Promise of the Rose

by Brenda Joyce

Rufus stared at his handsome profile for a beat longer than necessary. With reluctance he dragged his gaze from Northumberland’s heir and marched through the crowd, which gave way to him immediately, no longer dispensing any conversation.

  “Sit with me,” Rufus said amiably to Duncan. Together they climbed the dais. Rufus’s gaze strayed unerringly to Stephen again. His smile died instantly.

  Stephen was feeding his wife a morsel of lamb.

  It was only polite, of course, for him to do so. But there was nothing polite about the way he stared at her, or about the way his eyes smoked and his nostrils flared. Indeed, even from this distance, Rufus could smell the scent of his arousal.

  He looked at Mary. Her face was full, her breasts big, disgusting. Undoubtedly if she stood, she would waddle and resemble a cow. A woman in her condition should not be out in public, and he was infuriated to have to tolerate her in his hall. Not only that, he knew, beyond any doubt, that Stephen had been bedding her since his damn stupid brother had brought her to London, and that he would do so again. From the look on his face, he would probably plow her the moment they left his table.

  Duncan followed his gaze. “Amazing, the power my little half sister holds over that man. Amazing—and dangerous.”

  Rufus looked at him. “She indeed poses a threat to you, dear Duncan.”

  “We have never spoken of it, you and I, Sire. But do you think de Warenne covets Scotland?”

  Rufus shrugged. In truth, he was almost certain the man did not, but he had an interest now, one he wanted served. “He can never claim the throne himself, my friend, but of course, what man would not want to see his son crowned? De Warenne is like his father, ambitious and determined in the extreme.” Purposefully Rufus did not finish his thoughts.

  “Perhaps the brat she bears will die.”

  Rufus laid a restraining palm upon Duncan. “We need Stephen, Duncan; never forget that. He must support us in our efforts to regain Scotland for you.”

  Duncan flushed with exultation at hearing the King speak so openly of his fondest dream. And his mind raced forward. Did he dare remove the threat that Mary and her child posed to him and his ambition? He feared her child more than he did her three young brothers, more than he had ever feared her. He could imagine, too well, Stephen declaring himself a Prince Regent.

  “Clearly I have erred in arranging the match,” Rufus said in a low voice. “Perhaps there will come a time to rectify the matter. Perhaps, when you are secure upon the throne …” Rufus trailed off.

  Duncan said nothing.

  Rufus loudly demanded his wine.

  And the meal continued as if the pact had never been made. But Duncan had just been given royal sanction to do what he must to insure that Stephen de Warenne’s ties to Scotland’s throne were severed once and for all.

  “Why do we return to Alnwick now, so suddenly?” Mary asked as Stephen ordered his squire to prepare for their immediate departure. The lad ran from the chamber. “What passes, that we must leave this very day?” Her voice was high.

  It was early May. Mary had been at Court for four weeks, but she was not bored. She was too busy rediscovering her husband’s body, his smiles, his kindness.

  Stephen faced her slowly. “I would prefer you bear the child at Alnwick, Mary. As I must return immediately, ’tis ideal for me to escort you to Northumberland.”

  “But you have not answered my question, my lord!” Mary cried, panicked. For there had been rumors circulating about the Court, rumors she could not help hearing. Rumors, Edgar had told her bitterly, that Rufus was going to attempt to put Duncan on Scotland’s throne. But such rumors could not be true.

  “You do not wish to go home? You wish to bear our child here in the midst of summer? London is not so pleasant then.”

  Home. Mary tested the word in her mind. Her heart warmed at the thought of returning to Alnwick and giving birth to their child there. But… all was not innocence. Or there would not be this rush to leave. “I will deliver our babe wherever you tell me to,” Mary said earnestly. “The choice of Alnwick suits me, Stephen, of course it does. But will you not answer my question?”

  He was grave. “I go to war, Mary.”

  Mary cried out. She had known it. She had known with some shrewd sixth sense that the damnable rumors were true, and that Stephen would be at the head of the army that would invade Scotland and depose her uncle and her traitorous brother. She could not believe that Stephen would break the vow he had given her father, to see his eldest son upon the throne. Edmund had betrayed the family, and Ethelred was a priest, so that left Edgar. Edgar must be Scotland’s next King!

