Promise of the Rose (24 page)

He slowly rose to his feet. His own fists were tightly clenched. With an effort, he relaxed them. “I am sorry you lay the entire blame for this affair at my feet,” he said stiffly. “But perhaps you are right. For I do want to wed you—and I will, no matter how you hate me.”

Mary choked on a sound of raw despair.

He was grinding his jaw from the tension. His chest ached. Without looking back, he swung open the door and disappeared into the hall.

   As soon as he was gone, Mary collapsed on the bed. She realized she could not cry anymore. The pain throbbed on in her. She wanted to beat the bed, claw the sheets, claw herself. She wanted to rave against the injustice of it all. In that moment, she felt like a madwoman, caught in the horror of a madness that defied reality.

Many minutes dragged by, minutes in which she grew calmer and saner, minutes in which she grew unthinking and numb. Gradually a feeling of unease stole over her. Mary felt eyes upon her. Cold, hateful, intent eyes. She realized that she was being watched.

She jerked, for the woman who stood in the shadows of the open doorway, observing her with real pleasure, gloating over her distress, was the very last person Mary wished to see. It was the too beautiful black-haired woman who had confronted Stephen so intimately just an hour ago; it was his Norman mistress.

They stared at each other.

The other woman’s gaze swept over Mary with no small amount of contempt. “Do not tell me you are sharing this room!”

Mary drew herself up straight, chin lifted. She was very aware of her vulnerability, of having been caught by this woman, Stephen’s beautiful, voluptuous ex-mistress, off guard and in a moment of extreme weakness. “I am indeed,” she said quietly, trying not to show her dismay.

The woman entered the room, sauntering around it—and around Mary. “So—they force you to wed Stephen.”

“It appears that you know who I am,” Mary said tersely, unsmiling. She stood up. “But you have yet to introduce yourself.”

The woman smiled, not prettily. “I am Lady Beaufort,” she said. “Adele Beaufort. The woman Stephen was to wed.”

Mary could not contain her shock. She had assumed, so wrongly, that this woman was his mistress. She was not his leman, she was one of England’s greatest heiresses. Mary’s dismay increased. She had assumed Adele to be his consort because her actions—and Stephen’s—had indicated that they were intimate with each other. Knowing that, and knowing now that Adele was a noblewoman and a great heiress, somehow deflated Mary. She told herself that it did not matter, for Mary far outranked her, and regardless, they were not rivals. But Mary felt as if they were rivals—as if they were great and bitter rivals.

“He only marries you because of the alliance you bring him,” Adele said with narrowed eyes. She had closed the door; now she smoothed a hand over her stunning turquoise gown, over her voluptuous hip. Her stance was provocative, and Mary knew she flaunted her curves deliberately in the face of Mary’s own slender, boyish body.

“Just as he intended to marry you for your wealth,” she retorted. But her tone was weak. This woman was ripe in the way all men preferred, and Mary could recall too well Stephen’s words to the King just a few minutes ago. Perhaps the King had even been referring to Adele Beaufort when he had said Stephen had always liked fleshy women. Of
course, she did not care. She hated him for all that he had done.

“For my wealth, yes, and for so much more,” Adele said in husky tones.

Mary could imagine them in a torrid embrace, and found herself hating this woman again. How could that be? As Adele had said, she was being forced to wed Stephen, and he had not just insulted her but failed to defend her in public, and worse, far worse, she despised him for destroying her relationship with her father, for destroying her life.

Yet in spite of all happenstance, Mary began recalling intimate moments shared by her and Stephen, moments of sublime, uncontrollable passion. Had he touched Adele as he had her?

Adele stepped forward until they stood facing each other. She dwarfed Mary, although Mary was not cowed by her giant size. “I can help you.”

Mary started.

Abruptly Adele turned and went to the door, flung it open, and peered out into the corridor. No one spied upon them. She shut the door and leaned against it. Her eyes were brilliant, like onyx drenched by the sun. “I can help you,” she said again, her voice low and terse.

“I do not understand,” Mary said slowly, but in truth her mind had raced far ahead, and incredulously, she began to comprehend where Adele Beaufort would lead. But surely—she did not dare follow!

“You do not wish to wed him.”

Mary nodded, her gaze locked with the other woman’s.

Slowly Adele smiled the smile of a temptress. “Do you wish to escape?”

