by Brenda Joyce
Stephen was already calling for his horse. He ordered the search to continue within the bailey, although he had little doubt that the clever princess was long gone. He galloped beneath the raised portcullis and down the drawbridge, his steed sending clods of dirt flying from its powerful hooves, a dozen knights behind him—in case they should ride into the midst of Malcolm’s men. Above their heads the banner of the rose proudly waved.
She had outwitted him, not once but numerous times. Grudgingly he had to admit that her efforts were admirable. Her sense of honor was more fitting a man. But did she truly think she could escape Alnwick, escape him? Men cringed to confront his wrath, yet she dared to do worse, she dared to provoke it.
His admiration congealed. She was every bit a royal offspring, for only such bloodlines could explain her peerless pride and boundless bravery. Yet with the surge of admiration, there was apprehension. He could not help but compare her to her father. Malcolm was one of the most wily—and treacherous—men he knew. Stephen did not like the thought that Princess Mary was far more like her father than any man or woman should be. A tingle of foreboding ran down his spine.
Such a premonition was best ignored. For it did not suit his purposes.
Within a few minutes Stephen had overtaken the wagon and its lumbering oxen. The carter pulled up at the sound of his galloping approach, visibly frightened. “My lord, what have I done?”
Stephen ignored him, riding his massive stallion over to the wagon and reaching down for the sack. He yanked it from the cart.
She lay huddled in a ball. Quickly she sat up. The defiance he had come to expect blazed in her eyes, but he also saw misty tears of defeat. Despite himself, the hard edge of his anger lost its knifelike sharpness. For one instant, she appeared a helpless and frightened child. For one instant, he felt a strange softness for her.
In the next instant it was gone. She was no child. He had only to recall her sensuous body and her uncanny nature to know that. This sweet facade was only that—there was nothing innocent or helpless about her. Another tingle of foreboding raced down his spine. Would he have to be on guard with her forever after this day?
“Did you hope to beget a war, demoiselle?” he asked coldly.
Mary stiffened.
Stephen jumped from his horse and lined her from the wagon. She cried out, jerking against his brief embrace. Stephen set her down and apart instantly. Still, the feeling of her flesh lingered. There were many facets to his satisfaction, to the victory he must score. His blood was hot with more than anger.
The driver was screeching now that he knew nothing of this circumstance. Stephen ordered him to return to the keep. With alacrity, the carter obeyed.
The wagon moved away. The knights were mounted behind Stephen in a semicircle; Geoffrey held Stephen’s destrier. One and all were quiet, so quiet that Stephen and Mary might have been alone. The endless moor stretched away from them in a ragged pattern of gray and green. The sky above was darkening rapidly. A hawk circled overhead, and a breeze lifted Stephen’s cloak and the trailing curls of Mary’s blond hair. A vast silence settled upon them.
Stephen stared down his prisoner. With some satisfaction, he saw that she was afraid. Yet despite her creeping tears, she stood straight and so proudly; her nobility was unmistakable. “You should be afraid of me.”
“It was my duty to escape.”
“Of course it was, Princess.”
She started, becoming deathly white.
“The carter did not know I was there,” Mary finally said hoarsely. Her eyes were huge, riveted upon his face.
“You would be wiser to defend yourself, not him,” Stephen said. He smiled, but it was chilling. “Princess?”
She inhaled. “It was my duty to escape—just as it was my duty to deceive you.”
“Was it your duty to give me your maidenhead?” Stephen did not care that all of his men heard him; it was his intention that the whole realm know that Mary had slept in his bed.
Her breasts heaved. She was red. “Far better to lose my virtue than to become your hostage.”
His brow lifted. “You sacrificed your virtue to save your father a ransom?” He was incredulous.
“I know you!” Mary cried, her fists clenched but shaking. “You would cripple him, would you not? You would demand far more than silver—you would demand land!”
He stared. “Indeed I shall demand far more than silver coin.”
“When?” Mary demanded, but a tear trickled down her cheek. “When will you ask this ransom? When will I go home?”
