Promise of the Rose (47 page)

Finally she could cry no more. Mary found herself prostrate on the floor. God, she was so tired! She could barely sit up. She could not continue like this, she could not, not when
she was so exhausted, she doubted she could even walk.

But then her mind told her to think. Her mind told her to think of the danger that lurked without Edinburgh, a danger threatening not just her, but her brothers, even Scotland. Mary wiped away the last traces of her tears. She had no time for tears. Too much was at stake. Lives were at stake; a kingdom was at stake.

Malcolm was dead. Scotland was a kingdom without a King. The seat of the kingdom was Edinburgh, and soon the strongest clans in the land would be descending upon it, hoping to seize power for themselves. Even now, a dozen great chiefs must be closing in upon Edinburgh in a mad race for the crown.

Her brothers all had legitimate claims to the throne. Edmund she did not care about—he could take care of himself, as he undoubtedly was doing—and Ethelred was safe, being a man of God. But she owned the responsibility for guarding her three other brothers; each and every one of whom posed a real threat to Scotland’s next King. It did not occur to Mary that, as Edgar was older than herself, the responsibility was his.

Mary forced herself to her feet. She moved like a very old woman.

She paused. She realized that the sounds invading the chamber had changed. Her heart lurched with instinctive dread as she strained to comprehend what she was hearing. She thought she could hear distant thunder, but the sky outside was a clear and cloudless blue. Mary gasped.

What she was hearing through the loud wailing of the castle was not distant thunder but the rumbling reverberations of a huge invading army. Dear God, not so soon! Would there not ever be any respite?

And then Edgar burst into the room. Mary listened in white-faced shock as he told her that Donald Bane had been named tanist, and that Edmund had betrayed them and joined forces with their uncle to usurp the throne. Meanwhile, outside, the thunder grew steadily louder.

For one moment Mary and Edgar stared at each other. Mary knew no relief; Edmund would be as ruthless as any stranger in these circumstances—or more so.

Mary straightened. “Gather up the boys! Do it now! Bring a cart round for—” She looked at Margaret. Her hard-won control slipped and she choked. “For the Queen. We will bury her at the Abbey at Dunfermline, where we can seek sanctuary. Hurry!”

Edgar turned on his heel and left. Mary could not stop shaking, not now, and she gripped the prie-dieu to keep herself from collapsing. Grief, fear, and utter exhaustion overwhelmed her, immobilized her.

It took a great effort, but Mary went to her mother and covered her. Edgar burst back through the door. He gave her one long look, then rushed forward to Margaret. Effortlessly he lifted their mother into his arms.

Mary pushed herself to keep pace with him. “How could Edmund abandon us?”

“He’s not a part of this family anymore,” Edgar spat as they raced downstairs and outside into the bailey, where the sunlight was so strong, it was briefly blinding. Her brothers were already mounted, all of them except, of course, the traitor Edmund. The next to youngest, Alexander, was trying to comfort little Davie, who was crying. Edgar laid their mother in the horse-drawn cart.

It was then that Mary realized that the bailey had become eerily silent. All of the crazed wailing had ceased, as had every other possible sound. The silence was unnatural, terrifying. Mary knew that she was listening for something, but she did not know what. And then it struck her—the ominous drumming beat of the invading army had ceased.

Mary cried out as Edgar boosted her onto a mount and leapt onto his own steed. The army had halted—to position itself for an attack! “ ’Tis Donald Bane, is it not?”

Edgar rode up to her. “No.”

Mary froze. “Then … who?”

The glance he shot her was long and dark. And Mary knew. She felt it all then, love, hate, fear, and dread. “Wo.”

“ ’Tis Northumberland’s bastard,” Edgar spat. “The bastard’s led his army right to Edinburgh. Is he coming to claim the throne for himself?”

Mary was faint “No,” she whispered. “He’s coming to claim me.”

Part Four
Exiled

T
he Abbey of Dunfermlme was situated on a knoll just across the Firth of Forth from Edinburgh. It was enclosed by thick stone walls of a medium height, but these walls were primarily intended to be a boundary, and while a barrier to vagabonds and outlaws, they could not be a barrier to an invading army. And that was just what the abbey now faced, the abbot thought dismally.

A hundred mounted, armed knights, their armor mostly hidden by the heavy cloaks one and all wore to ward off the freezing cold, lined the snow-clad hillside. Sunlight glinted on a hundred shields and a hundred helms, and a hundred huge horses pawed the snowy ground, churning up dark mud. A black, white, and gold banner waved from the front ranks, a short-stemmed bloodred rose in its center, the red rose of Northumberland. If that were not enough to make the abbot’s knees weak, and it was, the leader of these Normans faced him directly now from the great height of his great war-horse. And the leader himself was a huge man, imposing enough surely should he be standing on foot. He did not wear his helm, so the abbot could see his face clearly.
His visage dismayed him even more than his great display of power in the face of the abbey’s real lack of fortifications. It was thoroughly chilling in its coldness.

The abbot of Dunfermline had decided to greet his visitor rather bravely, opening the narrow side door inset in the walls and stepping outside it. The passage could admit a man on foot, but not one in mail and heavily armed, much less a troop of mounted knights. For that they would need him to unbolt the two front gates. He clutched his mantle to his thin body, hardly aware of the cold. For he had deliberately decided not to open the front gates. Yet he was well aware that if the man facing him chose to enter the abbey against his will, there was nothing he could do to stop him. “What is it you wish, my lord?”

