Promise of the Rose (22 page)

Henry’s interest was immediate. “Malcolm will never marry both of his daughters to Normans.”

“But Malcolm will not live forever. And when he is gone, his realm shall be ripe for the plucking, as shall be his daughter, Maude.”

Henry stared, unsmiling. And Rufus felt a moment of intense regret for offering something so great to his brother—who was sometimes his greatest ally and always his deadliest enemy.

   The Earl of Kent kept a manor on the south side of London on the banks of the Thames. It spoke of the wealth of Kent. It was freshly whitewashed, the great front door mahogany and engraved with the family’s crest. It boasted not one but two Great Halls and many chambers, a luxurious chapel, and separate buildings for the kitchens, buttery, and alehouse. Within, downstairs, the table and benches were of the finest wood, intricately carved, the thronelike chair reserved solely for the earl upholstered in crimson velvet. Upstairs, in the private rooms, exotically designed carpets from Persia covered the floors, and the walls were hung with bright, vivid tapestries.

Roger Beaufort sat negligently in another thronelike chair in his private bedchamber, sipping a fine wine from Normandy. Adele Beaufort paced in front of him, back and forth across one singularly bold red carpet, the fire in the hearth casting her form into long, misshapen shadows. There was nothing restless about her movements; rather, they were volatile and filled with fury.

She stopped, hands on her hips, her beautiful breasts heaving. “Have you nothing to say? Nothing at all?”

“Do not screech,” he said. Despite the fact that he was convinced her misfortune was due to the King’s current annoyance with him—and her misfortune was his—he was enjoying her rage. Rarely did one best Adele.

“God, how I hate you! I am cast aside like some worthless doxy, and you do nothing, nothing!”

He decided to dig the barb in deeper. “There have been a half dozen offers for you since the betrothal was broken a sennight ago. Henry of Ferrars was most persistent. You will not die a spinster, darling.”

“You jest! He is a nobody, a nobody!”

“I do not jest.”

“Whom,” she spat, “whom could he be intending to wed? Whom could he want more than me?
Who is she!”
she screamed.

Roger’s smile was lazy as he eyed his stepsister with interest. “You should not be in here, Adele, and now you shout to bring the household down.”

She stared, panting from her rage, flinging back her long black hair, which was unbound. “You know. You know who it is! You have found out!”

He smiled again, taking another slow sip of wine.

“You bastard!” she cried, and she smacked the wine out of his hand.

It spilled on his crimson hose and the embroidered hem of his velvet tunic. He leapt to his feet, grabbing her wrist and yanking her painfully against him. He slapped her hard across the face.

Adele screamed in fury, struggling to break free. He hit her once more, just to teach her her place. Then he released her. Enraged, she backed away, her bosom heaving heavily. He noticed that her nipples were taut. But then, he was taut, too.

“Who is it!” she demanded, her cheek a fierce pink from the blows.

“ ’Tis Malcolm Canmore’s daughter,” he said, with real satisfaction.

She gasped, stunned. “He weds a King’s daughter?”

“He weds a princess,” he smirked.

Adele made a strangled sound and turned away, shaking, to face the fire. He came up behind her, touching her shoulders, so close that his full groin brushed her buttocks. “Even you cannot rival a princess, dear heart, and they say she is a beauty.”

She wrenched away from him. She said nothing—there was nothing to say.

   Mary rode beside Stephen on a dainty white palfrey, he on his massive brown destrier. Two dozen knights trailed them, and just behind them, one retainer held the Northumberland flag. The crimson rose on the black, white, and gold field waved above them, proclaiming their arrival into Londontown.

Tolling bells from the royal chapel announced their arrival as they rode sedately towards the drawbridge being lowered to accommodate them. At another time, perhaps, Mary might have been interested by the sight of this palace. Begun by the Conqueror—constructed upon an old Roman site, ancient Roman walls actually a part of the fortifications—it was comprised of the whitewashed tower, four stories high, its battlements crenellated, and a large bailey with curtained walls, and the surrounding wharves. Watchmen paced the towers, and archers guarded the walls. The wharf was quiet now, with many barges and smaller vessels placidly at anchor, including some obviously of exotic origin.