“Malcolm and I must meet.”
Mary nodded, the single fat tear rolling to her chin.
Stephen almost flicked his finger against her smooth skin to wipe away the lonely tear. The urge disturbed him, made him uneasy. It was very clear that she was distraught by her predicament and that she wished to leave him. Last night had not made her yearn for him. Undoubtedly she would reject any effort he made to soothe her. He hesitated, torn. He told himself he must be wary of this child-woman. Finally he said, unsteadily, “You need not cry, mademoiselle. In the end, there will be much to be gained for both of us from this circumstance.”
Mary raised her fist and rubbed her wet cheek, the gesture absurdly childlike, increasing Stephen’s discomfort. “No,” she whispered, “you will gain, not me and mine. For I have failed. I have failed my country, my King.”
He was astounded yet again. “Spoken like a man! A woman is not expected to best a man, mademoiselle. In fact, you have played a man’s game, a game in which you could not possibly understand all of the consequences, a game you could not possibly win. ’Twas most unwise.”
“I understand the game well enough.” Mary raised her chin, her mouth pursed. “I did as I had to do. I am Scotland’s daughter.”
Something in him became fierce. “You are amazing, mademoiselle,” he murmured. And he thought of the son she would give him, shrewd and strong and proud. Then, “Come, let us return, and let us begin again.” He held out his hand.
She glared at him through her tears. She did not give him her hand. “We begin nothing! My father will kill you! And I shall dance on your grave!”
Stephen realized that he still held out his hand. He flushed dully and let his gauntleted arm fall to his side. “Malcom might try, but if I were you, I would do my best to dissuade him, for your father is no longer young, and I am in my prime.”
She lost all her color. “You would cross swords with my father?”
He regretted his words. Not for the first time, he wondered at her love for such a scoundrel. “Only if forced to do so.”
“Jesu,” Mary moaned. “I can see the two of you when you meet to discuss the ransom!” Mary took a step towards him. “Do not kill my father. Please!”
It was only correct that she be loyal to Malcolm, but Stephen was inexplicably angry with her now for that loyalty, especially as she had just rejected him in no uncertain terms. Of course, it did not matter one whit whether she hated him or not; hateful wives abounded in this life. “Perhaps you might use pretty words and pretty manners to convince me? Perhaps you might act as a woman should?”
She blanched. “Knowing who I am—you wish me to warm your bed again?!”
“I did not say that, demoiselle. Perhaps ’tis you who wishes for another encounter like the one last night.”
At first Mary did not respond, but her face was pinched, her eyes huge. “How I wish now that I were more like my sister, Maude,” she whispered.
All the strange sympathy, even mixed-up as it was with anger, fled. “I did not know that Malcolm had another daughter,” Stephen said sharply. Another daughter could change everything. Mary could become a political sacrifice as long as Maude was there to take her place in Malcolm’s plans. Stephen wondered if he dare force Mary to the altar should Malcolm refuse to sanction the alliance.
“She is a novice in the Abbey at Dunfermline. She is very pious, very good.” Mary’s voice trailed off. But she added, �
�Unlike me.”
“Do not berate yourself; it is not becoming,” Stephen said sharply.
But Mary gasped. “Oh, dear Mother of God! How could I have been so thoughtless! They will betroth her to Doug, will they not? And it is me, me, that they will send to a convent!”
“Do you cry for your lover now?” He was furious. There was no mistaking his jealousy. His hands gripped her shoulders, his face came close to hers. “After the night we have passed?”
She shook her head. “No! No! I am not such a hypocrite!” She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, in order to hold back sobs. “To be locked away in a convent, surely I will die!”
Stephen’s hold eased. “You are not going to be locked away in any convent, mademoiselle.”
Suddenly her gaze beseeched his.
“You are going to be my wife,” Stephen said. And he smiled. “My princess bride.”
Chapter 7
“What?!” Mary cried, disbelieving.
“I am going to take you to wife, Mary.”
Mary backed away from him, her eyes wide with horror. “No! Never!”
