by Brenda Joyce
Options forced their way through her frightened mind. She had been relying on having an hour or more head start on her enemies. She had hardly any advantage at all. Originally she planned to find a horse in the burgh and ride like the wind for Northumberland. Instead she could steal a boat and row herself across the Firth of Forth to the Benedictine abbey at Dunfermline.
Neither of those plans held out any hope of success now. The wolfhounds were howling with maddened intent. The dogs had been let out of the front gates and had yet to pick up her scent, but soon they would. Mary did not think she could make it to the burgh to steal a boat, much less to the Firth of Forth.
Mary turned and fled into the woods. She was stricken with fear. How could she evade Duncan’s men and dogs while fleeing on foot? She had one slim chance of success. She would use the same trick her abductors had used to escape Stephen’s men.
Bushes, bracken, and thorns beat her legs and hips, tearing at her skin, but Mary ignored them. She rushed forward on a deer trail she knew by heart, one she had used many, many times before. The braying had become more distant. Thank God. The hounds had gone off in the wrong direction.
Mary’s pace slowed. Her heart pumped madly—she could barely breathe. A stitch took her in the side, and for a moment she had to stop, clutching herself, panting wildly. She knew she could not linger now. At any moment the hounds might pick up her scent, and then they would be upon her in minutes.
Mary waited one more heartbeat, to make sure the cramp was only that and nothing more. Then she plunged on down a short, steep incline.
Mary slipped and stumbled and finally dropped to her buttocks to slide down the rest of the way. The ground was wet and damp, as she had known it would be. When she had reached the bottom of the ravine, she was again breathless. How was she going to make her escape if she could not walk more than a few paces without dying for a breath of air?
Her plan had crumbled to dust. Without a horse, she would never make it to Northumberland. Even her will was not strong enough to carry her home; she needed physical strength—physical strength she did not have.
Mary got up. The hounds sounded louder, closer.
But she could tell from their tone that they had yet to find her trail. However, there was no question that the dog handlers had changed direction and were circling back around the keep in the other direction. It was only a matter of time before the wolfhounds would discover her scent—would discover her.
Mary lifted her skirts and stepped into the rushing stream. She cried out at the freezing cold. She had played often enough in the racing stream as a child, but in the warmest summer months of August and early September, for the source of the brook was the far mountains, and the water was always icy cold. She wondered if her fate would be to catch her death instead of being eaten alive.
Mary shuddered, lifted her skirts, and stumbled deeper into the stream. It was shallow, the water only coming up to her thighs. She had attained her goal—but now what?
In that instant, God smiled, and she was inspired. Mary began to fight the current, surging upriver. Duncan would think her heading south, heading home. Although there was nowhere Mary wanted to be as desperately as Alnwick, she would be a fool to try to reach home on foot now. Once Duncan lost her trail in the stream, he would try to outwit her, sending his hounds to the south, hoping for them to pick up her scent again. But she was not going south—and they would not find her trail there.
The going was slow and difficult, and each labored breath Mary took was painful. Every few minutes she had to stop to allow her wild pulse to slow. Then she would push on again. She had long since stopped noticing the cold, for she was so frozen now that she was numb.
Mary did not know how much time had passed or how far she had gone when she heard the hounds howl with renewed fervor. She froze. The water swirled about her, and she had to fight to keep her balance. Their ecstatic braying filled the night, sounding loudly now, sounding impossibly close. Mary shrank with dread. The dogs had found her trail.
Mary glanced wildly around, trying to discern her whereabouts. It was hopeless, she thought. Numb with cold and with fear, being stalked so ruthlessly, she could not recognize a single tree or rock. She pushed through the stream, wading out onto the opposite bank. She peered up through the forest canopy, looking for a star to guide her.
The North Star winked at her. Mary gritted with resolve and pushed on. She stumbled and almost fell. Her hands, she realized, were bloody, from the many trees and boulders she had grasped in her headlong flight through the woods. Worse, she had beaten holes in her slippers in the stream on the rocky bed, but she must not dwell on how painful every step was. The hounds howled and snarled and yapped and yelped, even closer, beginning to fight with one another as they closed in upon her. Mary began to run. It could not be that far, she told herself, it could not be more than a few miles—please God.
