“My brother, Duncan.”
“You mean your half brother, the King, do you not, my dear?” Duncan said from the doorway.
Mary started, tried to rise, and fell back into the bed with a gasp. A cramp had lanced through her abdomen.
Duncan approached and stared down at her coldly. “I think you should rest, sister dear, unless you want your brat born early.”
Fear rushed over Mary. She knew what such a pain could mean; it could mean that the babe wanted to come soon. Babes born early rarely survived, and she was probably three or four weeks from her time. Mary closed her eyes, fighting the fear and the panic.
“A much more sensible course,” Duncan said above her. “Although I cannot decide if I should prefer my nephew to live or die.”
Mary’s eyes flew open. Hatred swamped her. “If you hurt my child—”
“You will what? Hurt me?”
“Stephen will kill you!”
Duncan laughed. “And how will he do that, Mary? I am King. Murderers of kings are beheaded, their rotting heads set upon pikes so all might gaze upon the sight and be forewarned.”
Mary fought to keep hysteria at bay. She had a horrible image of Stephen’s head impaled in such a manner, and she was nauseous. Duncan was right. Stephen would not kill him.
“What do you want?!” she cried fearfully. Her hands held her belly protectively. “What are you planning for me, for my baby?”
“’Tis all very simple and very civilized,” Duncan said calmly. “You really have no cause to be distraught.”
Mary was only half-listening, waiting with dread for another cramp, a sign of the babe’s distress. But it did not come, and she relaxed slightly. “You threaten my child. I have every cause.”
Duncan regarded her. “I have no intention of harming your brat. If harm befalls the child, it will be due to you, not to me.”
Mary wanted to believe him. She could not decide whether he spoke true or not. She licked her dry, cracked lips. “If you wish us no harm, then why have you abducted us?”
“’Tis not obvious? I do not trust your husband, Mary; in fact, there are many here in Scotland who do not trust him, many who are distraught over his marriage to you. At the moment his power is only pertinent in England, but once your child is born, who knows?”
Mary stared, eyes wide, finally comprehending. Duncan was afraid of her child. In a flash she understood why her child frightened him more than her brothers did. Her brothers had no support. But her unborn son had all of the vast power of Northumberland at his disposal—he would be Stephen’s heir. Her child, if a boy, would also be Malcolm’s grandson, and one day, perhaps, a contender for the throne himself.
Duncan saw that she understood. “That is the crux of it, sister dear. I need leverage over your husband to keep him in my power. I wish for him to continue to support me— for as long as I live.”
Fear clenched Mary hard. She managed to push herself up into a sitting position. Out of breath, she asked, “You have not answered me.”
“Oh, but I have. You see, if you are my guest—you and the child—Stephen will not dare oppose me.”
Mary blanched. “You will hold me hostage? You will hold us hostage? For how long?”
“Indefinitely.”
Mary began to pant. “You are crazy!” But she knew he was not mad. He was very clever. If he had murdered her. Stephen would pursue him, and oppose him, with a vengeance. But if she and her child were hostages, he would have no choice but to support him.
Now Duncan was angry. “If I am mad, then the great Conqueror was mad, too, was he not? After all, Malcolm gave me to the Conqueror as a hostage when I was a small boy; I was to be a guarantee for his good behavior—not that it worked! For Malcolm cared not about my welfare, and he broke his oath to King William as he willed. I am lucky to be alive! Indeed, I am lucky to have even come home—after twenty-two damnable years!”
Mary stared.
“You shall bear the brat here, you shall live here, for as long as I deem it necessary,” Duncan said coldly. “Perhaps one day your worth will be less, and I will allow you to leave. But the child—if it is a boy—shall remain here.” Duncan smiled. “As I was forced to remain at William’s court. Why are you so pale? Edinburgh is your home, and the brat is a quarter Scot. Really, there is little hardship in this if you think about it. You will only suffer if you choose to consider yourself a hostage instead of a guest.”
“Stephen will not allow this,” Mary found her voice. “He will appeal to the King. Rufus will force you to return me, you shall see.”
“No, my dear, you are wrong. For Rufus has decided that he erred when he agreed to your marriage to de Warenne. Just recently, in fact, he gave me carte blanche to do with you and the child as I see fit.”
Mary knew that she must regain her strength quickly. Time was not on her side, not with the babe due in a month. She spent the next few days in bed, resting and recovering from the long, hard ride to Scotland. She ate large, hearty meals and drank much water, avoiding wine and ale, which increased her tendency to lethargy. She left her bed to take exercise twice daily in the bailey, working the stiffness from her muscles, hoping to keep her body strong. And she planned her escape.
