Promise of the Rose (41 page)

She shook her head in denial, unable to speak. He was furious, she was frightened. Yet she was suddenly excited and breathless and acutely aware of being beneath him and completely subject to his whim.

“If you love me,” he said, low and hoarse, “I suggest you prove it.”

Mary was sweating. She licked her lips. “Have I not proved it, my lord?” Her voice was husky and unrecognizable.

His smile was no smile, but more of an animal-like snarl. “You will never prove your love to me in bed, Mary. That is not what I am speaking about.”

Their gazes held. The primal thrill was gone. Mary’s heart sank with comprehension. Then Stephen turned away from her, and he did not touch her again that night.

   The following day Prince Henry appeared at Alnwick. He was not alone; he traveled with a full contingent of troops. His many men were camped just outside the castle’s walls, covering the moors for as far as the eye could see. The landscape was changed into a small, raucous village. Local maids hid for fear of rape, local farmers swallowed their grief as their livestock was slaughtered to feed the vast numbers, both upon Stephen’s command and without it. It had been raining for days, but now the weather cleared. Which was fine with the mercenaries, who were restless and sick of the inclement English weather. Mock jousts were set
up, more maids hunted down, anything to amuse the men.

Mary was glad that they only intended to spend one night. One of the kitchen maids had suffered at the hands of the men, and Mary had seen firsthand their cruel brutality. She had tended the poor weeping girl herself. True, she was no stranger to the proclivities of soldiers fresh from battle, but Henry’s mercenaries were worse than any she had ever so far seen.

Although she was very disturbed by the events of the night before, although she was angry enough to want to ignore Stephen as he now ignored her, she could not hold her tongue. She searched him out in order to protest vehemently about the presence of the undisciplined Normans—and to find out why they were there in the North.

“It is only for this day and this night,” he told her. “Henry could not restrain them even if he wanted to, which he does not.”

“But you do not allow your men to ravage the countryside and rape and maim as they choose,” Mary flared. She glared at her husband, trembling with anger, an anger having far more to it than that induced by the subject they were on.

“My men are not mercenaries,” Stephen said, and then he dismissed her before she could question him any further.

Mary had not anticipated Stephen being able to rectify the situation. She would not protest again, and she would guard her people the best that she could. She ordered the guards in the barbican to allow all locals free entry into the bailey to escape the Norman knights. As she did so, she was very aware of the irony of her actions. Stephen saw her as an outsider, but she had already taken his people and his home to her heart, and genuinely felt it her duty to protect Alnwick and those bound to it. Hopefully her husband would not find out about her efforts on his behalf, and if he did, she did not think him barbaric enough to countermand her.

But what in God’s name was the prince doing there? Although common gossip held that he went to Carlisle to relieve the current garrison there, Mary was terribly afraid that his presence signified far more than that.

And Henry made her nervous. In fact, he made her far more nervous than his marauding troops. She did not trust
him. He had sharp, roving eyes, eyes that searched out far too much, that saw far too much. However, Mary knew better than to be anything other than pleasant to him.

He sat on the dais with her and Stephen and the countess, between her husband and her mother-in-law. Mary was glad that Stephen shielded her from him, at least with his physical bulk. If Henry got too close to her for too long, he would soon discern that something was wrong.

She had hardly slept last night. She had tried to seduce Stephen after he had turned away from her, instinctively knowing that she must quickly recover the territory she had lost that day, territory that had been painstakingly regained in the past week. She could not let their marriage continue this downslide. Yet she had been firmly rebuffed. His blatant rejection, one not even politely disguised, had been the final blow. She had sagged in bed beside him, for the first time in her life bewildered and feeling defeat.

That morning she glimpsed the dark circles beneath her eyes in Isobel’s looking glass. She was a sore sight. And now Henry was here, and his keen gaze had slid over her, covering every inch of her, making her exceedingly uncomfortable. Mary suspected he found her desirable. When he looked at her she suspected his thoughts were shameful. She did not want to guess at them, but because Stephen had initiated her so thoroughly into the many manners of lovemaking, she could guess too well what they might be.

