by Brenda Joyce
“He is well.”
That told Mary nothing. “And… my brothers?”
“They are well, also. They are enjoying William Rufus’s hospitality. Edmund, of course, enjoy’s Scotland’s throne, with your uncle Donald Bane.”
Mary said nothing, for the news that her brothers were now royal prisoners was hardly surprising.
Henry eyed her. “You are so calm. Did you know that Stephen is there, as well? He has been there for most of the winter.”
Mary could hardly believe it. Stephen hated the Court. Her brothers had been summoned there, and Stephen had undoubtedly escorted them, but she could not understand why Stephen had remained as well. “What is Stephen doing there?” she asked cautiously.
Mary had tried very hard these past few months not to think about what her husband might be doing to take care of his very virile needs while apart from her, and she had been successful. No more. There were so many beautiful women at Court with the morals of whores. Mary thought that she could bear his using a whore—prostitutes were dirty and ugly, and a man’s use of one was impersonal. But she could not stand the idea of his bedding a beautiful lady, and if he had been at Court for so long, he would not solicit whores.
“There is little to do at Alnwick in the long winter months, as you must know. I imagine he is amusing himself with all sorts of intrigues,” Henry said blandly.
Mary looked at him. He was cruel. She knew he was not referring to political intrigue. And suddenly she had had enough.
She was Stephen’s wife. This estrangement had gone on for far too long. If Stephen had taken another woman as his mistress, she would vent a fury such as he had never seen. She could imagine him entwined with Adele Beaufort. It was a horrible thought. She was his wife. If he had needs, he could sate himself on her.
“What of Adele Beaufort?”
“She married Ferrars in February,” Henry said with a grin. “Not that that stops her from her wicked pursuits.” His grin widened. “She has not left the Court, either.”
Mary’s bosom heaved. Was Henry insinuating that Adele and Stephen had resumed their relationship? Impulsively she leaned forward. “Take me with you when you leave. I wish to go to Court and join my husband there.”
Henry’s eyes widened, then he laughed. “How much gall you have! I cannot bring you with me, Mary, although it would almost be worth it to see the look on Stephen’s face when you arrived. But he has exiled you, and rightly so. If I were your husband, I would have put you away in a convent for the rest of your days.”
“But you are not my husband, are you?” Mary’s tone was tart.
“No.” Henry leaned close. “And your husband is not here.” He smiled at her. “The winter must have been long and hard for you.” “Not as long nor as hard as you would like,” Mary said coldly. “I am not interested in your attentions, my lord. Despite all that has passed, I love my husband and I shall remain faithful to him.”
“Even when I tell you he is not faithful to you?”
God, how those direct words hurt. “Even so.”
“I think I admire you, madame,” Henry said. He sat back in his chair with a sigh. But his eyes gleamed.
That night, Mary could not sleep. Henry’s words haunted her. She ached with hurt over Stephen’s infidelity. She kept imagining him with the beautiful, immoral Adele Beaufort, who must now be Adele le Ferrars. Mary tried to think of a way to escape Tetly and go to Court, to reclaim her husband and her position as his wife. But escape from Tetly was impossible. The only way out was through the front gates, and she was expressly forbidden past them. Had Henry come with a wagon, she would attempt to hide in it as it left, but he had not. Mary tossed in her bed, finally turning onto her side. The only thing she could do was to send a letter with Henry. Surely the self-serving prince would deliver a missive to Stephen for her.
Mary stiffened. Through the racket of the roaring wind and the distant thunder of the surf breaking on the shore, Mary thought she had heard the creak of a wood door. Henry had the only other chamber on this topmost floor, and by now he must be fast asleep. She strained to hear, and thought it came again. Surely Henry was asleep, and there was no one else on this floor to be creeping about. Mary’s pulse raced. But when the wind finally quieted for a moment, when there was only the soft, lulling sound of the waves beating the shore far below the keep at the base of the cliffs, she was reassured, for she heard nothing.
