Promise of the Rose (42 page)

Mary did not move. Henry’s confidence and arrogance were frightening. She could not miss the intent behind his words. If she was exiled, as he thought she would soon be, he would be there to ease her distress. Sexually. She shuddered. God help her, but if she was ever sent away, she had not a doubt that Henry would come to her door. “I will never betray him.”

Henry was quiet, regarding her. Then he said, “How strange, I almost believe you.”

“He errs. I have not betrayed him, and I will not. Not ever.”

“No? Perhaps I have judged you wrongly. Perhaps you have yet to betray your husband, my friend. But what if I tell you the real purpose for my visit this night to Alnwick?”

Mary’s heart began to beat with dread. “What real purpose? Surely you seek a bed and a roof over your head—nothing more!”

Henry laughed. “I know you are not so naive! I have already told Stephen, now I shall tell you, news he will undoubtedly keep to himself. Your father, your illustrious sire, is amassing the largest army Scotland has ever seen.”

Mary could not move. She tried to speak, but no words came out. She had to swallow and wet her lips first. “Why?” It was a croak. She already knew.

“To retaliate, of course. More specifically, Malcolm has sworn to bring England to its knees, and his invasion of Northumberland is imminent.”

M
ary fled. She thought that Henry’s soft laughter followed her, but in her shock, she could not be sure. She rushed down the steep, spiral stairs and fell. Fortunately she was at the bottom when she did, and it was only down the last step, but it was enough to make her pause before getting up, panting.

She clutched her abdomen. Dear God, what was she doing? She must take care! She would never forgive herself if she lost her babe through her own lack of caution, her own recklessness. For the child’s sake, she must begin to use restraint.

Mary rose to her feet. Her head pounded, but she forced herself to think. She did not doubt Henry’s words—how she wished she did. But she knew her father. He would never let a transgression go unchecked. She moaned. He had to be stopped! She could only imagine what a full-scale war would do to them all, the Scots, the Normans, Malcolm, Stephen, herself.

“Mary?”

Mary jerked at the sound of her husband’s voice. He stood in the narrow, dark hall, holding up a taper. Mary realized
that she was clinging to the wall, not having moved from the foot of the stairwell where she had fallen. She stared at Stephen as if he were a stranger.

“Are you all right? Did you fall?” Swiftly he came forward.

He was obviously concerned. With a small, glad cry, Mary leapt into his arms. Not only did he care about her a little, she needed him now! She needed him to be her ally in this dark, frightening time, she needed comfort and hope, she needed his strength. To her dismay, Stephen did not hold her. Firmly he set her away, his face grim, as if he did not want to touch her. “Did you fall?” he repeated. “Are you hurt?”

“I am all right,” she said, clenching her fists so she would not reach out to him again. He might be concerned, but he had yet to forgive her anything, and Edward’s visit was obviously still fresh upon his mind. “Is it true? Does Malcolm intend war? Does he plan an invasion of Northumberland even now? Is it imminent?”

Stephen’s eyes narrowed. “And how, dare I ask, did you find out about such things?”

She had been certain Henry spoke the truth, but even so, she cried out in anguish when Stephen’s words confirmed it. Still, she could not miss his bitter sarcasm. “I did not spy!” she shouted. She shook. “Your dear friend Henry told me. Think you on that!”

Mary pushed herself abruptly from the wall and marched past Stephen. He instantly came to life, catching her arm and hustling her forward into their chamber. He released her in order to shut the door. Mary went to the fire to warm herself, putting her back to him, still shaking, with anger, with fearful dread.

She knew Stephen watched her. Finally she turned to meet his stare, which was piercing. “Henry told me,” she repeated. “Even now he is on the ramparts. Ask him if you doubt me.”

“I do not doubt you, not this time,” Stephen said quietly. “Henry thinks himself a puppeteer, pulling the strings of all those around him. But, unlike the puppeteer, he is never quite certain what actions his puppets will take. I think that is where he gains most of his enjoyment.”

