“I have been a terrible fool,” Mary confessed. “I tried to convince Father to turn back from this war. And Edward deemed it too dangerous for me to return to Alnwick, so he sent me here instead.”
Margaret took her hand. “Well, I am glad to see you, dear. This time, alone here with just my women, waiting for word—I cannot bear it.” Margaret’s eyes sparkled with unshed tears, and her hand, in Mary’s, trembled.
“Mother, what is it?” If her mother had not been ill, then either she was sick now, or terribly distressed.
Margaret’s mouth quivered slightly. “I cannot shake this feeling I have, a terrible feeling of disaster. I have never been so frightened in all of my life.” She closed her eyes briefly. “I am so afraid for Malcolm and my boys.”
Mary squeezed Margaret’s hand, but her own heart was beating heavily, and she recognized the feeling roiling within her as dread. Had she not had the same premonition? “They will be fine, Mother,” she said very brightly. “Malcolm is the greatest warrior in this land, he is invincible; surely you know that. And my brothers are all of the same line. Do not fear. You are worrying yourself needlessly.”
“If only you are right,” Margaret managed listlessly.
Mary had never seen her mother like this before. Queen Margaret was calm by nature, poised and serene, not a woman to be stricken with anxiety to such excess. Mary had wanted to unburden herself and confess all to her mother, but found she could not do so now. Later, she told herself. When the war is over and Father and the boys are on their way home, then I will have all the time in the world to tell her of my problems.
Mary smiled at Margaret with forced cheer. “Let us break the night’s fast, Mother. I don’t know about you, but I am famished.”
Margaret spent the entire day sitting in her chair in the women’s solar by the hearth, her needle moving mechanically over a delicate piece of embroidery, awaiting word of the outcome of the first battle. And when that word came later that evening, amidst a light flurry of snow, it was uplifting—at least for the Scots.
The Scot army had not made any progress in its effort to retake Carlisle, but that no longer seemed significant. For while the Scots and Normans were brutally engaged in Cumbria, another force, led by Malcolm himself, had slipped around Carlisle and into the western reaches of Northumberland—and then into the heart of the fief itself. Alnwick was now under siege.
There was great rejoicing in the hall among the servants and women. Except for Margaret, who did not smile even once, whose face remained a mask of fear. And except for Mary, who was so shocked that she could not remain on her feet. She sank shaking into a chair.
Alnwick was under siege.
Her very first thought was for Isobel and the countess.Dear God, let them be all right!Mary closed her eyes, stricken with anguish. The countess was a strong, determined woman. If anyone could hold Alnwick together in the face of this attack, she could. Then Mary realized exactly where her loyalty lay. She had no sympathy for the attackers, only for the besieged. Only for the de Warennes.
And the full implications of what was happening struck Mary fully. Malcolm, her father, had attacked Alnwick—his own daughter’s home. His vengeance knew no bounds.
But she was no longer his daughter, was she? She had been disowned.
Mary looked at the messenger, a short, bulky man who, though tired, was too elated to sit down. He was reassuring Margaret that all was well with Malcolm and her sons. Mary turned to him. “Is it possible that they can take Alnwick?”
The man faced Mary with flashing eyes. “’Tis only a matter of time.”
“But you do not have time. When my husband finds out that his home is threatened—he will ride with his men for Alnwick to rescue it.”
The man faced her directly, in the stance of one ready to do battle, with his legs braced apart. “But your husband, Lady de Warenne, is currently engaged in a vicious battle, one he cannot easily leave. And unless someone at Alnwick dares to sneak past your father’s army in the hope of sending de Warenne a message begging for rescue, ’twill be a long time before anyone learns of the siege.” He smiled. “’Tis as Malcolm planned.”
Mary was aghast. But the messenger was right. Stephen was in the midst of battle, and no one at Alnwick would have any way of sending him word about their dire straits. If Mary had not been sitting, she would have undoubtedly collapsed.
