by Brenda Joyce
“I follow your example.” Brand grinned, coming to stand in front of him. He leaned one hip against the wall. “Besides, this morning I must return to London, as you know.”
“Say nothing about the princess,” Stephen instructed. “Later, if Rufus questions you, you can defend yourself by saying that you left before we learned of her identity.”
Brand nodded, grim. “It will be best for me to remain aloof. You send Geoffrey to Father, then, with the news of the princess’s capture?”
“Aye. He will travel with you.” Stephen dropped his head in his hands. Today he was physically tired, a very different feeling from the weariness he so often felt in his soul. But that weariness seemed to have grown overnight, as well.
He sighed. “Be careful,” he told his brother. Because Brand was one of the King’s household knights, it was important for him to remain loyal to his king—without jeopardizing Northumberland’s interests. He walked a treacherous tightrope—as all loyal men did. Thus he would have Brand pretend ignorance of what had passed these last few days. Geoffrey would inform their father of Mary’s capture, and Rolfe would proceed as he thought best.
“Do not worry,” Brand said, his wry facade gone. “Father will undoubtedly agree that marriage to the princess is far better for you than marriage to the Essex heiress. And if anyone can persuade the King, he can.”
“I have little worry on that score, although Rufus can be most difficult.” Stephen responded, his lips thinning as he thought about the King.
“What is wrong, Stephen?” Brand asked quietly, his blue eyes somber.
Stephen met his youngest brother’s gaze. “She will drive me to insanity,” he said just as softly.
“I thought so.” Brand smiled then, patting his arm. “Have no fear. In no time at all you will have her in your bed—as often as you choose.”
“That is only the half of it,” Stephen muttered. “Did you notice how she hates me?”
“She does not hate you in bed, I daresay.”
“For some reason, that thought hardly eases me.”
“She will come to accept you with her mind as well. She will have no choice.”
“But her sense of honor is a man’s! Never have I heard a woman speak as she has—she thinks she has failed her King!”
“I heard,” Brand admitted. “ ’Tis most unusual, I admit.”
A shadow passed across Stephen’s face. “I am tired of fighting secret battles, brother. I am sick to death of intrigue. Last night it struck me—I choose to wed not a helpmeet, but a hate-filled enemy.”
“When she makes her vows, Stephen, that will change.”
“Will it?” he asked. “Or will she forever be a viper in our midst?”
“Would you change your mind?” Brand asked quietly.
Stephen threw back his head with a harsh, bitter sound. “Oh, no! I value the peace she might one day bring far more than the wealth of Adele Beaufort’s dowry. But God’s blood, Brand, I am tired.”
Brand’s gaze was sympathetic. “You are father’s heir,” he said at last. “ ’Tis your duty to do what you must do, and marrying the Scot princess is the greatest alliance you can make for Northumberland.” He left unspoken the chastisement—that being tired or sore of heart had little to do with duty.
“I know well that you are right,” Stephen said at last. But his smile was feeble and flitting. He had not voiced his darkest fears. That if Mary clung to her sense of duty, she would forever be his unwilling wife. Too well he recalled what it was like to be at the mercy of powerful men and unkind circumstance—too well he recalled being powerless and a prisoner.
Mary awoke after the sunrise. Isobel was gone, undoubtedly rousing early in order to attend the morning mass in the family chapel with the rest of the household. Mary felt a twinge of guilt. She needed God’s help, and it would not do her any good to miss any more masses.
She could not abide another moment in the chamber. She could not abide being alone with the kind of thoughts she had entertained last night. Mary had slept in her clothes, and now she performed her ablutions as quickly as possible, using a pitcher of water left for that purpose, and brushed out her hair. As she prepared to descend the stairs, she heard many voices below, as the family and retainers entered the hall to break the night’s fast.
Mary lifted her chin, her eyes flashing. Some sleep had done her a world of good. It would be good, too, to face her captor, even to be challenged. It would be far better than remaining alone in the chamber, dwelling upon a dark and dreary future, or the bloody war that would decide her fate.
