“Rufus demanded my presence here, as you know—then once I arrived, he failed to summon me for three entire days.” Geoffrey’s blue eyes flashed with hard sapphire brilliance. “He enjoys toying with his subjects, he enjoys abusing his power!”
“Did you meet with him at last?”
“I have just left him.” Geoffrey faced Stephen, intense. “He spent half an hour ranting to me about Archbishop Anselm. It appears, now that Rufus has recovered from his brush with death, that they have had an abrupt falling out. I suspected Anselm of being a zealot, and his actions this week have proved my suspicions correct.”
“Dare I ask what they fight over?”
Geoffrey barked with mirthless laughter. “They argue over a minor part in the ordination ceremony, a part the King demands to be his right, which, of course, the Church is claiming.”
“And after he finished raving about Anselm?”
“As I anticipated, he wanted to know exactly how many knights the see owes the Crown.”
“Did he say why?”
“No, but he hinted that he would be demanding his vassals shortly.” Geoffrey grimaced, his gaze piercing. “Rufus has told me that, should Anselm refuse to field the knights, he expects me to do so.”
Stephen stared as the immensity of his brother’s predicament dawned upon him. Finally he said, “Tell me, Geoff. Whom would you defy? Your archbishop or your King?”
Geoffrey turned his blazing blue eyes towards the distant horizon, as if seeking the answer from God. “I do not know.”
Stephen was silent, commiserating with his brother, whose battles were as great and as endless as his own.
Geoffrey hesitated. “Stephen, he cannot be thinking of going to Normandy now.”
Stephen started. A very alien feeling of dread swept through him, chilling him to the bone.
“His relations with his brother Robert are peaceable at this moment. I have a feeling, brother, that despite your marriage to the Scot princess, Rufus intends treachery. I think he still might invade Carlisle.” Geoffrey clapped his hand upon his shoulder. “Should he do so, it will not be easy for you and Mary, I know,” he said with sympathy.
Stephen could not speak. His brother’s words were a vast understatement. Should Rufus summon his vassals to invade Carlisle, Stephen would be summoned, too. Already Mary hated him. Already his marriage had little chance in hell of being more than a truce seething with hostility. If England invaded Carlisle, any chance they might have for happiness would surely disintegrate with the first sword blow.
Mary knew that she must not be a coward. Rufus’s open scorn had taken her by surprise. Now that she knew how he felt about her, and having had time to think about it, she guessed it had to do with his dislike for her father and his preference for boys. Now she was prepared, and she would not appear the dimwit this time.
Stephen arrived in order to escort her down to a late supper. They barely exchanged civilities. Just before they arrived on the landing below, some of Mary’s courage evaporated. She could hear loud masculine voices raised in drunken conversation and rough laughter, and every tale she had ever heard about the decadence of Rufus’s Court came swiftly to mind. Drinking and debauchery ruled the day. Mary was aware of feeling terribly alone.
She did not realize that she had paused. She jumped slightly when Stephen placed his hand upon her waist. Briefly she met his searching gaze, then quickly looked away. She wondered what he would do if he knew of her plan to escape with the help of Adele Beaufort.
Perhaps a hundred lords and ladies were present at the table, dining with their King. Already the table was heavily laden with food and drink, and behind the diners, clowns caroused and a minstrel sang. Stephen guided her past the low end of the table, towards the dais where King Rufus sat.
Rufus had been laughing; now his smile died and he stared. Not at her, but at Stephen. Mary felt compelled to glance up at Stephen’s face. It was bland, impossible to read.
“Come, come, sit with me!” Rufus cried with a smile. “We have yet to finish our discussion, dear Stephen.”
They took their seats, as guests of honor, upon the dais. The King was on Mary’s left. Mary so hated him that she was rigid with tension, although she knew she must disguise her emotions. The last thing she should do was anger the King of England while a virtual prisoner in his keep.
Stephen sat upon her other side. He had said nothing to her since escorting her to the meal, and now he began to respond to the King’s amiable questions. He sat uncomfortably close to her—their thighs pressed from knee to hip. Mary wanted nothing to do with him, but the table was overcrowded and there would be no relief from Stephen’s proximity until the meal had ended.
Mary became aware of the many avid and curious glances directed her way. She was on display.
Her cheeks grew hot. She was no guest of honor, and everyone knew it, she thought bitterly. She was a prisoner and a heathen Scot. The Norman lords and ladies were staring at her as if she had scales and breathed fire.
Then Mary noticed Adele Beaufort. She sat just below the dais, ignoring Mary, although frequently she cast her sultry gaze upon Stephen. Reminded of their plan, the details of which had yet to be formed, Mary grew uncomfortable, for if all went well, Adele would one day become Stephen’s wife.
The Essex heiress sat between two men Mary recalled from earlier that day. They had been present in the King’s private chamber when she had suffered through the humiliating interview. One of the men was tall and auburn-haired, and for some reason, he seemed strangely familiar to Mary, but she was certain they had never met.
Still Stephen did not speak to her. The King was expounding upon some difficulties he was having in Kent. Mary did not listen. Mary could hardly care. Stephen, while attentive to Rufus, was offering her his wine.
Mary could not drink. How she wished to be anywhere but there, how she wished the meal were over.