How clever Malcolm had been.Mary was furious.
Then Mary became aware of the silence of the hall. Every single person within was staring at her, except for her mother, who gazed unseeingly at the tire. And each and every person there stared at her with loathing and accusation. Mary surged to her feet and fled the room.
That night the snow began to fall heavily, the winds howling so loudly that sleep was impossible. Mary listened to the eerie, horrible sound, trying not to dwell upon what was happening to her family and her home. She thought about her mother, so distraught that she was unquestionably ill, she thought about her brothers, fighting in battle, perhaps even a part of the siege itself. She tried not to think about her father, but that was impossible. He had disowned her, he had attacked Alnwick. For an instant, a wave of hatred washed over her, but then it was gone, and she was weak and exhausted and numb.
Stephen probably had yet to team that she had escaped Alnwick. Mary was hardly relieved. She had made a monumental mistake in fleeing without his permission, she had failed in her mission, and when he learned what she had done, he would be convinced of her treachery. After Edward’s visit to Alnwick, he would think her escape some prearranged scheme; he would think that she had fled from him to his enemy. But the great irony was that in her flight, she had been confronted with the ironclad truth—as much as she loved her kin and country, as much as she loved Scotland, her home was Alnwick, and her loyalty was owed the red rose of Northumberland.
Mary knew that her very life depended upon convincing Stephen to believe her innocence. And the more time that passed, the more convinced he would be that she had run away from him. Despite his mistrust, she loved him wholly, she belonged to him and she always would, and she wanted to be with him, the way it had been before. If he would exile her, she could not bear it. Too clearly Mary recalled his very explicit threat to do just that. She must return home immediately, yet how could she? How long would this war go on? If Malcolm was successful, she realized with sudden horror, the war would never end. Stephen and his father and the other Normans would fight until they died to avenge the destruction of Alnwick.
Mary sat upright and shivered. She must hope for a speedy end to the war, she realized, which meant she must hope for Malcolm’s defeat. After his terrible rejection, she owed him no loyalty, yet she could not find it in her heart to yearn for his downfall. She had been his daughter for too many years.
Mary listened to the roaring, high-pitched wind. Outside the night was white from the blizzard. Was she insane enough to take a horse and try to return to Alnwick by herself? Did she love Stephen enough to risk her life for him?
Mary swallowed. She was not a madwoman, to venture out into a snowstorm and risk death. But she did love Stephen enough to risk her life for him, if ever she had to. That time had not yet come; hopefully it never would. But Mary knew now that she could not sit idly by and wait for a truce in order to return home, if ever a truce might come. She would wait for the blizzard to end and for the roads to become passable. If the war had not yet ended, she would set out for home by herself. And nothing and no one would stop her.
When Mary finally dozed, her decision made, she felt better, even hopeful. Yet when she awoke the next day, she doubted whether she might be able to leave anytime soon. The snow had stopped, as had the maddening winds, but outside the world was blanketed six feet deep in white. More importantly, Margaret’s maid told Mary that her mother had passed another completely sleepless night. She had gone to the chapel at midnight for matins, and had stayed there until dawn. She only broke the fast with a few sips of water and two bites of bread. By now Mary knew that her mother had barely eaten or slept in a fortnight, not since Malcolm had left Edinburgh. It had become clear that the Queen was haunted by her own terrible demons. And nothing Mary did or said could convince her to eat or sleep. Mary contemplated drugging her in order to get her to rest.
The second day was endless. While Margaret again took up her place before the hearth, sewing, Mary could do nothing but pace. It made the other waiting women crazy, she knew, but they dared not say anything to her. The morning dragged into noon. No one could eat. Dusk slipped upon them. Still no word came. The heavy snow had obviously delayed news of the second day of fighting. The night sky became black, starkly dark against the pale and ice-encrusted loch below the fortress. Word came that another messenger had arrived.