Mary slipped from the room and down the stairs. Her captor was not yet at the table, although many vassals were. He stood in front of the hearth, a fireplace so oversized that its mantel was level with his chin. Upon hearing her, he abruptly turned, his dark gaze pinning her to the wall. She paused, unable not to stare back. Tension throbbed in her.
He stalked towards her. He wore tightly fitting black hose and calf-high boots with spurs, a dark brown cote, and a black surcote over that. Both tunics had small embroidered bands in black and gold at the hem, sleeves, and throat. While his clothing was made of finely woven, expensive wool, it was exceedingly plain. His belt was thick, heavy, black leather, the gold buckle studded with a few precious stones his only adornment. She had realized for some time that he cared little about his appearance. Yet his garments did not detract from it; to the contrary. One was aware not of the clothes, but only of the man.
He paused in front of her. “Good day, mademoiselle. I am relieved that you have decided to join us for the break-fast.”
“I do not like confinement,” Mary said tersely.
“No one likes confinement.” He took her arm. Mary stepped away from contact with him and walked with him towards the table. “You were not confined. Why did you refuse to come downstairs last night to sup?”
Mary tensed. He was displeased, but subduing it beneath a veneer of civility. “I haven’t been hungry, Norman, and can you blame me?”
He stared. For a long moment he did not speak. “I see a night of rest has hardly thwarted your spirit.”
“Did you think a single night might make me change my mind?”
“I had hoped you would see the inevitability of our union.”
“There is nothing inevitable about it!” Mary snapped.
He had paused. “Are you certain?”
Mary felt her cheeks sting. His gaze had slid over her, quite frankly undressing her. He had taken her arm, and his large, warm hand closed over her wrist firmly. The air between them throbbed.
“No man, or woman, can defy fate,” Stephen said softly.
Mary twisted once, sharply, to free herself, but failed. “You are not my fate. How arrogant you are to think yourself my fate!”
He just stared at her, his gaze dark and enigmatic, probing hers too deeply. Mary had to look away, flushing furiously. “If you think,” she said low when she could finally speak, “that my capitulation to you in bed is an indication of fate, then you have gone mad!”
“I think, perhaps, that you have forgotten what it is like to be beneath me,” he said slowly, watching her face.
Mary was scandalized. Especially as she had hardly forgotten his prowess in bed—or her own behavior with him. This time she succeeded in jerking free of his grasp. “That you speak to me in such a manner—”
“I speak the truth. I have not forgotten the feel of you, Mary, nor the taste,” he said, his tone low and intimate.
Mary could not move. She was stricken with a recollection of his mouth nibbling at her thighs—perilously close to the juncture there.
He smiled. “Soon I will remind you of your fate with far more than words,” he promised her.
Mary had forgotten to breathe. She gulped in air. She wondered what had kept him from taking her to his bed last night. It made no sense.
“Come,” he said, his tone seductive. “Enough bickering.” Mary forced herself out of her daze. This time
she allowed him to lead her to the table and was seated on the dais as his guest of honor.
“Surely prisoners eat below the salts,” she finally said in a feeble attempt to antagonize him.
“You are not just royalty, but soon to be my bride, and to be treated accordingly,” Stephen said calmly. He pulled a loaf of warm white bread forward, and a trencher of cold meat left over from the night before.
Mary barely saw the food or what he was doing. Geoffrey had taken the seat on her other side, hemming her in. Although she did not physically touch the Norman, she felt the heat of his hose-clad thigh against hers. “I have told you, my father will never give me to you,” she said hoarsely. “He loves me too much to sacrifice me to you.”
He gave her a long, thoughtful look. “Does he, indeed?”
Mary tensed. From his tone, she gathered that Stephen doubted her words, and she was angry. “He does! So mark what I have said, Norman, least you later forget who is right now and who is wrong.”
His eyes gleamed. Mary realized that she had leaned into him in her rage. Immediately she pulled away. Mary recognized the brilliance in his eyes. It had nothing to do with anger, it was carnal. Why had he failed to come to her last night?
