Promise of the Rose

Part One
The Rose
Challenged

Winchester. 1076

A
gain, he could not sleep. He lay upon his pallet, his cheek pressed into the straw, listening to the snores of the knights around him—and the drunken laughter and conversation coming from the solar above.

He had only been in the King’s household for three weeks, but it was not long enough for him to forget home and to cease yearning for the open moors of Northumberland or the cheery warmth of the great hall of Aelfgar.

The little boy shivered, for it was the dead of winter and he was cold. He tried to snuggle more deeply into the straw and the thin wool blanket he had been given. He did not want to think about Aelfgar, for then he would think about his brothers, his parents. How sorely he missed them. If only he could forget his mother as he had last seen her. Lady Ceidre had been waving to him as he rode away amidst the King’s men, her smile brave yet forced, and he could see the tears that streaked her face as she wept without making a sound.

Stephen gulped. Then, as now, the haunting image threatened to unman him.

“Men do not cry,” his father had told him gravely when he had taken him aside earlier on the day that he left for Winchester. “ ’Tis a great honor to foster with the King, Stephen, a great honor, and I know you will do your duty as a man always does, and that you shall make me proud.”

“I promise, my lord,” Stephen said, his heart swelling with determination.

His father smiled and gripped his shoulder, but the smile did not reach his vivid blue eyes, which were inexplicably sad.

But Stephen had not counted on the loneliness. He had not understood what separation from home and family truly meant. He had never dreamed he would yearn so terribly, so secretly, for home. Still, he had yet to give into unmanful tears, and
he would not.
One day he would return to claim his patrimony, a man full grown, a knight with spurs, and his father and his mother would be proud of him.

“Wake up, brat.”

Stephen stiffened. Duncan leaned over him, another boy fostering with the King, a few years older than he himself, and in far graver circumstances. For Duncan was not just fostering with King William, but he was a hostage as well. He was the son of Scotland’s King from his first marriage. In theory Scotland’s King Malcolm would cease his vigilant warfare against England now that King William had his son Duncan well in hand.

Stephen felt sorry for Duncan, but the boy was so nasty that he could not like him. And Duncan, for some reason, seemed to hate him.

Warily Stephen sat up, brushing straw from his cheek.

“The prince wants ye,” Duncan said. “Ha’ ye been crying?” he sneered.

Stephen stiffened. “I’m too old to cry,” he said stiffly, standing. He was six. “What does the prince want?”

“I dinna ken,” Duncan said, but he was smirking, his tone belying his words.

Unease pricked at Stephen, although there was no reason for it. He did not mind being summoned to the prince. Rufus had befriended him shortly after his arrival, and was his only friend amongst all the boys in the King’s household. Being
the youngest and the newest boy, Stephen was either ignored by the other boys, or bullied and teased. Stephen had quickly learned when to fight back and when to retreat. Now, of course, he was perplexed. He had never been summoned by Rufus before, and especially not in the dead of the night. Stephen increased his stride to match Duncan’s as they slipped from the hall and outside.

Stephen wondered where they were going but asked no questions. Before leaving home, he had been warned by his father to watch closely, listen well, and reveal little of what he thought or felt. He had been advised to trust no one but himself. So far, these past few weeks had underscored the value of his father’s advice.

Upon the threshold of the stable, Stephen froze. Rufus was not alone; he was surrounded by a group of his friends, other young men close to the prince’s own age of sixteen years. They were all deeply in their cups. One of the boys was singing a raunchy song. A serving wench was amongst them, and two of the lads each had an arm around her. Her tunic was torn and gaping open, revealing taut nipples and lush breasts. For an instant Stephen stared, then he flushed beet red and looked away as one of the boys fondled her.

The prince was staring at the six-year-old boy. For some unfathomable reason, Stephen’s initial unease soared. Rufus was flushed from drink and his eyes glittered wildly. He crooked a finger, calling softly. “Come here, sweet Stephen.”

Stephen did not move. Not only were the prince’s eyes glittering and overly bright, he had his arm around a younger boy in a very intimate manner. Stephen did not recognize the younger boy, who wore the shabby clothes of a villein. Clearly he was not the son of a great lord sent to foster with the King. Stephen felt a flash of piercing sympathy for the lad as their gazes met.

His father had warned him that there were men at court who liked young boys, and that he must be careful to remain aloof. Stephen had vaguely understood. He had seen lust in most of its forms even if he had not comprehended it. Now there was sudden, startling, frightening comprehension.

But surely he must be mistaken! This was
Rufus.
The King’s son.

The prince approached, having forgotten the young boy. “Good eve, Stephen,” he said, smiling. When he smiled he was quite good-looking, despite his unruly flaming red hair. He threw his arm around Stephen’s small shoulders and pressed him close. “Share my wine. ’Tis uncommonly good, from Burgundy.”