Then something fluttered low in her abdomen, making her catch her breath. How wrong she was—she had the child.
As she approached, escorted by the archdeacon, the armed knights looked away from her. Geoffrey helped her onto his horse, then mounted behind her. Mary dried her moist eyes. Her glance met Stephen’s. Quickly, coldly, he, too, looked away from her.
How he hated her.
Then Mary saw her three brothers, Edgar, Alexander, and Davie, mounted side by side in the midst of the Norman knights. “What are they doing here?” she asked tersely.
Geoffrey regarded her. “They are not safe here, Mary.”
“Of course they are safe here!”
“Did not Stephen break in to get you?”
Mary paused. Her glance flew to Stephen’s broad back. If he could enter an abbey and break God’s law, she knew that someone like her uncle Donald, or, God forbid, her brother Edmund, could do so as well. She shuddered. They had seized power the day she and the boys had fled Edinburgh—word had arrived that very same night. She did not want to dwell on the thought that Donald Bane or Edmund might seek to harm her brothers in order to secure the throne.
“Where is Stephen taking them?” Mary asked in a low whisper.
“To Alnwick, at least for now.”
Mary was relieved. Her brothers would be safe at Alnwick for as long as they should remain there. For a time, at least, she would not have to worry about them, too, when she had so much to worry about herself.
The troops, with Stephen at their head and Mary mounted behind Geoffrey, her brothers in their midst, now prisoners, filed out of the abbey gates. Despite her exhaustion, Mary realized that, although it was against her nature, she must be patient now. Whatever her destiny might be, whatever the fate of her brothers, for the moment, all was out of her control. The time had come for waiting. No matter how bad at waiting she was, Mary realized that she desperately needed a respite. And it appeared that Stephen was inadvertently giving her one by exiling her to Tetly.
Her exile began inauspiciously. Not long after they had crossed the River Tweed and entered Northumberland, Stephen’s forces split up. Geoffrey and two dozen soldiers veered east, taking Mary with them. Stephen and the rest of his troops continued south towards Alnwick with her three brothers.
Mary was allowed the barest and briefest of good-byes. She hugged Edgar, Alexander, and Davie each in turn, admonishing them not to worry about her or anything else. “All will be well in the end, I promise you,” she said with what she hoped was utter conviction. Her certainty was a complete lie, for she was filled with fear and doubt. To make matters worse, not only did her brothers look as doubtful as she felt, Mary succumbed to hot, sorrowful tears at their parting.
She did not say farewell to Stephen. She was not given the chance. He removed himself from the vicinity of the leave-taking, remaining mounted and with his back to her. No gesture could have been more eloquent. As Mary remounted, she knew that Stephen had used his iron will to strike her from his heart.
Late that afternoon they turned directly east and came upon Tetly. Mary’s low spirits plummeted even further when she first glimpsed the lonely keep. It was situated upon a remote and barren cliff just above the channel where the coast met the River Tyne. One twisting, precarious path led to its rusty gates. In such a situation, invasion and siege were impossible. Mary later learned that Tetly’s site had been picked for precisely that reason, and for the same reason it had long since fallen into irrelevance and disuse.
There was no need of a drawbridge. The portcullis opened directly upon the steep, rutted road. Apparently Stephen had sent a few servants, a steward, and a chatelaine ahead, for the fanged gate, obstinate from lack of use, was raised immediately. They entered through dark stone walls into a small, dark bailey. The ground underfoot was frozen mud. Mary looked around with despair. The few outer buildings had long since fallen into disrepair. Walls had crumbled and roofs caved in. These sheds were unusable. She saw that a lean-to had been newly erected to stable the men’s mounts and to keep a few pigs.
Mary turned towards the keep. It consisted of one lonely black tower which stood with its back to the cliff and the coast, exposed on three sides and constantly buffeted by high channel winds. On its front steps stood her staff, two maids, a young serf, an elderly steward, and a plump, worried-looking chatelaine.
Mary pulled her cloak to her more tightly. It was freezing out there on the cliff in the brunt of the wind, but her action was due more to deep dismay than chilling cold. She was to live here. For how long? And how long would it be until Stephen came to “visit” her? As Geoffrey helped her dismount, Mary was seized with panic and she clung to his hand. “You are not going to leave, are you?” she cried.
His expression was somber. “I have sent Archbishop Anselm word that I am delayed. I will stay a few days, Mary, to oversee some repairs and make sure you are settled in comfortably.”
“Comfortably?” Mary was bitter.
“Tetly has seen better days, that’s true, but you will not lack for a thing. I promise you that.”
Geoffrey’s words proved to be mostly accurate. Tetly had been well supplied in advance of her arrival. Obviously Stephen had been prepared when he had handed out his verdict to her. And the steward was efficient and eager to please, the chatelaine kind although pitying. Mary’s rooms were constantly warmed by a big fire to ward off the ever-present cold. Anything she desired was served to her in the way of food and drink. Mary had no appetite, she was too sore at heart, but she thought of the child and ate more than she normally would.
Geoffrey stayed a sennight. Mary was grateful. During the day she helped the chatelaine. Mary had nothing else to do and she was determined to keep herself busy in order not to think about the tragedy that had struck her. It would be so easy to grieve, for her parenis and brother, for herself. At night she conversed with Geoffrey in front of the fire. If only he could have stayed indefinitely. He was cheerful and considerate. But once the stable had been repaired, he left. And Mary had no choice but to face the nights alone.
And it was the nights that threatened her sanity. The wind howled like a banshee, making sleep difficult at best, and restless and broken when achieved. She was tortured by longings that were impossible dreams. She desperately missed Edward and Margaret. She could not believe that she would never see them again. And she desperately wished that her last few conversations with her father had never taken place. She was shaken to the very core of her being. Suddenly Malcolm was a stranger to her in her memory, not the wonderful father-King he had always been. Mary wanted to remember him as she had known him all her life, not as she had last seen him. She wished she could be sure that he had loved her despite his cruel words, despite his use of her and his rejection, but she could not. And now, now she would never know.
And she desperately needed Stephen. Not the cold, hate filled man he had become, but the ardent lover, the respectful husband, the just and honorable man. She needed him. She had never needed him more. But he would come when it suited him, not her, and then only to use her.
The days passed monotonously. January slid into February. One snowstorm followed another, the winds were relentless. Mary hated Tetly. Sometimes she hated Stephen. Hating him was far better than loving him, and God knew she had reason to hate him. The blaze of anger would never last. It always gave way to an uncontrollable yearning.
Mary cherished the unborn baby.
Her body had changed. In her tunics only the fullness of her breasts were obvious, but when naked, Mary was delighted to see a small, firm tummy protruding. At least she had this baby, she thought. Already she was deeply in love with her child. Already she had become protective and maternal. She was not crazy, but being so alone, she had taken to talking to it, and sometimes she sang old Gaelic lullabies. The servants looked at her with fear, the chatelaine with fear and pity. They knew she was with child, for Mary made no attempt to hide her condition. When they saw her whispering to herself, to the babe, they crossed themselves or made old pagan signs and hurried away. Mary did not care what they thought. If she had not been carrying this child, she might very well lose all hope, and even her sanity.
Mary lost track of the days. But the snows ceased. It had been, the chatelaine said, a particularly frigid winter. Now there was only the winds, but one afternoon the sun began to peek through the low, thick clouds. And one day, when Mary was taking some air in the bailey, she saw green shoots of grass poking up through the mud.
