His own fists clenched, his eyes darkened even more. “Once I was very charitable towards you, or have you forgotten? You are lucky, madame, extremely lucky, that I am ending your punishment, as light as it was, and that I am intent on keeping you as my wife, as deceitful as you are.”
Mary was quick to protest, unable to keep the bitterness from her tone. “You have no choice, my lord, and you know it. We are wed before God until death!”
“There are many ways to end a marriage such as ours,” Stephen remarked pointedly.
Mary was shaken, frightened and aghast. Surely she was misunderstanding—he could not be threatening her with—“What—what do you say, my lord?”
“I am suggesting that you tread cautiously, madame, if you wish to fare well with me.”
“Would you ask for an annulment?” she asked in horror.
“Did I say that? No, madame, I would never ask for an annulment. You have yet to give me my heir; need I remind you of that?”
Mary met his cool stare.
Then he smiled, but it was hardly pleasant. “Should there be another instance of treachery, madame, I will exile you. If I am generously disposed, it would be to Tetly, a personal manor of mine on the coast; if not, a convent in France.”
Mary was white. “And—if I should bear your heir?”
Stephen’s smile was cold and brief. “That would change nothing, madame; children are born to exiled wives every day, as you well know.” Stephen turned on his heel. “Do not keep us waiting.” He shut the door behind him.
Mary was still, but only for a moment. Then she picked up his helm, which lay on the chest beside her, and threw it furiously at the door. It made a resounding crash, which barely pleased her. She sank onto the chest, scattering his clothes and mail, shaking.
Dear God. She felt as if she were a hairsbreadth away from a fate almost as horrible as death, and perhaps as irrevocable. Exile. He had no feelings left for her, and he would exile her in an instant. That, too, seemed abundantly clear. Mary wanted to cry.
Mary cradled her abdomen with her hands. He had said he would exile her even if she was with child. His statement was proof that he still expected her to give him an heir. She was glad she had not said anything. She was likely with child, for this month she’d had no flux. The secret she kept might very well prove to be the only weapon she had left, if ever she dared to use it. That was why she did not go to him and tell him what he would be glad to hear. And her restraint had nothing to do with ridiculous romanticism. Certainly now, after the past hour, she could not be such a fool to think that there would come a time of ease between them, a time of light and laughter, a time when she might bring him such joyous tidings in love, instead of undeclared war.
At dinner Mary learned the details of what had transpired at Carlisle. The countess wanted to be apprised of it all, and her questions were sharp, pointed, and endless. The earl had remained in the North, restoring order, Geoffrey had returned to Canterbury, but Brand, on his way back to London with his men, had stopped at Alnwick for the night. However, it was Stephen who answered his mother’s questions, his tone level and dispassionate. How easily he spoke of his triumph over her land and her people.
Mary listened and said nothing. After the disastrous encounter with her husband earlier, she was in a sore and wary mood, and to hear of how quickly Carlisle had fallen did nothing to improve it.
Too, it was the first time that Mary had seen anyone other than Stephen since being punished for spying. She was guilty of eavesdropping but innocent of treachery, yet she was afraid to look the countess in the eye. She knew how intelligent that woman was, how much she loved her husband and Alnwick, which had once been a Saxon fief belonging to her father. Mary imagined that Lady Ceidre was furious with her—as well as terribly disappointed.
So Mary was startled when the countess addressed her, her tone kind. “I am sure this must be difficult for you, Mary.”
Mary looked up, startled, finally meeting the countess’s gaze. “Your pardon, madam?”
“How difficult this must be for you, to be married to my son, a Norman, who wars upon your country—and your family.”
Mary was pale. She felt every eye at the long table below upon her, as well as her husband’s, who sat beside her on the dais. Yet the countess was genuinely sympathetic, Mary was sure. But how could that be? “Yes,” she finally croaked. “It is very difficult, very upsetting.” To her horror, a tear slipped from her eyes.
The countess sat on Stephen’s other side, but she leaned across her son to pat Mary’s hand. “Stephen probably has not told you, but he told me that all of your family is well, Mary.”
Mary drew in a breath. She had worried, too, about one of her brothers or her father being hurt or killed. It seemed that, even though she had learned just how ruthless Malcolm could be, she could not be oblivious to him—he would always be her father. Unable to keep the eagerness from her voice, she faced her husband for the first time since she had come downstairs. “You are certain?”
He stared at her. “As certain as can be. I believe that Edgar was wounded, but I saw him fighting until the end, so it could not have been too grave.”
“Edgar!” Mary’s heart twisted. “You are sure he is well enough?”
Stephen nodded, still watching her.
Mary sighed with relief, trembling. It struck her that her current predicament could be so much worse. She and Stephen could be at this impasse, yet it could be complicated by the death of someone she loved. Mary prayed that would never be. But if Northumberland’s forces kept clashing with Malcolm’s, was it not inevitable? She shivered, struck with horrible premonition.
“It was not easy for me either, once upon a time,” the countess was saying.
When Mary looked at the countess again, she could not help peeking at Stephen, who now regarded his glass of wine, grimly. Had she somehow displeased him again?
Mary turned to his mother, her curiosity genuine. “Because you were Saxon?”