Mary was soaking wet, shivering violently, and at the last of her strength. She pounded on the wall, her fists bloody, calling out yet again. But she was so weak, her voice had no power, and the guards on the watchtower did not hear her.
She had been pounding on the wall forever, it seemed, and she was so faint now, she could barely lift her fist. Then it occurred to her that she could no longer hear the hounds—that she hadn’t heard them in some time.
But there was no elation, no exultation, no sense of triumph or victory. There was only freezing cold, gut-wrenching pain, and sheer desperation.
“Please,” Mary whispered, sobbing, sliding to the ground. “Please, let me in, please.” She crumbled into a heap, and then, blessedly, her mind slipped into darkness.
At dawn one of the guards upon the watchtower noticed the small human heap sprawled just to the side of the raised drawbridge. “Some beggar wench, no doubt,” he said to himself, and went on about his business.
But the laird of the keep had decided to go hunting that day and had deferred his administrative duties to his steward in order that he might leave at sunrise. The portcullis was raised, the drawbridge opened. A dozen mounted Scotsmen clattered over the wooden bridge behind the young laird.
One of his cousins spotted her instantly. “Doug, it appears we’ve got some beggar-whore lying at our doorstep.”
Doug Mackinnon shrugged, riding on. Then he glimpsed a strand of impossibly bright gold hair, hair he had only seen on one woman, and he whirled his beast around. “No, ’tis not possible,” he said beneath his breath. But he spurred his stallion over to the crumpled wench and dismounted, ignoring the guffaws and crude remarks his own men were making.
His heart suddenly in his throat, Doug turned the wretch over. His eyes widened in shock and he gasped, the sound strangled with anguish. Instantly he lifted Mary into his arms. He cried out again as her cloak fell open and her huge, swollen belly was revealed.
“Get a physic,” he snapped. “Get a midwife, too. And … send word to Stephen de Warenne.”
Doug turned and ran across the drawbridge with Mary in his arms.
Mary woke up when hot broth was forced past her lips. The room swayed before her, as if it were in motion, and she still shivered spasmodically, despite the chamber’s blazing fire and the many blankets piled upon her. A pain ripped through her insides. Mary blanched, choking off a cry.
“Dear heart, ’tis all right now,” a familiar voice murmured.
Mary blinked. Gradually her vision steadied and cleared. The man sitting by her hip on the bed, who was also holding her hand, came into focus. She was startled to see that it was Doug Mackinnon, and for a moment, she was confused.
“I found you in a heap upon the ground in front of the watchtower,” Doug said softly. He stroked her hair. “ ’Tis over now, Mary. Whatever has happened, ’tis over.”
In a horrid flash, Mary recalled that she had been escaping Duncan and his wolfhounds. She cried out. “Duncan captured me. He was holding me a prisoner, Doug.” Tears filled her eyes and she would have gripped Doug’s hands, but her o
wn hands were swathed in bandages. Her voice was so hoarse from shouting to the watchmen that it was barely audible, and Doug had to lean close to understand her. “He intended to hold my child as a hostage forever—to insure Stephen’s support—my own brother!”
“The bastard,” Doug hissed. But he was relieved. He had heard a rumor recently, one that held that Stephen de Warenne was tearing up the countryside, searching for his wife. Doug had, like so many others, heard of how Mary had defected to the cause of Scotland during the war last November. Thus he had been distraught at the thought that she had hated her husband so much that she would run away from him again, for that had been the obvious conclusion to be drawn. He was unable to stop himself from loving Mary, and although she was married to another, he could not want her to be so unhappy. And when he had seen her condition, he had been even more distressed, for her marriage must be unbearable to cause her to flee in such a state. Now, learning the truth, he was inordinately relieved.
