For Mary had surprised him in the days following their wedding. The sneaky, politically wise, too clever minx had been transformed overnight into a gentle and womanly wife. She had become the perfect wife with such ease, as if she had yearned for such a role her entire life. Stephen knew that could not be true. His wife was no common woman, and no ordinary princess either, the role she would have yearned after undoubtedly could only suit a man. Mary would have much preferred to sit at the war table than at the spinning wheel, or so he would have thought. But once wed to him, it was as if nothing else mattered, as if he were her fondest dream.
His mouth turned down. There was the flash of pain in his chest again, and the very rotten, roiling feeling of betrayal. It had all been an illusion, now shattered thoroughly.
Had he not known it would come to this?
Had he not known that when forced to choose, she would ally herself with Malcolm?
Stephen felt no more guilt, no more regret. He had done his duty, as he must always do. His own personal feelings could not ever interfere in his loyalty to his King. In a savage way, he was glad it had come to this. The King’s treacherous invasion of Carlisle had revealed Mary for what she was, a traitor in his own home.
How it hurt.
Briefly he had been overwhelmed with her, briefly he had thought their union a success beyond all expectation. Briefly he had forgotten the short, hate-filled history they shared. How she had pleased him in the past few days! He had known each and every small way she had interjected herself into his life, he had been aware of each and every effort, no matter how small or how large, that she had made to ease his existence, and he had been profoundly pleased and absurdly grateful. It had seemed as if she took joy in what she did for him, in the pleasure she gave him. It had seemed as if she had grown genuinely fond of him. It had almost seemed as if she loved him.
Stephen laughed out loud, the sound bitter and self-mocking. Perhaps he was the weak, besotted fool she had taken him for. His wife did not love him. It had all been a ploy on her part; there was no other explanation. To mend his clothes, see to his meals, even anticipate his moods, to lie with him with the passion of a strumpet, and then, then to spy upon him as he sat in a conference of war—it could only mean that her actions as his wife were insincere.
Stephen paced across foul battleground and ducked into his tent. It was the act of deception that haunted him. It was posing as a perfect wife, not the act of betrayal, spying upon him and his family, that was the source of his ice-cold rage.
He should have known. Mary had lied to him repeatedly from the moment he had first met her, and from that same moment she had been unwavering in her devotion to her country and her kin. He should have known that she would not change, could not change, not in her loyalty, and that the minx could never metamorphose into a dear and gentle wife. He should have known it was an outrageous act. Had she continued to openly defy him after the marriage, and then dared to spy, he might have forgiven her, for he would at least understand her, and even, perhaps, respect her. But she had played a dangerous game, with him and his feelings, and there would not be any forgiveness.
Now that he knew, of course, he would be more careful.
She would not have the opportunity to spy again, or do worse. And still she would be his wife, in fact and in deed, if nothing else. She would manage his household and see to all of his needs. He would give her children; she would bear them, raise them. Yes, she would be his wife in deed, but not in any other way—not in his heart. Never could such a woman have a place in his heart. And the worst of it was that just before he had discovered her treachery and her deception, he had been falling in love with her.
Stephen knew that sleep would elude him for most of this night. Now that the war no longer preoccupied him, it would be impossible to chase his treacherous wife from his thoughts. If only she had denied what she had done. If only …
He was a man who dealt in realities, so he must not yearn for what would not be. Tomorrow he was returning to Alnwick. Where once there was joy and comfort in the thought, no more. He settled down upon his pallet, fully clothed. He thought about the greeting he would receive the next day, thought about returning home to a woman who was a more dangerous adversary than any he had ever met upon the battlefield because of the position she held in his home. God, he was tired. So sick and tired of politics and intrigue. How he yearned to return home to open arms and a real embrace. Instead, he would return to Alnwick, where Mary awaited him, his beautiful, traitorous wife.
He pressed his cheek into the straw. A lump rose suddenly in his throat. Dear God, if he faced the truth, he would admit that he felt like a boy of six again, alone and abandoned, confronting his very first bitter betrayal.
