Promise of the Rose

by Brenda Joyce

  She prayed for a speedy end to the war and she prayed for a lasting peace. She prayed for the safe return of her father and her brothers, and a safe return for Stephen.

  She wiped away another tear. She hesitated. It did not seem right to ask God for help with her own problems, not when she had never been devout or obedient before. Yet somehow she saw God as benevolent and understanding, not a deity one bargained one’s good behavior with. She took another breath and made the most important request of all.

  “Dear God, please guide Stephen to see the truth,” she whispered aloud. Then she added, “Please let him love me.”

  Mary remained kneeling for a long moment, blessedly unthinking, suddenly somewhat unburdened and almost relieved. She realized that she was more exhausted than she had ever been in her life. Not moving was welcome. Her body ached from the endless hours she had been in the saddle that day, and her mind was now, finally, numb. Then she saw that her mother was standing. Mary rose also, her muscles protesting the effort.

  Mary had her first good look at her mother. Margaret’s eyes were deeply shadowed as if she had spent many sleepless nights, and they were also dark with worry. Mary gasped, for her mother was not just obviously fatigued, but thinner than she had ever been, and pale enough to make Mary wonder if she had been ill. “Mother.” Mary hugged her. “Have you been sick?”

  “No.” There was a catch to Margaret’s voice. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have been a terrible fool,” Mary confessed. “I tried to convince Father to turn back from this war. And Edward deemed it too dangerous for me to return to Alnwick, so he sent me here instead.”

  Margaret took her hand. “Well, I am glad to see you, dear. This time, alone here with just my women, waiting for word—I cannot bear it.” Margaret’s eyes sparkled with unshed tears, and her hand, in Mary’s, trembled.

  “Mother, what is it?” If her mother had not been ill, then either she was sick now, or terribly distressed.

  Margaret’s mouth quivered slightly. “I cannot shake this feeling I have, a terrible feeling of disaster. I have never been so frightened in all of my life.” She closed her eyes briefly. “I am so afraid for Malcolm and my boys.”

  Mary squeezed Margaret’s hand, but her own heart was beating heavily, and she recognized the feeling roiling within her as dread. Had she not had the same premonition? “They will be fine, Mother,” she said very brightly. “Malcolm is the greatest warrior in this land, he is invincible; surely you know that. And my brothers are all of the same line. Do not fear. You are worrying yourself needlessly.”

  “If only you are right,” Margaret managed listlessly.

  Mary had never seen her mother like this before. Queen Margaret was calm by nature, poised and serene, not a woman to be stricken with anxiety to such excess. Mary had wanted to unburden herself and confess all to her mother, but found she could not do so now. Later, she told herself. When the war is over and Father and the boys are on their way home, then I will have all the time in the world to tell her of my problems.

  Mary smiled at Margaret with forced cheer. “Let us break the night’s fast, Mother. I don’t know about you, but I am famished.”

  Margaret spent the entire day sitting in her chair in the women’s solar by the hearth, her needle moving mechanically over a delicate piece of embroidery, awaiting word of the outcome of the first battle. And when that word came later that evening, amidst a light flurry of snow, it was uplifting—at least for the Scots.

  The Scot army had not made any progress in its effort to retake Carlisle, but that no longer seemed significant. For while the Scots and Normans were brutally engaged in Cumbria, another force, led by Malcolm himself, had slipped around Carlisle and into the western reaches of Northumberland—and then into the heart of the fief itself. Alnwick was now under siege.

  There was great rejoicing in the hall among the servants and women. Except for Margaret, who did not smile even once, whose face remained a mask of fear. And except for Mary, who was so shocked that she could not remain on her feet. She sank shaking into a chair.

  Alnwick was under siege.

  Her very first thought was for Isobel and the countess. Dear God, let them be all right! Mary closed her eyes, stricken with anguish. The countess was a strong, determined woman. If anyone could hold Alnwick together in the face of this attack, she could. Then Mary realized exactly where her loyalty lay. She had no sympathy for the attackers, only for the besieged. Only for the de Warennes.

