by Brenda Joyce
Her husband, the father of her unborn child, a man she had hated briefly and should hate still but could not, hated her. He hated her enough to send her away, undoubtedly forever. And if she was not careful, his hatred might move him to unwittingly murder her and their child.
“Your tears do not affect me,” Stephen said coldly. “You will never affect me again.”
Mary wanted to tell him about the child. Perhaps if she told him about the life blossoming within her, he would soften, maybe even love her again. She was desperate. She would do anything to make him love her again. But then he said, “After you bear me my heir, I will exile you to France.”
Mary was frozen, stunned. If she gave him a son, he would send her away to France. And that, she knew, would be irrevocable. Once she was locked away in France, she would never be able to reach out to him again, never be able to change his mind—for she would never see him again.
For just an instant, she was so sick, she thought she would retch.
Stephen paced to the door and paused. He half-turned to her. “I am too angry to even think of lying with you again at any time in the near future. But you are young. And my anger cannot possibly remain as it is. When the need visits me, I will visit you. I will have my son.” He faced her fully, loathing in his eyes.
Mary whimpered, her eyes closed tightly. And then he would send her away and it would truly be over for them.
Then Stephen said, harshly, “And once I have my son, there will be no more need.”
Mary watched him turn and walk away. Then she collapsed on the floor, moaning. But she was no longer aware of her bruised face, just the pain in her breast, the distress. Her heart had been ravaged. Tom into many tiny pieces, leaving only shattering pain.
Geoffrey came to escort Mary outside. Mary saw that he was aghast at the sight of her face. The side of her jaw was already swollen and mottling; soon it would be purple.
His disposition had been stern; now it eased fractionally. “Are you all right?” he asked, coming to take her arm.
Mary looked at him, her eyes again glazing over. “No, sir. I will never be right again.”
Geoffrey was grim. “He will never forget this, Mary, but in time, he will bend a little; in time, I think he will forgive.”
Mary closed her eyes briefly. “How I wish I believed you.” She opened them. “I did not run away from him, my lord. I did not. I only wanted to stop the war. I thought my father would listen to my pleas.” Tears flowed. “I love Stephen.” With great effort she managed to control her raging emotions. “Even after he has done something like this, I still love him. I have loved him for a very long time. Since Abernathy.”
Geoffrey was uncomfortable but intense. “Perhaps you should tell him that, Mary.”
“How can I? He refuses to believe me. And now he is so furious that I am afraid of him. I am not only afraid to speak to him, I am afraid to go near him.”
“You must let some time pass. The next time you see Stephen, you will surely be able to converse without fear of his brutality. It is not like him.”
“Of course,” Mary said dully, as another hot wave of anguish crested, then crashed upon her. Could she survive these next few minutes, much less these next few days?
If she wanted Stephen back, she would have to. She could not imagine when she would see Stephen again. She would have to do far more than survive these next few days. She might have to survive many months before having the chance to face him again—to face him and defend herself and win him back to her side.
And if it was more than a month or two from now that they again met, her pregnancy would be obvious. Undoubtedly he would be furious with her for not having told him of it. But if she told him now, he would send her away and not even come to “visit” her in her exile. Mary knew that once again her only hope for salvaging their relationship lay in their desire for each other. If that desire still existed on his part. She was not confident.
Mary was exhausted, from her encounter with her husband, the loss of her parents and brother, the many days she had spent caring for her mother as she lay dying, the audience with her father, and her mad escape from Alnwick. She was quite certain that she was unable to bear anything more. Geoffrey led her outside. Mary had to fight to control her ravaged emotions. Although she had good cause to cry, she did not want to be hysterically distraught while being forcibly removed from the abbey by Stephen, in front of his brother, his men, the monks, and the good abbot. Her pride was all that she had left.
Then something fluttered low in her abdomen, making her catch her breath. How wrong she was—she had the child.