“Do you still think to best me?” He had a dagger in hand, one long and lethal and not meant for eating, and with a motion too fast for her to follow, he had sliced the bread. A moment later he skewered it and held a piece out to her.
“If only that were possible,” Mary said, her gaze flitting from his knife to his face. How could such a big man move with such grace? Was she the mad one, to even think of fighting him?
“You will not best me, demoiselle, you shall only weary us both. Needlessly. Come, take what I offer.”
Mary looked from his well-shaped lips, pursed ever so slightly, to the slice of bread held aloft in the air on the tip of his knife. She refused to accept the bread. Just as she refused to accept him. But sweet Mother of God, he frightened her, for he was so powerful that she could not really imagine him not succeeding in anything he chose to do. And now, now he was choosing to wed her.
But Malcom was powerful, too. Mary shuddered, thinking of the meeting that must soon take place between the two of them, a hostile meeting that in all probability would degenerate into violence. And then what would happen to her?
“I will marry you anyway, chère,” he had said.
Mary was seized with a sudden hopelessness. “Could you not content yourself with a ransom?” she heard herself plead.
Stephen did not immediately respond. He was holding the knife to her again, now offering her a morsel of cold pheasant. Mary’s gaze flashed to his. He was treating her as he might his betrothed, his bride, or his wife. Worse than his disconcerting chivalry was the intensity she sensed behind it. That same intensity was mirrored in his dark eyes. How would she ever outwit him when he could so easily scramble her wits?
Stephen sighed, tossing the pheasant aside. “No. I will not. I cannot.”
Mary stared. His words hung between them. She felt their significance, but was afraid to understand it. Surely he did not care for her in some small way? And for just an instant, Mary dared succumb to illicit dreams.
She shook herself free of the moment of insanity. “You will start a war.”
Stephen moved the knife to her lips. Mary’s words died. Its point was long and sharp. Before she quite knew how he had accomplished it, the pheasant was in her mouth and she was chewing it, and he had not even cut her. He skewered a piece of cold lamb. “I have no intention of starting a war,” he murmured. “Long have I worked for this peace.”
Mary sputtered with disbelief.
Stephen’s eyes darkened. “What is so amusing, demoiselle?”
“As if you do not know!” She almost crowed. “You—a de Warenne—interested in peace. You must truly think me a mad fool.”
He stared at her. “What do you think interests me? Other than your sweet body?”
Mary flushed. He was dangerously annoyed. “Why do you ask me to say what the whole world knows?”
“Speak.” His smile flashed, unpleasantly. His knife also flashed, tossing the lamb to the hounds. They fell upon the small piece, snarling. “What does the whole world know of Stephen de Warenne? What do you know?”
Mary trembled. “I know of your ambition,” she finally flung, unable to resist temptation.
His eyes grew black. “Ah, yes, my fearsome ambition.”
“ ’Tis fearsome! For it rules all that you do. I know that peace is your last concern, and that if you could, you would put your son upon my father’s throne!”
Stephen sent his dagger into the table at the same time that he lunged to his feet. The blade quivered, the hall fell silent. Mary blanched but held her ground. For years Malcolm had accused Northumberland of coveting even more of Scotland than what they already had. She had only spoken the truth.
“Our son,” Stephen said, his eyes glittering. “’Twould not be my son—’twould be our son.”
Mary could only wet her dry lips.
“You are not as clever as you think you are, demoiselle,” he said, towering over her. “I do not want your wretched land, filled as it is with dozens of warring clans. I want only peace.”
Mary pursed her mouth tightly shut, wisely refraining from ridicule.
“But I do not care what you think, not now, and not later, when you are my wife.”
Mary managed not to cringe beneath his furious glare. He strode from the dais, calling for his steward. Mary watched as the man came running. A moment later Stephen had whirled from the hall.
Mary trembled then, slumping now that he was gone. Whatever had possessed her to accuse him so? She did not doubt his ambition, but to fling it in his face was an invitation to disaster.
