The enormity of what she had done struck Mary—eavesdropping on her husband, and worse, being caught at it and thus appearing to be a spy. She cried out as she heard the sound of Stephen pounding up the stairs, closing the gap between them. Terrified now, Mary raced into the chamber they were using, just a step or two ahead of him, and turned to pull the door shut—hoping to lock him out. Too late, he was on the threshold, and he slammed the door back against the wall with one outflung arm as if it were mere beech wood and not heavy, triple-layered oak.
Mary jumped back from him. Tears stained her face.
Stephen towered over her, his eyes wide, his face hard, his body trembling in rage. “You spy uponme—your husband?”
“You war upon my people?” Mary cried back.
Stephen stared.
“How could you?” Mary cried, her heart pumping madly. “How could you go to war now?”
“You questionme?”he asked finally, low and strained. The muscles in his jaw bulged, so tightly was it clenched. “You accuseme?I do my duty, madame, just as you do yours.”
Mary did not respond. She was shaking.
“Madame,” he said, very stiffly, and he was shaking, too. “War is not your concern. You have but one concern, and that is seeing to my comfort.”
“Yes, your comfort is my concern,” Mary said unsteadily. “But when you war upon my family, my home—then my concern becomes that war! Do not ask me to remain ignorant now!”
“I do not ask you to remain ignorant. But I ask you this—do I have your loyalty, Mary?”
She opened her mouth, and said, “Do you go to war against Scotland, Stephen? Do you?”
“You have not answered me, Mary.” His expression, his stance, his tone, had all become dangerous.
“Nor have you answered me,” Mary whispered brokenly. Her palms pressed against her breast, against her aching heart.
“Answer me, Mary!” Stephen demanded.
“Yes,” Mary said, the way a villein might answer him, with a broken spirit. “Yes.”
“Do you lie now?” His tone was higher. His gaze was more wild. “Did you not spy?”
“Yes.” She closed her eyes, just for a moment.
“How can you be my loyal wife, madame, if you spy upon me?”
She did not answer.
“Answer me!” he roared. He raised his hand. Mary flinched. He froze in the act of striking her, then grabbed her by her shoulder, shaking her, and Mary was afraid, knowing he was on the brink of brutality. “You spy upon me in my own home! Is that not disloyalty?”
“I hate you,” Mary whispered. She realized she was weeping. Just hours ago she had been in his embrace—just hours ago she had been filled to overflowing with love for this man. This man who cared so little about her.
For an instant they were eye to eye as he dragged her up close. “So now we arrive at the truth!”
“The truth,” she said, “is that you are no different from my father, marrying me in order to use me, to aid you in your ugly treachery.”
He threw her upon the bed. Mary cringed, waiting for his blows. They did not come.
Stephen’s hands, rough and hard, forced her onto her back so that she had no choice but to look up at him. He leaned over her. “My treachery? My treachery? Still you dare to accuse me? I wish you to explain your treachery, madame wife! Explain yourself now!”
Mary could not think of a single thing to say in her own self-defense; in truth, she had no desire to defend herself, not to him, not now.
“Where is that clever, cunning wit now? Do you not at least deny the accusation?”
Mary swiped her eyes with the back of her hand, fiercely mute.
Stephen pressed her into the bed. “You are my wife, madame,my wife.Our vows were made before God.What of your vows, madame?”
