Promise of the Rose (46 page)

When Mary finally dozed, her decision made, she felt better, even hopeful. Yet when she awoke the next day, she doubted whether she might be able to leave anytime soon. The snow had stopped, as had the maddening winds, but outside the world was blanketed six feet deep in white.
More importantly, Margaret’s maid told Mary that her mother had passed another completely sleepless night. She had gone to the chapel at midnight for matins, and had stayed there until dawn. She only broke the fast with a few sips of water and two bites of bread. By now Mary knew that her mother had barely eaten or slept in a fortnight, not since Malcolm had left Edinburgh. It had become clear that the Queen was haunted by her own terrible demons. And nothing Mary did or said could convince her to eat or sleep. Mary contemplated drugging her in order to get her to rest.

The second day was endless. While Margaret again took up her place before the hearth, sewing, Mary could do nothing but pace. It made the other waiting women crazy, she knew, but they dared not say anything to her. The morning dragged into noon. No one could eat. Dusk slipped upon them. Still no word came. The heavy snow had obviously delayed news of the second day of fighting. The night sky became black, starkly dark against the pale and ice-encrusted loch below the fortress. Word came that another messenger had arrived.

“Bid him enter,” Margaret said. She was as starkly white as the snow on the trees outside. She had spoken so low, one could barely hear her.

Mary instinctively moved to her mother’s side. She put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She was growing very afraid. She should have forced Margaret to eat something at nooning.

The messenger entered, shaking the wet snow from his mantle. He was a young man, his boots covered with frozen mud, one arm bandaged, the linens black with blood. He was unsmiling and gray with exhaustion. Mary took one look at his face and went absolutely still. It was clear to her that the Scots had suffered a terrible loss that day.

“The King is dead,” he said.

Mary knew she had misheard him. She opened her mourn to protest—surely she could not have construed him correctly.

“Malcolm is dead,” the youth said, and this time his words were choked on a sob.

“No,” Mary began, disbelieving. “This cannot—”

Mary’s words were cut off. A loud thump sounded. Mary started and turned to see Margaret upon the floor. Her eyes were closed, her face lifeless and as pale as death. “Mother!”

All the women rushed to the Queen. Mary took her mother’s face in her hands and felt the faint flutter of her breath; she pressed her ear to her breast and heard the faint but steady heartbeat. Tears of relief gathered quickly. She looked up. “Bring ice-cold rags so I can revive her. Hurry! She has only fainted from the shock!”

As several maids fled to obey, Mary tried to revive her mother gently. She shook her and spoke to her, but she could not bring her to consciousness. Mary grew desperate. She was too aware of Margaret’s strange state of mind and her poor state of health. All her relief vanished. Margaret was too vulnerable in her condition. Finally Mary struck her across the face. Margaret’s eyes flew open.

“Thank God!” Mary cried.

Margaret looked at her daughter, her own eyes filling with tears. The tears poured down her cheeks in a steady stream. Her lids drifted down while the tears poured and she curled up into a ball. She did not make a sound.

Mary gathered her mother into her arms, white with fright, rocking her as she wept silently. “Bring me wine and valerian,” Mary said with a calm she did not feel. “And send for two men; we must get the Queen to her bed.”

   One or two hours later, Mary could not be sure exactly, Margaret opened her eyes. She looked directly at Mary. “I knew it,” she said hoarsely. Her words were barely audible.

Mary had been so worried about her mother that she had not had time to dwell upon the news of her father’s death. Now she grasped her mother’s hands firmly, leaning urgently over her as she lay in her bed. “Mother, you must be strong. You must eat some of this gruel Jeanne made. Please.”

“I must pray,” Margaret said. “Help me up. I must pray for your father’s soul.”

Mary realized that her mother intended to go to the chapel.
“No, Mother,” she said firmly. “Father Joseph will come here. He is downstairs.”

Margaret sank back upon the pillows, her eyes closing, her lips moving in silent prayer. Mary rushed to the door, outside of which all of Margaret’s ladies waited. Each and every one of them loved their Queen dearly, as did everyone who knew Margaret, and they were all now somber and pale with anxiety. At Mary’s bidding, Lady Matilda rushed downstairs to fetch the priest.

