Immediately Mary turned away, but she was still shocked with what she had discovered—for she had not a single doubt that it was true.
She had no choice but to look up at Malcolm. He was smiling at her as he always had, and her heart twisted painfully. Tears formed in her eyes. His gaze was warm, affectionate. It was as if that horrid moment upon the moors had never happened, as if there had been no negotiation over her as if she were mere chattel, and unloved at that. It was as if he was glad to see her. “F-Father,” she managed.
“Daughter! How pretty you are, as always! Are you well?”
Mary nodded, trembling. She stared at her father, wishing desperately that he might take her in his arms. Of course, Malcolm had never been one to show such exuberant affection. She did not expect him to do so now.
But in that blink of an eye, Mary knew she loved her father and she always would. She knew he loved her as well. He had given her to Stephen for politics, but that was every bride’s end. She had never expected to marry for love—yet through an incredible twist of fate, she was. Her feelings of betrayal had been generated by mere appearances that day upon the moors. But ’twas only that, appearances. Malcolm had seemed harsh and singularly unconcerned for her welfare, and there was no explanation, not when faced with his warmth now. Perhaps he had been so hard because he was dealing with the enemy, and not just his enemy but the man who had abducted and ruined his daughter. Mary could not know. It did not matter. She loved him, and she forgave him with all her heart.
Mary turned to her mother, who stretched out her arms. Mary released a harsh sob, rushing into her dear and familiar and oh so comforting embrace. Margaret rocked her as if she were in swaddling. When the embrace ended, Mary smiled up at her mother through her tears, and saw that Margaret was crying, too.
“You are finally to be wed,” Margaret whispered. “My little minx is finally to be wed.”
“I am happy, Mother.”
“Oh, thank God!”
They hugged each other again. Then Edgar swooped down upon her, demanding after her welfare. Because they were so close in age, they had been nearly inseparable as children, and of all her brothers, Mary was closest to him. He was grim, clearly unhappy with her betrothal and worried about her, reminding Mary once again of the political realities. She glanced at Edward, the oldest brother, and the most practical. Mary was used to turning to him for wisdom and advice. So often he had rescued her from her mischievous deeds, calming her when distraught, defending her when accused. He, too, was somber. And Edmund was openly displeased.
Mary was dismayed. And suddenly she became aware of tension seething at her back. She turned from her brothers to witness Malcolm and Stephen exchanging terse, barely civil, greetings. Mary’s heart sank.
How they despised each other. There was no amiability between her father and her betrothed, just cold, hard-edged, hate-filled politeness—if that.
The memory flashed through her mind. The winter-white day, cold and bleak, the bare, gaunt trees, the freezing wind. Stephen, hard and proud, standing behind Rufus at Abernathy, while Malcolm pledged his fealty to the King of England on bended knee. Malcolm’s face had been a mask of hatred and fury.
Nothing had changed, except that Stephen appeared to detest Malcolm with an equal fervor.
Mary told herself that she could bring Stephen and Malcolm together—she could. Once upon a time she would have never considered such a possibility. Now she must do more than consider it, she must breathe life into the event of peace. Surely one and all could see the logic of an alliance between her family and Stephen’s. There had been so much bloodshed over the past two generations; was it not time for a lasting peace?
Mary was determined. For she had the horrible feeling that she would be the one to pay the price of war, she and Stephen.
Margaret smiled and touched her cheek, breaking into her thoughts. “Come. We have permission to adjourn to the next room.”
Surprised, Mary glanced at Stephen, to see him nod. Then she realized that it would only be her mother and herself enjoying a private moment; undoubtedly her mother thought she must impart some maternal advice to her daughter on the eve of her wedding.
Mary made sure not to glance at Doug as she passed him, following her mother behind one of the oak partitions. But she sensed that he was both determined and desperate, and she was filled with trepidation. Was her plate not full enough already? She could not handle anything more, not today!
Margaret did not waste time. “Are you all right, dear?”
“I am fine, Mother.”
“Are you with child?”
Mary blushed and was ashamed. “I do not know yet. Mother—forgive me.”
Margaret’s smile was tender and forgiving, but she said, “I cannot do that, my dearest. Only God can forgive you—God and yourself.”
“I love him, Mother,” Mary said almost shyly.
Margaret burst into tears, taking Mary’s hands. “How happy I am! Oh, ’tis so rare to marry and find love, too!”
“You love Father.”
“Aye, I do.” Margaret cupped her chin. “Need I remind you of your duties? As a good, Christian wife?”
“I promise to be obedient, Mother. To Stephen and to God.”
“Do not forget your duties to those who depend upon you, Mary. Do not forget that you shall be responsible for all those who toil for your lord, both vassals and villeins. And do not neglect the poor and the sick, my dear.”