But only for a moment. In the next heartbeat Henry had slid into bed behind her with a chuckle, pressing his long, aroused body against hers, holding her close. Mary gasped in shock.
“Don’t be surprised, sweet,” Henry murmured, rubbing his distended groin against her bare buttocks. With one hand he fondled her full breasts. “I know you must yearn for a man.”
Mary could not reply. Henry, thank God, had yet to undress for bed, but she was stark naked. And—dear lord—it had been so very long since she had felt a man’s touch, and her own body was so starved that the feel of him had sent her pulses rioting. She loved Stephen, but Henry was a virile man, and her body knew it.
“You are hot,” Henry said thickly, squeezing her breast gently and toying with her nipple. “God, I knew it.” He kissed her neck.
Mary recovered her sanity. “Get out of my bed! Get out of my bed—this instant!”
“You want it,” he returned, rubbing himself lazily against her.
Mary closed her eyes, wishing it were Stephen lying there with her, then in the next breath cursing him for leaving her like this, so she might be in such a situation. And for one second, she allowed herself to feel the sensations stealing across her body. Then she took a deep breath—and jammed her elbow into Henry’s rib cage with all of her might.
He gasped. Mary scrambled to her hands and knees. Henry made an angry sound. He jerked her abruptly back down on her belly, hard.
Mary cried out as he came down on top of her, fumbling with his braies. “The babe, damn you! You’ll hurt my babe!”
Henry froze. An instant later he had lifted himself off of her, his hand on her protruding belly. He froze again.
Mary scrambled out from under him and off of the bed.
Henry sat up. “God’s blood,” he said, clearly shaken.
Mary stood before the fire, looking wildly around for a weapon. Her eyes settled upon the poker. She grabbed it and held it up threateningly.
Henry stared at her. His gaze focused instantly on her round, obviously pregnant belly. Then he looked at the vee between her thighs and at her quivering breasts. He sat up straighter. “There’s no need for that,” he said dryly. “Rape was never my intention.”
“It was not?” Mary asked, her voice high and cracked. She began to shake. She did not care what he said. The prince had almost raped her.
Henry’s answer was to slide from the bed and light a taper. He held it up, looking at her again. “Stephen doesn’t know.” His voice had changed, all the dryness gone—it was cold and hard. It was the voice of a displeased aristocrat.
Mary realized that she was naked. She set the poker down and whipped a fur from the bed, wrapping it quickly around herself. She forced herself to be calm, to meet the prince now carefully, in full possession of all her wits. “No, Stephen does not know.”
“Is it his?”
Mary bristled. “Yes, my lord, ’tis Stephen’s.” Her voice was a hiss. “I have never lain with another man, and I never will.” Tears suddenly blurred her gaze. “No matter how hungry my body might be.”
Henry was grim. “ ’Tis his right to know.”
Mary was in agreement, but she froze. Her only hope of seeing Stephen lay in his thinking her not pregnant, so that he would come to get her with child. Of course, what had happened with Henry would happen with him. The minute he got her tunic off, he would see that she was already with child—if he did not guess as much before. But at least he would be there with her, face-to-face. She must confront him; it was her only chance of righting their relationship. But if Henry told him she w
as already with child, he would send her away as he had promised to do. Mary was stricken with a horrible thought. A scene flashed through her mind that was far worse than anything that had already happened to her: giving birth to her babe and having it taken away from her while she remained behind, locked up in a cloister in France, forever. “You cannot tell him!”
“I shall tell him. He must know immediately!”
“What a fine friend you are!” Mary spat. Tears came. She hated to beg, but beg she would. “Please, let me tell him.”
“When? After the child is born?” Henry was sarcastic.
“No.” It occurred to her that the solution to her dilemma—the answer to her prayers—had just arrived. “I asked you before, but for a different reason. Now I ask you again. Take me with you. I will tell him the moment I see him. Please. ’Tis my right.”
Henry stared. Mary could not discern what was going on in his mind; his eyes were opaque and unreadable. Yet finally he nodded.