Mary returned to her mother’s bedside, sinking down onto her knees. She refused to think about Malcolm’s death at the hands of her husband’s army. She could not. She must not. She had to take care of her mother. She turned off her thoughts with an iron will.

The priest entered the room. He, too, was a lifelong friend—and mentor—of the Queen’s. Mary rose as Father Joseph rushed forward. Margaret opened her eyes. “Did he have the last rites?”

Mary saw the grim truth in the priest’s eyes as he lied to Margaret in order to ease her distress.

While Margaret prayed silently with the priest, Mary slipped from the chamber. Outside she leaned against the wall. Her mother’s women surrounded her, bombarding her with whispered questions.

Mary pushed away from them, knowing their concern was genuine, that each and every one of them was deathly afraid for their Queen, but she did not answer a single question. She did not know the answers. Somehow she ran downstairs.

The youth who had brought them news of Malcolm’s death was in the Great Hall at the table, eating ravenously. Mary sank down on the bench beside him. The sight of food nauseated her. “How can it be true?” she managed huskily. “How can Malcolm be dead?”

The youth shoved his trencher aside. His blue eyes filled with tears. “His army was attacked from behind. Then, he got cut off from his men. It should have never happened.” The messenger looked away from her.

Mary grabbed his arm with a strength she had not known she still possessed.
“Which army?”

“Northumberland’s.”

Mary felt dizzy; the table swam in front of her. Had Stephen led the attack that killed Malcolm? Had he?

“Princess,” the messenger said hoarsely, “there is more.”

Mary rubbed her eyes, hoping it would help her vision to clear. The table righted itself, but her whole world had become blurry. “No,” she said, “there cannot be more.”

He wet his lips. “Edward was wounded.”

“No!” Mary gripped the table to keep from reeling, to keep from falling. “He’s not…”

“ ’Tis bad. But he was alive when I left.”

“He will live,” Mary said with certainty. She closed her eyes, dizzy now with relief. “No damn Norman can kill Ed,” she whispered. She fought the sudden fit of trembling. She could not give in to any hysteria now. “And … Alnwick?”

“We have been pushed back to Cumbria. The tide has turned. We are almost back where we started,” the boy said grimly. “The battle still rages over Carlisle. And now, without Malcolm, without Edward …”

Mary closed her eyes. “Edmund is a great warrior. And the other leaders …”

“The chiefs all fight among themselves, Princess; ’twas only Malcolm who was strong enough to keep them united.” The boy hesitated. “Not all of the men trust Edmund.”

Mary could not respond to that. Her brother’s character was not the best. But with Ed wounded and Malcolm dead … Instantly she shut off her thoughts. She would not think about her father, she would not. Instead, she would pray for Ed.

And she must not think about Stephen either, not now, not when his men had killed her father and wounded her brother—she must not.

   “Mother, please, drink some of this. It is your own special brew,” Mary pleaded.

Margaret did not respond to her, and it was as if she did not even hear her. Since Father Joseph had left many hours ago, Margaret had fallen into a sleeplike state. She could not be roused; thus it was no ordinary sleep. If Mary had not been able to discern that she was still breathing, albeit very faintly, she would think her to be dead.

Mary was beside herself. She had not slept in days, and she dared not leave her mother, not now, not when it seemed as if Margaret was dying before her very eyes. Mary was resolved. She would not let her die. She could not. But what could she do?

She took her mother’s icy hands in hers and wanned them briskly. A sharp knock at the door was an instant relief, diverting her attention. Mary froze when Edgar walked into the room. She had last seen him three nights ago, just before the first battle outside of Carlisle.

He was unrecognizable. Edgar was pale and exhausted, dark circles ringing his eyes; he appeared a wasted man of middle years, not a merry lad of seventeen. His glance passed quickly over Mary and skidded to halt on their mother. “I do not understand this,” he said in a hoarse voice. “They told me below that she is at death’s door.”

Mary rose to her feet, her knees stiff and aching terribly from the long hours she had spent kneeling at her mother’s side. Indeed, her entire body ached and hurt, but that was nothing compared to the pain in her chest. “She did not take the news of Malcolm’s death well,” Mary said unsteadily. Edgar’s appearance threatened to unravel her precious emotional control. She took a deep, calming, breath. “When I arrived here I found her in a frightful state. She hadn’t eaten or slept in days, she had worried herself sick. It seems,” she said, and her voice cracked, “that she had a premonition of Malcolm’s death.”

