Promise of the Rose (36 page)

It was not fair. She had spied, and perhaps that was wrong, but she had never intended to betray him. While he, he had betrayed her, marrying her while intending to war upon her family. Nevertheless she had taken vows, vows to honor and obey him, vows she would keep. They might never recover from this terrible time, they might never recapture the brief joy they had known, but she was his wife regardless of any and all circumstance until God saw fit to pan them.

Slowly she adjourned to the bed. She moved like an old woman, but not because of her aching body; because of her aching heart.

Mary had a blanket and a fur with which to ward off the night’s chill, fortunately. She curled up beneath the covers. Sleep refused to come, although the oblivion it brought would be so welcome. She wanted to escape her grief—oh, how she wanted to escape—but the argument she had just had with her husband replayed itself over and over again in her mind. She had little strength left in her exhausted state, not enough with which to remain hot and angry, and there was only despair and sorrow vying for her heart instead. And pain.

Sounds began to drift to her, piercing her painful thoughts. She could hear the rumble of deep male voices from the ramparts outside as Alnwick’s retainers engaged in some form of unusual nocturnal activity. She dared not imagine what it might be. She was too tired. But she found herself
trying to distinguish her husband’s voice from the lot. It was probably better that she could not. Look at what her prior lapse into eavesdropping had done. Yet she found herself wondering if he felt any remorse at all for the death of their relationship, if he felt any of the pain.

   Mary awoke at dawn. She had slept so heavily that for a moment she was confused, searching for Stephen’s big, warm body in bed beside her. However, the sounds that had awoken her, sounds from the bailey below, quickly became recognizable. Mary sat up, fully awake. Stephen was not beside her; last night he had accused her of treachery, and she was in solitary confinement as punishment for her crimes. Mary’s stomach wrenched with dismay, his furious image coming quickly to her mind. Last night he had revealed his own treachery. And outside, outside she could hear the ebullient chatter of many men and the stamping hooves and snorts of many mounts, along with the jangle of spurs and bits and bridles, the creaking of leather and the clang of metal weapons.

War. Did they ride to war today—to war upon her people?

Mary slid from the bed, shivering when her bare feet touched the cold stone floor, and rushed to the window. She peered out. Her heart immediately sank.

Perhaps fifty knights, all fully armed with mace and shield, sword and lance, and in complete armor, were mounting up. In their midst the standard bearer already waved the tricolored banner with the oversized bloodred rose in its center. Mary shuddered, her body’s reaction having little to do with the cold. She knew that the force that she gazed upon was nothing in comparison to the one the de Warennes would ultimately cast upon the battlefield. Northumberland had hundreds of vassals. If the earl chose, he could field close to four hundred men—Mary knew it for a fact because Malcolm had told her so.

She looked down on the small force assembled below her and wanted to cry. Despair shredded her already broken heart. She was watching an army that was about to make war upon her own people. How could he do this?

It occurred to her that this marriage had been insanity, doomed from the start.

Yet her mind dared to recall the last few days, Stephen’s warm glances, his slight smile, and the way he looked at her when his intentions were wicked. She recalled when he had given her the rose.

Mary choked. Her glance slid across the throng below, at first unconsciously and then deliberately searching for her husband. She found him quickly, for he towered above those around him with his great height despite being still on foot. A tear seeped. He was riding off to war on her people; perhaps he would even cross swords with her own kin. Mary hugged herself, filled with anguish. She wondered if she would ever want to forgive him.

Yet she could not take her eyes from him. He had not donned his helmet, so his face was completely revealed, but from this distance, Mary could not make out his expression except as being grim and set. Surely he could feel her watching him. Surely he would know that she would watch him. Could he not at least look up, just once?

With a start Mary realized that despite the fact of their horrible argument the night before, she still felt something for him. Some kind of tendre. In the current situation she could not deny it. For he was going to war. He appeared immortal, but he was not. In any battle, even in a mock tourney, there was always the possibility of death. What if he was hurt today, or even killed? She was sickened by the thought. She was horrified by the thought. Mary gripped the rough stone ledge and leaned forward, impulsively calling out. “Stephen! Stephen!”

