shocked, exhausted. She realized that she still knelt beside her mother’s body, holding her stiff hands. How long had she been kneeling in such a manner? She forced her body to obey her mind, and she managed to rise awkwardly and painfully to her feet.

  The sound of anguished wailing, a sound that had begun some time ago, reverberated within the chamber. It was the way of the Scottish people to grieve loudly and openly and without restraint. Mary listened to Margaret’s women, just outside the door, keening hysterically, she listened to the men and women in the hall below, also wailing and weeping, and to those gathered outside in the bailey. The rending communal wailing wafted over her again and again, until the pain of it finally began to pierce through some of Mary’s shock.

  She felt a huge bubble gathering itself inside her breast, welling and welling, robbing her of air. She choked on it.

  Dead. Mary choked aloud. Dead. God, the word was so final. She looked at Margaret, as serene in death as she had been in life. Dead! It did not seem possible. Not Margaret, not Mother!

  Mary wanted to keen, too, she wanted to scream and wail and rip her hair, as the women in the hall outside were doing. But she did not. She must hold her grief at bay just a little longer. She had her brothers to think about now. They would need her to see them through this terrible time of loss.

  Mary suddenly gasped. “Mother, I love you so much!” It did not seem possible. Margaret was dead! Margaret, her dear mother, was dead, Malcolm was dead, and Edward was dead! It was unfair! She could not bear it, she could not!

  She turned blindly in a circle, needing comfort when none was to be found. She finally pressed her cheek to the rough stone wall, clutching it, embracing it. And she began to weep.

  She wept and wept, then she beat the walls until her hands were bloody, screaming her grief. She hated him then, for his part in their deaths—in their murders. She hated her husband. They were all dead, Malcolm, Margaret, Edward, and it was forever—she would never see them again.

  Finally she could cry no more. Mary found herself prostrate on the floor. God, she was so tired! She could barely sit up. She could not continue like this, she could not, not when she was so exhausted, she doubted she could even walk.

  But then her mind told her to think. Her mind told her to think of the danger that lurked without Edinburgh, a danger threatening not just her, but her brothers, even Scotland. Mary wiped away the last traces of her tears. She had no time for tears. Too much was at stake. Lives were at stake; a kingdom was at stake.

  Malcolm was dead. Scotland was a kingdom without a King. The seat of the kingdom was Edinburgh, and soon the strongest clans in the land would be descending upon it, hoping to seize power for themselves. Even now, a dozen great chiefs must be closing in upon Edinburgh in a mad race for the crown.

  Her brothers all had legitimate claims to the throne. Edmund she did not care about—he could take care of himself, as he undoubtedly was doing—and Ethelred was safe, being a man of God. But she owned the responsibility for guarding her three other brothers; each and every one of whom posed a real threat to Scotland’s next King. It did not occur to Mary that, as Edgar was older than herself, the responsibility was his.

  Mary forced herself to her feet. She moved like a very old woman.

  She paused. She realized that the sounds invading the chamber had changed. Her heart lurched with instinctive dread as she strained to comprehend what she was hearing. She thought she could hear distant thunder, but the sky outside was a clear and cloudless blue. Mary gasped.

  What she was hearing through the loud wailing of the castle was not distant thunder but the rumbling reverberations of a huge invading army. Dear God, not so soon! Would there not ever be any respite?

  And then Edgar burst into the room. Mary listened in white-faced shock as he told her that Donald Bane had been named tanist, and that Edmund had betrayed them and joined forces with their uncle to usurp the throne. Meanwhile, outside, the thunder grew steadily louder.

  For one moment Mary and Edgar stared at each other. Mary knew no relief; Edmund would be as ruthless as any stranger in these circumstances—or more so.

  Mary straightened. “Gather up the boys! Do it now! Bring a cart round for—” She looked at Margaret. Her hard-won control slipped and she choked. “For the Queen. We will bury her at the Abbey at Dunfermline, where we can seek sanctuary. Hurry!”

  Edgar turned on his heel and left. Mary could not stop shaking, not now, and she gripped the prie-dieu to keep herself from collapsing. Grief, fear, and utter exhaustion overwhelmed her, immobilized her.

  It took a great effort, but Mary went to her mother and covered her. Edgar burst back through the door. He gave her one long look, then rushed forward to Margaret. Effortlessly he lifted their mother into his arms.

  Mary pushed herself to keep pace with him. “How could Edmund abandon us?”