“And he is your friend?”

“As much of a friend as one who is not family can be,” Stephen said. “Henry enjoys causing trouble. I imagine he has caused enough this night. Now what? Are you going to weep and shriek and beg me to avoid this encounter?”

“If my father invades your land, you must defend what is yours. Your armies shall meet head-on.” Mary trembled, imagining two gigantic armies rushing at one another, hearing the ringing blows of metal upon metal, hearing the screams of anguish and death.

“Yes.”

Mary suddenly froze. A horrible inkling, a premonition of disaster, of death, struck her. Who? Who would it be? Not Stephen! Please, God, not Stephen. She swallowed and found her voice. “But it does not have to be. It is not yet too late. Malcolm has not yet invaded. Please, Stephen, you must go to him!”

“You would send me into the jaws of the enemy on the eve of war?”

Mary rushed to her husband and gripped his hands. “This war can be avoided!”

He flung them off. “Are you mad? Or do you think me mad?”

“You do not understand!” she cried. Her mind was whirling, her pulse roared in her ears. She would beg if she must, on her hands and her knees, the stakes were so high. The war between her father and her husband must be stopped, she could not bear it. And still she was shaken by the premonition, one she fully believed, it was so strong. Someone was going to die, someone cherished and dear—she knew it, she felt it—but not if this horrible confrontation never took place.

“Oh, well do I understand you, madame,” Stephen said coldly.

Mary jerked. “You do not think I send you into a trap?!”

“Could you be such a treacherous bitch?”

Mary backed up. “No, Stephen, you have not understood me—once again.” Her voice shook. But she comprehended why he thought as he did—because yesterday she had met privately with Edward.

“What fable will you tell me now?”

“You must parley with my father!” she screamed, close to hysteria. “Can you not see that? Words, Stephen, words, might restore a truce—and avert catastrophe!”

“I do not believe that you are so naive, Mary, to truly think to send me to your father to speak of peace. You send me to my death—or to a lifetime of imprisonment. I do not like it.” His last words came out as a low growl. Mary had been holding out her hands in the gesture of one making a plea, and he pushed them away. His eyes were black with fury.

“No,” Mary whispered, stumbling from the shove. “I am sincere.”

“You are sincere? You expect me to believe that you are sincere? You have fought me since we first met, despising everything about me, especially my name and country. You fought our marriage until the end. Not a few days after making your wedding vows, you broke them in a heartbeat.” Stephen’s smile was cold. “And your brother was here yesterday.”

Mary shrank away from Stephen, who loomed over her now, his face etched with tightly reined in fury. “No!” she cried. But she realized how it must seem. Edward’s untimely visit was the coup de grace. Stephen could not think it innocent, not with war brewing, not so soon after Carlisle’s defeat, and not after her supposed treachery. In his mind, Edward’s visit was no mere coincidence, but an event filled with purpose. How her plea did seem like enticement, like a trap. “No, Stephen, you are wrong.”

Stephen straightened. “I am weary of your games, madame,” he said very coldly. “Listen well. Tomorrow I go to war. There is no avoiding it.”

“Stephen, please! This time you must trust me!”

He turned his back on her. A moment later he had left the room. When Mary arose the next morning after a long and sleepless night, he still had not returned. It was many weeks before she saw him again.

   Mary dared not think about where Stephen had slept that night. Instead, she thought about the war soon to sweep the land. Four times Malcolm had invaded England, invading
de Warenne territory, and four times he had been defeated and forced to swear fealty to the English King. Mary saw no reason to believe that this time would be any different, yet this time was so very different. For this time she was on the other side of the Scot border. This time she would not be with her mother at Edinburgh, awaiting word, praying and cheering wholeheartedly for a Scot victory. Any victory would be a tragedy for Mary. Should her father miraculously win, Stephen would lose, and how could she be gladdened by that? Yet if Malcolm lost again, she would also weep. She could not be impervious to the beating Scotland suffered, not ever. There would be a victor in the war to come, but it would not be Mary; she had already lost.

