“How wisely you have chosen,” Rufus murmured. Then his voice turned sharp. “Let us be done with it!”
Before the gathered witnesses, Geoffrey swore to uphold and obey his liege lord, King William of England, in all manner and for all time. In turn, Rufus surprised him by granting him a small but exceedingly rich manor farther in the south. Geoffrey kissed the King’s knee and was allowed to rise.
Their gazes met. There was no mistaking Rufus’s satisfaction. “Prove that you are worthy of the trust I place in you, and you shall go far,” Rufus said.
Geoffrey could not mistake his meaning. The test was not done yet. And should he continue to submit to the King’s will, there would be more for him personally to gain. As he was only an archdeacon, Rufus very obviously referred to a more significant appointment. Geoffrey did not feel elated. Instead, his insides constricted painfully. Instead, he felt a moment of frightening despair.
The choice he had just made would be nothing like the choice he must soon make, if the King spoke true.
Rolfe came over and gripped his arm, his smile reassuring but not overly bright. As he prepared to leave, the King called out. “Wait, dear archdeacon, wait.”
Slowly Geoffrey turned.
Rufus smiled. “I am afraid your work has hardly begun. You see, just this morning Anselm has refused me. He will not muster the knights owed to me. He refuses to use the power of Canterbury, he says, to further my own bloody ambition.” Rufus stared. His next words rang like a question. “You, of course, will bring me the vassals owed.”
It was the first test. Geoffrey did not pause. Regardless of what might eventually come. “When—and where?”
“In two weeks time we advance upon Carlisle.”
Geoffrey reeled. Beside him, his father stared at the King in shock. Then the father and son who were such exact replicas of each other exchanged glances, alarm mirrored equally in both of their eyes.
Rufus smiled and rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Malcolm will never suspect our plans, coming as they do just days before the union of his dear daughter and our dear Stephen.” Rufus crowed. “We cannot possibly fail! The Scot is finally doomed!”
Mary could not sleep. At supper Adele had given her the “yes” signal that they had agreed upon. She was filled with despair. If she dared to analyze her thoughts more closely, she might very well learn that she had no real wish to escape her betrothed.
But she must. She must flee this hateful marriage. How could she wed him now, after all that had passed?
Had he not destroyed her life?
She rolled onto her side. The bell had tolled lauds and soon the sky would gray, soon she must begin her attempt to flee all that was abhorrent to her. For some wild reason, a sob seemed to be working its way up from her chest. She gulped it down. An image of the gorgeous red wool, the gift Stephen had brought her, filled her mind yet again.
His page had made sure she knew that his lord had ridden all the way to Cheapside to do the picking himself.
Mary turned onto her stomach, feeling lost. She could not fathom why he had brought her the present that he had after she had flung her hatred of him in his face. It was making her feel miserable. For tonight she would repay him with treachery.
His dark image swam before her. His even darker words as he told her that she should be wary of Adele, that friends did not exist. He was a lonely man. How clearly she recognized that now. He most certainly needed a friend, a helpmeet, a wife.
But it would not be her. He had ruined her life. He had, and Mary knew she would never be able to forgive him for it.
Her temples throbbed as they so often did since she had arrived at Court and learned the obvious truth, that her father intended no ruse, but a real alliance. Mary closed her eyes. Still, tears seeped. Although she intended escape, what would happen to her once she reached her home? Would Malcom welcome her—or send her back?
If he was the man she thought he was, he would welcome her with open arms, and he would be proud of how she had deceived the Norman enemy. Surely he had been coerced into forsaking her. Mary had thought long and hard and had yet to find a single advantage that her marriage would bring to Scotland, other than peace. And Malcolm scoffed at peace, bent as he was on extending his borders until Scotland was as it had once been.
Mary was not sure she could go through with it. She kept recalling Malcolm’s words that day upon the moors. “Mackinnon brings me vast support. What do you bring me?” And she kept seeing Stephen as she had last seen him that afternoon, his face dark with disappointment when she failed to thank him for his gift.
“Mary,” Adele whispered in her ear. “’Tis time, you must go!”
Now was not the time to have second thoughts. Mary slipped from the bed, trembling. Her gaze met Adele’s. The heiress’s black eyes glittered with triumph. Soon she would have Stephen to herself—as she planned.
Stephen de Warenne poised the largest threat to the scheme Adele had designed. He was too shrewd, suspecting what was afoot. That night, at supper, Mary had followed Adele’s suggestion and put several drops of poppy into his wine. Stephen had downed several glasses of the narcotic-laced burgundy, and Mary had watched him growing sleepier and sleepier. When she had left him at her chamber door, he had been blinking at her, bleary-eyed. She had not a doubt that right now he was sound asleep, and would sleep that way for many hours more.
Adele gave Mary a shove. Mary could delay no longer. Outside the narrow window, through the costly colored glass, the night was no longer ink-black. Quickly Mary slipped on the clothes she had left within easy reach. Adele crept back to bed but watched her like a cat. None of the other women in the chamber stirred, and it was so quiet, she could hear her own slightly uneven breathing. She hurriedly pulled on her slippers, and feeling very much like a thief, she stole one of the lady’s cloaks.
Adele waved at her furiously to hurry and go.
The first gray light of dawn began to filter into the room as Mary let herself out. The guards questioned her while she explained that she needed to use the garderobe, shivering as if with cold, an explanation for the cloak. Her gaze drifted over Stephen. It was very dark in the corner where he’d made his pallet, and it was impossible to see him clearly, but he did not even snore. At least she need not worry about him; he would still be under the influence of the poppy. Her nerves fluttering, Mary followed one guard down the dark, empty corridor.
She slipped into the garderobe, ignoring the foul smells, waiting. It struck her then that she would never see Stephen again—unless Malcolm sent her back. Jesu, what was she doing!
