“Mary,” he began, uncertain of how to continue.
She interrupted, her fingers upon his like claws. “Can you arrange the horse and escort, Ed?I must leave now!”
“Mary, I cannot.”
“What?”
“Listen to me,” he said urgently. She was pale with shock. If he had slapped her face, it could not be worse. “You took a terrible chance coming here as you did, on a plow horse escorted by a farmer who carried nothing more than a rusty knife! God’s blood, Mary!”
“I had to try,” Mary said weakly.
Edward saw that she was beginning to shake. “’Tis too dangerous to go back now, Mary. Even if I sent you back amidst fifty men. For tomorrow at dawn the battle begins.” He hesitated only slightly, but Mary was so distraught that she did not notice. He decided to say nothing about Malcolm’s plans for Alnwick, but he would not send her there, not now. “You must trust me. ’Tis too dangerous, and I will not send you back.”
“I see,” Mary said faintly. Her voice was barely audible. Edward worried that she was close to fainting—a feat he would have never dreamed his boyish sister capable of. But she did not faint. She stood, unsteadily. “I understand,” Mary repeated. She tried to smile but failed. “’Tis only a delay. When all is finished, I will go home.”
“Yes,” Edward agreed. But he looked at her strangely, his heart wrenching even though he knew it was as it should be. “When it is all over, you can go home, Mary.” And he trembled, unable not to feel sad. Mary no longer belonged to Scotland.
“I am suddenly very tired. Should I sleep in your tent?”
“Good God, no! I am afraid you will not sleep this night, Mary. I will not allow you to stay here in our camp. I am sending you to Edinburgh, where you will be safe.”
And Mary turned deathly white.
That same night, just a few miles away but several hours later, Stephen lay upon his pallet, unable to sleep. Soon it would be dawn. Yet he had only just gone to bed, for he had been in a counsel of war. His father and his brothers had been present amongst the dozen magnates who would lead the Norman troops. As always, Rolfe’s military stratagems were indispensable, while Geoffrey was commanding Canterbury’s forces, Brand a captain of the royal troops. Prince Henry had also attended, for he had been persuaded to field his own Norman mercenaries in the name of his brother, the King. And the King, a shrewd general himself, had come to command them in this time of war.
Everyone was fully aware that the army they faced on the morrow was far greater than any Malcolm had ever before assembled. The coming war would be the bloodiest waged in years, and perhaps, just perhaps, victory might elude them.
Stephen wondered if the peace he so dearly sought might ever be obtained upon the border. It did not seem likely, it seemed like a dream. Stephen’s regret was vast.
But this time it was also bitter. For if ever a real peace ruled the land, there might be a real peace between him and his wife.
Stephen was angry. Their relations should not hang in the balance of war and peace. She owed him her loyalty and love whether or not he fought in battle, and regardless of with whom. And because his responsibilities were such a great burden, he needed her. Never before in his life had he allowed himself to feel such a need for anyone, to admit to such a need. He was only a mortal man, hardly invincible. He needed his wife standing beside him in all matters great and small. But she did not stand beside him, she stood behind him—with a dagger poised at his back.
Mary had tried to send him to the enemy, into a trap. It would take more than this lifetime to forget it.
He regretted allowing her the rope to hang herself. God, he did.
He regretted falling in love with her. He regretted loving her now.
How had his life come to this?
He was hardly strong, and it was his own secret. He was weak, in love with a woman who had tried to deceive, outwit, and betray him numerous times. How could there be so much pain when there was love? How could he withstand this torment for the rest of his life?
If only… He was not a man to waste his time in idle dreams, but the haunting refrain came to him, not for the first time.If only she were as she seemed.He could forgive her anything if he could but trust her.
Which he knew he could not.
He laughed aloud, once, the sound pain-filled, echoing harshly in the dead silence of the night. He had almost believed her last night. He had wanted to believe her. And that was why Mary had become so very dangerous.He had wanted to believe her sincere.And for a moment he had.
Which was insanity.
And he still wished to trust her.Stephen closed his eyes. Perhaps, just perhaps, he should consider, again, the very minute possibility that Mary’s words had been honest last night. Stephen knew that Mary saw Malcolm only as a daughter should, as a hero, not as the man he truly was. She had no idea that her father was a ruthless liar and an ambitious cheat. She could not know that he broke his word as often as the wind changed its course. She could not know that Malcolm loved war and revenge far more than he could ever love peace.
Stephen could not be unkind in this instance. He hoped the day never came when she learned the truth.
And of course, although Stephen knew Malcolm for exactly what he was, he did respect him. He was a dangerous opponent, for he was a clever man as well as a strong leader. Had he not been ruthless, dishonest, and self-serving, he would have never united the ever-warring Scot clans into one nation, then kept them under his heel for thirty-five long years. As a King, Malcolm was without peer.
But such a leader would never harken to his daughter’s wish for peace, especially not when it came from the mouth of his sworn enemy.
