Part Four
Exiled
Chapter 24
The 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—”