Tears glazed Edgar’s eyes. “He died a warrior’s death. He died the way he wanted to die, the way all men hope to die, in the midst of battle, proudly, bravely.”

Mary shuddered. Quickly she crossed her arms and hugged herself. She must not think about Malcolm now, she must not. Tomorrow, when Margaret was better, why, then she could allow herself to grieve.

Edgar interrupted her thoughts. “Edward is dead.”

Mary cried out.

Edgar moved quickly, crossing the small chamber and taking her into his arms. Mary screwed her eyes closed tight. Hot tears gathered against her lids, exerting pressure, but she refused to open them and release the flood.
Edward,
not Edward, her oldest brother, her dear friend, her hero!
She did not believe it, she would not!

Edgar spoke into her ear, one of his hands stroking her back. Edgar—who had never embraced her or openly shown his love for her in any tender way. Edgar, who yesterday had been a boy of seventeen, and who today had become a man of fifty. “The wound was mortal. He lost too much blood. He died in his sleep, thank God for that, without pain.”

Edward was dead.
“I cannot,” Mary began in a hoarse voice.

Suddenly Edgar pushed away from Mary. “Your husband is at their head,” he spat.

Mary straightened.

“He is the invincible one! He has pushed far into our ranks, alone and repeatedly, exposing himself to our men again and again—yet no one can approach him without falling victim to his sword. He strikes down all in his path. They say he is possessed; either that, or he is Death himself.” Suddenly Edgar fought for some degree of calm and gained it.

Mary was rigid, unmoving. Somehow Stephen had learned of her escape. She had not one doubt. Stephen was not possessed by the Devil, merely possessed by an inhuman rage. And she was chilled with fear.

Edgar jerked on her arm. “He has sworn to beat a path of destruction to your door, Mary. He released one of the prisoners to convey that message to us. His exact words are that he wants you back, not in spite of your treachery—but because of it.”

Mary began to tremble. “He wishes to punish me,” she whispered.

“I imagine he wishes to kill you,” Edgar said. “I glimpsed his face at Alnwick, and even I was struck with terror.”

Mary whimpered. She had seen Stephen in a red rage. Could he hate her now so much that he wished to kill her? Could he wish her dead?

   Two days later, Margaret was dead.

Mary was numb, shocked, exhausted. She realized that she still knelt beside her mother’s body, holding her stiff
hands. How long had she been kneeling in such a manner? She forced her body to obey her mind, and she managed to rise awkwardly and painfully to her feet.

The sound of anguished wailing, a sound that had begun some time ago, reverberated within the chamber. It was the way of the Scottish people to grieve loudly and openly and without restraint. Mary listened to Margaret’s women, just outside the door, keening hysterically, she listened to the men and women in the hall below, also wailing and weeping, and to those gathered outside in the bailey. The rending communal wailing wafted over her again and again, until the pain of it finally began to pierce through some of Mary’s shock.

She felt a huge bubble gathering itself inside her breast, welling and welling, robbing her of air. She choked on it.

Dead. Mary choked aloud.
Dead.
God, the word was so final. She looked at Margaret, as serene in death as she had been in life.
Dead!
It did not seem possible.
Not Margaret, not Mother!

Mary wanted to keen, too, she wanted to scream and wail and rip her hair, as the women in the hall outside were doing. But she did not. She must hold her grief at bay just a little longer. She had her brothers to think about now. They would need her to see them through this terrible time of loss.

Mary suddenly gasped. “Mother, I love you so much!” It did not seem possible. Margaret was dead! Margaret, her dear mother, was dead, Malcolm was dead, and Edward was dead! It was unfair! She could not bear it, she could not!

She turned blindly in a circle, needing comfort when none was to be found. She finally pressed her cheek to the rough stone wall, clutching it, embracing it. And she began to weep.

She wept and wept, then she beat the walls until her hands were bloody, screaming her grief. She hated him then, for his part in their deaths—in their murders. She hated her husband. They were all dead, Malcolm, Margaret, Edward, and it was forever—she would never see them again.