“What happened five years ago will happen again,” Rolfe continued in the same seductive tone. “You have too many vassals with landed interests in Normandy, vassals who belong not to you alone, but to your brother Robert as well. Like Odo of Bayeux and Robert of Mortain, they are pulled in two opposite directions constantly. It is an insufferable situation. These magnates want one liege lord, not two. They must have one, and it must be you.”
Rufus’s gaze burned. “You think I do not know well what you speak of? There are many who connive even now to put my brother Robert on my throne.”
“And there are many who know he is too weak to be King of England. Robert could not possibly unite England with her sister land.”
They stared at each other. Many minutes passed. Rufus finally sat down and leaned back in his chair. His face was hard and grim. There was no mistaking the magnitude of power the proposed alliance would bring to Northumberland, or the potential that existed for disaster should the de Warennes become too friendly with Scotland. There was also no doubt that Rolfe spoke the truth. He must be free to devote himself to regaining Normandy—if he wished to remain England’s King.
“Tell me,” Rufus suddenly said, “is she fair?”
Rolfe was startled. “The princess?” The King’s question was bizarre.
“Yes, Canmore’s daughter. Is she fair?”
“I do not know,” Rolfe said slowly, wondering where Rufus could be leading.
Rufus suddenly shrugged. “There is no woman more beautiful than Adele Beaufort, I suppose. And he was not taken with her.”
Rolfe said nothing. There was nothing to say. Whether Stephen might find his bride fair or not was more than irrelevant.
Rufus smiled, and it was mocking. “Enough. The idea is entertaining—and I will entertain it.”
Rolfe nodded and bowed slightly. “That is all I can ask, Sire.” But when he left the chamber he was smiling. And some time later he had sent a messenger north, riding hellbent to Malcolm Canmore.
Chapter 10
It was a trick.
Mary knew it was a trick. When she had finally calmed down, she had thought very carefully about the situation. Malcolm loved her, and while she did not think he would ever allow her to be stigmatized with a bastard, she was also certain that he would not hand her over to the enemy before he even knew whether she was with child or not. He hated the Normans too much.
The words she had overheard, the apparent bargain being made, had been a part of his very clever ruse.
Mary hugged herself. The night was cool, but there was also a terrible chill in her heart. Despite her certainty.
The moon rose, full and white. She watched its ascent, watched it part pearly gray skies. A thousand stars unfolded in accompaniment, and silvery moonlight danced within the chamber. She stood at the window slit, staring unseeing into the night. Isobel slept soundly and peacefully on the bed they shared behind her. The stars seemed to blur, losing their brilliance.
If only she had had a chance to speak with her father alone. If only he had taken her aside, if only he had comforted her, if only he had told her of his love and explained this ruse!
But he had not. He trusted her, knowing her to be loyal and clever, just as she trusted him to outwit the Normans in the end. And no one was more adept at outwitting the Normans than her father. He had been fighting them nigh on twenty years, fighting them tooth and nail, deceiving them as he must in order to survive and safeguard Scotland. As he now outwitted Stephen de Warenne.
For that was the only explanation why Stephen truly believed their marriage to be based upon some kind of political alliance. He had been duped.
Mary collected herself, wiping a teardrop away with her sleeve. There was no earthly reason for her tears. She must be strong, she must survive each and every day to the best of her ability, with pride and fortitude, and she must not conceive his child.
It was late, but her captor was still downstairs. That evening the hall had been unusually festive, much to Mary’s dismay. The men had caroused in an obvious celebration of their lord’s apparent success. As the hours passed, their voices grew more slurred. Now the hall below was silent; all had gone to bed.
Except Stephen. Mary could not imagine him drunk, but after this past night, he must be deep into his cups. She was being handed a golden opportunity. Stephen’s wits would be dimmed. Would there ever be a better occasion to confront him? To demand the details of all that had transpired between him and her father? To reassure herself of what must be the truth?
Mary did not hesitate. But as she hurried from the solar, her heart thumped. He found her desirable. Did not the bards tell tales of men who lost their wits to dangerous seductresses? Would it not be better to be a seductress than a firebrand? Dare she take on such a role?
Mary tried to ignore the warmth of her cheeks and the too rapid fluttering in her breast as she entered the hail. As she paused on the threshold, it occurred to her that she played a dangerous game. That she very well might wind up on her backside with her skirts about her ears.
She glanced around, trembling. The dying fire in the hearth still glowed, and she could see that the retainers within were all asleep. Occasional snores and moans sounded.
Her gaze shot to the dais; she expected to see Stephen there. No one graced the platform. She felt distinctly uneasy, disbelief welling up in her. She approached the two thronelike chairs in front of the fire from behind, thinking that perhaps he sat in one. But both chairs were vacant. Mary wrung her hands.
He was not upstairs abed and he was not in the hall carousing. She knew damn well what he was about. It was what all men were about at this ungodly hour, assuaging the stiff prick between their legs. Mary could not move, consumed with sudden fury.
Abruptly she turned. Her anger was misplaced. She did not care what the bastard did—no woman could expect fidelity from her lord, and he was barely that now and would never be that in the future.