Chapter 20
Mary sat on the edge of the bed, her feet dangling over, her back straight, her shoulders erect, her hands clasped in her lap. She had finger-brushed her hair the best that she could and rebraided it, replacing her wimple. Unfortunately she had no clean gown to change into, but she had been able to wash herself somewhat with the water that was brought to her each day. She hoped she looked well. She tried to appear calm and dignified. In case Stephen should come to her directly.
He and his men had ridden into the bailey a few minutes ago. It was impossible not to hear them, they entered with such loud, animated conversation, with a fanfare of horns and happy cries and even some laughter. Mary had been waiting for Stephen to return, aware that it could be just a few days before he did, but her first reaction was dismay. She understood the tenor of the hubbub the returning knights were making well enough—they were victorious. Carlisle had fallen.
How could she not be saddened? She knew that this was only the beginning. Even if the Normans would be satisfied with just this addition to their territory, it could not stop here. Malcolm had never intended to keep the peace anyway, and now he would seek revenge. And this time he was undoubtedly doubly furious, for one of the principals who had betrayed him was his daughter’s husband, and not just his daughter’s husband but his age-old enemy as well.
She would not think about Carlisle and the political future anymore. Not when her husband had just returned. Not when, even now, he might be climbing the stairs and walking towards her chamber. It was hard to breathe slowly, evenly. It was hard to be calm. What would happen when they next met? Mary trembled.
It had been a half sennight since she had been imprisoned in her room—since she and Stephen had fought so bitterly. Mary knew he was all right, unhurt by the battle, because she had been unable to restrain herself, and she had flown to the window slit to watch as the knights entered the bailey. She had spotted her husband at once, sitting his brown destrier tall and erect, his mail splashed with mud, his helm in the crook of his arm. Had he been wounded, he would not be mounted so. Mary was relieved.
She had brooded many long hours upon her feelings for her husband, upon her past relationship with him and upon the future that now lay in wait for them. Mary had never guessed that she could love such a man, but no matter how it hurt, she did. She was not pleased to love him; how could she be? He had betrayed her father and family for the sake of ruthless, greedy ambition. And he had betrayed her and their marriage. It was unforgivable. But forgive him, she would.
And her forgiveness had less to do with love than it had to do with practicality. She would remain his wife even if she hated him, even if she never forgave him, even if she denied him until he raped her and defied him until he beat her. But she did love him, God help her. So Mary was forgiving him all, and she could only hope that her sensible response to the insanity of the situation would be matched, in the near future, by the mellowing of his own temper and feelings.
And she was not prepared to speculate further. She was not prepared to analyze the extent of her own wants, her own needs, and her own secret longings. It would be enough if an enduring peace could be established between them. She would do her best to continue to see to his comfort, and maybe, one day, he would understand her loyalty. Maybe, in time, he would forget that she had spied upon him, maybe he would one day believe her innocence. She must try to convince him of her innocence now as she had not even attempted to do before.
Mary stiffened as the door to her chamber was unbolted and unlocked. An eternity passed as the heavy door slid open. Disappointment seared her when she saw a servant on the threshold, not her husband. She blinked back a blinding tear, then realized that a big copper bathtub was being carried into the room. More important, Stephen was walking in behind the servants bearing the steaming water.
Mary was frozen. She regarded him uncertainly, fixedly. He did not look at her, entering with a tired, slow stride, his page already helping him out of his mail. Realizing how exhausted he was wrung a response from Mary that, given his recent antipathy towards her, she would have preferred to ignore. But it was impossible; her instinct was to rush to him and help him, soothe him.
She did not. Mary realized that she was not breathing, that her heart was hammering much too quickly, and she took a few steadying breaths. Stephen had shrugged out of the leather vest he wore beneath the armor. She realized that he was finally looking at her.
“Good day, madame,” he said, inclining his head.
“Good day, my lord.” she breathed.
Silence reigned. The page quickly stripped her husband, a job that belonged to Mary since she was present. Stephen had turned his back to her. As she knew very well that he had no modesty, it was an obvious rejection. Small but real, and it hurt. The tub was full, the servants gone. Stephen lowered himself into the bath, facing away from her, another sign that all was not yet well. Then he told the young squire that he might go. The boy obeyed and they were left alone.