He stared at her, his face hard with displeasure, his gauntleted fists on his hips. “You have no say in the matter, demoiselle.”
“No, I do not, but Malcolm does!” Mary cried.
“That’s correct. ’Tis a matter for Malcolm and me to decide.”
She was filled with panic, hysteria. “Malcolm will never, never, give me to you. He hates the Normans, he hates Northumberland!”
Stephen was as still as stone. Then he said, after a long pause, “Perhaps when you are calmer, you will be more rational. We can discuss this union at Alnwick.” He turned, dismissing her, but not before she saw how furious he was.
“No!” And fool that she was, Mary ran after him, tripping in her haste, grabbing the hem of his tunic. Stephen stopped abruptly, and Mary careened into him. She did not care. Righting herself, she demanded wildly, “And when he refuses you? Then what? Then what will you do?”
He was clearly making a great effort to control his rage; he was shaking, not touching her. “He will not refuse me, not once he understands you might be carrying my child.”
“I am to marry Doug!”
“I doubt he will wish to have you, demoiselle, in your ravished state.” His anger spilled forth, twisting his features. “No one will have you in your ravished state, unless you wish to be the wife of some impoverished laird, the mistress of a crumbling shack filled with sheep and pigs!”
Mary felt as if he had struck her physically—so awful was the truth. “Then so be it,” she whispered.
He gripped the bodice of her tunic, dragging her close. “You would prefer a life of drudgery to what I offer you? One day you would be the Countess of Northumberland!”
“Never,” she cried into his face. “I will never be your wife, I promise you, for Malcolm will reject your suit. He will! He hates you!”
“Then I shall wed you anyway, chère.”
Mary froze. Then her heart began to work again, pumping in huge and painful bursts. “I hate you!”
“I do not care,” he said, clipped, his face dark. He turned his back on her abruptly. His strides long and hard, he moved towards his horse. He gestured once at Geoffrey, who leaped from his mount and went to Mary, taking a hold of her arm. Mary came to life. She writhed like a crazed vixen caught in a snare, but Geoffrey was unaffected. Stephen leapt upon his stallion. Mary ceased struggling, panting and desperate and out of breath. But she would have the last word.
“You are exactly as they say!” Mary shouted. “You have a care for no one other than yourself, a care for nothing other than your own power! Your ambition is a fearsome thing!”
He whipped his stallion around to face her, so brutally that the beast reared. His jaw was clenched hard, and the skin stretched across it had turned white. He spurred his destrier forward, coming dangerously close to treading over her slippered feet. But Mary did not move, in one of the bravest displays of her life—for she was quaking. Even Geoffrey, who held her tightly, stiffened and pulled her farther back and more closely up against him. The big brown stallion danced, its huge, iron-shod hooves just inches from her toes.
“And my fearsome ambition is to wed with you,” Stephen said harshly, his eyes glittering. “A union that will take place, Princess, regardless of your distaste.”
Mary had nothing left in her, she collapsed back against Geoffrey, her face stark white, her eyes never leaving Stephen’s enraged face.
He yanked on his stallion’s reins, whirling the beast around. He lifted his hand in a terse signal to his men, and a moment later Mary found herself astride Geoffrey’s mount in the midst of the thundering cavalcade, imprisoned once again.
Several hours had passed since her failed escape. Mary had been sent to the women’s solar the moment Stephen had returned her to Alnwick. Despite that confinement, she was well aware that shortly after her recapture on the moors, despite the encroaching night, a group of knights had left the keep, displaying the proud Northumberland banner. Mary had not a single doubt that these men had been sent on a mission that involved her fate.
Had they been sent to Scotland, to Malcolm? Sometime this night, would he be apprised of her whereabouts, and asked to give her in marriage to his age-old enemy?
Was her fate to become Stephen de Warenne’s wife?
Mary shivered again. The night had grown inky black, the wind whining, perhaps in prelude to another storm. It would never happen. Malcolm hated Stephen de Warenne, and ravished or not, he would never agree to the union.