Mary hesitated. Two competing images flashed before her eyes: her father’s face, at once hate-filled, and Stephen’s, seductive with promise. She shook herself free of the snare. “Yes.”

“Then I will arrange it.”

   Stephen left Mary in the chamber she was to share and walked downstairs. He refused to make eye contact with anyone, not wanting to be drawn into a conversation. He
desperately needed some fresh air. He desperately needed to think.

“Stephen!”

His brother’s voice brought him to a halt. Stephen turned and saw Geoffrey crossing the Great Hall, apparently just having left the King’s chambers. As he came closer, Stephen saw that his jaw was clenched so tightly, a muscle ticked just above it.

Geoffrey drew abreast of him. “I heard you had arrived with the princess,” he said.

Stephen did not want to talk about Mary, not now, not after she had revealed the extent of her feelings for him. “Yes.”

“Where do you go?”

“Anywhere but here. Perhaps for a ride. Do you wish to join me?”

Geoffrey’s laugh was short and hard and angry. “Like yourself, I have no wish to linger here!” But as Stephen made to go, he gripped his arm, halting him. “You have left someone to guard her?”

There was no question of whom he spoke. Stephen flushed. It was not like him to be so thoughtless. “No.”

Geoffrey’s voice was an urgent whisper. “Your marriage is the talk of the Tower. Many are displeased. Many are afraid. Especially Beaufort, Montgomery, and Duncan. You can not leave her here alone and unguarded. I have not a doubt that one of the parties will seek to end the alliance—and what easier way than to harm Mary?”

Stephen was furious with himself. “Or kill her,” he said grimly. “God’s blood, she has upset me so, I was running out without a thought to her welfare—and I know well of what you speak. I did not come with her to court for my amusement, Geoff.”

“Come.” Geoffrey took his arm. “I saw Brand downstairs when I came in; he can take over guard duty until you send someone else.”

They went down the narrow stairs and found Brand waiting in the hall below with several other household knights, whiling away the time as he was wont to do when he was not off in the countryside squelching rebellions and in other
ways fighting for his King. His face brightened when he saw them, then sobered when Stephen made his request.

“Have no fear,” he assured his oldest brother. “I will stand outside her door until you return. In truth, I hate loitering at court—I much prefer battle.”

Stephen and Geoffrey left the keep. “He is still young,” Stephen commented. “In a few years he will find war tiresome.”

Geoffrey’s face darkened. “It seems my battles have just begun.”

They paused in the open space in front of the keep, ignoring servants, knights, and courtiers coming and going around them. “What has passed?”

“Rufus demanded my presence here, as you know—then once I arrived, he failed to summon me for three entire days.” Geoffrey’s blue eyes flashed with hard sapphire brilliance. “He enjoys toying with his subjects, he enjoys abusing his power!”

“Did you meet with him at last?”

“I have just left him.” Geoffrey faced Stephen, intense. “He spent half an hour ranting to me about Archbishop Anselm. It appears, now that Rufus has recovered from his brush with death, that they have had an abrupt falling out. I suspected Anselm of being a zealot, and his actions this week have proved my suspicions correct.”

“Dare I ask what they fight over?”

Geoffrey barked with mirthless laughter. “They argue over a minor part in the ordination ceremony, a part the King demands to be his right, which, of course, the Church is claiming.”

“And after he finished raving about Anselm?”

“As I anticipated, he wanted to know exactly how many knights the see owes the Crown.”

“Did he say why?”

“No, but he hinted that he would be demanding his vassals shortly.” Geoffrey grimaced, his gaze piercing. “Rufus has told me that, should Anselm refuse to field the knights, he expects me to do so.”

Stephen stared as the immensity of his brother’s predicament dawned upon him. Finally he said, “Tell me, Geoff.
Whom would you defy? Your archbishop or your King?”

Geoffrey turned his blazing blue eyes towards the distant horizon, as if seeking the answer from God. “I do not know.”

Stephen was silent, commiserating with his brother, whose battles were as great and as endless as his own.

Geoffrey hesitated. “Stephen, he cannot be thinking of going to Normandy now.”

Stephen started. A very alien feeling of dread swept through him, chilling him to the bone.

