Promise of the Rose (6 page)

Mary took a calming breath, praying that Stephen de Warenne would not notice her. But he suddenly turned to face her. Mary ignored him, hoping her sudden excitement did not show, walking to the woods. She was well aware that a knight trailed after her, obviously instructed to guard her. Her spirits dimmed somewhat, but not her determination. Mary disappeared behind a tree and some bushes to tend to some pressing needs. In the process she tore off a piece of her fine silk chemise, worn beneath both peasant tunics, one well laundered and bone white. Her hands were shaking so badly that it took several attempts to tie the bright piece of fabric to a branch of the tree. When she had succeeded, she tore off several additional strips, stuffing them up her sleeves. She hurried around the bushes to where the knight
stood, his back to her. Her hopes soared. Surely one of the Scots searching for her would find the flag she had left!

The knight escorted her back to the camp and her captor. The Norman was in conversation with the man who had captured her yesterday.

“Liddel?” Will was saying. “It should not be a problem, Stephen; after all, by tonight everyone will be well crocked from the wedding feast. I can find out what you want, my lord.” He flashed him a cocky smile.

Stephen smacked his shoulder. “Godspeed.” He smiled at Mary. “Is there a message you wish to give someone? Your beloved, perhaps?”

Mary was frozen, but only for an instant. “Do you have eyes on the back of your head like some misshapen monster?”

He was amused. “Did you really think to eavesdrop? If you wish to know my intentions, you need only ask, mademoiselle.”

“Why is he going to Liddel?”

“Do you have something to hide?”

“Of course not.”

“Then you have nothing to fear.”

He was toying with her, testing her, and she was justifiably anxious. “Why are you doing this?”

His amusement faded. “Because I cannot help myself.”

They stared at each other. His gaze was briefly penetrable, and Mary saw dark desire and even darker determination. He exerted a magnetism upon her that she was powerless against. She shuddered with a sudden foreboding she dared not comprehend. It was far safer to ignore whatever had passed between them, to pretend it did not exist, had never existed.

He broke the spell he had so effectively cast. “Come, we are leaving; you shall ride with me.”

Mary did not move.

He dropped the hand he had extended. “Is something wrong, Mairi?”

“I wish to ride with anyone else but you.”

He planted himself in front of her and stared down at her. “But I am not giving you a choice, mademoiselle.”
He smiled slightly. “Besides, riding with me will be very entertaining.”

She understood the innuendo and could feel her face flame, but at least his frankness was something she could deal with. “You are so typically cocksure.”

He laughed. “Did I hear that remark from a lady’s lips?”

“I do not care what you think of me,” she gritted. “Where is your damn horse?”

He pointed, laughing again, his teeth flashing white.

Mary marched to the big brown destrier, his laughter echoing in her mind. She resolved to outwit him no matter what the cost, and when she did, she would fling her triumph in his face. Then she would be the one laughing.

Stephen lifted her into the saddle effortlessly, then swung up behind her with the grace of a much smaller man. Mary tried to ignore the feel of his body. She gripped the pommel tightly. It was going to be a very long day; of that she had no doubt.

They traveled northeast at a rapid trot, away from Carlisle, through rocky, rolling hills. September had swept much rain across the countryside, and the land was green and verdant. It was clear to Mary that he was intent on reaching Alnwick that day. Obviously whatever mission the Normans had been about had been accomplished. She brooded upon the possibilities. She was determined to learn what the Normans had been doing in the vicinity of Carlisle and Liddel.

And every hour that passed, Mary let a piece of her chemise slip from her sleeve and flutter to the ground.

Their pace did not let up until they stopped to water the horses at noon. By then they were surrounded by the harsh Northumbrian moors and an endless gray sky. Occasionally gulls wheeled above them. Mary thankfully slid to the ground, drained from having to endure the intimacy of sharing a saddle with her captor for so many endless hours. She thought that it was as close to hell as she might ever come.