They spoke little at supper. Conversation in general was light. Henry openly stated that he would relieve the troops at Carlisle. Afterwards he planned to return to his holdings in Normandy. She did not particularly care what transpired in Normandy, as long as it did not affect Northumberland or Scotland, but she knew, as did practically everyone, that William Rufus coveted his brother Robert’s Norman duchy and would probably go to war one day to gain it. Would the prince once again go to war for one brother, against the other? And if so, which brother would he support this time?

After dinner there was the usual entertainment, a minstrel, a bard, jongleurs, a clown. Mary excused herself early, frankly pleading fatigue. But instead of going to her bed, she sought a moment of fresh air on the ramparts outside.
In all likelihood the morrow would bring more rain, if the starless night was any indication.

The watchmen murmured polite greetings, then ignored her, leaving her to her own thoughts. Mary had wrapped herself in a fur-lined cloak and she hugged it to her, staring out at the many dying campfires spread out on the moors below. Laughter and song, some of it female, and the sad, slow tune of a gittern, drifted to her. She had no urge to go inside, to go to the chamber she shared with Stephen. She suspected he would stay up late, plotting and planning with Henry now. The two of them got on very well; they seemed to be solid friends. She could not understand why. Henry did have a certain magnetism, but he was ruthless in a way her husband was not, and it frightened her. Like Stephen, he was powerful; unlike Stephen, he was the youngest son, and the Conqueror had given him nothing but immense wealth. Henry had taken for himself what he needed, and today he had power well suited to a prince. Perhaps Stephen’s friendship with Henry was more political than personal. Unfortunately, Mary did not think so.

Mary did not want to think about Stephen. Not if she could avoid it. Instead, she looked out upon the night-blackened moors, the rough landscape illuminated slightly by the many small, glowing fires, and her heart tightened. She realized that she was facing north, facing Scotland, but she was not homesick. She had not been homesick in a very long time.

What has happened to me? she wondered. I love my country, but it is no longer my home. How did that happen, and so swiftly? Alnwick has become my home. Today I wanted to kill the men for hurting my bondswoman—
my
bondswoman. Dear God, perhaps I am becoming an Englishwoman after all.

But would it be so bad? Her destiny was now Northumberland; one day she would be its countess. And she was one-half English, a fact she had ignored for most of her lifetime—her mother was the granddaughter of a Saxon King. Mary’s smile was sad. She had always felt completely Scottish, and she still did, but somehow she had gone further than coming to accept her marriage and her new
home, somehow she had grown sincerely loyal, sincerely fond, of this place and its people. She was even accepted by them all, by the greatest vassal and the lowest serf. No, she thought quickly, with a terrible pang, she was not accepted by them all. She was not accepted by her lord, who still saw her as an outsider and worse—as a vile traitor.

In one instant their marriage had crumbled again. And she had even told him, in so many words, that she loved him. And he had laughed at her, mocked her, in so many words accusing her of lying. Mary wanted to hate him. But she could not.

A hand was laid on her from behind. Mary jumped in fright. Henry smiled at her. “I did not mean to startle you.”

Quickly Mary’s glance slid past him—but her husband was not behind Henry. She and the prince were alone. For an instant the icy fingers of panic curled about her. No, she thought wildly, they were not alone—the two guards were also on the ramparts. She spotted them with relief.

Henry guessed her feelings. “Do not fear, my lady, your reputation is safe. We are chaperoned.” As usual, there was dry mockery in his tone.

Mary managed a smile. “I am not worried, my lord. Why should I be?”

Henry smiled and leaned against the wall, facing her, his eyes intent. Mary tensed, not liking the gleam she saw there. “Imagine my surprise,” he said softly, “taking a moment of air and finding you here.”

It was an unfortunate coincidence, but Mary did not say so. She hugged the fur to her more tightly. “Has Stephen gone to bed?”

“No,” Henry purred, his smile one that had probably set more than a few female hearts pounding, “he is downstairs, contemplating the fire.”