Mary swooned with relief. She was going to Court—to Stephen. To tell him of the child, and to fight for her life.
Part Five
Promise of the Rose
Chapter 25
Adele had not seen Geoffrey de Warenne since her wedding to Henry Ferrars, but she would see him today.
The litter she had traveled in had halted. As Adele had traveled with the curtains open, she could see that she had arrived at her destination. Although still surrounded by two dozen of her husband’s best knights, she could see the soaring cathedral of Canterbury proudly butting up against a very blue sky just a dozen steps ahead of her.
She had not seen Geoffrey in an achingly long time. She had been married on the first of February, and it was now April’s day for fools. It was a terrible waste—her husband had been ensconced at Tutberry these past few weeks, many miles to the west of Essex, where she lingered, alone and increasingly desperate. Adele had sent Geoffrey numerous missives—but he had not come.
Adele made no move to leave her liner. So many heated emotions rampaged throughout her that she could not move, not yet. She was furious, furious at his obvious rejection, and she was afraid.
She, the most coveted woman in the realm, was afraid that the archdeacon had tired of her.
Their affair had been convoluted from the start. After his brother’s wedding he had continued to see her for several days, until called away to the invasion of Carlisle in the North. But afterwards he had not returned to her as Adele had expected him to do. Endlessly she waited for her lover to appear, but he never had.
Adele began to send him missives, at first coaxing him, then urging him, finally demanding that he come. His replies were brief. His affairs detained him; she must busy herself with her own interests.
Adele was not just afraid that he had tired of her, she was furious. It seemed clear to her that he hinted that she should take another lover. But no other man could possibly interest her now. And more important, she was hurt—but that emotion she refused to identify.
Meanwhile her wedding to the middle-aged Ferrars approached. And then, just two weeks prior to the event she dreaded, Geoffrey sent her a message requesting a meeting. It had been ten long, interminable weeks since they had seen each other, and its tone was urgent. Adele guessed at the nature of his urgency. She intended to deny him, tease him, torture him—in short, she would punish him for his neglect. But when he arrived, they fell upon each other like rabid animals. Within seconds he had shredded her clothes with his dagger and was impaling her. They both reached their peaks immediately, but Geoffrey did not leave her; instead, he took her again and again. As always, he was masterful and insatiable, and Adele had been, for the first time in her life, exhausted afterwards. But also terribly, smugly pleased.
It was hardly over for them.
She was even more pleased when Geoffrey came to her that next day and every day for the following fortnight. On the eve of her wedding, she lay in Geoffrey’s powerful arms, replete and unrepentant.
And she knew he was unhappy. She saw it in every line of his face, she saw it in his eyes. Adele was thrilled. He loves me, she thought happily, and is heartsick because I marry another.
The next day she said her wedding vows, swearing to honor and obey her new husband, to be chaste. Geoffrey attended the mass but not the wedding feast. He left the ceremony early, refusing to look at her even once—and she had not seen him since.
Adele was still angry that she had been given to Ferrars, She did not care how skilled Henry Ferrars was on the battlefield, or how loyal he had been to the King and his father before him. As far as she was concerned, he was a lowborn upstart, and nothing would ever change that.
Adele’s new husband was ardent. Adele knew that he was as pleased with the marriage as she was distraught. It was clear to her that he was infatuated with her, perhaps even in love. Adele had no intention of defying him or denying him, no matter how she felt about him. She had never been a fool. If her fate was to be Lady Ferrars, then she would do her best to make sure that her husband worshiped her. While the knight was a powerful man, he retained none of that power when it came to Adele. Within a fortnight she had wrapped him around her little finger. He might outmaneuver his friends and foes alike, but he could not outmaneuver his new wife.
Unlike the archdeacon of Canterbury, whom Adele barely controlled, if at all. But now, now that was about to change.