As she approached, escorted by the archdeacon, the armed knights looked away from her. Geoffrey helped her onto his horse, then mounted behind her. Mary dried her moist eyes. Her glance met Stephen’s. Quickly, coldly, he, too, looked away from her.
How he hated her.
Then Mary saw her three brothers, Edgar, Alexander, and Davie, mounted side by side in the midst of the Norman knights. “What are they doing here?” she asked tersely.
Geoffrey regarded her. “They are not safe here, Mary.”
“Of course they are safe here!”
“Did not Stephen break in to get you?”
Mary paused. Her glance flew to Stephen’s broad back. If he could enter an abbey and break God’s law, she knew that someone like her uncle Donald, or, God forbid, her brother Edmund, could do so as well. She shuddered. They had seized power the day she and the boys had fled Edinburgh—word had arrived that very same night. She did not want to dwell on the thought that Donald Bane or Edmund might seek to harm her brothers in order to secure the throne.
“Where is Stephen taking them?” Mary asked in a low whisper.
“To Alnwick, at least for now.”
Mary was relieved. Her brothers would be safe at Alnwick for as long as they should remain there. For a time, at least, she would not have to worry about them, too, when she had so much to worry about herself.
The troops, with Stephen at their head and Mary mounted behind Geoffrey, her brothers in their midst, now prisoners, filed out of the abbey gates. Despite her exhaustion, Mary realized that, although it was against her nature, she must be patient now. Whatever her destiny might be, whatever the fate of her brothers, for the moment, all was out of her control. The time had come for waiting. No matter how bad at waiting she was, Mary realized that she desperately needed a respite. And it appeared that Stephen was inadvertently giving her one by exiling her to Tetly.
Her exile began inauspiciously. Not long after they had crossed the River Tweed and entered Northumberland, Stephen’s forces split up. Geoffrey and two dozen soldiers veered east, taking Mary with them. Stephen and the rest of his troops continued south towards Alnwick with her three brothers.
Mary was allowed the barest and briefest of good-byes. She hugged Edgar, Alexander, and Davie each in turn, admonishing them not to worry about her or anything else. “All will be well in the end, I promise you,” she said with what she hoped was utter conviction. Her certainty was a complete lie, for she was filled with fear and doubt. To make matters worse, not only did her brothers look as doubtful as she felt, Mary succumbed to hot, sorrowful tears at their parting.
She did not say farewell to Stephen. She was not given the chance. He removed himself from the vicinity of the leave-taking, remaining mounted and with his back to her. No gesture could have been more eloquent. As Mary remounted, she knew that Stephen had used his iron will to strike her from his heart.
Late that afternoon they turned directly east and came upon Tetly. Mary’s low spirits plummeted even further when she first glimpsed the lonely keep. It was situated upon a remote and barren cliff just above the channel where the coast met the River Tyne. One twisting, precarious path led to its rusty gates. In such a situation, invasion and siege were impossible. Mary later learned that Tetly’s site had been picked for precisely that reason, and for the same reason it had long since fallen into irrelevance
and disuse.
There was no need of a drawbridge. The portcullis opened directly upon the steep, rutted road. Apparently Stephen had sent a few servants, a steward, and a chatelaine ahead, for the fanged gate, obstinate from lack of use, was raised immediately. They entered through dark stone walls into a small, dark bailey. The ground underfoot was frozen mud. Mary looked around with despair. The few outer buildings had long since fallen into disrepair. Walls had crumbled and roofs caved in. These sheds were unusable. She saw that a lean-to had been newly erected to stable the men’s mounts and to keep a few pigs.
Mary turned towards the keep. It consisted of one lonely black tower which stood with its back to the cliff and the coast, exposed on three sides and constantly buffeted by high channel winds. On its front steps stood her staff, two maids, a young serf, an elderly steward, and a plump, worried-looking chatelaine.