Yet perhaps he was also somewhat, secretly, dismayed. Doug barely realized that he caressed Mary’s hair. The sight of her, so pregnant and so weak, crying and in his bed, was enough to make all of the old yearning come surging to the fore no matter how much he tried to ignore such emotions.
Doug immediately shoved such disturbing thoughts aside. He was furious with Duncan, a King he would never support, a man he, and many other Scots, considered more English than anything else, and nothing but a puppet of William Rufus’s.
Then Mary said, “Where is Stephen? How I need him. Oh, God, how I need him!” She cried out as another pain ripped through her.
Doug felt a piercing deep within him and realized, then and there, no matter how noble and selfless he had tried to be, that deep within his heart, he had still harbored hope for them, and now that hope was finally, irrevocably, laid to rest by her obvious love for her husband.
“Stephen,” Mary whispered, her eyes focused not on Doug, but behind him.
“I am here,” Stephen said from the doorway.
Doug whirled, standing, pale. But Stephen did not even look at him, having eyes only for Mary. He crossed the room with long, resolute strides, his muddy cloak swirling about him.
Mary half-laughed and half-sobbed, holding out her arms. Stephen sank onto the bed beside her, in the place Doug had vacated, pulling her very gently into his embrace.
Mary wept.
Stephen wept also, but soundlessly.
Silently Doug left the room.
“You have come,” Mary finally managed, clinging to him.
“But not soon enough,” Stephen said hoarsely. He was heavily bearded, his eyes bloodshot and shadowed, testimony to the fact that he had not slept more than a few hours in the past sennight. He cradled her face, scratched from bushes and branches, in his hands. “ ’Twas Duncan. I should have guessed.”
“H-How long were you standing there?” Mary asked with some trepidation.
“Long enough to know that Doug Mackinnon still loves you, and long enough to also know that you love me.”
Mary collapsed on his chest, in both exhaustion and relief. He held her, stroked her, his silent tears mingling with hers. “How, Mary?” Stephen finally asked when he could speak. His tone was as ravaged as his face. “How did you escape?”
“By a secret tunnel I have used since I was a wee bairn,” Mary told him, looking up at him. “B But he had hounds. I had to run from the hounds.”
Stephen embraced her again, far more gently than he wished to, soothing her with his big hands. “Never again, my love, never again will you face such evil. I failed to protect you once, but you shall always be safe, from this day forward, I swear it to you, Mary.”
“Do not blame yourself,” she cried passionately. Then she cried out again, blanching.
“The child?” Stephen asked urgently, their gazes locking.
Mary nodded, mute and tight-lipped, unable to speak.
Stephen pushed her slowly onto her back. “You must not wear yourself out with words. You must save your strength now in case the child decides to come early.”
Mary stared at him out of huge, unwavering eyes. When the spasm had passed, she said wonderingly, “Why were you crying?”
Stephen managed a slight smile. “ ’Tis not obvious? You are my life—and I almost lost you.” His voice lowered, he touched her cheek. “I told you once before, I cannot live without you, madame.”
Tears filled Mary’s eyes. “I love you, too, Stephen. I always have.”
Stephen fought more unmanly tears. Uncomfortable yet elated, he chided, “Really, madame, you go too far. Always?”
“Since I have first seen you,” Mary whispered. Then she blanched again, crying out, beating Stephen’s hands with her own bandaged fists.
When the spasm subsided and Mary finally relaxed, Stephen forced a smile. “When you first saw me, you hated me, sweetheart, do you not remember?” He wished to distract her from the pain.
Tears of agony filled Mary’s eyes, but she shook her head in negation stubbornly. When another cramp had passed, she gasped in relief. “No, s-sir, I beg to d-differ. You see, I first saw you almost three years ago at Abemathy, standing behind King Rufus while my father was on bended knee, swearing homage.”
Stephen started. “You were at Abemalhy then?!”
She smiled slightly. “I rode with Edgar, disguised as his squire.”
“You minx,” Stephen said softly. “So that beautiful lad who kept staring at me was you!”