Tears gathered hotly behind her lids. She pressed her cheek against the cool stone wall. Dear Jesus, what if she were already with child?
Mary’s distress increased. She closed her eyes, refusing to cry. She must pray she was not with child, she must not get with child, and she must not entertain an image of herself holding some swarthy newborn babe.
Mary’s heart beat harder. They were in a game much like chess. She must anticipate and forestall his next move. She knew what his next move would be. He would be merciless in his attempt to get his son upon her. If he did, Malcolm might be persuaded to give in to the alliance. Mary did not think her father would allow her to be stigmatized with a bastard child.
Mary hugged herself. Undoubtedly the bastard would visit her tonight, soon, and continue to do so until she became pregnant. Too well she recalled the feel of his unyielding body against hers, within hers. Would she be able to resist his lovemaking now, knowing the ultimate stakes?
Her nerves were stretched so taut, they felt as if they might snap. She felt as if she might snap. The sounds coming from the hall below did not soothe her, far from it. Apparently a group of traveling players had arrived at the keep just before dark and had gained admittance. They had been entertaining the lord and his retainers all evening with their fine voices, their lutes, and their merrymaking. Once or twice Mary had heard the deep nimble of Stephen’s laughter, and it made her furious.
He was not disaffected, oh no. To the contrary, he was well pleased with the turn of events.
Mary stood for a long time beside the parchment-shuttered window, embracing the cool stone wall. The hall below became quiet, and the knot of tension in Mary’s belly grew. Isobel returned to the room. She would not speak with Mary, still angry at being used. Mary was too upset to make an overture to the child. Isobel stripped off her clothes and slid into the bed, taking up all of it when they were to share.
The rain pounded more forcefully. Silence reigned in the keep. Isobel appeared to be sound asleep. Mary made no move to light the dying tapers. She listened to the fast, hard staccato drops of rain, a rhythm not unlike that of her heart. She tried to listen through the drumming beat, for the sound of his footsteps. There was only the rain.
Mary tried to envision her life as the mistress of some small, isolated northern keep, where pigs and sheep ran in the hall, and she imagined attending the holy day feasts, when all the gre
at clans gathered, with her faceless husband at her side, and her heart sank. Pride was a sin, but she was not sure she could lose hers—the thought of such a marriage appalled her. It was far easier to imagine herself as the next Countess of Northumberland. In the next instant, she was appalled with herself.
Mary did not know for how long she stood at the window, consumed with dismay, with fear, with anger. It was all his fault; how she hated him.
Mary heard footsteps. Her body stiffened. She recognized the deceptively soft tread instantly. Her breath seemed to catch. Slowly Mary turned away from the arrow slit and gazed through the darkness at the indistinguishable door.
Too well she recalled the impossible rapture she had attained in his arms. Too well she recalled his every manipulative caress, his every deliberate touch. Too well she recalled the feel of him within her, hot, hard, and huge. She had become weak-kneed.
But he did not come.
Many long, interminable minutes passed. He did not come. He was not coming.
Mary swore that she was not disappointed. She did not move, unable to, not until she had recovered her scattered senses and control of her limbs. Finally she stumbled across the chamber, drained, to creep into the bed she would share with Isobel. She lay on the edge of the bed, the totality of her predicament overwhelming her. Monsters materialized in the night, monsters of loneliness, hopelessness, and fear. Monsters of desire. She rolled up on her side in a ball, pressing her legs tightly together, her fist to her mouth. How could she feel at once a child Isobel’s age, one lost and desperate to find her way home, and at the same time like a worldly wanton capable of dying of desire for a man?
Finally, softly, she sobbed.
Eventually Mary fell asleep in sheer exhaustion, her final thoughts of a shabby single-room keep, filled with pigs and sheep, and although he had no right being there, of her captor, Stephen de Warenne.
“You do not appear to have passed a good night, brother,” Brand remarked as he entered the Great Hall.
Stephen had not passed a good night; sleep had eluded him. He sat not at the long trestle table, but in a chair in front of the hearth. “Why are you not in the chapel with the others?” His tone was sour.