She looked up at the sky. It was a pale, washed out blue, but it was blue nevertheless, and the sun was a bright, clear yellow. Mary smiled. It was sometime in March, and now she could smell spring in the air. She took a deep breath. Her depression lifted in that moment. She had survived a long, dark, and dreary winter, and suddenly she was filled with hope. Spring meant renewal and rebirth. At the very least she could look forward to pleasant days and, with summer’s advent, the birth of her child. How her heart leapt at the thought.
And it could not be very long now before Stephen would come.
“Riders, my lady!”
Mary looked up from the dais where she sat alone at her noon meal. She dropped her knife. “Riders?”
“They’re too far off for me to make them out, but ’tis a goodly sized contingent, flying a banner, my lady,” the man said. He had just come running in from the single watchtower and was breathless.
Mary did not move, but her heart thundered so hard, she was faint. ’Twas Stephen. She knew it. Oh, God, she knew it. She was filled with elation, with excitement and fear. Oh, God, she must do everything right! She must win him back!
Mary lurched to her feet. She was five months pregnant, but as her build was so small to begin with, her condition was still not obvious while she was fully clothed. Of course, he would notice that she had gained weight immediately; her face was fuller, her breasts heavier. Suddenly Mary was doubly afraid. What if she was no longer as pretty as she had been?
She fled up the stairs and to her room to check her clothes and pat every hair back into place beneath her wimple. Then she froze. Stephen so loved her hair. Married women did not wear it unbound, but it was her glory now that she had lost her figure. Mary hesitated … She would let it down. With a banging heart, her hands shaking, she quickly unpinned and unbraided it. It fell in a riotous, brilliant, sun gold mass past her waist. If Mary was sure of one thing, it was that her hair had never looked better. Yet her hands still trembled while she quickly brushed it.
Mary was so nervous now that she felt sick. She had heard the men entering the hall below. Mary tried to take a few deep breaths. Oh, God. What if he still hated her?
Mary paused at the door to her chamber and said a quick, brief prayer. Then she straightened her shoulders and held her head high. She slid the heavy door open, paused, then went slowly down the stairs.
She entered the hall and stopped. Her eyes widened in disbelief. There was a man sitting at the table, but it was not Stephen. Instead, on the dais as if he were Tetly’s lord, Prince Henry lounged. And when he saw her he smiled, and in that smile was all of his intent. As he had promised that dark, solitary night out upon the ramparts at Alnwick, he had come to her in her exile.
Mary stared. Henry stared back. His regard was amused in response to her shock, and it wandered over her, going first from her face and then to her hair and finally down her body. When he looked back at her, his gaze had become intense. “How beautiful you are,” he said.
Mary’s heart lurched in dread.
His gaze moved to her voluptuous breasts, which strained the fabric of her tunic. “You have never been more beautiful, Mary,” the prince said.
Mary’s heart slammed. She came to life, regretting her foolish action in letting her hair down. But it was too late now. Pale, frightened, and resolved to send Henry on his way—after she had learned of Stephen’s whereabouts and doings—she slowly came forward. “Good day, my lord,” she said with a slight curtsy. “This is a surprise.”
He waved her up, then took her hand and helped her ascend the dais. Mary instantly slipped her palm tree of his. His gaze was again amused. “Why have I surprised you?” he asked. “Did I not tell you I would come to you in your exile?”
Dread again washed over Mary. But with outward calm she sat down beside him. “It is very kind of you to come visit me in such a lonely time,” she said, refilling his cup of wine. “But I find it hard to believe that kindness was your sole motivation. Tetly is out of the way for all travelers.”
“Indeed, it is isolated and forsaken. What a dreadful place! But you appear to be faring more than well. You glow, Mary. Are you so happy apart from your husband, then?” Henry sipped his wine, but his eyes never left hers.
Mary turned to face him. “I am not happy apart from Stephen, my lord. I love him. I long for the day when he will forgive me and call me back to his side.”
Henry smiled. “I do not think that day shall ever come, Mary. You betrayed him, and he is not a man who ever forgives his enemies.”
“I am not his enemy. I am his wife.”
“A dangerous combination. A fatal combination, as he well knows.”
Mary looked away, angry. She forced herself to be calm. This was her first visitor all winter, and she was determined to learn of Stephen and her brothers and Scotland. They’d had no news these past few months, none at all. “How is he?”
“He is well.”
That told Mary nothing. “And… my brothers?”
“They are well, also. They are enjoying William Rufus’s hospitality. Edmund, of course, enjoy’s Scotland’s throne, with your uncle Donald Bane.”
Mary said nothing, for the news that her brothers were now royal prisoners was hardly surprising.
Henry eyed her. “You are so calm. Did you know that Stephen is there, as well? He has been there for most of the winter.”
Mary could hardly believe it. Stephen hated the Court. Her brothers had been summoned there, and Stephen had undoubtedly escorted them, but she could not understand why Stephen had remained as well. “What is Stephen doing there?” she asked cautiously.
Mary had tried very hard these past few months not to think about what her husband might be doing to take care of his very virile needs while apart from her, and she had been successful. No more. There were so many beautiful women at Court with the morals of whores. Mary thought that she could bear his using a whore—prostitutes were dirty and ugly, and a man’s use of one was impersonal. But she could not stand the idea of his bedding a beautiful lady, and if he had been at Court for so long, he would not solicit whores.