  And the full implications of what was happening struck Mary fully. Malcolm, her father, had attacked Alnwick—his own daughter’s home. His vengeance knew no bounds.

  But she was no longer his daughter, was she? She had been disowned.

  Mary looked at the messenger, a short, bulky man who, though tired, was too elated to sit down. He was reassuring Margaret that all was well with Malcolm and her sons. Mary turned to him. “Is it possible that they can take Alnwick?”

  The man faced Mary with flashing eyes. “ ’Tis only a matter of time.”

  “But you do not have time. When my husband finds out that his home is threatened—he will ride with his men for Alnwick to rescue it.”

  The man faced her directly, in the stance of one ready to do battle, with his legs braced apart. “But your husband, Lady de Warenne, is currently engaged in a vicious battle, one he cannot easily leave. And unless someone at Alnwick dares to sneak past your father’s army in the hope of sending de Warenne a message begging for rescue, ’twill be a long time before anyone learns of the siege.” He smiled. “ ’Tis as Malcolm planned.”

  Mary was aghast. But the messenger was right. Stephen was in the midst of battle, and no one at Alnwick would have any way of sending him word about their dire straits. If Mary had not been sitting, she would have undoubtedly collapsed.

  How clever Malcolm had been. Mary was furious.

  Then Mary became aware of the silence of the hall. Every single person within was staring at her, except for her mother, who gazed unseeingly at the tire. And each and every person there stared at her with loathing and accusation. Mary surged to her feet and fled the room.

  That night the snow began to fall heavily, the winds howling so loudly that sleep was impossible. Mary listened to the eerie, horrible sound, trying not to dwell upon what was happening to her family and her home. She thought about her mother, so distraught that she was unquestionably ill, she thought about her brothers, fighting in battle, perhaps even a part of the siege itself. She tried not to think about her father, but that was impossible. He had disowned her, he had attacked Alnwick. For an instant, a wave of hatred washed over her, but then it was gone, and she was weak and exhausted and numb.

  Stephen probably had yet to team that she had escaped Alnwick. Mary was hardly relieved. She had made a monumental mistake in fleeing without his permission, she had failed in her mission, and when he learned what she had done, he would be convinced of her treachery. After Edward’s visit to Alnwick, he would think her escape some prearranged scheme; he would think that she had fled from him to his enemy. But the great irony was that in her flight, she had been confronted with the ironclad truth—as much as she loved her kin and country, as much as she loved Scotland, her home was Alnwick, and her loyalty was owed the red rose of Northumberland.

  Mary knew that her very life depended upon convincing Stephen to believe her innocence. And the more time that passed, the more convinced he would be that she had run away from him. Despite his mistrust, she loved him wholly, she belonged to him and she always would, and she wanted to be with him, the way it had been before. If he would exile her, she could not bear it. Too clearly Mary recalled his very explicit threat to do just that. She must return home immediately, yet how could she? How long would this war go on? If Malcolm was successful, she realized with sudden horror, the war would never end. Stephen and his father and the other Normans would fight until they died to avenge the destruction of Alnwick.

  Mary sat uprigh
t and shivered. She must hope for a speedy end to the war, she realized, which meant she must hope for Malcolm’s defeat. After his terrible rejection, she owed him no loyalty, yet she could not find it in her heart to yearn for his downfall. She had been his daughter for too many years.

  Mary listened to the roaring, high-pitched wind. Outside the night was white from the blizzard. Was she insane enough to take a horse and try to return to Alnwick by herself? Did she love Stephen enough to risk her life for him?

  Mary swallowed. She was not a madwoman, to venture out into a snowstorm and risk death. But she did love Stephen enough to risk her life for him, if ever she had to. That time had not yet come; hopefully it never would. But Mary knew now that she could not sit idly by and wait for a truce in order to return home, if ever a truce might come. She would wait for the blizzard to end and for the roads to become passable. If the war had not yet ended, she would set out for home by herself. And nothing and no one would stop her.

  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.”