  “He’s not a part of this family anymore,” Edgar spat as they rac
ed downstairs and outside into the bailey, where the sunlight was so strong, it was briefly blinding. Her brothers were already mounted, all of them except, of course, the traitor Edmund. The next to youngest, Alexander, was trying to comfort little Davie, who was crying. Edgar laid their mother in the horse-drawn cart.

  It was then that Mary realized that the bailey had become eerily silent. All of the crazed wailing had ceased, as had every other possible sound. The silence was unnatural, terrifying. Mary knew that she was listening for something, but she did not know what. And then it struck her—the ominous drumming beat of the invading army had ceased.

  Mary cried out as Edgar boosted her onto a mount and leapt onto his own steed. The army had halted—to position itself for an attack! “ ’Tis Donald Bane, is it not?”

  Edgar rode up to her. “No.”

  Mary froze. “Then … who?”

  The glance he shot her was long and dark. And Mary knew. She felt it all then, love, hate, fear, and dread. “Wo.”

  “ ’Tis Northumberland’s bastard,” Edgar spat. “The bastard’s led his army right to Edinburgh. Is he coming to claim the throne for himself?”

  Mary was faint “No,” she whispered. “He’s coming to claim me.”

  Part Four

  Exiled

  Chapter 24

  The Abbey of Dunfermlme was situated on a knoll just across the Firth of Forth from Edinburgh. It was enclosed by thick stone walls of a medium height, but these walls were primarily intended to be a boundary, and while a barrier to vagabonds and outlaws, they could not be a barrier to an invading army. And that was just what the abbey now faced, the abbot thought dismally.

  A hundred mounted, armed knights, their armor mostly hidden by the heavy cloaks one and all wore to ward off the freezing cold, lined the snow-clad hillside. Sunlight glinted on a hundred shields and a hundred helms, and a hundred huge horses pawed the snowy ground, churning up dark mud. A black, white, and gold banner waved from the front ranks, a short-stemmed bloodred rose in its center, the red rose of Northumberland. If that were not enough to make the abbot’s knees weak, and it was, the leader of these Normans faced him directly now from the great height of his great war-horse. And the leader himself was a huge man, imposing enough surely should he be standing on foot. He did not wear his helm, so the abbot could see his face clearly. His visage dismayed him even more than his great display of power in the face of the abbey’s real lack of fortifications. It was thoroughly chilling in its coldness.

  The abbot of Dunfermline had decided to greet his visitor rather bravely, opening the narrow side door inset in the walls and stepping outside it. The passage could admit a man on foot, but not one in mail and heavily armed, much less a troop of mounted knights. For that they would need him to unbolt the two front gates. He clutched his mantle to his thin body, hardly aware of the cold. For he had deliberately decided not to open the front gates. Yet he was well aware that if the man facing him chose to enter the abbey against his will, there was nothing he could do to stop him. “What is it you wish, my lord?”

  “You harbor the princess Mary. You will release her at once.”

  The abbot was afraid. Not for himself or the abbey, not for the monks or the nuns, but for the young woman who had come to him for refuge for herself and her brothers in the dead of a winter’s night. He could imagine easily enough what this knight might do to the very beautiful and so very anguished princess, and he had no intention of giving in to him. He said a silent prayer to God. He certainly needed His help now. “Sir, you know that this is the Lord’s house. She has taken sanctuary here. I cannot allow you to violate that sanctuary.”

  His teeth gleamed in a wintry smile. It was feral. “Sir Abbot, I prefer not to violate God’s house, but if I have to, I will.”

  It was as he had thought. The abbot shuddered. He knew that the lord meant it. “I cannot allow you to enter, sir.”

  “Are you aware, Sir Abbot, that she is my wife?”

  The abbot swallowed. Of course, he was aware of the fact. “Still, sir, it is a question of duty to God. I cannot allow you to enter.”

  His teeth flashed again, but not in a smile. “I am going to enter with force.”

  The abbot raised his chin, set his mouth, and did not move.

  Stephen turned. He lifted his hand. Two knights instantly detached themselves from the troops. “Break down the gates,” he said.

  Geoffrey was mounted at Stephen’s flank. His face was ashen. But he said nothing.

  The two knights rode forward, lifting their great lances. They charged the gates. The wood cracked and groaned, but the iron bolts did not give. Another charge was successful; the two doors flew open with a tearing roar.

  The abbot looked at Lord de Warenne. His face was haggard and shadowed as if he had not slept in days, yet his eyes gleamed with anticipation—with furious, hate-tilled anticipation. No man could appear more beastly. He lifted his hand again in a short motion and spurred his destrier forward. A dozen men followed him into the cloister.