  And if such a sickening circumstance were not enough, fear consumed her. ’Twas only six months ago that she had lost her parents and brother because of war, and she had yet to stop grieving. Indeed, there were mornings when she awoke consumed with soothing dreams in which they were all together, when she forgot that they were dead. On those mornings she expected to see her mother smiling at her and standing there at the foot of her bed. It was the most dark, grievous moment when the cobwebs of sleep were cleared from her brain and she was struck by rude reality. That her mother, her brother, her father, would never be with her again. She could not help being afraid for Stephen now. She had lost those dearest to her in one war, she could not bear to lose Stephen in another one. She would not be able to live without him. “Do not go,” she heard herself say. Stephen’s jaw tightened. “Do not speak like a fool.”

  Mary closed her eyes. “How can you do this?”

  “The King is determined to depose Donald Bane.”

  Mary stared, blinking at tears. “You despise your King. Must you follow him always?”

  Stephen’s tone was as sharp as the point of his sword. “Madame, I am his vassal, and as you have sworn to uphold and follow me, I have sworn to uphold and follow him.”

  She walked away from her husband. She knew she had just angered him even more by turning her back on him with such obvious displeasure, for his breath hissed as he drew it in, but she could not care. Her growing belly had made her somewhat swaybacked now, and unconsciously she rubbed the aching muscles at her spine. She stared out of the window, noticing the profusion of blue wildflowers in the meadow without interest. She was well aware that she must tread carefully. She must not interfere in her husband’s affairs. It had almost destroyed them once.

  “Would you really have me disobey my King, Mary, to whom I have sworn fealty on bended knee?” Stephen asked tersely.

  Mary could not lie. “You uphold your oath to your King, but what of the oath you made to my father—my King?”

  Stephen was at once both disbelieving and furious. “I beg your pardon?”

  Mary inhaled. “What of the promise you made, the sworn promise, to put Edward upon Scotland’s throne?”

  Stephen stared.

  Mary cried, “Surely you would not default on such a pledge now! Surely you intend to launch Edgar, not Duncan!”

  He advanced towards her, only to stop in the center of the room. His countenance was thunderous. “Did I not make myself clear when we reconciled?”

  Mary lifted her chin. She had gone too far and she knew it, but she could not retreat. The fate of all three of her brothers hung in the balance. They might be treated as exalted guests now, but they were royal prisoners, nothing more. They had nothing to their names, not a single coin, not a single estate, nothing but the clothes upon their backs, Rufus’s goodwill, and Stephen’s pledge. “Yes, you did,” she whispered. “But I am your wife. Your cares are mine. I do not mean to upset you, only we must—”

  “‘We’?”

  Tears filled Mary’s eyes.

  “There is no we—not in matters politic.”

  She blinked back the tears, telling herself it was because of the child; she cried so frequently these days. “What of Edgar?” she heard herself whisper.

  Stephen’s eyes were black, his jaw rigid. “I do not even want to know how you have discovered my mos
t secret pledge, Mary.”

  “Edward told me,” Mary whispered, “the night before he died.”

  Stephen’s expression changed in an instant—from anger to sympathy. “Edward would have been a great King.”

  “Edgar will be a great King!”

  “You tread dangerously, madame, into the affairs of men.”

  Recklessly Mary cried, “Can you justify deposing one monster in order to crown another, my lord? Can you?”

  Stephen was incredulous—then furious. “You dare to question my actions? My integrity?”

  “But I am your wife! If you trusted me …” She trailed off. What was there to say? He did not trust her with his secrets—had he not said he would never forget her treachery? The old hurt was there, gnawing at her deep within her bones, for it had never gone away, it had only been buried deeply and purposefully. She had thought she could leave it there in its grave forever, apparently she was wrong.

  “You are my wife, and I suggest you behave in a wifely manner, madame, unless you wish to bring this marriage down around our heads.” Stephen stalked to the door and through it without giving her another glance.