Mary saw nothing but the walls and the Tower. Her stomach was in knots. As it had been ever since she had knelt in the chapel at Alnwick and been formally betrothed yesterday.

The betrothal was official. The betrothal had been real. It was no trick. And now she was within moments of entering the Tower. Seeing the immense fortress now, one still not complete, Mary was stricken with the realization that Malcolm could not possibly free her once she was within those unbreachable walls.

Mary began to shake.

The betrothal was official, there had been no rescue from Alnwick or since leaving it, and there would be no rescue now or in the future. To think so, to hope so, was sheer insanity. Dear Lord, there was no trick.

There was no trick. Her father had handed her over to Stephen de Warenne without even a fare-thee-well. She was nothing but a political sacrifice.

The pain began to rise up in her, and Mary had to shut off her thoughts. If she did not, she might very well enter the King’s household in a tearful fit.

They trotted over the drawbridge, beneath the black fangs of the portcullis, and into the bailey. Once inside, they were instantly surrounded by armed knights wearing the King’s colors in a fashion that was far from reassuring. Mary could not move. Stephen slid from his destrier. His strong hands closed around her waist, and his eyes met hers. “Do not fear,” he breathed. “ ’Tis but a show.”

He pulled her down from the palfrey and into his arms. Mary was trembling and panting. The moment she realized that she was in his embrace—and he was Stephen de Warenne, the man she would truly wed, the man her father had coldly given her to—she twisted free abruptly. The many royal knights circled them, cutting them off from Stephen’s own men. “Why have the King’s men surrounded us?” she cried.

In a near panic it blazed through her mind that she would be taken from Stephen, becoming not his wife but the King’s prisoner. As much as she hated being Northumberland’s bride, it was nothing compared to the thought of being torn from him and thrown in the Tower’s dungeons.

Stephen put his arm around her comfortingly, but his face was drawn tightly, his gaze cold and dangerous, belying his gesture and his tone. “ ’Tis a show, Mary, a show for me and for my enemies. You are to be my wife. Rufus knows better than to go back on his word. He would never infuriate my family so—he needs us far too much.”

Mary was not calmed. How could she be? She was surrounded by the enemy,
he
was the enemy, and no matter what Stephen said, she was obviously to be detained. Besides, she did not believe that he had confidence in his own avowals, for he was rigid with tension and anger, too. Mary was overwhelmed. Emotions she was determined to crush threatened to overpower her. She was truly betrothed to Stephen de Warenne; in a matter of weeks, she would be his wife, and in another minute she would enter the Tower as the King’s “guest,” and dear, sweet, merciful Jesus, her
father had not even waited to see if she was with child before handing her over to his greatest enemy!

Mary had to close her eyes and take a breath, feeling faint. She realized that she clutched Stephen’s hand.

It occurred to her that despite the betrayal, he was her anchor in this storm-tossed sea. Furious with herself, with him, with everyone and everything, she wrenched her hand free.

A man detached himself from the dozen knights ringing them, a winsome smile on his bold features. “I have come to greet you. Stephen, in the name of my brother, the King.”

Stephen placed his arm around Mary’s stiff shoulders, turning towards Prince Henry. “I am honored, Henry.”

Henry grinned at him, then focused on Mary. She stared at him as if he had two heads.

She had seen the prince at Abernathy as well, and as he was of the royal household—when it suited him—she knew of him. His reputation as a prolific ladies’ man was renowned. ’Twas said he had sired more than a half dozen bastards already, but the look he gave her now was not quite as lustful as it was intense. Her wits were too scrambled for her to fully decipher it. Regardless, he unnerved her, and she flushed.

“Welcome to the Tower, Princess,” he said amiably.

Mary knew her manners, and as much as she did not like it, she curtsied. Stephen was forced to drop his arm from her shoulders.

Henry put his hands on hers, raising her to her feet. He was slow to remove them. “A real beauty, more beautiful even than Adele Beaufort.” He was amused, imagining she knew not what.

Mary had not forgotten that hated name. She did not actually believe the prince, and found herself wondering if the Essex heiress might even now be within the Court.

Stephen said nothing, but he took Mary’s arm, entwining it with his, the gesture possessive, his hard gaze on the prince.