Adele wanted Geoffrey desperately. She must see him. She was quite certain she could not live without him. He had become an obsession. Instead of taking a lover, she used herself, while thinking of him. Once they were together, once they were in each other’s arms, she would know that her fears were foolish and misplaced. He loved her, she was sure of it. And as he would not come to her, she had been daring—she had gone to him.
Besides, she had something to tell him, something that would change their relationship forever, something that could not wait. And after this day, Geoffrey would not be able to elude her, not ever again. After this day, the bond between them would never be revoked.
Geoffrey was incredulous. He paused as he leaned over a long table spread with scrolls, gazing up at the young deacon who stood in the chamber’s doorway. They were in one of the chambers in Canterbury’s cathedral, from which most of the see’s business was conducted. “I beg your pardon?”
“There is a Lady Ferrars here, my lord, and she wishes to speak with you.”
Geoffrey straightened. He was disbelieving and furious, but fortunately Anselm was in London. Dear God, hadn’t she understood what his refusal to come to her meant?
It was not that his huge lust had died. Hardly. But she was married now, and Geoffrey would not cuckold a man he happened to respect. Other men might have no qualms about doing so, but he was not like other men—he had never been like other men. Indeed, this added factor finally meant that he would be the victor in his own private war with himself. “Show her in,” he said irritably.
Adele swept into the room. Geoffrey’s body tightened. She wore a red wool mantle, and the hot color suited her. Despite his resolve, which remained firm, she was ravishing.
“My lord,” she whispered, curtsying.
Geoffrey murmured a nonsensical greeting, but did not touch her to help her to rise. The deacon had gone, unfortunately, leaving them alone. “Lady Ferrars, I see that matrimony agrees with you,” Geoffrey said briskly. The sooner she was gone, the better. He did not trust himself after all.
Adele’s gaze blackened and her sultry smile died. “Of course it does,” she managed.
“And how is the groom?”
Her eyes blazed. Pointedly she shot a dark look at the open door, but Geoffrey ignored it. “Henry is in Tutberry,” she finally said. “He has been there for several weeks.”
“So I have heard,” Geoffrey said wryly. Adele had sent him a dozen messages, each and every one reminding him that she was alone. “How can I help you, Lady Ferrars?”
She stared with unspoken urgency. “I a
m on my way to my brother’s estate in Kent. I wish to pass the night here, my lord.”
Geoffrey was furious. Such a request was common and could not be refused, for travelers were always granted a bed and meal in any abbey they happened to pass by. St. Augustine’s was just across the way. “You are speaking with the wrong man, lady,” he murmured. “The abbot will gladly put you up.” But what did Adele think to achieve by this effort on her part? he wondered. She would not be able to sneak out of the abbey gates after dark—or did she hope to gain an afternoon rendezvous in a wooded glade? Knowing her as he did, it was entirely possible.
And despite himself, knowing what such a rendezvous promised, he grew hard and thick.
“I am very tired,” Adele said. “I thought to stop here and rest first.”
Geoffrey was silent, so that no evidence of arousal would linger in his tone. “Of course, Lady Ferrars, as you wish.”
Her eyes snapped. “Indeed, I do not feel well. I think I might have to remain for several days before continuing my journey south.”
Geoffrey was about to make a comment when he realized what she was doing. She had taken her hand and placed it beneath her mantle upon her silk-clad abdomen. She caressed herself.
In a low voice, her gaze holding his, she said, “Perhaps I should not be traveling at all.”
‘Twas not his place to ask—not if they were unfamiliar with each other—but her gesture was unmistakable. Swiftly Geoffrey went to the door and shut it. He faced her, disbelieving. “If you are with child, Lady Ferrars, you should not be on the roads.”
“Then I have erred,” she said huskily. But she was smiling, triumphant.
Geoffrey was frozen. Adele was with child. Was it his?
Adele suddenly swayed. “I feel quite faint,” she murmured.
Geoffrey caught her before she swooned, and she leaned heavily in his arms. A heartbeat later she had turned in his embrace, smiling up at him. “At long last,” she said hoarsely, making no attempt to hide her excitement.
