He wet his lips. “Edward was wounded.”
“No!” Mary gripped the table to keep from reeling, to keep from falling. “He’s not…”
“’Tis bad. But he was alive when I left.”
“He will live,” Mary said with certainty. She closed her eyes, dizzy now with relief. “No damn Norman can kill Ed,” she whispered. She fought the sudden fit of trembling. She could not give in to any hysteria now. “And … Alnwick?”
“We have been pushed back to Cumbria. The tide has turned. We are almost back where we started,” the boy said grimly. “The battle still rages over Carlisle. And now, without Malcolm, without Edward …”
Mary closed her eyes. “Edmund is a great warrior. And the other leaders …”
“The chiefs all fight among themselves, Princess; ’twas only Malcolm who was strong enough to keep them united.” The boy hesitated. “Not all of the men trust Edmund.”
Mary could not respond to that. Her brother’s character was not the best. But with Ed wounded and Malcolm dead … Instantly she shut off her thoughts. She would not think about her father, she would not. Instead, she would pray for Ed.
And she must not think about Stephen either, not now, not when his men had killed her father and wounded her brother—she must not.
“Mother, please, drink some of this. It is your own special brew,” Mary pleaded.
Margaret did not respond to her, and it was as if she did not even hear her. Since Father Joseph had left many hours ago, Margaret had fallen into a sleeplike state. She could not be roused; thus it was no ordinary sleep. If Mary had not been able to discern that she was still breathing, albeit very faintly, she would think her to be dead.
Mary was beside herself. She had not slept in days, and she dared not leave her mother, not now, not when it seemed as if Margaret was dying before her very eyes. Mary was resolved. She would not let her die. She could not. But what could she do?
She took her mother’s icy hands in hers and wanned them briskly. A sharp knock at the door was an instant relief, diverting her attention. Mary froze when Edgar walked into the room. She had last seen him three nights ago, just before the first battle outside of Carlisle.
He was unrecognizable. Edgar was pale and exhausted, dark circles ringing his eyes; he appeared a wasted man of middle years, not a merry lad of seventeen. His glance passed quickly over Mary and skidded to halt on their mother. “I do not understand this,” he said in a hoarse voice. “They told me below that she is at death’s door.”
Mary rose to her feet, her knees stiff and aching terribly from the long hours she had spent kneeling at her mother’s side. Indeed, her entire body ached and hurt, but that was nothing compared to the pain in her chest. “She did not take the news of Malcolm’s death well,” Mary said unsteadily. Edgar’s appearance threatened to unravel her precious emotional control. She took a deep, calming, breath. “When I arrived here I found her in a frightful state. She hadn’t eaten or slept in days, she had worried herself sick. It seems,” she said, and her voice cracked, “that she had a premonition of Malcolm’s death.”
Tears glazed Edgar’s eyes. “He died a warrior’s death. He died the way he wanted to die, the way all men hope to die, in the midst of battle, proudly, bravely.”
Mary shuddered. Quickly she crossed her arms and hugged herself. She must not think about Malcolm now, she must not. Tomorrow, when Margaret was better, why, then she could allow herself to grieve.
Edgar interrupted her thoughts. “Edward is dead.”
Mary cried out.
Edgar moved quickly, crossing the small chamber and taking her into his arms. Mary screwed her eyes closed tight. Hot tears gathered against her lids, exerting pressure, but she refused to open them and release the flood.Edward,not Edward, her oldest brother, her dear friend, her hero!She did not believe it, she would not!
Edgar spoke into her ear, one of his hands stroking her back. Edgar—who had never embraced her or openly shown his love for her in any tender way. Edgar, who yesterday had been a boy of seventeen, and who today had become a man of fifty. “The wound was mortal. He lost too much blood. He died in his sleep, thank God for that, without pain.”
Edward was dead.“I cannot,” Mary began in a hoarse voice.
Suddenly Edgar pushed away from Mary. “Your husband is at their head,” he spat.
Mary straightened.
“He is the invincible one! He has pushed far into our ranks, alone and repeatedly, exposing himself to our men again and again—yet no one can approach him without falling victim to his sword. He strikes down all in his path. They say he is possessed; either that, or he is Death himself.” Suddenly Edgar fought for some degree of calm and gained it.
Mary was rigid, unmoving. Somehow Stephen had learned of her escape. She had not one doubt. Stephen was not possessed by the Devil, merely possessed by an inhuman rage. And she was chilled with fear.
Edgar jerked on her arm. “He has sworn to beat a path of destruction to your door, Mary. He released one of the prisoners to convey that message to us. His exact words are that he wants you back, not in spite of your treachery—but because of it.”
Mary began to tremble. “He wishes to punish me,” she whispered.
“I imagine he wishes to kill you,” Edgar said. “I glimpsed his face at Alnwick, and even I was struck with terror.”
Mary whimpered. She had seen Stephen in a red rage. Could he hate her now so much that he wished to kill her? Could he wish her dead?