He did not hear her, immersed in a dialogue with his squire, and Mary was dismayed. She panted, her heart beat hurtfully; she could not let him leave like this. How wrong she had been to let him leave last night! Determination to attract his attention overwhelmed her. “Stephen!” she shouted. “Stephen!”

He heard her and froze. Then, slowly, he turned his head and looked up at her.

Across the distance separating them, their gazes riveted and held. Mary did not know what to say. She wanted to say
that she was sorry, but for what, she was not sure—perhaps for the impasse they had been brought to by their mistrust of each other, perhaps for the era in which they lived. Yet she was angry and she was dismayed; he was so easily riding into battle against her father, just days after their wedding, and his crime was so great that she doubted she would ever forget it. Too, she doubted that they could ever recover what they had once enjoyed, and she despaired of the future that lay in wait for them. But he was her husband—perhaps she was even with his child, a possibility that grew each and every day—and she did not want him to die. Dear Lord, she did not. “God keep you,” she whispered finally, knowing he could not hear her, and that even if he guessed what she said, it probably made little difference to him now.

Stephen turned away. Mary wished she had been able to see his face more clearly, to see into his eyes, to glimpse his soul. Too late, she wished they had not fought, she wished she had defused his anger, that she had spent more time denying what he falsely believed, had succeeded in convincing him of her innocence. She wished, too, impossibly, that she had not accused him of treachery. And mostly she wished that last night had been spent altogether differently, not her alone, cold and weary, emotionally beaten and physically battered, in punishment, but the two of them together the way it had been before.

She watched him slip on his helmet. The Norman helm with its nosepiece instantly transformed him, making his appearance sinister and frightening. Stephen mounted his war-horse. Mary inhaled. Fully armed and armored, astride the destrier, he was unrecognizable except as a stranger and an enemy. The urge to cry overcame her.

The knights began to swiftly form into organized lines. She could hear the harsh grating noise of the portcullis being winched up, and the groaning of the wooden drawbridge being lowered. It was hard to breathe, hard to see. She watched through a sudden mist, one formed from the moisture in her eyes, as Stephen rode to the head of one of the columns. The troops moved out.

Mary watched Stephen leave the bailey; quickly he passed through the barbican, and she could not see him anymore.
Still, she watched all of the troops as they left, until the large court was empty and silent, until she heard the portcullis slamming closed, the sound reverberating with finality. She gazed upon the vast, empty bailey, then, as servants began to appear, hurrying to their tasks, she turned and returned to the bed.

She was numb with cold. Before she had barely noticed; now she shivered violently, her teeth chattering. Crawling under the covers, she recalled Stephen as she had last seen him. It was impossible not to be aware of her feelings, which were far from hatred. Mary realized that she had a lot of thinking to do in the time left to her until Stephen returned.

   Three days later, as dusk settled over the land, Stephen stood in the entrance of the tent he shared with his father on the edge of the ground that had been turned into a large, muddy battlefield. Once, this land had been green, verdant, and unblemished; now pieces of metal, twisted or broken, and shreds of wool littered the arena; more than a few dead horses were rotting carcasses yet to be removed, picked at by the greedy vultures, and even several human corpses still remained. The stench of death was pervasive.

Stephen stepped outside. Sounds from the makeshift camp drifted to him, most of it weary laughter but some of it female, coming from the many camp whores who always materialized after war to earn a few coins as they relieved the bloodlust of the men. Stephen was very tired and very dirty, and as Me was in no mood to talk, he was thankful that he was alone.

Alone for the first time since the battle had begun, Stephen picked his way carefully amongst the leftover debris of war, until the bloody battleground was far behind him. He paused on the edge of a stream, his back shielded by pine trees, and pulled off his leather boots, and then all of his clothing. Stark naked, he waded into the frigid water, then doused himself completely.

He came up shivering and gasping, but it was not enough. Nothing would ever be enough, he suspected, to cleanse
either his body or his soul after battle. He submerged himself again.

It had been a long, bloody two-day battle, but Carlisle had fallen, as had been inevitable.

