Mary hated herself for her cowardice and followed Stephen, glad now for his grip upon her arm. He spoke briefly to the sergeants, and one disappeared within. A moment later the man returned and stepped aside so they could enter, escorted by two ushers.
The King stood in the center of the chamber while a cleric droned on, reading from scrolls, an account that sounded to Mary like an inventory of an estate. The King was not listening. He was staring in their direction with a look of great expectation.
For a moment Mary saw nobody else in the room, so colorful was William Rufus.
His long undertunic was a startling silver, his surcote the brightest purple Mary had ever seen, both gowns heavily embroidered in silver and gold thread. His gold girdle was several handspans wide and blinding in its brightness, encrusted with rubies and sapphires. His shoes were gilt, and upon the pointy toes were tassels strewn with more gems. He wore several heavy necklaces, many large rings, and of course, the crown of England.
Three courtiers lounged on chairs behind the King, listening to the cleric. All attention focused instantly upon the two of them as they entered the room. The cleric finally realized no one was paying him any mind, and his voice trailed off. Stephen led Mary across a silent chamber.
William Rufus smiled. To Mary’s surprise, he did not look at her, staring instead at Stephen. Mary did not understand. She glanced up at Stephen and saw that his expression was immobile and unreadable, as if carved in stone. When she turned again toward the King, he was finally remarking her, coldly and intensely, and somehow, he seemed displeased.
She knew she should not stare back, but she could not help herself, having never seen this man before, a man whom she had been taught to hate ever since she had been born.
She had heard he was a peacock as well as a sodomite, and that he spent lavish amounts of silver upon his wardrobe; still, his appearance surprised her. He exuded enough power that it stopped just short of being comical. He was of average height, florid, and just going to fat. Once he might have been attractive, but not anymore. His eyes were a bit small but unmistakably shrewd, and when he finally smiled, with real warmth, she saw that he was missing one tooth. He smiled only at Stephen.
“Welcome, Stephen, welcome. We did not expect you, only your bride.”
“Indeed?” Stephen said, his tone silky-soft. Mary realized in the instant that he spoke that he disliked this man immensely. His eyes were dark, his mouth tight, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in his tone. “You thought I would send my bride to you alone?”
Rufus shrugged. “But we are pleased to see you after such a lapse on your part. It has been too long since last you visited. We have much to discuss, you and I.” Rufus held out his hand. “You will dine with us tonight.”
Stephen bent on one knee and took the King’s hand, kissing the air above it. His movement was graceful, yet somehow lacking, for there was something disdainful in the set of his shoulders and his head. Rufus finally turned to Mary, who came forward until she stood beside Stephen. She curtsied deeply, and remained so until he told her to rise.
“So you are Malcolm’s daughter,” he mused. “Why has he waited so long to wed you? And how old are you? You appear more of a child than a woman.”
Mary bristled. She could not care for his condescension. As she raised her eyes, she was aware that she had the attention of every man in the room. She should not defy this man, England’s King, but she was loath to answer him. Finally, reluctantly, she answered one of his questions. “I am sixteen.”
Rufus’s regard had long since wandered to Stephen, who stood unmoving at Mary’s side. “Does she please you, Stephen?”
Mary gasped. What kind of question was this?
The King continued blandly—as if she were not present. “She is nothing like Adele, so small and pale—she could pass for a boy if it were not for her hair.”
Mary was enraged. She was also incredulous, that he would insult her so. She turned to Stephen, expecting a defense.
But Stephen shrugged. His mouth was tight. “You know I do not like boys.”
Rufus began to smile. “No—your women have always been fleshy and ripe.”
His tone as bland as the King’s, Stephen agreed with him.
“So she does not please you?” Rufus’s eyes gleamed now.
“She is Malcolm’s daughter.Thatpleases me, Sire.”
Mary was sick. It was the final, fatal blow. She clenched her fists, her own nails cutting her palms, nearly causing them to bleed. She told herself she would not throw up her noon meal, not now, not here, in front of everyone.
In the short silence that followed, Stephen gripped her arm, steadying her, for she was shaking again. Furiously Mary tried to jerk free. His hold was so tight, she was immobilized, and she quickly gave up. To her horror, her lids began to sting.
But Rufus had changed the topic. He began to ask Stephen if all was well in Northumberland. Mary did not listen, too devastated now to comprehend their words. She only wanted to get out of the royal chamber as quickly as possible, away from the horrible King, away from Stephen, away from the realizations that danced in her head.
But suddenly Rufus was addressing her. “How is your father?”
As Mary had been trying with all of her will not to think of Malcolm, she could not respond, not even when Stephen poked her. She blinked at the King, determined not to cry. Not here, not now, please, dear God.
“Your father, Princess,” Rufus repeated as if to an idiot. “How is your father? You do speak French?”
Mary tried to speak. But if she opened her mouth, she would sob or scream.