Mary pulled her cloak to her more tightly. It was freezing out there on the cliff in the brunt of the wind, but her action was due more to deep dismay than chilling cold. She was to live here. For how long? And how long would it be until Stephen came to “visit” her? As Geoffrey helped her dismount, Mary was seized with panic and she clung to his hand. “You are not going to leave, are you?” she cried.
His expression was somber. “I have sent Archbishop Anselm word that I am delayed. I will stay a few days, Mary, to oversee some repairs and make sure you are settled in comfortably.”
“Comfortably?” Mary was bitter.
“Tetly has seen better days, that’s true, but you will not lack for a thing. I promise you that.”
Geoffrey’s words proved to be mostly accurate. Tetly had been well supplied in advance of her arrival. Obviously Stephen had been prepared when he had handed out his verdict to her. And the steward was efficient and eager to please, the chatelaine kind although pitying. Mary’s rooms were constantly warmed by a big fire to ward off the ever-present cold. Anything she desired was served to her in the way of food and drink. Mary had no appetite, she was too sore at heart, but she thought of the child and ate more than she normally would.
Geoffrey stayed a sennight. Mary was grateful. During the day she helped the chatelaine. Mary had nothing else to do and she was determined to keep herself busy in order not to think about the tragedy that had struck her. It would be so easy to grieve, for her parenis and brother, for herself. At night she conversed with Geoffrey in front of the fire. If only he could have stayed indefinitely. He was cheerful and considerate. But once the stable had been repaired, he left. And Mary had no choice but to face the nights alone.
And it was the nights that threatened her sanity. The wind howled like a banshee, making sleep difficult at best, and restless and broken when achieved. She was tortured by longings that were impossible dreams. She desperately missed Edward and Margaret. She could not believe that she would never see them again. And she desperately wished that her last few conversations with her father had never taken place. She was shaken to the very core of her being. Suddenly Malcolm was a stranger to her in her memory, not the wonderful father-King he had always been. Mary wanted to remember him as she had known him all her life, not as she had last seen him. She wished she could be sure that he had loved her despite his cruel words, despite his use of her and his rejection, but she could not. And now, now she would never know.
And she desperately needed Stephen. Not the cold, hate filled man he had become, but the ardent lover, the respectful husband, the just and honorable man. She needed him. She had never needed him more. But he would come when it suited him, not her, and then only to use her.
The days passed monotonously. January slid into February. One snowstorm followed another, the winds were relentless. Mary hated Tetly. Sometimes she hated Stephen. Hating him was far better than loving him, and God knew she had reason to hate him. The blaze of anger would never last. It always gave way to an uncontrollable yearning.
Mary cherished the unborn baby.
Her body had changed. In her tunics only the fullness of her breasts were obvious, but when naked, Mary was delighted to see a small, firm tummy protruding. At least she had this baby, she thought. Already she was deeply in love with her child. Already she had become protective and maternal. She was not crazy, but being so alone, she had taken to talking to it, and sometimes she sang old Gaelic lullabies. The servants looked at her with fear, the chatelaine with fear and pity. They knew she was with child, for Mary made no attempt to hide her condition. When they saw her whispering to herself, to the babe, they crossed themselves or made old pagan signs and hurried away. Mary did not care what they thought. If she had not been carrying this child, she might very well lose all hope, and even her sanity.
Mary lost track of the days. But the snows ceased. It had been, the chatelaine said, a particularly frigid winter. Now there was only the winds, but one afternoon the sun began to peek through the low, thick clouds. And one day, when Mary was taking some air in the bailey, she saw green shoots of grass poking up through the mud.
She looked up at the sky. It was a pale, washed out blue, but it was blue nevertheless, and the sun was a bright, clear yellow. Mary smiled. It was sometime in March, and now she could smell spring in the air. She took a deep breath. Her depression lifted in that moment. She had survived a long, dark, and dreary winter, and suddenly she was filled with hope. Spring meant renewal and rebirth. At the very least she could look forward to pleasant days and, with summer’s advent, the birth of her child. How her heart leapt at the thought.