“Y-You saw me?”
He actually blushed. “I saw you. I was most uncomfortable, thinking myself attracted to a boy.”
“Oh, Stephen!” They gazed at each other, awed, each wondering privately if their love had been born that winter day in such a strange way, each deciding that it was so.
Stephen leaned forward to brush her mouth with his. “Enough conversation, dear heart. You must rest now quietly.” He was smiling, his expression so tender that it was remarkable.
But Mary’s pleasure died. She moaned, long and low, her face as white as death. For a very long moment she was wracked with pain. Finally it began to subside, and then it was gone. “S-Stephen,” she said huskily. “Please fetch the midwife to me.”
Stephen blanched himself. “Wait until I return, Mary. Just this once—do not do anything rash!”
But patience again eluded Mary, or it eluded the child. When Stephen returned, the midwife beside him, he heard a baby’s mewling cries. His heart quickened, disbelief etched itself onto his face. He had, in part, been jesting—he had only been gone a few minutes. He flung open the door. Mary lay sprawled limply on the bed, but when she saw him, she smiled. The covers were thrown off of her, and between her legs a tiny, bloody newborn lay.
Stephen saw the blood and, having never witnessed a birth before, thought that he was about to lose his wife. He rushed to her frantically. She laughed softly, low and pleased. Startled, he looked at her. She entwined her arm with his. “I peeked, my lord.” Triumph filled her tone. “ ’Tis a boy.”
She turned to the midwife, who had already cut the babe’s cord and wrapped the small mite up. “Show his lordship his son.”
The midwife turned, her face creased in a smile, holding up the tiny, wide-eyed infant. “Got all his fingers and all his toes, yer lordship, an’ he’s a big boy, too, considerin’ he’s a bit early. An’ he’s wide-awake now, too!”
Stephen stared in shock. “My son?”
“Your son,” Mary said happily, drawing his befuddled gaze. “A stong, brave lad, eager to come into the world and greet his father. Give him the babe, mistress.”
Before Stephen could object, the tiny newborn was in his arms, hardly more than two handfuls for his oversized father. Stephen was surprised to see that the infant’s eyes were actually wide open—and focused on him. “Why, he’s looking at me,” he murmured, new, inexplicable feelings washing over him. Then he smiled tenderly. “Look, madame, see how alert he is.”
“Like his father,�
� Mary said softly. “Just like his father.”
And Stephen smiled at her, filled with a rush of pride. “For this, madame, you will know your every fondest dream.”
Mary cocked her head. “I already have my fondest dreams, Stephen, I have the babe and I have you. What more could there possibly be?”
But there was more, of course.
Mary convalesced at Kinross. Stephen remained with her, leaving his own affairs in the hands of his steward and castellan. A month after their babe was born, whom they named Edward after Mary’s brother, they returned to Alnwick.
As they approached the looming keep, Mary sensed that something was afoot. Stephen rode beside her liner, and whenever he looked at her and his son, there was something else in his expression other than the tender warmth she had come to expect. The sparkle in his eyes was both secretive and satisfied; she could not decipher its precise meaning. But the man was up to some trick—and he was terribly pleased about it.
They were greeted at the keep by the entire family. Mary was in shock as Stephen helped her from the litter while a nurse held little Ned. The earl and countess rushed upon her, to kiss and embrace her and tell her how thrilled they were that she was safe and well and home. Then the Bishop of Ely swept her up, whispering in her ear that he would baptize the boy, that no one else would have that honor. Brand kissed her smack on the lips, and Isobel oohed and aahed over the newborn babe.
And through all this pandemonium, Mary wept, because standing behind Stephen’s family was Edgar, Alexander, and Davie.
She held out her arms. Her brothers rushed forward, whooping. Characteristically they refused to hug her. Edgar lifted her up and twirled her in the air, Alexander socked her shoulder, and Davie demanded the right to hold Ned. Surrounded by the three boys, holding her son proudly, Mary looked at her husband. He smiled at her, and she smiled back.