Henry raised a brow, then laughed. “Do not fear me. Are we not longtime allies? I will not trespass, dear Stephen.”

Stephen’s smile was winter-bare. “Then you have changed since we last met,
mon ami,
for you have enjoyed trespassing upon other men’s properties for as long as I can remember.”

Henry shrugged. “But not without invitation,” he said. “Never without an invitation.”

“There will be no invitation here,” Stephen rejoined without rancor. He spoke as if stating a fact.

“Do you grow soft?” Henry appeared amused once again, and incredulous. When Stephen only smiled, he shrugged. “Come,” he said, with an expansive sweep of one arm, “it is chill and your bride shivers. From the cold, of course.”

“Of course,” Stephen said, molding her arm to his body.

Mary could barely breathe. She sensed a firm friendship between the two men, but she also sensed a strange rivalry. Surely they were not arguing over her! She almost whimpered as her temples began to pound with splitting intensity. She had the unparalleled urge to climb into bed and pull the covers up over her head.

They climbed up the wooden front steps of the keep and entered the second-story hall. Officially it belonged to the Constable of the Tower and was filled to overflowing with ladies in their finest gowns and jewels, with noblemen in brightly colored tunics and hose, and others looking as if they had ridden for many days, so mud-spattered and begrimed were they. Because there were so many within the four walls, it was hot and suffocating. There was no hint of the evening’s air or fall’s advent there. And the noise! Mary would have had to shout to make herself heard to Stephen if she had any desire at all to speak with him, which she did not. He, meanwhile, had to shove his way rudely through the crowd, guiding her across the hall and to the next set of stairs. To her surprise, Henry left them there, giving her another sardonic look along with a courtly bow.

On the landing it was quieter. Mary’s heart began to slow its pounding, so relieved was she for this moment of respite. She massaged her throbbing temples. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“To greet the King, of course.”

Her heart slammed again. Sick dread welled up in her.

On the landing above they encountered a group of descending noblewomen, a flurry of rich silks and bright brocades, heady with perfumes and painted with powders. Stephen politely stepped aside, still gripping Mary’s elbow. The ladies passed them with many covetous looks at her captor and wide-eyed glances at her. One woman paused. She faced them, making Mary’s stomach coil up into even tighter knots of apprehension. The woman ignored her, having sultry eyes only for Stephen. “My lord,” she said, her voice husky and low, and she sank into a deep curtsy.

“There is no need for that, my lady,” Stephen said.

She straightened, barely condescending to notice Mary. She was strikingly beautiful, tall and voluptuous, her hair blacker than midnight, her eyes as dark and beguiling. Mary had not a doubt that this was one of his mistresses, so seductive was she.

“I want to wish you felicitations, my lord,” the temptress said softly.

“That is very generous of you.”

Her lashes swept down, long and black, then she gave him a look, one that scandalized Mary. “I hope we can still be friends.” Her tone was even more promising, and Mary was certain he was intimate with this woman.

Stephen’s mouth curled in what appeared to be a smile: “As you wish, my lady,” he said, bowing abruptly. Then he pulled Mary with him, leaving the woman standing there on the landing.

Mary hated the other woman. The hatred filled her with such force that it left her heart thundering and her lungs breathless. She had understood their wordplay too well! His mistress intended to continue their relations in spite of his marriage to Mary.

“You are shaking anew,” he commented, eyeing her.

“You promised me …” She could not get the word out. And even as she spoke, she knew with her brain that she should not care—but she did. God help her, she did.

His dark, intense gaze locked with hers. “Fidelity? So I have, Mary, and you can rest assured.”

Some of her anger—and her incredible jealousy—dimmed. He might be a treacherous Norman, but Mary thought him a
man of his word. Whatever had been between him and the other woman was now over.

“You must trust me, Mary,” Stephen murmured.

His kind words, intended to soothe, brought forth the overpowering urge to weep. She was seriously overwrought.

They had entered another hall, this one high-ceilinged and vast, far grander than the one below, obviously a part of the royal suite. Here only a dozen men or so, and as many women, waited and were engaged in conversation that was much less animated than that downstairs. Mary’s heart pumped fiercely now. She tried to convince herself that she had no real cause for fear.