No, she thought resolutely. She had not already lost. Not if she took matters into her own hands.

Perhaps, after all, she had been wrong to ask Stephen to go to Malcolm to plead for peace. Despite the marriage, they were enemies. But what if she, Mary, Malcolm’s own daughter, went in his stead?

Paralyzing excitement swept through Mary. And with it came fear.

It would be the biggest gamble of her life, and she knew it well. Even if Stephen had not left Alnwick already, she could not ask him for his permission. He would not believe her sincere, he would suspect treachery again. Therefore she would have to leave Alnwick without his permission and without his knowledge.

Mary did not want to think about what might happen if she left Alnwick and went to Malcolm but failed to convince him to turn his armies around. It was far too frightening.

This time I must be mad, she managed to think as she planned her escape, for who am I to avert a war between two great houses? But she could not live with herself if she did not try. She yearned for peace as she had never before. Peace in the land, and peace between her and Stephen.

When Mary slid from the bed and dressed, Stephen and all the de Warenne men were gone. Mary had been awakened by their departure that dawn. Once again, it had been obvious that the assembled men were leaving to make war. This time, though, their numbers were few—many men-at-arms
were being left behind. To defend Alnwick? Mary knew that there could be no other explanation. Yet she was disbelieving. Did the earl and Stephen think a siege even remotely possible? Yet they must, to leave the keep well guarded by some twoscore men.

Mary was horrified. Not because of cowardice, but because she was finding it difficult to imagine her father laying siege to the fortress belonging to her husband, especially with his own daughter a resident there.

She must not think of such a dismaying event. Instead, Mary’s quick mind surmised that if Stephen had left so quickly, riders must have been sent out the night before to summon the vassals to war. Which meant that Malcolm’s invasion was imminent, as Henry had said, and that Mary had no time to lose.

Henry had continued on to Carlisle as planned. Now Mary understood his real intentions—which were not to relieve the troops there but to reinforce them and prepare for battle. How could Malcolm really think to beat such an army? Why could he not put his great determination to the cause of peace instead of war?

More foreboding settled over Mary. She turned her thoughts to the task at hand. Mary quickly decided to disguise herself as a peasant boy, boldly leave the keep, and in the village steal a donkey or a horse if she could find one. As a young lad, she would have far less trouble traveling alone. And as soon as it was safe, she would reveal herself and gain both a good horse and a Scottish escort.

Alnwick was in a hive of activity when Mary descended the stairs and entered the Great Hall. It was the kind of activity that heightened Mary’s fears and strengthened her resoive—preparations were madly under way for the event of a siege. So not only had the earl left many valuable knights behind to defend the keep, he had ordered it to prepare itself for the worst. Mary shuddered. As far as she knew, Alnwick was impenetrable. Yet the earl was both a seasoned military commander and a brilliant strategist. Obviously the kind of war that threatened now was on a scale that Mary had never in her lifetime witnessed.

Breathless, knowing she must somehow succeed in deterring Malcolm from his path, Mary hoped to hurry through the hall and outside without being noticed, surely a feat easily accomplished due to the hubbub within. But the countess saw her immediately and hailed her over.

Hiding her reluctance, Mary obeyed the summons.

“I am glad you are up so early; there is much to be done,” Lady Ceidre said, not mincing words. “I will put you in charge of gathering all we shall need for the wounded. If there is a siege, there will be many casualties.” Quickly the countess rattled off a list of supplies to be brought into the keep itself.

Mary listened and nodded, knowing she was not going to compile clean linens and moldy bread or anything else, and feeling like a traitor because of it. Yet if she succeeded in swaying Malcolm, she would not be a traitor—she would be a hero. That thought struck her dumb.