“His relations with his brother Robert are peaceable at this moment. I have a feeling, brother, that despite your marriage to the Scot princess, Rufus intends treachery. I think he still might invade Carlisle.” Geoffrey clapped his hand upon his shoulder. “Should he do so, it will not be easy for you and Mary, I know,” he said with sympathy.

Stephen could not speak. His brother’s words were a vast understatement. Should Rufus summon his vassals to invade Carlisle, Stephen would be summoned, too. Already Mary hated him. Already his marriage had little chance in hell of being more than a truce seething with hostility. If England invaded Carlisle, any chance they might have for happiness would surely disintegrate with the first sword blow.

   Mary knew that she must not be a coward. Rufus’s open scorn had taken her by surprise. Now that she knew how he felt about her, and having had time to think about it, she guessed it had to do with his dislike for her father and his preference for boys. Now she was prepared, and she would not appear the dimwit this time.

Stephen arrived in order to escort her down to a late supper. They barely exchanged civilities. Just before they arrived on the landing below, some of Mary’s courage evaporated. She could hear loud masculine voices raised in drunken conversation and rough laughter, and every tale she had ever heard about the decadence of Rufus’s Court came swiftly to mind. Drinking and debauchery ruled the day. Mary was aware of feeling terribly alone.

She did not realize that she had paused. She jumped slightly when Stephen placed his hand upon her waist. Briefly she met his searching gaze, then quickly looked away. She wondered what he would do if he knew of her plan to escape with the help of Adele Beaufort.

Perhaps a hundred lords and ladies were present at the table, dining with their King. Already the table was heavily laden with food and drink, and behind the diners, clowns caroused and a minstrel sang. Stephen guided her past the low end of the table, towards the dais where King Rufus sat.

Rufus had been laughing; now his smile died and he stared. Not at her, but at Stephen. Mary felt compelled to glance up at Stephen’s face. It was bland, impossible to read.

“Come, come, sit with me!” Rufus cried with a smile. “We have yet to finish our discussion, dear Stephen.”

They took their seats, as guests of honor, upon the dais. The King was on Mary’s left. Mary so hated him that she was rigid with tension, although she knew she must disguise her emotions. The last thing she should do was anger the King of England while a virtual prisoner in his keep.

Stephen sat upon her other side. He had said nothing to her since escorting her to the meal, and now he began to respond to the King’s amiable questions. He sat uncomfortably close to her—their thighs pressed from knee to hip. Mary wanted nothing to do with him, but the table was overcrowded and there would be no relief from Stephen’s proximity until the meal had ended.

Mary became aware of the many avid and curious glances directed her way. She was on display.

Her cheeks grew hot. She was no guest of honor, and everyone knew it, she thought bitterly. She was a prisoner and a heathen Scot. The Norman lords and ladies were staring at her as if she had scales and breathed fire.

Then Mary noticed Adele Beaufort. She sat just below the dais, ignoring Mary, although frequently she cast her sultry gaze upon Stephen. Reminded of their plan, the details of which had yet to be formed, Mary grew uncomfortable, for if all went well, Adele would one day become Stephen’s wife.

The Essex heiress sat between two men Mary recalled from earlier that day. They had been present in the King’s private chamber when she had suffered through the humiliating interview. One of the men was tall and auburn-haired, and for some reason, he seemed strangely familiar to Mary, but she was certain they had never met.

Still Stephen did not speak to her. The King was expounding upon some difficulties he was having in Kent. Mary did not listen. Mary could hardly care. Stephen, while attentive to Rufus, was offering her his wine.

Mary could not drink. How she wished to be anywhere but there, how she wished the meal were over.

“Does my brother’s court not please you, Princess?”

Mary’s attention was diverted to Prince Henry, who sat on Rufus’s other side. He smiled at her. He reminded her of a lazing wolf, one that would soon spring upon its hapless victim. “Of course it pleases me, Sir Prince,” Mary said, somehow smiling. “How could it not? I mean, I am here with my
beloved,
and we are honored by his
great
King. Indeed, I am overwhelmed.” Her tone was mostly innocent, but her eyes sparked.

Prince Henry stared at her, no longer smiling. He guessed at her sarcasm, which Mary intended for him to do. Unfortunately, Stephen had not been as engrossed in conversation with the King as she had thought, and he had heard her, too. For him, her facetious meaning was crystal-clear. Now he placed a warning hand upon hers. In turn, Mary gave him cow eyes and a brittle smile.