“You will go far with a pretty smile, Princess, and winning ways, but to enrage him so is surely folly.”
Mary’s gaze flew to Geoffrey’s.
“Why do you seek to push him to his limit?” the archdeacon asked. He was not smiling—his look was very somber—but he was not unkind.
Mary stared at him. “In truth, I do not know.”
“Perhaps you should consider the fact that Stephen never fails in what he is determined to achieve. That you are going to become his wife, because he has never been more determined. You are no fool, Princess, so knowing this, why do you not cease sowing the seeds of discord?”
Mary looked at Stephen’s dagger, where it stood upright, its lethal blade buried in the table nearly to the hilt. Most women would realize the folly of defiance and the inevitability of the marriage and act accordingly. But she was not most women. “How can I?” she whispered, finally meeting Geoffrey’s intense blue gaze. “When I know my father—my King—demands such loyalty?”
Geoffrey’s mouth narrowed.
An alarm sounded, interrupting them both.
Mary started. Geoffrey, Brand, and the many retainers in the hall instantly broke into action. Mary had recognized the blast of the horn as one of danger and warning. Now it was followed by the frantic ringing of the chapel’s bell. “To the walls,” Brand shouted to the men.
The men raced from the hall. Mary did not move. Isobel was being herded by her two ladies and her nurse into the solar, where they would undoubtedly wait out the crisis as ladies should. Isobel balked. “I want to go with my brothers!” she shouted. “I’m old enough—I want to know what’s happening!”
“You will come with me this instant, young lady,” her nurse, Edith, cried, boxing her ears sharply.
Mary made an instant decision. She raced across the hall, ignoring the cries of the ladies behind her. She chased after the men.
Her skirts raised to her knees, she flew across the bailey with the speed of a deer. She reached the bailey walls as Stephen and his brothers began to rush up the steps to the watchtower. Mary flew after them.
There was too much chaos for her appearance to have yet been remarked. But Stephen suddenly whirled upon t
he steep stairs, as if alerted to her presence. Instantly he saw her and his gaze widened with shock.
Mary did not stop her headlong flight.
“Jesu! Gerard, take the princess into the keep, now, and see that she remains there!” Stephen bellowed. And then he disappeared from view.
Strong hands caught Mary from behind, lifting her off of her feet. Mary screamed, struggling wildly. She was carried back across the courtyard and into the hall and then to the solar, where the ladies had all assembled. Abruptly she was deposited back down on the floor.
Mary stumbled, furious. One look at this knight’s annoyed, set expression told her her cause was lost. Panting, she turned to face the assembled women. One and all, even Isobel, were staring at her in shock.
“ ’Tis Malcolm,” Mary cried. “ ’Tis Malcolm Canmore, King of Scotland, come for me at last!”
Chapter 8
If Malcolm Canmore had not been flying the white flag, Stephen would have never left the impenetrable safety of Alnwick with the knights he had on hand, so little did he trust the man. As he rode through the barbican at the head of his men, the banner of the rose flying above them, excitement gripped him. He had been waiting for this moment ever since he had learned the truth about Mary and decided to make her his wife.
He must proceed with care. So much was at stake. He must convince Malcolm to give him his daughter for a bride. Finally peace was a distant glimmer upon the horizon—one until now red with blood—and nothing must stop him from attaining it.
Malcolm’s appearance was no surprise. Stephen had been expecting the Scot King, and his men had been prepared for the worst. Behind Stephen, two dozen of his best knights were fully armored and fully armed, and behind them, the walls of Alnwick were heavily manned with crossbowmen who could easily launch an onslaught against the Scot army if it dared any trickery. Geoffrey and Brand rode beside him.
Malcolm Canmore waited for him on the other side of the moat, at the head of a huge army that numbered several hundred. Only a third of their number was mounted; the rest was on foot, but all were battle-ready with sword, axes, and arrows. As Stephen rode across the bridge, his men behind him, Malcolm and three men separated themselves from their army and rode slowly forward to meet him.