“You harbor the princess Mary. You will release her at once.”

The abbot was afraid. Not for himself or the abbey, not for the monks or the nuns, but for the young woman who had come to him for refuge for herself and her brothers in the dead of a winter’s night. He could imagine easily enough what this knight might do to the very beautiful and so very anguished princess, and he had no intention of giving in to him. He said a silent prayer to God. He certainly needed His help now. “Sir, you know that this is the Lord’s house. She has taken sanctuary here. I cannot allow you to violate that sanctuary.”

His teeth gleamed in a wintry smile. It was feral. “Sir Abbot, I prefer not to violate God’s house, but if I have to, I will.”

It was as he had thought. The abbot shuddered. He knew that the lord meant it. “I cannot allow you to enter, sir.”

“Are you aware, Sir Abbot, that she is my wife?”

The abbot swallowed. Of course, he was aware of the fact. “Still, sir, it is a question of duty to God. I cannot allow you to enter.”

His teeth flashed again, but not in a smile. “I am going to enter with force.”

The abbot raised his chin, set his mouth, and did not move.

Stephen turned. He lifted his hand. Two knights instantly
detached themselves from the troops. “Break down the gates,” he said.

Geoffrey was mounted at Stephen’s flank. His face was ashen. But he said nothing.

The two knights rode forward, lifting their great lances. They charged the gates. The wood cracked and groaned, but the iron bolts did not give. Another charge was successful; the two doors flew open with a tearing roar.

The abbot looked at Lord de Warenne. His face was haggard and shadowed as if he had not slept in days, yet his eyes gleamed with anticipation—with furious, hate-tilled anticipation. No man could appear more beastly. He lifted his hand again in a short motion and spurred his destrier forward. A dozen men followed him into the cloister.

Inside, Stephen slid to his feet. His glance took in the abbey church with its long nave, situated at the northern end of the complex. Inside, the sanctuary was at the church’s eastern side, facing Jerusalem. Stephen’s glance did not flicker even once towards the rest of the buildings—the rectangular cloister where the monks worked at stalls between the pillars and strolled for exercise, the chapter house, the refectory, the dormitory. He gave Geoffrey one single look. “Do not allow anyone to leave.”

Stephen strode across the frozen courtyard, heading directly for the church. He flung open the door and stepped inside. He paused one moment as his eyes adjusted to the dim light within.

Edgar stood in the center of the nave, his hand on his sword. Behind him, similarly posed, were his younger brothers, Alexander and Davie. Ethelred appeared from the shadows of the pews, clearly unarmed and in his habit, to stand beside Edgar and confront Stephen as well. Mary was nowhere to be seen.

“You will go to hell, my lord,” Ethelred said quietly, “It is not worth it.”

“Where is she?” Stephen asked coldly.

“She is gone,” Edgar snarled. “She will never return to you, never.”

Stephen’s chest rose hard. His anger was so immense. “Where has she gone to, Edgar? Answer me. Do not make
me cut it out of you.” His own hand was on his own sword. He meant every word he said. His control was so precarious that if denied, he would lose it and he would cut Mary’s brother to pieces in order to get the information he wanted—in order to get to her.

Ethelred stepped forward. “I will not allow you to taint this church with blood and war! She is not gone.” He gave Edgar a dark glance. “She is in the dormitory. She refused to claim sanctuary here, my lord. Think on that.”

Stephen’s smile was frightening. And he did not give a damn why she had refused to join her brothers in the sanctuary. He strode outside and across the cloister. He correctly guessed which building was the dorter. Opening a door, he was greeted by a long, narrow hall. Small chambers, each with a pallet, lined it. Stephen moved down the hall, glancing into each bedchamber. All the chambers were empty. When he had glanced cursorily into some two dozen such cubicles, when he had reached the very end of the hall, he found her.

She stood in the very last bedchamber, against the wall, facing the threshold, waiting for him.

Stephen could barely breathe, he was so choked with fury. For a long moment he did not move. He silently told her to keep silent, because if she offered one word of explanation, one more damned lie, he knew he would lose all control and kill her.

But it was too much to hope for. Mary was trembling, and she was as white as the snow outside on the bare oaks, but she spoke. “My lord,” she said hoarsely. “Please, please listen—”

As he had known it would, his control snapped. His hand arched out. There was a cracking sound as his open palm hit her face. Mary gasped as she fell back against the wall with a thud and then to the floor.

Stephen turned from her, panting, shaking, hating himself—but not as much as he hated her. “Do not,” he finally said, when he could speak, “offer me one single lie. There is not a word you could speak which I wish to hear.”

Mary pushed herself up with her hands into a sitting position on the cold stone floor. The room seemed to spin, and
with it, Stephen’s huge, powerful form. Pain washed over her in waves. She managed to wonder if he had broken her jaw. It felt like it. She managed to wonder if it was truly over for them.

Stephen turned, looking at her. “I warned you. No—do not dare speak. When I tell you I do not wish to hear you, I mean it. I am sending you to Telly.”

Mary blinked at him. The pain washing over her was changing, taking on a different nature. He was sending her into exile. At least he would not kill her, for she had been unsure of what to expect when finally they met. It had taken no small amount of courage to remain in her chamber, awaiting him, instead of hiding in the sanctuary. He was not going to kill her, but she could not be relieved. Exile was a fate she dreaded as she would true death. For was it not the death of their marriage?