Promise of the Rose (25 page)

“And what do you think of London?” Henry asked, slouching now. But his gaze was sharp.

“Such a big city, how could I not be impressed? Indeed, you Normans are most impressive. Your deeds inspire awe.
All
of them.” Mary could not stop herself. “After all, it takes great courage for you Normans to force a captive Scotswoman to the altar—does it not?”

Stephen froze—as had Henry. Mary trembled, for she had succeeded in infuriating Stephen, although Henry was amused.

“I imagine courage has little to do with it.” Henry’s lids lowered. When they lifted, he was smiling again, and Mary
found herself tensing. “Do you not want to meet your dear brother, Princess?” he drawled.

“My brother?” In an instant he had shattered her composure.

“Pardon me, what a slip of the tongue! Your half brother,
my
brother’s dear friend, Duncan,” Henry laughed, gesturing towards the auburn-haired man who sat beside Adele, the man who had somehow seemed so familiar to her.

Mary started. Of course Duncan was here at court, for he had come here as a child hostage almost twenty years ago! He was her father’s eldest child, from his first marriage. In fact, he was close to the same age as Rufus and had undoubtedly grown up with him, which would explain how they had come to be such friends. And if they were such friends, it would explain why he had been one of the three courtiers closeted in such intimacy with the King that afternoon. Excitement rushed over Mary. She was no longer alone.

Duncan slowly stood, bowing slightly. “At long last,” he said, “we meet. I am overcome with this event, sister.”

Now Mary recognized him. His coloring was their father’s, as were his eyes. Although his words and tone were somewhat wry, his smile was warm. Mary smiled back. She had a real ally here at court, one real ally among so many enemies, her nearly forgotten half brother.

“Come, sister,” he said, holding out his hands and walking to the dais. “A kiss between long-lost siblings.”

   He watched her.

Mary had been given the seat of honor on the dais directly beside the King, and Stephen de Warenne sat on her other side. Unlike that afternoon, when she had appeared bedraggled from the long ride, today she wore her finery in a blatant display of royalty and riches. The gold surcote with teal embroidery at the hem and sleeves set off her complexion in a dazzling manner, while a heavily bejeweled gold girdle and a circlet winking with sapphires proclaimed her status and wealth. Today there was no mistaking her for anyone other than a princess.

He watched her. She appeared to hate her groom, to hate her sojourn there in the Tower. She could not hide her displeasure, and Stephen de Warenne was hardly pleased. Her wit was obvious, as was her foolhardy courage. Yes, she was Malcolm’s daughter, in manner but not in appearance. There she was every bit Queen Margaret’s.

Rufus had called her boyish. She was small but hardly boyish; no woman so beautiful could be considered boyish. He doubted that her groom thought of her that way.

He looked at Stephen de Warenne. All evening de Warenne had listened to the King, speaking when it was necessary. He had not smiled even once. But Rufus did not care. He was animated as never before; his spirits had never been higher. And he was hardly drunk.

Stephen de Warenne met his gaze. Duncan looked away, feeling a frisson of fear. He had always disliked de Warenne. They had known each other for many years; although a decade separated them in age, they knew each other too well. Duncan had always been jealous of de Warenne’s manhood. Now, watching him in the seat that Duncan usually took upon the dais, he was more than jealous. He felt threatened. He told himself that Stephen de Warenne would not remain for long at Court, but he was not soothed.

Far from it. Three weeks remained until the nuptials, and three weeks was a dangerously long time.

Duncan was also peeved on another score. De Warenne had never tried to hide the contempt he felt for Duncan. To this day, Duncan did not know if that contempt was based upon the fact that he shared Rufus’s sexual preferences, or his political conniving. He had always suspected that de Warenne knew the truth about him—that he always did what he had to do in order to further his far-flung ambitions.

Now the fear de Warenne raised in him increased his ire. How Duncan despised him. But he did not hate him as much as he hated de Warenne’s bride, for Mary was his own flesh and blood.

Duncan could not help but turn his gaze onto Mary again. She had grown up in the bosom of their family, as he should have. He could not look at her without thinking of their father, whom he despised more than he despised anyone.
The illustrious Malcolm Canmore. The heroic Scot King. The father who had given over his eldest son as a hostage to William the Conqueror for his own good behavior—then proceeded to violate his oath again and again, careless of how he endangered his son. The fact that Duncan survived was due solely to his own shrewdness, even as a boy.

Malcolm’s days of glory were numbered. He was old and one day soon, Duncan hoped, he would underestimate one of his enemies and succumb to a fatal blow. Then the throne of Scotland would be ripe for the plucking, and Duncan intended to be the one who plucked it.

Duncan would not let anyone stand in his way, certainly not his sister and her husband. While Northumberland had always remained loyal to the Crown, while it had always been instrumental in crushing rebellions, Northumberland had never before been allied to its enemy, Scotland. Duncan was shrewd enough to glimpse possibilities that boded ill for his ambitions. Northumberland might remain firm in its support for William Rufus—and thus for him—but what if it did not? The frightening ambition of the de Warennes was well known. What if they chose to support Malcolm’s choice of successor, his eldest, Edward, or attempted to thrust one of their own upon the throne? Mary’s unborn son had as much a claim to Scotland as anyone.

There was no question that this marriage was going to take place in three weeks time. Unless, of course, there was an accident…

S
tephen wandered among the stalls and vendors at Cheap-side. Repeatedly he was waylaid by the merchants, all of whom recognized a wealthy lord and prospective buyer when they saw one.

Several days had passed since he and Mary had arrived at Court, but little had changed. She made no secret of her hostility to him, their marriage, and the King. His sympathy for her distress had long since evaporated; his annoyance threatened to bloom into full-fledged anger. What woman refused to resign herself to her fate? Only Mary could be so bold and so determined.