And it could not be very long now before Stephen would come.
“Riders, my lady!”
Mary looked up from the dais where she sat alone at her noon meal. She dropped her knife. “Riders?”
“They’re too far off for me to make them out, but ’tis a goodly sized contingent, flying a banner, my lady,” the man said. He had just come running in from the single watchtower and was breathless.
Mary did not move, but her heart thundered so hard, she was faint. ’Twas Stephen. She knew it. Oh, God, she knew it. She was filled with elation, with excitement and fear. Oh, God, she must do everything right! She must win him back!
Mary lurched to her feet. She was five months pregnant, but as her build was so small to begin with, her condition was still not obvious while she was fully clothed. Of course, he would notice that she had gained weight immediately; her face was fuller, her breasts heavier. Suddenly Mary was doubly afraid. What if she was no longer as pretty as she had been?
She fled up the stairs and to her room to check her clothes and pat every hair back into place beneath her wimple. Then she froze. Stephen so loved her hair. Married women did not wear it unbound, but it was her glory now that she had lost her figure. Mary hesitated … She would let it down. With a banging heart, her hands shaking, she quickly unpinned and unbraided it. It fell in a riotous, brilliant, sun gold mass past her waist. If Mary was sure of one thing, it was that her hair had never looked better. Yet her hands still trembled while she quickly brushed it.
Mary was so nervous now that she felt sick. She had heard the men entering the hall below. Mary tried to take a few deep breaths. Oh, God. What if he still hated her?
Mary paused at the door to her chamber and said a quick, brief prayer. Then she straightened her shoulders and held her head high. She slid the heavy door open, paused, then went slowly down the stairs.
She entered the hall and stopped. Her eyes widened in disbelief. There was a man sitting at the table, but it was not Stephen. Instead, on the dais as if he were Tetly’s lord, Prince Henry lounged. And when he saw her he smiled, and in that smile was all of his intent. As he had promised that dark, solitary night out upon the ramparts at Alnwick, he had come to her in her exile.
Mary stared. Henry stared back. His regard was amused in response to her shock, and it wandered over her, going first from her face and then to her hair and finally down her body. When he looked back at her, his gaze had become intense. “How beautiful you are,” he said.
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br /> Mary’s heart lurched in dread.
His gaze moved to her voluptuous breasts, which strained the fabric of her tunic. “You have never been more beautiful, Mary,” the prince said.
Mary’s heart slammed. She came to life, regretting her foolish action in letting her hair down. But it was too late now. Pale, frightened, and resolved to send Henry on his way—after she had learned of Stephen’s whereabouts and doings—she slowly came forward. “Good day, my lord,” she said with a slight curtsy. “This is a surprise.”
He waved her up, then took her hand and helped her ascend the dais. Mary instantly slipped her palm tree of his. His gaze was again amused. “Why have I surprised you?” he asked. “Did I not tell you I would come to you in your exile?”
Dread again washed over Mary. But with outward calm she sat down beside him. “It is very kind of you to come visit me in such a lonely time,” she said, refilling his cup of wine. “But I find it hard to believe that kindness was your sole motivation. Tetly is out of the way for all travelers.”
“Indeed, it is isolated and forsaken. What a dreadful place! But you appear to be faring more than well. You glow, Mary. Are you so happy apart from your husband, then?” Henry sipped his wine, but his eyes never left hers.
Mary turned to face him. “I am not happy apart from Stephen, my lord. I love him. I long for the day when he will forgive me and call me back to his side.”
Henry smiled. “I do not think that day shall ever come, Mary. You betrayed him, and he is not a man who ever forgives his enemies.”
“I am not his enemy. I am his wife.”
“A dangerous combination. A fatal combination, as he well knows.”
Mary looked away, angry. She forced herself to be calm. This was her first visitor all winter, and she was determined to learn of Stephen and her brothers and Scotland. They’d had no news these past few months, none at all. “How is he?”
