“Does my brother’s court not please you, Princess?”
Mary’s attention was diverted to Prince Henry, who sat on Rufus’s other side. He smiled at her. He reminded her of a lazing wolf, one that would soon spring upon its hapless victim. “Of course it pleases me, Sir Prince,” Mary said, somehow smiling. “How could it not? I mean, I am here with mybeloved,and we are honored by hisgreatKing. Indeed, I am overwhelmed.” Her tone was mostly innocent, but her eyes sparked.
Prince Henry stared at her, no longer smiling. He guessed at her sarcasm, which Mary intended for him to do. Unfortunately, Stephen had not been as engrossed in conversation with the King as she had thought, and he had heard her, too. For him, her facetious meaning was crystal-clear. Now he placed a warning hand upon hers. In turn, Mary gave him cow eyes and a brittle smile.
“And what do you think of London?” Henry asked, slouching now. But his gaze was sharp.
“Such a big city, how could I not be impressed? Indeed, you Normans are most impressive. Your deeds inspire awe.Allof them.” Mary could not stop herself. “After all, it takes great courage for you Normans to force a captive Scotswoman to the altar—does it not?”
Stephen froze—as had Henry. Mary trembled, for she had succeeded in infuriating Stephen, although Henry was amused.
“I imagine courage has little to do with it.” Henry’s lids lowered. When they lifted, he was smiling again, and Mary found herself tensing. “Do you not want to meet your dear brother, Princess?” he drawled.
“My brother?” In an instant he had shattered her composure.
“Pardon me, what a slip of the tongue! Your half brother,mybrother’s dear friend, Duncan,” Henry laughed, gesturing towards the auburn-haired man who sat beside Adele, the man who had somehow seemed so familiar to her.
Mary started. Of course Duncan was here at court, for he had come here as a child hostage almost twenty years ago! He was her father’s eldest child, from his first marriage. In fact, he was close to the same age as Rufus and had undoubtedly grown up with him, which would explain how they had come to be such friends. And if they were such friends, it would explain why he had been one of the three courtiers closeted in such intimacy with the King that afternoon. Excitement rushed over Mary. She was no longer alone.
Duncan slowly stood, bowing slightly. “At long last,” he said, “we meet. I am overcome with this event, sister.”
Now Mary recognized him. His coloring was their father’s, as were his eyes. Although his words and tone were somewhat wry, his smile was warm. Mary smiled back. She had a real ally here at court, one real ally among so many enemies, her nearly forgotten half brother.
“Come, sister,” he said, holding out his hands and walking to the dais. “A kiss between long-lost siblings.”
He watched her.
Mary had been given the seat of honor on the dais directly beside the King, and Stephen de Warenne sat on her other side. Unlike that afternoon, when she had appeared bedraggled from the long ride, today she wore her finery in a blatant display of royalty and riches. The gold surcote with teal embroidery at the hem and sleeves set off her complexion in a dazzling manner, while a heavily bejeweled gold girdle and a circlet winking with sapphires proclaimed her status and wealth. Today there was no mistaking her for anyone other than a princess.
He watched her. She appeared to hate her groom, to hate her sojourn there in the Tower. She could not hide her displeasure, and Stephen de Warenne was hardly pleased. Her wit was obvious, as was her foolhardy courage. Yes, she was Malcolm’s daughter, in manner but not in appearance. There she was every bit Queen Margaret’s.
Rufus had called her boyish. She was small but hardly boyish; no woman so beautiful could be considered boyish. He doubted that her groom thought of her that way.
He looked at Stephen de Warenne. All evening de Warenne had listened to the King, speaking when it was necessary. He had not smiled even once. But Rufus did not care. He was animated as never before; his spirits had never been higher. And he was hardly drunk.
Stephen de Warenne met his gaze. Duncan looked away, feeling a frisson of fear. He had always disliked de Warenne. They had known each other for many years; although a decade separated them in age, they knew each other too well. Duncan had always been jealous of de Warenne’s manhood. Now, watching him in the seat that Duncan usually took upon the dais, he was more than jealous. He felt threatened. He told himself that Stephen de Warenne would not remain for long at Court, but he was not soothed.
Far from it. Three weeks remained until the nuptials, and three weeks was a dangerously long time.
Duncan was also peeved on another score. De Warenne had never tried to hide the contempt he felt for Duncan. To this day, Duncan did not know if that contempt was based upon the fact that he shared Rufus’s sexual preferences, or his political conniving. He had always suspected that de Warenne knew the truth about him—that he always did what he had to do in order to further his far-flung ambitions.
Now the fear de Warenne raised in him increased his ire. How Duncan despised him. But he did not hate him as much as he hated de Warenne’s bride, for Mary was his own flesh and blood.
Duncan could not help but turn his gaze onto Mary again. She had grown up in the bosom of their family, as he should have. He could not look at her without thinking of their father, whom he despised more than he despised anyone. The illustrious Malcolm Canmore. The heroic Scot King. The father who had given over his eldest son as a hostage to William the Conqueror for his own good behavior—then proceeded to violate his oath again and again, careless of how he endangered his son. The fact that Duncan survived was due solely to his own shrewdness, even as a boy.
Malcolm’s days of glory were numbered. He was old and one day soon, Duncan hoped, he would underestimate one of his enemies and succumb to a fatal blow. Then the throne of Scotland would be ripe for the plucking, and Duncan intended to be the one who plucked it.
Duncan would not let anyone stand in his way, certainly not his sister and her husband. While Northumberland had always remained loyal to the Crown, while it had always been instrumental in crushing rebellions, Northumberland had never before been allied to its enemy, Scotland. Duncan was shrewd enough to glimpse possibilities that boded ill for his ambitions. Northumberland might remain firm in its support for William Rufus—and thus for him—but what if it did not? The frightening ambition of the de Warennes was well known. What if they chose to support Malcolm’s choice of successor, his eldest, Edward, or attempted to thrust one of their own upon the throne? Mary’s unborn son had as much a claim to Scotland as anyone.
There was no question that this marriage was going to take place in three weeks time. Unless, of course, there was an accident…
Chapter 13
Stephen wandered among the stalls and vendors at Cheap-side. Repeatedly he was waylaid by the merchants, all of whom recognized a wealthy lord and prospective buyer when they saw one.
Several days had passed since he and Mary had arrived at Court, but little had changed. She made no secret of her hostility to him, their marriage, and the King. His sympathy for her distress had long since evaporated; his annoyance threatened to bloom into full-fledged anger. What woman refused to resign herself to her fate? Only Mary could be so bold and so determined.
Their union was still the talk of the Tower. Now speculation ran rampant. Stephen knew the lords and ladies of the Court expected him to bring Mary to heel, and soon, even if it meant beating her soundly for her defiance. They were beginning to snicker about his unwieldy relationship with his bride.