Their union was still the talk of the Tower. Now speculation ran rampant. Stephen knew the lords and ladies of the Court expected him to bring Mary to heel, and soon, even if it meant beating her soundly for her defiance. They were beginning to snicker about his unwieldy relationship with his bride.

Stephen had no intention of beating her. No matter how much trepidation she raised within him, her astounding sense of honor was admirable. If ever he might come to own her loyalty, he would be a very lucky man, indeed.

But he did not fool himself with misplaced hope. He thought it unlikely that he would ever see that day.

And for a bare moment, he was bitter. A woman like Mary could so ease his life. Why did the image of Mary with her arms outstretched, a smile on her face, awaiting him on the steps of Alnwick, continue to haunt him?

He told himself that he was becoming a soft and weak fool. He was a battle-hardened knight; one day he would be a ranking earl, one of the greatest lords in the realm. He had relied on himself since he was six; he could rely on himself until he was sixty. If his wife refused to give him succor, he should not even dwell on the lack thereof.

He did not want to become softhearted. In this world, only the strong survived. It did no good to crave her in such a manner. He had not thought about Adele Beaufort so foolishly when they had been betrothed. Indeed, he had not thought about her at all, just about her dowry.

Nor had Adele Beaufort created the kind of lust he was constantly afflicted with. Mary’s mere presence seemed to generate a heavy pulse between his legs. It was no easy thing. But tonight, and tomorrow, and for many days to come, even now, he would continue to ignore it.

He could look forward to one thing. Once married, his wife might be of little comfort to him outside of bed, but within it, she exceeded his wildest expectations.

No, he would not beat her. As he would tame a wild falcon, he would woo her with gentleness. Today he would buy her a gift and bring her a peace offering. This dispute had gone on long enough.

As he ventured among the merchants, he had the impulse to buy several items for his bride, especially a delicately carved wooden box so small it was almost useless except as an object to be looked upon, a brooch set with one large garnet in what was almost the shape of a heart, and a yard of fine Flanders wool in a brilliant hue of scarlet. Practicality ruled and he chose the wool, envisioning Mary clad in it.

But when it came time to leave, instead of mounting his horse, he turned around, went back, and bought the box and the brooch as well.

By the time Stephen returned to the Tower, it was almost nonce; he had spent several hours among the merchants, making his decisions. He hurried up the stairs to the chamber Mary shared with several other women, beginning to anticipate her surprise—and her delight—when he gave her the fine gifts.

Rufus had one of his sergeants guarding Mary day and night—but so did Stephen. He nodded to both men and rapped sharply on the door. Mary opened the door herself. Stephen was surprised to see that she was with Adele Beaufort, who sat upon one of the chamber’s three beds. Mary flushed with guilt when she saw him. What scheme was she up to now? Or was it distress he read in her green gaze?

“You seem dismayed to see me, demoiselle.”

“Of course I am dismayed,” she said, seeking as she did so often these days to annoy him. “How I have enjoyed being rid of my shadow.”

Since they had come to Court, he had hardly let her out of his sight; in fact, at night he slept upon a straw pallet in the corridor not far from her door. “Well can I imagine your joy.” He took her arm. She tensed, inhaling. The contact jolted him as well; already he grew stiff with lust he would not assuage until their wedding night. “What are you hiding, Mary?”

She refused to look at him. “Nothing. I… I am tired. Please—”

Adele came forward, her stride sinuous, hips swaying provocatively. “Good day, my lord,” she murmured in her husky voice.

Stephen did not return her smile. God’s blood, but was it possible that these two conspired against him? Every instinct he had said it was so.

Adele boldly touched his sleeve, and let her hand linger. “I have been explaining to your bride the order of the ceremony. She is not familiar with our Norman ways.”

Stephen stared at Adele, whose regard was decidedly seductive. “How very generous you are, Lady Beaufort, again.”

Adele shrugged, finally dropping her hand, turning to
Mary. “I can see that Lord Stephen wishes a moment of privacy with you, Princess. Perhaps we can conclude our discussion another time.”

Mary looked from Stephen to Adele and back again. “Yes. Thank you.”

Adele swept from the room, brushing past Stephen as she did so. When he looked at Mary, he saw that she was very unhappy—even irate. “How interesting. The two of you have become such fast friends.”

Mary blanched, then found her tongue. “But we are hardly as friendly as you and she!”

Stephen took her hand, gripping it far harder than he intended. “Jealous,
chère
?”

“Of course not!” She tried to jerk free of him and failed.

Stephen was a heartbeat away from pulling her even closer, so she might understand the full extent of his frustration. But her glance was flickering over his obviously swollen loins, which his tunic could not hide, and that aroused him even further. He released her. He had no desire to torture himself now with what he could not have for another three weeks.

“What do you hide from me, demoiselle?”

She paled again. “I am not hiding anything from you! Adele spoke the truth! She has so kindly offered to help me prepare for the nuptials!” Tears had gathered in his bride’s eyes.

“I lived in the King’s household for nigh on ten years,” he told her. “I recognize intrigue easily enough when confronted with it. Adele Beaufort is like most of the ladies here, vain, selfish, and ambitious in the extreme. What do the two of you scheme, Mary?”

Mary said nothing, tight-lipped. He could see her mind racing. When she spoke, he knew she lied, and although he had expected it, his disappointment left a bilious taste in his mouth. “I have been imprisoned in this airless tomb for almost a week! A single Scotswoman amongst a hundred Normans. Yet you begrudge me my single friend. You cannot keep us apart.”

“She has not a generous nature, demoiselle. She befriends no one unless it furthers her own cause. Mark my words,
Mary. If you believe her to be your friend, you are mistaken. In fact, there is no such thing as friends in a life such as this.”