Promise of the Rose (30 page)

   “As soon as she can make her vows!”

“That’s correct, dear brother, as soon as Princess Mary is well enough to stand for the mass and make her vows, they shall be wed.” Rufus smiled, not pleasantly. “Is there a reason such haste should upset you, Henry?”

Prince Henry was furious. “You know I am against this union; I have said so from the first. I keep hoping you will see reason, and forbid them to join.”

“Why do you think I agreed to the union in the first place?”

“I cannot even begin to fathom why.”

“So that Malcolm will be at rest when our armies swoop down upon him.” Rufus grinned. “It has occurred to me that he will be even more unsuspecting
after
the wedding.”

“You have outdone yourself, brother,” Henry said softly, angrily. “What will you do, my lord, if ever the day comes that Northumberland turns to Scotland—against you?”

“That day will never come.”

“You are mad! For the sake of some worthless hills you give de Warenne enough power to make or break you!” Henry paced the King’s apartment. It was at times like these that he knew—he absolutely knew—that he should be England’s monarch. Never would he give a single noble such power. Never would he trust one of his vassals with such power. Given his brother’s stupidity, he could not help being sorry that Mary had not drowned. “Who tried to kill her?”

“I do not know. Was it you, Henry?” Rufus asked blandly.

Henry’s face reddened with the rush of blood that his renewed fury brought. “If I had been behind the murder attempt, you can be sure she would not be alive this day!”

Rufus stood, walked to the window, and looked out upon London. “I believe you.”

“So it was attempted murder?”

“Contrary to some of the gossip now running rampant, it was.”

Henry was suddenly smiling. “Was she really running away from de Warenne?”

“You find that amusing?”

“Very amusing.” He laughed. “By God, I’ll wager Stephen was enraged. Thai little chit daring to defy him—how I wish I could be privy to at least one of their conversations!”

“Hmm. I imagine you would rather be privy to that little chit.”

Henry eyed his brother. “Would such temptation be delivered to me, I would never refuse. And if de Warenne gave you the slightest encouragement, you would jump into his bed as quickly, would you not, Your Majesty?”

Now it was Rufus’s turn to be furious. “Perhaps when he was a boy, but now such a man is hardly attractive. Hardly attractive,” the King repeated harshly. Yet he was lying, not just to his brother, but to himself. Unrequited lust was a dangerous thing, especially after so many years.

“Perhaps Stephen will be so grateful, he will thank you as you would like,” Henry said, striding to the door and laughing. “But I do not think so, Will. I do not think so.” With a mocking bow, Henry left.

Rufus stared after his brother, fists clenched. If Henry were not such a valuable military ally, with a host of Norman mercenaries at his beck and call, he would toss him in the dungeons and throw away the key. Sometimes he hated his brother so much that he was truly tempted to do so. But that was not relevant to his cause. So he would use his brother to the best advantage that he could, always taking care to remain one full step ahead of him. For Rufus understood his brother far better than Henry thought. The reason Henry was so furious over an alliance that hardly affected him now was that he dearly coveted England’s throne. But that, of course, would never be.

   Adele Beaufort lay sprawled flat on her stomach in bed, uncovered, her arms around a pillow, clad only in a short, thin cotton chemise. She was alone in the chamber, all of the other ladies partaking of the day’s last meal. Her eyes were closed, but she was not asleep, and her breathing was irregular.

The scene from the other day with Geoffrey de Warenne replayed over and over in her mind, and each time her resolve rose anew. Never had she felt the consuming desire for anyone that she felt for him. These past few days he ignored her, pretending she did not exist, pretending that the afternoon they had shared in such utter abandon had never happened. But it had. And she would have him again, and soon. She must.

She moaned softly, low, clutching the pillow harder, her body on fire. He was here, at the Tower; even now he was downstairs, with everyone else, dining. Adele’s knee came
up and pressed into the bed, her shift baring her buttocks.

Adele recalled everything he had done to her that afternoon, and everything she had done to him. She moaned softly, the fire creeping up her limbs. After such an encounter, she did not think she would ever be really satisfied by any other man.

She heard footsteps and became still. They were heavy and male and they paused outside the door of her chamber. She did not open her eyes, but the throbbing of her body increased. She imagined Geoffrey entering, running his hands over her back and clasping her buttocks in prelude to impaling her with his massive cock.

The door opened, without a knock. Adele squeezed the pillow harder, knowing he was staring at her.

Slowly he closed the door. “Who has you so hot, you little bitch?”

Adele moaned, the only response she was capable of, unable to stand the agony much longer.

He approached. “Who?” he asked, pausing at the foot of the bed. “Who has you writhing alone in your bed? Do you even need me, Adele?”

“Please,” she whispered, hating herself, hating him, fiercely.

She heard the sound of loosening fabric as he undressed.

“Please,” she whispered again, begging now.

He laughed. The pallet buckled from his weight as he knelt between her thighs, his hands roaming up them and only stopping when they had grabbed handfuls of her buttocks. Adele spasmed, gasping.

“Who has you like this?” He was getting angry, and he gripped her hard, making her cry out. “Who, dammit!”

Adele spread her legs. “Geoffrey de Warenne,” she gasped.

With a cry, he thrust into her. Adele bit her tongue to keep from screaming, instantly swept up into a violent climax. Shortly after, he followed, collapsing on top of her.

She shoved him off, leaping to her feet. In one stride she had reached her tunic and was pulling it on. She looked at the man lounging on her bed. “Get out of here!”

Roger Beaufort sat up indolently. “I locked the door.” His smile was taunting. “Is this the gratitude you show me, darling?”