  Once he was gone, Mary rushed as best she could to the door and slammed it closed behind him, as hard as she could. Then she gave in to her tears.

  What kind of marriage did they have? Damn him! He was a pigheaded, arrogant man! She had a right to know what he intended, for her brothers were now her responsibility with their parents dead. Their only hope lay in Edgar one day seizing the throne. Even if they were free to depart London, they dared not leave the refuge Rufus had provided them. Men had murdered one another over Scotland’s throne; the nation had a long and bloody history. Donald Bane had already issued an invitation to her brothers, one they dared not accept. Undoubtedly the moment they arrived in Scotland, they would become lifetime prisoners, or lifeless corpses.

  Thus Edgar had little choice now but to remain at Court in London, currying favor with the King, in the hope that one day Rufus would help him in his quest to gain the Scottish throne. His future hinged upon Rufus’s goodwill, as did that of his brothers, who were allied with him. One day, if Edgar became King, they would become great lairds in their own right.

  Mary did not want to fight with her husband. These past weeks they had enjoyed a triumphant peace—one she wished to endure for a lifetime. But she was not a woman to remain meek and ignorant, yet he refused to share his affairs with her. Where did that leave them?

  Perhaps, if the subject were not so dear to her, it would not matter. But her brothers were her affair—more than Stephen’s. She had every right to urge her husband to a solution that would assure their futures. Why could he not understand that?

  Because he still does not trust me, she thought bleakly. If he trusted me, I would be his dearest ally, and he would whisper all his secrets willingly.

  Mary wanted to be his dearest ally. She wanted that more than anything other than his love. She despaired. If Stephen could not forget the past, it would never come to pass.

  There was a knock on the chamber door, and Mary turned as a maid entered. The young woman hesitated, seeing her mistress’s distress, undoubtedly having heard some, if not all, of her fight with Stephen. “My lady? I have come to help you pack.”

  “Please.” Mary gestured for the girl to come in. Slowly, her back aching, she focused on the task at hand. But all the joy had gone out of the prospect of going home.

  Stephen and Mary did not speak with each other except to maintain a semblance of impersonal courtesy. Although Stephen’s goal in returning to Alnwick was to raise troops and summon his vassals quickly to the war, he kept the entourage at a pace befitting his wife’s condition, and it took two full days for them to journey to Alnwick. Mary could not be grateful. She was too distraught. She catered to her husband as she should, but the pleasant camaraderie, the warmth and the lust, had vanished. Stephen was stiff and formal with her, clearly as upset as she. Quivering tension strained their relations.

  Stephen did not remain at Alnwick for even a night. He deposited Mary at the keep’s front steps while awaiting a fresh mount “I bid you adieu, madarne. Unfortunately, I cannot tarry even awhile.” Suddenly his expression softened. “I would delay if I could, madame,” he said low, stving at her, “and put an end to this foolish war once and for all.”

  Mary almost begged him to stay. She understood his meaning. He would make love to her and show her with his body that he was master, but in so doing, he would also reveal that be was the slave. In bed they were equals. In bed he gave all of himself to her, without restraint. Mary knew they would never have such equality out of it—that was a ridiculous notion—but one day, she vowed, he would give all of himself willingly outside the cloak of passion.

  He misread her expression. Concern tightened his features. “Do not worry, Mary. My mother has reassured me that she will remain with you for the rest of your confinement. She will arrive here within a sennight. If I do not return soon, you will not be alone.”

  Mary was startled. “Do you think to be gone so long?”

  “I do not know. Once Duncan seizes power, he cannot be left alone until his position is secure.”

  Mary regained her composure. “I am not worried,” she lied. She would not send Stephen off to war with needless anxiety for her state of mind. In fact, every woman she knew was afraid of childbirth. Too many died from the ordeal. She herself was no exception, but so far she had avoided facing her fear, and she would not do so now, at their parting.

  “Then you are braver than I had thought, Mary. You are indeed a brave Scottish lass.”

