With a curt nod, unable to speak and filled with dread, Mary turned abruptly and fled into the solar.
The countess looked up from the embroidery she held, her gaze concerned. Isobel raced over to Mary with a glad cry and began to tell her the latest news from the London Court. Mary nodded, pretending to listen, not hearing a word the child said. She tried telling herself that all was not as it appeared, that she was jumping to conclusions, and that her husband, in sending her from the room so he could speak with the men around him, was no different from most other men. Yet her silent words rang hollowly, and Mary did not believe them.
Carlisle. What did they plan? Could they be planning war? Could they?
It was not possible, Mary cried to herself in silence. For just that dawn Stephen had held her so tenderly after their lusty lovemaking, and his sleepy smile had spoken of love. Just yesterday he had given her the rose, his promise of undying love—or so she had thought. If he loved her, just a little, he would not make war with her family over Carlisle.
She had to find out their plans. Yet how could she eavesdrop without alerting the countess? Mary looked at Stephen’s mother and turned a guilty red, for the woman was regarding her somberly, making no attempt to wield her needle and thread, as if she comprehended what Mary intended. Mary felt like a lowly ’traitor, but she reminded herself that she was not about to betray anyone. She merely wanted to learn if her husband intended to war on her people or not. She had to know.
He must love me a little, she thought desperately.Just a little.In which case there would be no war—Stephen would refuse to participate.
“Excuse me, madame,” Mary said to the countess, “I am not feeling very well. I think I shall go upstairs to lie down.” How she hated deceiving her mother-in-law.
“Shall I have some fare sent up to you?” Lady Ceidre asked, standing now and watching Mary too closely, even gravely.
Mary had no appetite, and she declined. Then, nervously, she slipped from the solar.
As the women’s chamber opened directly upon the hall, she was once again interrupting the men’s conversation. They saw her instantly and all talk ceased. Mary ignored them, although her face burned with humiliation. She hurried from the hall. Only when she was halfway upstairs and she heard their voices resume did she pause, trembling, pressing against the wall.
And even as she did so, she was close to tears. She was newly wed and in love with her husband, but she was about to spy upon him.
She could not hear them well. Mary began inching silently downstairs. When she was on the second landing she could go no farther, for to turn the corner would be to reveal herself. But now she could hear their every word, and they were talking about all that she had feared—treachery against her father—an attack upon Carlisle.
“He summons every knight I can muster,” Geoffrey was saying.
“How do you stand with Anselm?” Stephen asked, his voice strangely toneless.
“We are enemies. He is far more zealous than I ever dreamed,” Geoffrey said grimly. “But Rufus needs Canterbury now more than ever. My spies say that the prince is so enraged with your wedding, he refuses to spend himself on this cause. While I have beggared myself to muster these men, as Canterbury’s treasury is dry.”
“Your duty is clear. And though you may be impoverished now, do not forget how close you are to reaping your true reward,” Rolfe said firmly. “No price is too dear should you succeed in gaining an appointment from the King.”
Geoffrey said nothing in reply.
Rolfe continued. “Do not be fooled. Henry chooses to keep his nose clean now only so he can bloody it another day. Is it not better for all of us to fight as one—and to be weakened as one? Who better to next step into the breach than the ever clever prince?”
“Hopefully Carlisle will fall easily, sparing us too many losses and sparing me unnecessary coin,” Geoffrey said wryly after another pause. “And absolving Henry of the need to step into any breach.”
Finally Stephen spoke again. “The rain works against us,” he said flatly. “We rely on our mounted knights heavily. Horses move with difficulty in the mud.”
“I would have preferred such an action a month ago, if action we must take, but we have little choice now,” Rolfe said. “The King has made up his mind. There is no moving it.”
“Yes,” Stephen said, “Rufus made up his mind long ago, and nothing will hold him back from his cause, nothing and no one.”
“At least we take Malcolm by surprise,” Geoffrey remarked, again wry. “After all, you have just wed his daughter.”
“Yes,” Stephen said, “we will definitely take Malcolm by surprise.”
Mary choked. Stephen had echoed his brother so dispassionately. How could he be objective, so wholly without emotion, when discussing treachery against her country, her kind, her kin? The full import of what she had overheard suddenly hit her. Her marriage was a mockery, she thought bitterly. She was no beloved wife, merely a leman and serving woman combined. He did not care one whit about her after all, or he would at least have expressed some small regret for breaking the alliance he had made with her father! Mary wanted to weep, she wanted to shout and scream. Their marriage meant little or nothing to him beyond its political utility—and undoubtedly she meant even less. She clung to the railing, panting, trying not to weep.
There was no point in lingering, she decided, forcing herself to come to her senses, aware of the silence in the hall below. She had learned what she had come to learn, what she did not want to learn, what she feared to learn. How it hurt. It was so hard not to cry. She imagined each man absorbed now in anticipation of the battle to come. Damn them all! And God damn Stephen, her husband! Mary turned to go upstairs.
In her agitation, she slipped. She cried out as she slid down several steps. Horrified, certain one and all in the hall below had heard her, she froze on her hands and knees, a scant instant from leaping to her feet and fleeing. But it was too late. Her husband was faster, far faster, than she.
Mary recognized the feel of his hand and the strength of him instantly. He hauled her upright by the scruff of her neck, whirled her around, and released her.
Mary stumbled, as much from the force with which he handled her as from the expression on his face. He was stunned and disbelieving.
In that moment she did not care, in that moment she was too enraged to care. “Damn you,” she hissed, then regretted her words immediately. His shock turned to fury. She turned and ran.
