The momentum of his dive ended. Stephen swam with furious intention now. He thrashed through the water, churning his arms madly. His lungs began to ache, began to burn. Where was she?
He refused to give up. He could not give up. If he did, she would die.
Pain began to distract him, threatening to overwhelm him. Stephen forced his mind to function—he must not lose sight of his goal, he must find Mary! He thrashed about in a circle, forcing his body even deeper, lights beginning to explode in his brain. Panic started to sear him, an animal panic that had no logic. The instinct for survival, the instinct that screamed at him to cease this madness and swim for the surface,now,warred with his determination to find her. But hemustfind her.He could not live without her. How he needed her. It was all so very clear.
He could no longer breathe.
Apparently he would die with her this day.
Brilliant white light consumed his brain, and with it, pain. His fingers brushed fabric.
Stephen began to choke. But he had already grabbed a fistful of silk tunic. A moment later he had her in one of his arms. Kicking furiously, pawing the water with his one free arm, he forced them both upwards, upwards and upwards, through the thick, heavy, punishing torrents of water. He vowed that they would make it.
His head broke the surface of the river first. He gulped air into his burning lungs, hazily aware of men shouting from the dock, their images blurred and out of focus. Mary floated loosely in his arms. His vision sharpened. Horror seized him. Her face was pinched blue, lifeless.
“Stephen,” someone shouted. It was Brand. A second later his brother was beside him in the water, taking Mary from him and swimming with her to the shore. Stephen followed. Many arms reached for him, pulling him onto the wooden dock.
Stephen shrugged off the men. He crawled to Mary, who lay on her back. She was not breathing.
“Stephen,” Brand panted, gripping his arm. There was commiseration in his tone.
Violently Stephen flung him off. He flipped Mary onto her stomach. He smacked her hard on the back. She spewed up gallons of water. He smacked her there again, and more water came from her in a rush like a geyser.
He flipped her onto her back. “Breathe!” he cried. “Breathe, Mary, please!”
She was unmoving, a corpse.
Brand gripped him again from behind. “Stephen … she is dead.”
“No!” he cried. In that moment he knew nothing other than that no one, not even God, would cheat him of his wife. She needed air. He would give her his.
He bent over her, touching his lips to hers. He forced open her mouth. He forced his own life breath into her. Again and again. He thought that her body quivered ever so slightly—and savage hope seared him.
“Stephen, stop,” Brand finally said from somewhere above him, agonized.
Stephen did not hear him. His hands found her narrow rib cage. He pushed it in as he pumped more of his own air into her lungs. He found a rhythm not unlike that of his own natural breathing.
Mary seemed to grow warm beneath his cheek.
He paused, grabbing her face in his hands, staring down at her. She seemed less blue, she seemed to move … Dear God, she was breathing!
With a cry that sounded like a sob, Stephen collapsed beside her on the dock.
“She’s breathing!” someone exclaimed. “De Warenne’s given her back her life!”
Stephen flung his arm over his eyes so no one would see him crying. He could not stop the flood of tears. He had not cried in seventeen years. It was amazing, for he had thought that he had forgotten how.
“Get a physic and furs,” Brand was ordering. A moment later Stephen was aware of his brother wrapping a tunic around his mostly naked body. He had been clad in nothing but braies and hose. He began to shiver. But he threw off the tunic, ignoring Brand’s protest, sitting up. Mary had been covered as well. He pulled her into his arms and rose to his feet with his brother’s aid. Mary was alive; nevertheless, she was barely breathing and as pale as any ghost. His gaze met Brand’s.
“Bring me a horse,” he said. “Then send the physic to Graystone.”
Stephen laid Mary on his bed, quickly and efficiently stripped her of her sodden clothing, and wrapped her in several woolen blankets and a heavy fox fur. She was still a deathly shade of white, and from time to time a shudder swept her. She was unconscious.
Without hesitation, Stephen stripped off his own wet underclothes and crawled into the bed with her. He pulled her into his arms and between his legs. He began to massage her icelike hands.
Not for the first time Stephen looked at Mary, his face a mask of bitterness, anger, and fear. How, he despaired, how could she hate him so much? Had he not known Mary, he would think this all a bad dream. It was incredible that a woman would go to such lengths to avoid wedlock. And who, who had dared to try and take her life? Who was behind the masked assassin?
“She was trying to escape,” Stephen said some time later in the hall below. All the de Warenne men were gathered there, even Geoffrey, who had spent the night and had been planning to adjourn to Canterbury that morning. “But alas, her plans went awry. For as she waited for the boat, a masked man came upon her from behind, and pushed her into the River Thames.”
