Mary stumbled, furious. One look at this knight’s annoyed, set expression told her her cause was lost. Panting, she turned to face the assembled women. One and all, even Isobel, were staring at her in shock.
“’Tis Malcolm,” Mary cried. “’Tis Malcolm Canmore, King of Scotland, come for me at last!”
Chapter 8
If Malcolm Canmore had not been flying the white flag, Stephen would have never left the impenetrable safety of Alnwick with the knights he had on hand, so little did he trust the man. As he rode through the barbican at the head of his men, the banner of the rose flying above them, excitement gripped him. He had been waiting for this moment ever since he had learned the truth about Mary and decided to make her his wife.
He must proceed with care. So much was at stake. He must convince Malcolm to give him his daughter for a bride. Finally peace was a distant glimmer upon the horizon—one until now red with blood—and nothing must stop him from attaining it.
Malcolm’s appearance was no surprise. Stephen had been expecting the Scot King, and his men had been prepared for the worst. Behind Stephen, two dozen of his best knights were fully armored and fully armed, and behind them, the walls of Alnwick were heavily manned with crossbowmen who could easily launch an onslaught against the Scot army if it dared any trickery. Geoffrey and Brand rode beside him.
Malcolm Canmore waited for him on the other side of the moat, at the head of a huge army that numbered several hundred. Only a third of their number was mounted; the rest was on foot, but all were battle-ready with sword, axes, and arrows. As Stephen rode across the bridge, his men behind him, Malcolm and three men separated themselves from their army and rode slowly forward to meet him.
Stephen had been at Abernathy two years ago when Malcolm had sworn homage to William Rufus. Malcolm had also sworn fealty many years before to Rufus’s father, the Conqueror, breaking it time and again as he willed. He had only pledged himself at Abernathy to William Rufus after having been soundly defeated and failing in yet another attempt to extend his border south. He was a shrewd and treacherous man, and not to be trusted.
Stephen had already thought long and hard about how he would handle this interview with Malcolm. Although he was determined to wed the princess, not only did he need Malcolm’s agreement, he also needed both his father’s and his King’s approval—which would not be forthcoming until Geoffrey reached London, spoke with Rolfe, and Rolfe in turn spoke with the King. Therefore Stephen was in a precarious position. He was usurping tremendous authority in negotiating his marriage, but he had little choice if he was to attain his goal and take Mary to wife.
He was prepared to offer Malcolm whatever he must, and he was not worried about his father; he fully expected the earl to be pleased with the sudden turn of events. King William Rufus was a different matter.
Would Rolfe be able to persuade the King? Thinking about Rufus caused Stephen’s expression to tighten, his eyes to darken. He was a loyal vassal, as duty demanded, but that did not mean he liked his King, whom he had never forgiven for his betrayal so many years ago. Somehow, the little, lonely boy still lived on, somewhere deep in the shadows of his soul. Rufus had not changed in the ensuing seventeen years since Stephen had first arrived at court as a hostage for his father’s continuing support. He was treacherous, he was shrewd, he was arbitrary. Too often he acted upon whim, seeking only his own pleasure and his own satisfaction. Stephen could not be sure that William Rufus would agree to this marriage. He might perversely enjoy thwarting the de Warennes, he might perversely enjoy thwarting Stephen—which was far more likely. Or he might hesitate, understandably so, to join Northumberland with his deadliest northern enemy.
The two groups of riders stopped, facing each other. Stephen was flanked by Brand and Geoffrey, the latter an oddity on this battlefield, in his cross and dark robes. Malcolm sat a magnificent chestnut stallion, surrounded by three men Stephen recognized as Malcolm’s sons.
Malcolm edged his mount forward; so did Stephen. The Scot King’s lined face was as immobile as carved granite. Only his blue eyes burned with rage. “What do you demand, swine of swine?”
“No formalities?” Stephen asked.
“Do not mock now! You had no regard for formalities when you kidnapped my daughter, bastard!”
