Mary realized that she was naked. She set the poker down and whipped a fur from the bed, wrapping it quickly around herself. She forced herself to be calm, to meet the prince now carefully, in full possession of all her wits. “No, Stephen does not know.”
“Is it his?”
Mary bristled. “Yes, my lord, ’tis Stephen’s.” Her voice was a hiss. “I have never lain with another man, and I never will.” Tears suddenly blurred her gaze. “No matter how hungry my body might be.”
Henry was grim. “’Tis his right to know.”
Mary was in agreement, but she froze. Her only hope of seeing Stephen lay in his thinking her not pregnant, so that he would come to get her with child. Of course, what had happened with Henry would happen with him. The minute he got her tunic off, he would see that she was already with child—if he did not guess as much before. But at least he would be there with her, face-to-face. She must confront him; it was her only chance of righting their relationship. But if Henry told him she was already with child, he would send her away as he had promised to do. Mary was stricken with a horrible thought. A scene flashed through her mind that was far worse than anything that had already happened to her: giving birth to her babe and having it taken away from her while she remained behind, locked up in a cloister in France, forever. “You cannot tell him!”
“I shall tell him. He must know immediately!”
“What a fine friend you are!” Mary spat. Tears came. She hated to beg, but beg she would. “Please, let me tell him.”
“When? After the child is born?” Henry was sarcastic.
“No.” It occurred to her that the solution to her dilemma—the answer to her prayers—had just arrived. “I asked you before, but for a different reason. Now I ask you again.Take me with you.I will tell him the moment I see him. Please. ’Tis my right.”
Henry stared. Mary could not discern what was going on in his mind; his eyes were opaque and unreadable. Yet finally he nodded.
Mary swooned with relief. She was going to Court—to Stephen. To tell him of the child, and to fight for her life.
Part Five
Promise of the Rose
Chapter 25
Adele had not seen Geoffrey de Warenne since her wedding to Henry Ferrars, but she would see him today.
The litter she had traveled in had halted. As Adele had traveled with the curtains open, she could see that she had arrived at her destination. Although still surrounded by two dozen of her husband’s best knights, she could see the soaring cathedral of Canterbury proudly butting up against a very blue sky just a dozen steps ahead of her.
She had not seen Geoffrey in an achingly long time. She had been married on the first of February, and it was now April’s day for fools. It was a terrible waste—her husband had been ensconced at Tutberry these past few weeks, many miles to the west of Essex, where she lingered, alone and increasingly desperate. Adele had sent Geoffrey numerous missives—but he had not come.
Adele made no move to leave her liner. So many heated emotions rampaged throughout her that she could not move, not yet. She was furious, furious at his obvious rejection, and she was afraid.
She, the most coveted woman in the realm, was afraid that the archdeacon had tired of her.
Their affair had been convoluted from the start. After his brother’s wedding he had continued to see her for several days, until called away to the invasion of Carlisle in the North. But afterwards he had not returned to her as Adele had expected him to do. Endlessly she waited for her lover to appear, but he never had.
Adele began to send him missives, at first coaxing him, then urging him, finally demanding that he come. His replies were brief. His affairs detained him; she must busy herself with her own interests.
Adele was not just afraid that he had tired of her, she was furious. It seemed clear to her that he hinted that she should take another lover. But no other man could possibly interest her now. And more important, she was hurt—but that emotion she refused to identify.
Meanwhile her wedding to the middle-aged Ferrars approached. And then, just two weeks prior to the event she dreaded, Geoffrey sent her a message requesting a meeting. It had been ten long, interminable weeks since they had seen each other, and its tone was urgent. Adele guessed at the nature of his urgency. She intended to deny him, tease him, torture him—in short, she would punish him for his neglect. But when he arrived, they fell upon each other like rabid animals. Within seconds he had shredded her clothes with his dagger and was impaling her. They both reached their peaks immediately, but Geoffrey did not leave her; instead, he took her again and again. As always, he was masterful and insatiable, and Adele had been, for the first time in her life, exhausted afterwards. But also terribly, smugly pleased.
It was hardly over for them.
She was even more pleased when Geoffrey came to her that next day and every day for the following fortnight. On the eve of her wedding, she lay in Geoffrey’s powerful arms, replete and unrepentant.
And she knew he was unhappy. She saw it in every line of his face, she saw it in his eyes. Adele was thrilled. He loves me, she thought happily, and is heartsick because I marry another.
The next day she said her wedding vows, swearing to honor and obey her new husband, to be chaste. Geoffrey attended the mass but not the wedding feast. He left the ceremony early, refusing to look at her even once—and she had not seen him since.
Adele was still angry that she had been given to Ferrars, She did not care how skilled Henry Ferrars was on the battlefield, or how loyal he had been to the King and his father before him. As far as she was concerned, he was a lowborn upstart, and nothing would ever change that.
Adele’s new husband was ardent. Adele knew that he was as pleased with the marriage as she was distraught. It was clear to her that he was infatuated with her, perhaps even in love. Adele had no intention of defying him or denying him, no matter how she felt about him. She had never been a fool. If her fate was to be Lady Ferrars, then she would do her best to make sure that her husband worshiped her. While the knight was a powerful man, he retained none of that power when it came to Adele. Within a fortnight she had wrapped him around her little finger. He might outmaneuver his friends and foes alike, but he could not outmaneuver his new wife.
Unlike the archdeacon of Canterbury, whom Adele barely controlled, if at all. But now, now that was about to change.
