“I was not just Saxon, but my father’s by-blow,” Lady Ceidre admitted candidly. “And Rolfe, as you must have heard, was one of the Conqueror’s most trusted men. The gulf between us could not have been wider, especially as he personally was given the responsibility for bringing the North to its knees. Although William determined the policy, it was brutal and cruel. When I first met my husband, he was ordering a small village burned to the ground for harboring Saxon archers, archers who had ambushed his men. He ordered it burned, every square inch of it, even the com, which meant that one and all would not just freeze that winter, but starve as well. I begged him for mercy, but he refused. How I hated him.”
Mary stared, stunned. “But—if you hated him so, how could you have come to love him as you do?” As Mary waited for the countess to reply, she was even more aware of Stephen sitting beside her. Only an inch or two separated their bodies, so it had been impossible not to be aware of him and become somewhat distressed by his proximity the longer they sat together, but now he did not move and did not breathe, as keenly interested in the conversation between her and his mother as she was, or so it seemed.
“Well—” Lady Ceidre smiled slightly “—he is one of the handsomest men you have ever seen, is he not? I could not help noticing. And, as you know, my husband is a good man—he was obeying his King, nothing more, as we all must do. Although I secretly supported my rebel brothers, I fell in love with him. To make matters worse, he was soon married to my sister, Alice, my father’s legitimate daughter. We were enemies from the start, but we fell in love.” For a moment she was obviously lost in the past, her face suddenly young, a trick of the rosy light, her eyes shining, which was no trick at all. She sighed. “It was not easy. I betrayed him again and again, believing it to be my duty. He was so furious. But… time heals all wounds, Mary. Time healed ours. And when the wounds were less painful, the love was still there, stronger than before.”
Mary wondered what had happened to Alice, the earl’s first wife. Obviously she had died in a timely manner, allowing the earl to marry his lady love. “’Tis somehow a sad story,” Mary said, aware of Stephen listening to her intently, “but beautiful, so beautiful.”
“I am a very lucky woman,” Ceidre said. She smiled gently. “And so are you, my dear, even if you do not yet know it. Sometimes the path to happiness is long and difficult, but the trial in getting there makes the final reward so much sweeter.”
Mary looked down at the trencher she shared with her husband. Although they shared it, although he chose her portions for her as he should, there had been no warmth, no love, in his actions. They had been politeness and duty and nothing more. Mary was assaulted by the foolish romanticism she sought to avoid. How she found herself wishing for the kind of love that the countess had found with the earl, a love strong enough to endure the worst of times—a love grand enough for all time.
The hall was unusually quiet. Mary realized that the many retainers seated below them had been listening to the countess’s every word—and hers. Suddenly she looked up, well aware of what everyone was thinking, the countess included. They were all convinced of her guilt. Thinking that she, like the Lady Ceidre, had committed treachery against her husband, foolishly but deliberately. In a love story told on a full belly and in the haze brought on by good wine, it was acceptable and even romantic; in reality it was not. She met the countess’s gaze. “I did not betray my husband, madame,” she said to her alone. But her voice rang clear, and everyone heard it. “I would never break my wedding vows.”
Stephen avoided retiring for the night. Even though he was exhausted, enough so that, as he sat in the Great Hall before the dying fire, the many retainers asleep on their pallets, his mother and sister long since gone to their beds, and his wife as well, he could feel his lids growing heavier by the moment. But still he stared into the glowing cinders and watched the occasional flame. Mary’s vehement denial of duplicity echoed in his mind.
The front door groaning open and then banging closed roused him. Brand sauntered into the hall. He saw Stephen and started, then grinned. “What? You are not yet to bed?” He came closer. There was no mistaking what had kept him out so late. He wore a heavy, sated air, and when he slid into the seat beside his brother, Stephen remarked that his blond hair was tousled, disheveled with straw.
“If I had such a bride, I would not linger here.” Brand said, grinning.
“Perhaps that is the problem.”
Brand’s smile died. “What ails you, Stephen? Your unhappiness is evident.”
“You need to ask?” He heard how bitter he sounded, and resolved to speak with more detachment.
“I know you were not pleased to go to war against Scotland,” Brand said slowly. “But you had no choice. Surely she understands.”
“She does not understand me—nor do I understand her.” Stephen stood, placing his back to his brother. Brand did not respond, so he turned slightly. “Tell me, brother, what do you think of my wife?”
Brand grew wary. “’Tis quite the question.”
“Does she not appear the angel? Beauty, perfection, and innocence?”
“Yes.”
Stephen laughed, once. “There is nothing perfect or innocent about her.”
Brand stood. “Stephen, I know what happened. Geoffrey told me.”
“Then you know that she is a little liar.”
Brand hesitated. “’Tis a good thing that you have found out her true inclinations. Now forget it. Go and get an heir upon her, and then, if she dares to repeat her behavior, banish her as you must do.”
“How simple you make it sound.” Stephen faced Brand, his smile mocking. “I fear I will be reluctant to send her into exile if the time should come that I must.”
Brand stared. “You would have to, Stephen. This time her spying came to naught, but what if she had succeeded in warning Malcolm? Many Normans would be dead this day—perhaps even you or I.”
His jaw was tight. “You think I do not know this? I know it too well!”
“Then just make sure you do not forget it,” Brand said very seriously. Then he smiled and gripped his brother’s shoulder. “It is late. I know the cure for what ails you. Go to your beautiful bride and beget that heir. I guarantee it will ease your mind.” Brand grinned.
Stephen watched him walk across the hall to the pallet he had made. He could not reveal to his brother that he lingered in the hall because he was afraid. Celibacy, even if only in regard to his wife, was out of the question—at least until she had conceived or given him an heir. Thus he had every intention of taking Mary as he willed, as he must in order to beget an heir, but how could he control himself? For he was afraid he might still be overwhelmed by uncontrollable passion, in spite of her treachery. If that was the case, Mary would recognize it immediately and would gain the upper hand.
Every instinct he had was raised in warning in a manner similar to that when he entered the lists or a great war. Undoubtedly he would be entering dangerous territory when he entered her bed. He would be giving her immense power over him, power he dared not trust her with.
And if his threats to exile her were only idle threats, she would soon comprehend that, too. Mary was too clever by far. His threats must not be idle. If given cause, he must do what he must, he must send her away, no matter how distasteful.
If not, Mary could become the agent of his destruction.