“Perhaps I should go.” If Mary had any doubts before, Henry’s smile chased them all away. He did find her attractive, and his manner was definitely predatory. She did not think herself in any real jeopardy, not here, in her husband’s keep, but she did not like the way he looked at her, and she despised his manner, for it was not just predatory, it was
also amused—he enjoyed toying with her. Mary moved to go past Henry, but he restrained her with one hand, the same confident, amused smile flashing. “Are you afraid of me, Mary?”

“Lady Mary,” she said breathlessly. He had not released her arm. She could not believe it. But she would pretend that nothing untoward was happening. “And no, why should I be?”

“I think you dissemble.” His laughter was pleased. Then it died. He searched her gaze. “You appear to have spent a bad night. Is all well?”

“Of course,” she lied. Again she moved, hoping to discreetly dislodge his grip, but he was unshakable. It was a careful game they were playing. Mary did not want to overtly protest. Right now they were both ensconced in propriety. And Henry knew the game well, knew her fears of ending it well. He pretended politeness, pretended to have a casual hand upon her, when there was nothing casual about his intent. He knew she would not demand he release her, and in so doing, expose the polite exchange as a sham, subjecting them both to open hostility.

“The last time I saw you, Mary, you glowed. Rarely have I seen a woman more beautiful. Clearly marriage—and Stephen—agreed with you.”

Mary could not smile. He spoke in the past tense.

“How tired you now appear. How distraught. Does not Stephen please you anymore?”

Mary could not hold her tongue a moment longer. “What kind of question is that! Of course he pleases me.”

Henry laughed. “I do not mean in bed, my dear. Do not look shocked. I have known Stephen since we were both boys, he six, myself just one year older. We have wenched together on many occasions—I know just what he is capable of.”

Mary made no more pretenses. She yanked her arm free. “How dare you,” she hissed. She knew now, with a combination of fury, horror, and indignation, that Henry had imagined all the ways Stephen made love to her. She felt as if he had actually been in their chamber spying upon them. “How dare you intrude upon us that way!”

“Have I intruded?” He still laughed, his gaze feigned innocence. “How have I intruded, Mary? Because I know Stephen well? Because I know him better even than you in some ways?”

Mary said nothing, boiling.

“Has he forgiven you, Mary? Will he? I do not think so.” Henry still smiled. “You were very foolish, as was he. I cannot believe he allowed you to visit alone with your brother. Do not look surprised. I know every happenstance of import in this realm.”

“You keep a spy here?” Mary gasped.

“All great men keep spies everywhere, Mary; surely you know that. Does not your father keep you here?”

Mary tried to slap him. He caught her arm, and suddenly her cape fell away and she was pressed against the rough stone wall—and Henry’s hard body was pressed against hers. “Release me, this instant. Stephen will kill you.” She did not call out, though. She saw that the guards were on the other side of the ramparts, their backs to them, and thus unaware of what was happening. As Henry obviously knew.

“Or I will kill him.” Henry laughed. Mary was horrified. “But I won’t tell him about our tête-à-tête if you do not.”

Mary stared at his handsome face, at his glittering eyes. She wanted to spit and claw, but he held her too tightly. She knew she would say nothing, because Henry was the King’s brother, and because he was also a fearless knight. She did not want to take the chance of him killing her husband.

“Relax,” Henry said huskily. “You are a beauty, to be sure, but in truth I am only protecting Stephen—and my own interests. I have no intention of raping you, sweet, no matter how I’d like to feel you beneath me. Surely it is your body that keeps Stephen derelict in his duty to himself and his patrimony. I am more than curious, I admit. Now, an invitation is another matter. That, I would accept.” Henry straightened, releasing her.

Mary was still cornered by his body, her back to the wall. She shook, she so badly wanted to strike him. “You will never get an invitation of any kind from me!” Her bravery was a sham. For she was also shaking with fright. Had
the guards been absent, Henry could have raped her in an instant, and she would have been powerless to stop him. She did not put such behavior past him. Not anymore.

“But you are a real woman, beneath that fragile, seemingly innocent facade, I know; I sensed it the moment we met. You cannot do without a man. And Stephen will not suffer your treachery for long. One day you will make a fatal mistake, Mary. Fatal. He will never forgive you, and he will send you away as he should have already done. But do not fear. I will not forget you. Even if you are cloistered, I will not forget you.”