Stephen’s eyes narrowed. “And how, dare I ask, did you find out about such things?”
She had been certain Henry spoke the truth, but even so, she cried out in anguish when Stephen’s words confirmed it. Still, she could not miss his bitter sarcasm. “I did not spy!” she shouted. She shook. “Your dear friend Henry told me. Think you on that!”
Mary pushed herself abruptly from the wall and marched past Stephen. He instantly came to life, catching her arm and hustling her forward into their chamber. He released her in order to shut the door. Mary went to the fire to warm herself, putting her back to him, still shaking, with anger, with fearful dread.
She knew Stephen watched her. Finally she turned to meet his stare, which was piercing. “Henry told me,” she repeated. “Even now he is on the ramparts. Ask him if you doubt me.”
“I do not doubt you, not this time,” Stephen said quietly. “Henry thinks himself a puppeteer, pulling the strings of all those around him. But, unlike the puppeteer, he is never quite certain what actions his puppets will take. I think that is where he gains most of his enjoyment.”
“And he is your friend?”
“As much of a friend as one who is not family can be,” Stephen said. “Henry enjoys causing trouble. I imagine he has caused enough this night. Now what? Are you going to weep and shriek and beg me to avoid this encounter?”
“If my father invades your land, you must defend what is yours. Your armies shall meet head-on.” Mary trembled, imagining two gigantic armies rushing at one another, hearing the ringing blows of metal upon metal, hearing the screams of anguish and death.
“Yes.”
Mary suddenly froze. A horrible inkling, a premonition of disaster, of death, struck her. Who? Who would it be? Not Stephen! Please, God, not Stephen. She swallowed and found her voice. “But it does not have to be. It is not yet too late. Malcolm has not yet invaded. Please, Stephen, you must go to him!”
“You would send me into the jaws of the enemy on the eve of war?”
Mary rushed to her husband and gripped his hands. “This war can be avoided!”
He flung them off. “Are you mad? Or do you think me mad?”
“You do not understand!” she cried. Her mind was whirling, her pulse roared in her ears. She would beg if she must, on her hands and her knees, the stakes were so high. The war between her father and her husband must be stopped, she could not bear it. And still she was shaken by the premonition, one she fully believed, it was so strong. Someone was going to die, someone cherished and dear—she knew it, she felt it—but not if this horrible confrontation never took place.
“Oh, well do I understand you, madame,” Stephen said coldly.
Mary jerked. “You do not think I send you into a trap?!”
“Could you be such a treacherous bitch?”
Mary backed up. “No, Stephen, you have not understood me—once again.” Her voice shook. But she comprehended why he thought as he did—because yesterday she had met privately with Edward.
“What fable will you tell me now?”
“You must parley with my father!” she screamed, close to hysteria. “Can you not see that? Words, Stephen, words, might restore a truce—and avert catastrophe!”
“I do not believe that you are so naive, Mary, to truly think to send me to your father to speak of peace. You send me to my death—or to a lifetime of imprisonment. I do not like it.” His last words came out as a low growl. Mary had been holding out her hands in the gesture of one making a plea, and he pushed them away. His eyes were black with fury.
“No,” Mary whispered, stumbling from the shove. “I am sincere.”
“You are sincere? You expect me to believe that you are sincere? You have fought me since we first met, despising everything about me, especially my name and country. You fought our marriage until the end. Not a few days after making your wedding vows, you broke them in a heartbeat.” Stephen’s smile was cold. “And your brother was here yesterday.”
Mary shrank away from Stephen, who loomed over her now, his face etched with tightly reined in fury. “No!” she cried. But she realized how it must seem. Edward’s untimely visit was the coup de grace. Stephen could not think it innocent, not with war brewing, not so soon after Carlisle’s defeat, and not after her supposed treachery. In his mind, Edward’s visit was no mere coincidence, but an event filled with purpose. How her plea did seem like enticement, like a trap. “No, Stephen, you are wrong.”
Stephen straightened. “I am weary of your games, madame,” he said very coldly. “Listen well. Tomorrow I go to war. There is no avoiding it.”
“Stephen, please! This time you must trust me!”
He turned his back on her. A moment later he had left the room. When Mary arose the next morning after a long and sleepless night, he still had not returned. It was many weeks before she saw him again.
Mary dared not think about where Stephen had slept that night. Instead, she thought about the war soon to sweep the land. Four times Malcolm had invaded England, invading de Warenne territory, and four times he had been defeated and forced to swear fealty to the English King. Mary saw no reason to believe that this time would be any different, yet this time was so very different. For this time she was on the other side of the Scot border. This time she would not be with her mother at Edinburgh, awaiting word, praying and cheering wholeheartedly for a Scot victory. Any victory would be a tragedy for Mary. Should her father miraculously win, Stephen would lose, and how could she be gladdened by that? Yet if Malcolm lost again, she would also weep. She could not be impervious to the beating Scotland suffered, not ever. There would be a victor in the war to come, but it would not be Mary; she had already lost.
No, she thought resolutely. She had not already lost. Not if she took matters into her own hands.
Perhaps, after all, she had been wrong to ask Stephen to go to Malcolm to plead for peace. Despite the marriage, they were enemies. But what if she, Mary, Malcolm’s own daughter, went in his stead?
