“You bastard!” she cried, and she smacked the wine out of his hand.
It spilled on his crimson hose and the embroidered hem of his velvet tunic. He leapt to his feet, grabbing her wrist and yanking her painfully against him. He slapped her hard across the face.
Adele screamed in fury, struggling to break free. He hit her once more, just to teach her her place. Then he released her. Enraged, she backed away, her bosom heaving heavily. He noticed that her nipples were taut. But then, he was taut, too.
“Who is it!” she demanded, her cheek a fierce pink from the blows.
“’Tis Malcolm Canmore’s daughter,” he said, with real satisfaction.
She gasped, stunned. “He weds a King’s daughter?”
“He weds a princess,” he smirked.
Adele made a strangled sound and turned away, shaking, to face the fire. He came up behind her, touching her shoulders, so close that his full groin brushed her buttocks. “Even you cannot rival a princess, dear heart, and they say she is a beauty.”
She wrenched away from him. She said nothing—there was nothing to say.
Mary rode beside Stephen on a dainty white palfrey, he on his massive brown destrier. Two dozen knights trailed them, and just behind them, one retainer held the Northumberland flag. The crimson rose on the black, white, and gold field waved above them, proclaiming their arrival into Londontown.
Tolling bells from the royal chapel announced their arrival as they rode sedately towards the drawbridge being lowered to accommodate them. At another time, perhaps, Mary might have been interested by the sight of this palace. Begun by the Conqueror—constructed upon an old Roman site, ancient Roman walls actually a part of the fortifications—it was comprised of the whitewashed tower, four stories high, its battlements crenellated, and a large bailey with curtained walls, and the surrounding wharves. Watchmen paced the towers, and archers guarded the walls. The wharf was quiet now, with many barges and smaller vessels placidly at anchor, including some obviously of exotic origin.
Mary saw nothing but the walls and the Tower. Her stomach was in knots. As it had been ever since she had knelt in the chapel at Alnwick and been formally betrothed yesterday.
The betrothal was official. The betrothal had been real. It was no trick. And now she was within moments of entering the Tower. Seeing the immense fortress now, one still not complete, Mary was stricken with the realization that Malcolm could not possibly free her once she was within those unbreachable walls.
Mary began to shake.
The betrothal was official, there had been no rescue from Alnwick or since leaving it, and there would be no rescue now or in the future. To think so, to hope so, was sheer insanity. Dear Lord, there was no trick.
There was no trick. Her father had handed her over to Stephen de Warenne without even a fare-thee-well. She was nothing but a political sacrifice.
The pain began to rise up in her, and Mary had to shut off her thoughts. If she did not, she might very well enter the King’s household in a tearful fit.
They trotted over the drawbridge, beneath the black fangs of the portcullis, and into the bailey. Once inside, they were instantly surrounded by armed knights wearing the King’s colors in a fashion that was far from reassuring. Mary could not move. Stephen slid from his destrier. His strong hands closed around her waist, and his eyes met hers. “Do not fear,” he breathed. “’Tis but a show.”
He pulled her down from the palfrey and into his arms. Mary was trembling and panting. The moment she realized that she was in his embrace—and he was Stephen de Warenne, the man she would truly wed, the man her father had coldly given her to—she twisted free abruptly. The many royal knights circled them, cutting them off from Stephen’s own men. “Why have the King’s men surrounded us?” she cried.
In a near panic it blazed through her mind that she would be taken from Stephen, becoming not his wife but the King’s prisoner. As much as she hated being Northumberland’s bride, it was nothing compared to the thought of being torn from him and thrown in the Tower’s dungeons.
Stephen put his arm around her comfortingly, but his face was drawn tightly, his gaze cold and dangerous, belying his gesture and his tone. “’Tis a show, Mary, a show for me and for my enemies. You are to be my wife. Rufus knows better than to go back on his word. He would never infuriate my family so—he needs us far too much.”
Mary was not calmed. How could she be? She was surrounded by the enemy,hewas the enemy, and no matter what Stephen said, she was obviously to be detained. Besides, she did not believe that he had confidence in his own avowals, for he was rigid with tension and anger, too. Mary was overwhelmed. Emotions she was determined to crush threatened to overpower her. She was truly betrothed to Stephen de Warenne; in a matter of weeks, she would be his wife, and in another minute she would enter the Tower as the King’s “guest,” and dear, sweet, merciful Jesus, her father had not even waited to see if she was with child before handing her over to his greatest enemy!
Mary had to close her eyes and take a breath, feeling faint. She realized that she clutched Stephen’s hand.
It occurred to her that despite the betrayal, he was her anchor in this storm-tossed sea. Furious with herself, with him, with everyone and everything, she wrenched her hand free.
A man detached himself from the dozen knights ringing them, a winsome smile on his bold features. “I have come to greet you. Stephen, in the name of my brother, the King.”
Stephen placed his arm around Mary’s stiff shoulders, turning towards Prince Henry. “I am honored, Henry.”
Henry grinned at him, then focused on Mary. She stared at him as if he had two heads.
She had seen the prince at Abernathy as well, and as he was of the royal household—when it suited him—she knew of him. His reputation as a prolific ladies’ man was renowned. ’Twas said he had sired more than a half dozen bastards already, but the look he gave her now was not quite as lustful as it was intense. Her wits were too scrambled for her to fully decipher it. Regardless, he unnerved her, and she flushed.
“Welcome to the Tower, Princess,” he said amiably.
Mary knew her manners, and as much as she did not like it, she curtsied. Stephen was forced to drop his arm from her shoulders.