No one was paying any attention to her. Around her the knights spoke in low tones, their mounts drinking deeply. Mary edged closer to a single gaunt tree. She sat down with
a show of fatigue, and let slip another piece of chemise. When the knights had remounted and reassembled a few minutes later, she got to her feet and ambled back to the group. Stephen de Warenne rode his great destrier slowly towards her.

“Enjoying the scenery, demoiselle?”

She glared. “What is there to enjoy in this scene? Nothing surrounds me but ugliness.”

“Spoken like a true Scot.” His gaze pierced her. “Are you a true Scot, Mairi?”

She stilled. Was he the devil—and a reader of minds? Or had he guessed her identity? Her mother. Queen Margaret, was English. Margaret’s brother was Edgar Aethling, a great nephew of the Saxon King Edward the Confessor, and he had been heir to the throne of England before the Conquest. When Duke William the Bastard invaded England, Margaret’s widowed mother had fled to Scotland with her children, seeking refuge, afraid for her son’s life. Malcolm was smitten with Margaret at first sight, and when his first wife, Ingeborg, died, he married her almost immediately.

“I am a Scot through and through,” Mary said, meaning it.

“You do not speak like a Scot—except when you choose to. Your English is flawless, better even than mine.”

Of course her English was flawless, not just because her mother was English. Over the years Malcolm had anglicized his court in deference to his wife. “Perhaps Normans are too stupid and dim-witted to learn to speak English well.”

His jaw tightened. “Perhaps this Norman has been dim-witted, indeed.” He slid from his horse, giving her an enigmatic look. Mary did not like his words or his tone. She froze when, instead of lifting her into the saddle, he walked right past her.

He walked directly to the misshapen tree where she had been sitting. Mary’s heart skipped. He stooped and retrieved her piece of chemise. His strides were hard as he returned to her, clenching the silky fabric in his fist. “What a clever little minx you are.”

Mary stepped back.

His hand shot out, jerking her forward. “If you are so eager to shed your clothing, demoiselle, you need only say so.”

Mary could not summon up a suitable response, especially not in the face of his fury.

“For how long have you been leaving these signs, demoiselle?
For how long
?”

“Y
ou’re hurting me!” Mary cried.

Stephen instantly released her. Mary backed away from him, nibbing her arms. “Did you really think you could take me prisoner without a fight?”

Stephen was regretting hurting her, but her words made him itch to shake her again. This child-woman was determined to fight
him?
“For how long?”

“Since this morning.”

Stephen was incredulous, stunned by her wit, her audacity, and her bravery. “I have greatly misjudged you,” he said harshly. Then he shouted. “Neale!”

The older man was at his side instantly. “My lord?”

Stephen did not remove his furious gaze from his captive. “This shrewd little minx has made fools of us all. She has been leaving a trail. Alert the men; we may have pursuit.”

Neale wheeled his destrier.

Stephen reached out and pulled Mary closer as she began to sidle away. Her body stiffened at the contact; he had to drag her with him. “Just whom were you alerting, demoiselle? Your lover? Your father?”

“Yes!” she cried. “Yes, yes, yes! And soon, so very soon, you shall be skewered by my father’s sword, Norman, for he is the greatest warrior in all of Scotland!”

Stephen halted. “Is he, indeed? Then surely I must know of him.”

She set her mouth mulishly.

“Your father is not this Sinclair of Dounreay as you so prettily insist, is he, demoiselle? Such an insignificant man would never attack me, and we both know it. So who are you expecting, Mairi? Is that even your name?”

She said nothing.

Very angry, he propelled her roughly towards his mount. Mary stumbled, then had to skip to keep ahead of him and out of his reach. Stephen did not care. He abruptly caught her, and heaved her into the saddle as if she were a sack of grain. He leapt onto the destrier behind her, signaling his men. The cavalcade rode off at a fast canter.

Mary closed her eyes, giving in to a moment’s despair. She should not be distraught, she knew that; she should be elated. She had outfoxed the Norman with her trail of scraps. But she did not feel like gloating; she felt something close to terror. The bastard heir was enraged. Every instinct Mary had told her that there would be hell to pay for her small victory.