  Inside, Stephen slid to his feet. His glance took in the abbey church with its long nave, situated at the northern end of the complex. Inside, the sanctuary was at the church’s eastern side, facing Jerusalem. Stephen’s glance did not flicker even once towards the rest of the buildings—the rectangular cloister where the monks worked at stalls between the pillars and strolled for exercise, the chapter house, the refectory, the dormitory. He gave Geoffrey one single look. “Do not allow anyone to leave.”

  Stephen strode across the frozen courtyard, heading directly for the church. He flung open the door and stepped inside. He paused one moment as his eyes adjusted to the dim light within.

  Edgar stood in the center of the nave, his hand on his sword. Behind him, similarly posed, were his younger brothers, Alexander and Davie. Ethelred appeared from the shadows of the pews, clearly unarmed and in his habit, to stand beside Edgar and confront Stephen as well. Mary was nowhere to be seen.

  “You will go to hell, my lord,” Ethelred said quietly, “It is not worth it.”

  “Where is she?” Stephen asked coldly.

  “She is gone,” Edgar snarled. “She will never return to you, never.”

  Stephen’s chest rose hard. His anger was so immense. “Where has she gone to, Edgar? Answer me. Do not make me cut it out of you.” His own hand was on his own sword. He meant every word he said. His control was so precarious that if denied, he would lose it and he would cut Mary’s brother to pieces in order to get the information he wanted—in order to get to her.

  Ethelred stepped forward. “I will not allow you to taint this church with blood and war! She is not gone.” He gave Edgar a dark glance. “She is in the dormitory. She refused to claim sanctuary here, my lord. Think on that.”

  Stephen’s smile was frightening. And he did not give a damn why she had refused to join her brothers in the sanctuary. He strode outside and across the cloister. He correctly guessed which building was the dorter. Opening a door, he was greeted by a long, narrow hall. Small chambers, each with a pallet, lined it. Stephen moved down the hall, glancing into each bedchamber. All the chambers were empty. When he had glanced cursorily into some two dozen such cubicles, when he had reached the very end of the hall, he found her.

  She stood in the very last bedchamber, against the wall, facing the threshold, waiting for him.

  Stephen could barely breathe, he was so choked with fury. For a long moment he did not move. He silently told her to keep silent, because if she offered one word of explanation, one more damned lie, he knew he would lose all control and kill her.

  But it was too much to hope for. Mary was trembling, and she was as white as the snow outside on the bare oaks, but she spoke. “My lord,” she said hoarsely. “Please, please listen—”

  As he had known it would, his control snapped. His hand arched out. There was a cracking sound as his open palm hit her face. Mary gasped as she fell back against the wall with a thud and then to the floor.


  Stephen turned from her, panting, shaking, hating himself—but not as much as he hated her. “Do not,” he finally said, when he could speak, “offer me one single lie. There is not a word you could speak which I wish to hear.”

  Mary pushed herself up with her hands into a sitting position on the cold stone floor. The room seemed to spin, and with it, Stephen’s huge, powerful form. Pain washed over her in waves. She managed to wonder if he had broken her jaw. It felt like it. She managed to wonder if it was truly over for them.

  Stephen turned, looking at her. “I warned you. No—do not dare speak. When I tell you I do not wish to hear you, I mean it. I am sending you to Telly.”

  Mary blinked at him. The pain washing over her was changing, taking on a different nature. He was sending her into exile. At least he would not kill her, for she had been unsure of what to expect when finally they met. It had taken no small amount of courage to remain in her chamber, awaiting him, instead of hiding in the sanctuary. He was not going to kill her, but she could not be relieved. Exile was a fate she dreaded as she would true death. For was it not the death of their marriage?

  And he would not let her speak in her own defense. Mary wanted to speak, she must speak—but she was terrified of him now, afraid he was so out of control that he would hit her again, this time killing her and the child unintentionally. Or maybe his intent was there in his breast, dark and deadly and sinister, needing only the briefest pricking of a spur to be roused, a spur her desperate words would provide.

  Mary started to cry again, as she so often did these past few days.

  A series of images flashed through her mind. Malcolm cold and furious, telling her that she was not his daughter anymore. Edward leading her away, embracing her, comforting her. Her mother kneeling in the chapel at Edinburgh in prayer.

  And they were all dead. It was too much, far too much for her to bear, but now, now there was even more, now there was this.