Stephen did not flinch. That his enemies still called him bastard was to be expected—nothing could change the fact of his birth. It was not pleasant, but he had learned to ignore such insults as a young boy. “When I happened upon your daughter, she was ill dressed and chose to tell me thatshewas the bastard, the bastard of some puny northern laird.”
For a brief instant, that threw Malcolm. He recovered as quickly. “God’s blood! She was always too damn original! What do you demand of me, de Warenne?”
“A bride.”
The men facing him all stiffened, stunned. Except for Malcolm, whose eyes flashed. Then one of them reached for his sword, drawing it. Before he had even finished the action, Brand had unsheathed his blade as well, with Geoffrey suddenly wielding a mace, and so quickly did everyone move that it was almost a single simultaneous flash of dulled metal. Then, as Edgar cried, “Skewer him!” both armies drew their swords. The plain clanged with the vibrant sound of a hundred blades being swept from a hundred scabbards at the same time.
Only Malcolm and Stephen remained unarmed, yet both men had their hands upon their hilts, their knuckles white.
Sweat dotted Stephen’s brow. A similar glimmer stained Malcolm’s face. Tension vibrated visibly between the two armies; the moors crackled with it. No one moved, no one even breathed, and Stephen knew that if someone did, the two armies would leap at one another instantaneously.
“Peace,” Stephen said firmly, his words carrying. “You come in peace, I wish to speak in peace.” No man, of course, sheathed his weapon, but some of the tension seemed to drain out of the many armed men.
“’Twas not very peaceful of you to take my daughter,” Malcolm mocked. “’Tis easy, is it not, to speak of peace now?”
“As I have said, she was dressed like a villein, she even disguised her speech and manner, then dared to tell me her name was Sinclair.”
“Perhaps I will kill you anyway—whoreson,” Malcolm hissed. His eyes glittered.
Instantly Stephen spoke, for it was obvious to him that Malcolm was more interested in battling him than in speaking of his daughter. “Perhaps there is much to be gained for the both of us from this circumstance.”
“The only thing that I wish to gain, you have,” Malcolm said with a cold smile. “Your life and your patrimony.”
Stephen’s hand tightened on the reins. His stallion, conveyed an imperceptible message, began to dance, readying himself. Yet Stephen truly wished to avoid battle. His goal remained unchanged, to gain Malcolm’s approval for Mary’s hand, and he would do what he had to do, say what he had to say, in order to achieve it. “Let us cease this warfare. Let us think on the future. For once and forever, let us unite our families. Let me take her to wife. And one day, her son shall rule Northumberland.”
Malcolm shrieked a terrifying war cry, raised his sword, and brutally swung it at Stephen as he rode forward. Their steeds clashed, two tons of animal, the one against the other. The heavy broadsword, swung with both hands, hit the heavy shield Stephen quickly raised. The blow sounded loudly. Malcolm swung again; and again Stephen deflected the sword with his shield, making no attempt to raise any weapon of his own. The sound of metal clashing echoed across the moors. Men on both sides of the battle stood tensed and ready. Mercilessly swinging his sword again and again, Malcolm drove Stephen backwards. If Stephen were not one of the foremost warriors in the land, if he were only a fraction less strong, he would have not been able to take the powerful, ruthless blows. One such thrust, should it be successful, would cleave him in two; Malcolm wanted to kill him. Had it been Stephen’s daughter, he would try and kill the usurper of her innocence as well. But he knew that Malcolm sought to kill him for the simple fact that he hated him.
Malcolm’s blows grew slower, as if the huge sword he wielded grew heavier. Stephen’s arms, shoulders, and back ached from absorbing the full impact of each stroke; even his hands hurt from their relentless grip on his shield. Sweat began to interfere with his vision; it also drenched Malcolm, whose face was nearly purple from exertion. Finally the King of Scotland tried to raise his sword and failed; abruptly he let it hang. “Fight, damn you!”