They rode harder now. Mary found herself frequently looking over her shoulder, hoping for a glimpse of her kinsmen upon the horizon. She saw nothing, and as every mile passed, her hopes sank a little bit more.

Where, oh where, was her father?

Now they climbed a long, gradual rise, and when at the summit, Stephen abruptly drew his mount to a halt, clamping her to his powerful, mailed body. His words quelled any protest she might have made.

“You have lost, mademoiselle,” he stated. “For we are here. Look. Alnwick.”

Dread rushed over her and she was heedless of how harshly she gripped his thick forearm, cutting her fingertips on his chain mail. They had arrived—and she was lost. Ahead lay Alnwick—ahead lay her prison.

The sun was setting. Partly obscured by gloom, Alnwick’s stone walls appeared dark and unbreachable. The fortress lay on a huge natural motte with impenetrable man-made ditches surrounding it. The thick brown outer walls of the bailey were interspersed with watchtowers, tall and imposing; beyond them, the taller, crenellated tower of the keep could be seen, drenched in fading apricot-hued sunlight. Mary felt an acute dismay.

If she failed to escape—and escape was unlikely—and if she was not set free or ransomed, she would have little hope of ever seeing home and kin again, because no attack could be sustained for long against such a place as this, not even an attack by Malcolm.

They rode across a drawbridge and through a raised portcullis into the outer bailey, saluted by a dozen armed guards. There were a dozen buildings within—stables for the horses, shops for the keep’s craftsmen, quarters for excess knights, and pantries and supply sheds. People were everywhere—women with hens underarm for the cook pot, children herding pigs, carpenters working with their apprentices, farriers and grooms and horses, servants and bondsmen. An oxcart laden with barrels of wine had entered ahead of them; other carts were being unloaded near the wooden stairs at the entrance to the keep. The noise was deafening. Amidst the human cacophony was the barking of hounds, the squawking of hens, the whinnies of horses, the ringing of the smith’s anvil, and the banging of the carpenter’s hammer. There was scolding and laughter, terse shouted commands. Mary had never been inside such a large fortification before—it was larger than most Scottish villages and larger even than her home, the royal fortress at Edinburgh.

They reached the steps at the front of the keep, and the Norman easily swung her to the ground. Mary stumbled a little, her legs stiff from the day’s long ride. Stephen slipped to his feet beside her and began to guide her firmly to the stairs. Mary jerked her arm free. “Do not fear. There is obviously nowhere for me to run even if I wished to.”

“I am glad you have the sense to think so.”

“You would not be so pleased if you knew what I
really
think.”

“To the contrary, I would be very pleased if I knew your innermost thoughts.”

Mary looked away, goose bumps creeping up her arms. She feared his tenacity would be greater than hers.

They entered on the second floor into the Great Hall. Two large trestle tables dominated the room, at right angles to each other—one elevated and empty, where the earl would sit with his family, no doubt. A number of household knights and men-at-arms sat at the lower tables, partaking of a supper repast, served by kitchen wenches quick to evade the more amorous men and overseen by the keep’s chamberlain. Other retainers gambled, drank, and diced. Beautiful, vivid tapestries hung from all the walls, and a fire curled in a massive stone fireplace. Fresh rushes, sweetly scented with herbs, covered the floors. Mary realized with surprise that there was not a single hound in the place. Two large, carved, cushioned chairs sat in front of the hearth, identical to the two at the head of the elevated table. For a moment Mary froze, thinking the Earl of Northumberland was in residence as she spotted the back of a golden head in one of those chairs.

But it was a young man only a year or two older than herself who sat there alone. He rose to his feet with unusual grace when they entered and strolled towards them. He was golden-haired, blue-eyed, and very handsome, his fair skin tinged faintly golden from an excess of summer sun. “Greetings, brother,” the handsome man said. But his dark blue gaze was centered wholely on Mary. The slow smile he finally gave her was devastating.