Stephen tightened his fists. Here was the real danger that Mary poised to him. He knew better than to believe that she had sought for him to go to Malcolm and convince him to seek peace instead of war, knew it with every breath he took, yet he lay awake in the night, succumbing to her charm, even from afar. He was only a heartbeat away from choosing to believe the best of her, instead of the worst.
If he continued in this vein, surely, one day, she would destroy him.
Stephen stood and walked outside. The night was very cold, and his breath made puffs of vapor in the air; he welcomed the chill. It was cloudy, too, and tomorrow might well bring snow instead of rain. He rubbed his hands together to warm them. He would not think about Mary anymore. There was just too much pain.
Stephen stilled, listening. Someone was approaching through the shadows. He realized that it was his father. It was too early for Rolfe to be up, and his father was an old campaigner, one fully capable of deep sleep just before battle. Foreboding filled Stephen. He could only be bringing bad news.
Rolfe paused. “I have just received a messenger from Alnwick.”
Stephen’s jaw clenched. It could not have anything to do with his wife, he told himself.It could not.
“Your wife is gone.”
“Gone?”
Rolfe explained that Mary had disguised herself as a peasant lad and had escaped Alnwick. Stephen’s shock was so great that he did not hear any more. It was so great that he reeled, causing his father to reach out in order to steady him. But Stephen was not aware of Rolfe.
She had left him.
Mary had run away, to her family, to Scotland. On the eve of war, she had left him, proving her treachery once and for all.
His wife had left him.
And something in his heart died a little, then something else, powerful and consuming, roared to life.
“Stephen?” Rolfe asked.
He did not answer. He could not. Instead, Stephen felt the fury, and he welcomed it.
Chapter 23
Mary raced towards Edinburgh. The night was thickly black and icy cold, promising snow. Clouds of vapor hung in the air, formed by their blowing mounts. The pace of Mary’s escort was relentless. They kept their straining horses at a hard gallop, as if pursued by the Norman army, but in truth both armies were now far behind them. Mary suspected that they were under orders to see her to safety as soon as possible and to rejoin their troops immediately. She could not care. With every pounding hoofbeat that brought her closer to the home of her childhood, Mary was also brought one step closer to her doom.
She was numbed with exhaustion from having ridden all that day and most of that night, but not so numb that she could not still feel the heartbreaking pain of her father’s cruel rejection. But that hardly seemed to matter, considering that her destiny was being wrenched from her own control and set upon a course leading to disaster and heartbreak. Far more important was the fact that she was being sent to Edinburgh. She should be racing towards Alnwick, where she belonged. Alnwick was now her home. She should be there when Stephen returned from war. Instead, she was being swept deep into the heart of Scotland, into the stronghold of Stephen’s enemies, enemies he would soon be engaged with in mortal combat.
This time, she thought, he would never understand; this time, she knew, he would never forgive her.
She did not want to ride north. As they galloped on, pushing their lathered mounts past the limits of exhaustion, again and again Mary had the urge to suddenly saw hard on the reins and whip her mare around and flee for home. It was insanity. She might be able to elude her escort, but her poor horse would never be able to race all the way back to Alnwick, and even if the brave mare could, it was suicide to ride through the war that would soon begin.
And at dawn, at that time when, some miles to the south, the horns of battle were blowing, the first heavy swords clashing, when the sun was just breaking the ash gray sky with pale slivers of ghostly white light, Edinburgh loomed ahead. The dark, near black burgh of weathered wood and ancient stone was set upon the same precipitous hill as the keep, a steep upthrusting of rocky mountain that had protected the burgh and castle since time immemorial from any would-be invaders. Above the village the fortress of the King of Scotland, as dark and black as the rocky island it sat upon, thrust into the sky. The premonition of doom rushed over Mary again.
They raced through the burgh, past an old woman pushing a cart of firewood, past two boys hawking salted herring, past a pack of scavenging dogs, and up the steep, frozen path to the fortress. The gates were thrown open, and within moments Mary was inside walls that should have been familiar and comforting. Instead, as the portcullis slammed down behind her, her skin tingled alarmingly. The sensation of being locked inside a prison was unmistakable.
But this was not a prison, this was her home, Mary told herself. She could not shake her bleak spirits. Sliding down from her horse, barely able to stand, Mary thanked the two burly men who had been her escort. She did not have to ask after her mother. At this hour Margaret would still be in the chapel celebrating the early morning mass of prime. Mary hurried to the chapel as fast as her tired body could manage it.
At last, the sight that greeted her was reassuring. The slight, elegant form of Margaret, kneeling before the altar in a moment of private, personal prayer, the mass obviously concluded, brought Mary to a quick halt. She gulped down a deep breath, feeling perilously close to tears. If she needed anyone right now, she thought, she needed her mother. She needed to be able to tell her everything: how Stephen mistrusted her, how she had left Alnwick in the hope of averting a war, and how endangered their marriage now was. She needed to tell her mother, too, about the horrible interview with her father. And she would tell her about the child. Wiping a stray tear from her cheek, Mary impulsively moved forward and sank down beside her mother. Margaret did not acknowledge her, but Mary had not expected her to. She bowed her own head and prayed.
She prayed for a speedy end to the war and she prayed for a lasting peace. She prayed for the safe return of her father and her brothers, and a safe return for Stephen.
She wiped away another tear. She hesitated. It did not seem right to ask God for help with her own problems, not when she had never been devout or obedient before. Yet somehow she saw God as benevolent and understanding, not a deity one bargained one’s good behavior with. She took another breath and made the most important request of all.
“Dear God, please guide Stephen to see the truth,” she whispered aloud. Then she added, “Please let him love me.”
Mary remained kneeling for a long moment, blessedly unthinking, suddenly somewhat unburdened and almost relieved. She realized that she was more exhausted than she had ever been in her life. Not moving was welcome. Her body ached from the endless hours she had been in the saddle that day, and her mind was now, finally, numb. Then she saw that her mother was standing. Mary rose also, her muscles protesting the effort.
Mary had her first good look at her mother. Margaret’s eyes were deeply shadowed as if she had spent many sleepless nights, and they were also dark with worry. Mary gasped, for her mother was not just obviously fatigued, but thinner than she had ever been, and pale enough to make Mary wonder if she had been ill. “Mother.” Mary hugged her. “Have you been sick?”
“No.” There was a catch to Margaret’s voice. “What are you doing here?”