  Mary looked at her handsome husband, her heart turning over. He was worried and he was concerned, and his praise was so dear after the horribly cruel words Malcolm had insulted her with. Her love threatened to overwhelm her, rendering her weak-kneed. Dear God, she did not want him to go to war, especially not for such a cause as this. But she must be as brave as Stephen thought her to be. “Godspeed, my lord. I know you will triumph.”

  He leaned down from his mount, holding her gaze with his. “And will you rejoice?”

  Mary inhaled but no longer hesitated. It was her place to support him. “Yes.” She fought sudden tears, assuring herself that she was not abandoning her brothers. “When you triumph, my lord, I will rejoice.”

  Stephen stared.

  It was hard to smile while crying, but Mary managed it.

  “Thank you, madame wife,” Stephen said. And his eyes had become suspiciously moist.

  In mid-May the army finally moved. It marched unerringly towards Stirling, meeting with little resistance. When an opposing army finally came to fight them, the Normans were already close to the royal tower. The battle was surprisingly short. The Scot forces were in disarray, clearly lacking a unified command. Donald Bane and Edmund both fled the moment defeat became obvious. In the last week of May a victorious Norman army marched into Stirling, with Duncan at its head. He was crowned the very same afternoon.

  News of the great event reached Alnwick the following day. There was great rejoicing at the keep. Mary could not participate in the spontaneous celebration. She left the feast, adjourning to her chamber. There she stared out of the window slit, unable not to condemn Stephen no matter how she resolved to be loyal to him.

  She thought of her three brothers, having no choice but to remain in London, and she was unbearably saddened. What would happen to them now? Someone, perhaps even Duncan himself, had tried to murder her, and she was no threat compared to them. One day any one of her brothers could claim Scotland’s throne, raise an army, and march to seize it by force. How afraid she was for them now! Each and every one of them stood in the way of Duncan’s lifelong ambition.

  The next day Mary received word from Stephen that he would not be returning immediately—he would spend several weeks in Stirling with his army, as he had forecast. Apparently Duncan’s position was not terribly secure. That did hearten Mary, yet she could not be completely g
lad, for still she was determined to be loyal to Stephen, even though she disagreed with him, even though she had become very worried over the fates of her brothers. And Mary missed Stephen desperately—as her time drew near, how she yearned for him to come home to her.

  No day could be better for an outing, Mary thought with excitement. It was warm and pleasant out, the sun shone brightly, and blue jays cried out cheerfully from the leafy treetops overhead. The countess and Isobel were astride palfreys, both riding beside the litter Mary was in. Two household knights accompanied them, and two maids were on foot. Mary suspected the countess sought to distract her from her increasing boredom and anxiety with this short jaunt. The pregnancy had become endless, while her fears of childbirth had begun to grow. Mary both anticipated and dreaded the moment she must deliver the babe.

  Within a few minutes they reached the village that lay just below Alnwick. Mary insisted upon walking, determined to explore the busy summer marketplace. She wanted to buy some trinkets, and she could not browse comfortably among the vendors and stalls while in the litter. And she wanted to buy something for Stephen, a gift that would tell him how much she missed him, how much she loved him. But she never had a chance.

  For as Mary walked slowly to a stall to inspect fabrics, with the countess beside her, Isobel running ahead to buy a sweetmeat, someone knocked into Lady Ceidre.

  Mary saw the entire incident and she was aghast, because the villein had pushed the countess on purpose. As Ceidre reeled into the merchant’s table, tipping it and all his goods to the floor, causing an uproar, the villein jerked Mary roughly to him. He clamped a hand over her mouth, cutting off her cry.

  Then he lifted her off her feet and moved her away from the scene of confusion. Realizing his intent, Mary began to struggle.

  But an instant later he had thrown her upon a waiting horse, leaping up behind her. Mary screamed.

  The countess, finally aware of what was happening, shouted, and the two knights drew their swords.

  Terrified, not for herself but for the babe, Mary clung to the horse’s mane as it bolted. Another rider, materializing out of the throng, joined them in a dead gallop. Vendors and buyers leapt out of their way as they galloped through the market, knocking over stalls and carts and anything else in their way.