“Get out,” she repeated furiously. She hated him, she always had, for it was he who had revealed to them both the depths of her immorality—a long time ago.

Beaufort rose, dressed slowly, and sauntered past her. “You will never change,” he said into her ear. “And he only toys with you—for he has virtue—something you do not even remotely understand.”

“And you do?” she queried with sarcasm. “Tell me, Roger, just when did you decide to murder Mary? Would it not have been enough for us if she had escaped?”

He paled. Then he shoved his face to hers. “If you betray me, sister dear, I shall implicate you up to your ears. If I fall, you fall as well.”

Adele jerked away from him. “Get out!”

His smile was ugly. “Perhaps I shall even speak with the good archdeacon. I do not think even your body would attract him should he believe you capable of murder.”

“Get out!”

M
ary was tense. Malcolm and Margaret had arrived in London yesterday; tomorrow she would be wed. Stephen had suggested she visit them at the King’s Tower, and as she could not refuse, they were on their way there now. Mary had almost refused. She had wanted to refuse. She did not want to face Malcolm, not now, the day before her wedding.

Three days had passed since her near death, such a brief period of time, but she had been happy. Although Stephen spent much time at Court, he had attended her every day. They did not speak of what had happened the day they had consummated their union again but Mary believed that they had attained a new and wonderful understanding. She trusted him—how could she not? Brand had been a visitor, and he had told her how Stephen had risked his life to pull her from the river. He had risked his life for her and then given her back her life. Oh yes, she trusted him completely.

And she had not dissembled when she had promised him that she would never betray him again. She recalled how moved he had been by her vow, and was certain that he trusted her as well.

She was afraid to visit even briefly with her family. She was afraid of what might happen, of what she might learn.

As they drew closer to the Tower—and to her parents—Mary realized that Stephen thought he did her a great favor by bringing her here for this visit. As Mary did not want to face her own feelings herself, she could not share her reluctance with him. But with every step that brought them closer to the Tower, her heart beat faster, her stomach tied itself into a tighter knot.

She had learned that Malcolm had arrived at the gates of London with a sizable army. He had only been admitted, however, with a few dozen men, and those men had been required to surrender their weapons once inside the bailey of the Tower. William Rufus was taking no chances with his most bitter enemy.

As she traveled across London, Mary worried. She knew her father well. He was undoubtedly furious at being forced to leave his men and weapons behind. She knew how quick he was to strike back when enraged. Would Malcolm disrupt the alliance at this last moment, or even disrupt the wedding itself? Mary was afraid. How she had changed. She did not want anything to interfere with their wedding, not even Malcolm. He was so ruthless with his enemies, and there was no doubt that he still hated Northumberland—and Stephen.

The King’s Tower came into sight. It soared above the walls of the bailey and reflected upon the smooth surface of the Thames. Mary had kept the curtains of the litter open. She began to tremble. Stephen rode ahead of her on his brown destrier, behind his standard bearer and the red rose of Northumberland. A score of heavily armed knights escorted them.

From the moment they crossed the drawbridge and entered the bailey, they were given a royal armed escort into the keep. Stephen helped her from the litter, surrounded not by his own knights now, but by the King’s men. Mary had been in the exact same situation before, and again she felt fearful and powerless. She did not release Stephen’s hand, and he gave hers a reassuring squeeze. Of course, the King himself would never disrupt their marriage now, he would not dare.

As they climbed the steps to the keep with their escort, Mary wondered if she would always fear and dislike the English Court, if she would always feel like an alien among the enemy. It was another sobering thought when she wanted to feel nothing but bridal jitters and real gaiety on the eve of her wedding.

Their party entered the Great Hall. Conversation dimmed and ceased. Every lord and lady they passed turned to regard their group, eyes bright with speculation. Mary regretted ever having attempted to escape. Stephen could not be pleased that her defiance had been so publicly aired. She had little doubt that many of the jealous lords here had been thrilled with Stephen’s brief humiliation.

As they crossed the hall, Mary glanced at him. His head was high, his gaze trained ahead, his expression unreadable. She thought she heard someone snicker and mention Stephen in the same breath as they passed, but when her gaze flew to the crowd, she could not find the culprit.

In time, she thought vehemently, the whole world would know of her love for Stephen and her loyalty. She would make it up to him.

They went directly to the King’s private rooms on the third floor. As soon as they entered, Mary saw that Malcolm and Margaret and three of her brothers were already within, her parents conversing rather stiffly with the Earl and Countess of Northumberland, near the dais where Rufus sat upon his throne. Mary was very surprised to see Doug Mackinnon standing between Edward and Edgar, and when he caught her eye, she quickly looked away.

She was horrified that he was here. She could not imagine why he had accompanied her parents. Also, she was struck by the knowledge that since the day she had first been captured by Stephen, she had hardly spared him a single thought. How could she have ever thought herself to be in love with him? And how would she ever face him now?

Mary peeked at Stephen, but he was expressionless. She realized he did not know who Doug was, and she found herself inordinately relieved. She knew him well enough now to be certain that he would not be pleased to make Doug’s acquaintance.

Her parents saw her. Mary was frozen, unable to move. She had avoided looking at her father except for a single first glance. She managed to smile at her mother, who appeared close to tears. She ignored Malcolm. She could not look at him.

Stephen and Mary greeted the King.

“I am glad to see you so well. Princess,” Rufus said expansively, red-cheeked and smelling of wine. There was a gloating look about him. “You do not look as if you have suffered from your near-death.”

“I am recovered. Sire.”

“How glad We are.” But Rufus was hardly interested in her. He was smiling at Stephen.