Carlisle was a large town guarded by one single keep which had been built in haste some dozen years ago, and the walls surrounding it were still the original wood. Such construction usually dictated recourse to fire in battle, but the past month’s endless rain had determined a wiser course of action, one including both catapult and battering ram. The rotten walls, which should have been replaced years ago, had fallen instantly. The keep had surrendered within the hour.

The real fighting had begun shortly after that when the local lairds had rallied to the area’s defense, but they were routed by nightfall, their numbers seriously decimated. When Malcolm’s army had next appeared at dawn and attacked in the hope of regaining Carlisle, the Norman forces had already taken up strategic positions and were firmly in control. Still Malcolm had attacked, and the savage warfare had continued for another day.

When the Scot army had finally retreated, seeing their cause as lost—and rightly so—Stephen had seen Malcolm standing in his stirrup irons and shaking his fist at him. It was clear that Canmore was cursing him and vowing revenge.

Stephen sighed, but as his teeth were chattering so badly, it sounded more like a moan. Hurriedly he dressed in the clean clothes he had brought with him. He did not want to recall Malcolm in his defeat and his fury, for to think of him reminded him of his wife.
His wife.
He did not want to think of her either. In fact, he had avoided thinking about her ever since he had ordered her confined to her chamber.

There was a new hardening in his heart. There was also bitterness, one stemming from a horrendous disillusionment, one a man of his age and experience had no right to. Stephen knew he was a fool, but the knowledge did not soothe him.

For Mary had surprised him in the days following their wedding. The sneaky, politically wise, too clever minx had been transformed overnight into a gentle and womanly wife. She had become the perfect wife with such ease, as if she
had yearned for such a role her entire life. Stephen knew that could not be true. His wife was no common woman, and no ordinary princess either, the role she would have yearned after undoubtedly could only suit a man. Mary would have much preferred to sit at the war table than at the spinning wheel, or so he would have thought. But once wed to him, it was as if nothing else mattered, as if he were her fondest dream.

His mouth turned down. There was the flash of pain in his chest again, and the very rotten, roiling feeling of betrayal. It had all been an illusion, now shattered thoroughly.

Had he not known it would come to this?

Had he not known that when forced to choose, she would ally herself with Malcolm?

Stephen felt no more guilt, no more regret. He had done his duty, as he must always do. His own personal feelings could not ever interfere in his loyalty to his King. In a savage way, he was glad it had come to this. The King’s treacherous invasion of Carlisle had revealed Mary for what she was, a traitor in his own home.

How it hurt.

Briefly he had been overwhelmed with her, briefly he had thought their union a success beyond all expectation. Briefly he had forgotten the short, hate-filled history they shared. How she had pleased him in the past few days! He had known each and every small way she had interjected herself into his life, he had been aware of each and every effort, no matter how small or how large, that she had made to ease his existence, and he had been profoundly pleased and absurdly grateful. It had seemed as if she took joy in what she did for him, in the pleasure she gave him. It had seemed as if she had grown genuinely fond of him. It had almost seemed as if she loved him.

Stephen laughed out loud, the sound bitter and self-mocking. Perhaps he was the weak, besotted fool she had taken him for. His wife did not love him. It had all been a ploy on her part; there was no other explanation. To mend his clothes, see to his meals, even anticipate his moods, to lie with him with the passion of a strumpet, and then, then to spy upon him as he sat in a conference of war—it could
only mean that her actions as his wife were insincere.

Stephen paced across foul battleground and ducked into his tent. It was the act of deception that haunted him. It was posing as a perfect wife, not the act of betrayal, spying upon him and his family, that was the source of his ice-cold rage.

He should have known. Mary had lied to him repeatedly from the moment he had first met her, and from that same moment she had been unwavering in her devotion to her country and her kin. He should have known that she would not change, could not change, not in her loyalty, and that the minx could never metamorphose into a dear and gentle wife. He should have known it was an outrageous act. Had she continued to openly defy him after the marriage, and then dared to spy, he might have forgiven her, for he would at least understand her, and even, perhaps, respect her. But she had played a dangerous game, with him and his feelings, and there would not be any forgiveness.