Promise of the Rose (55 page)

Yet there was little that he could do other than beat a bloody trail across the countryside searching for her. So be it. Once he determined what madman was responsible for his wife’s abduction, all those in that lord’s domain would suffer as never before. There would be no mercy. In his mind Stephen ticked off those who might hate him enough to dare such a feat. He had a half dozen sworn enemies, but not one of them, he thought, was stupid enough to commit such an outrage.

“We ride now, back to the forest, back to their last sign. Will, Ranulph, you shall lead the way,” Stephen commanded tersely.

Stephen and two dozen fully armed knights rode out just after sunrise. But by the end of that day, they had made no progress. The trail had disappeared when the two riders, one overburdened with his captive, had ridden into a stream. Stephen and his men could not find a single sign of them again. Mary had been whisked away without a trace.

   Mary knew that they were traveling north into Scotland. Despite her terror, she managed to think. Her wits were all she had left, and she knew she must keep them about her. This made no sense. The Scottish people were her people—who among them would do such a thing as kidnap her? Or was it a ruse? Was her destination Scotland only because Stephen would never think of looking for her there?

Stephen.
Her heart clenched painfully at the thought of what he must be going through—and at the thought that she might never see him again. “Stephen,” she whispered, unaware she spoke aloud, “I need you, how I need you—please help me now!”

They did not use the Roman road, following one deer path after another deep in the hills, using terrain that no man, other than a Scot, could be so acquainted with. The horsemen stopped twice, first to water their mounts and move Mary from the one horse to the other, and then to change their mounts at a prearranged spot, a small thatch cottage, apparently deserted, where two fresh horses were tethered out back. When some of Mary’s courage returned, she tried to question them, hoping to team who had sent them and where they were taking her, but they refused to speak with her.

They rode well into the night. Mary fell asleep. It was a restless sleep in which she dreamed of Stephen, begging him to come to her and rescue her. She dreamed of the baby being born. It was a boy, whom she held tenderly, and he was so small and defenseless in her arms, but it was not a happy dream, for she fought to protect him from an unseen threat. When she awoke she was more frightened than before.

The night was pitch black, and Mary could not decide where they were or precisely where they were going. The two men kept their horses at a brisk walk now.

“Where are we?” she asked, her mouth parched.

The man riding with her handed her a skin bag of watered ale. Mary drank gratefully “Not far from Edinburgh, lassie.”

Mary froze. Her heart began to pound painfully. Edinburgh? Once that had been her home, but no more. Now it was home to Duncan, Scotland’s new King. He might be her half brother, but she was sick with fear.

For she knew now that Duncan was behind this. She could not guess at her fate. If he intended to kill her, he would have already done so. So what did he want with her? Fearfully Mary clutched her belly, praying that she should be so lucky as to find Stephen still at the Scot Court.

   Mary was taken to the castle. It was the dead of night, and travelers at such an hour were more than rare and certainly suspect. It was obvious to Mary that her arrival was expected, for when one of her captors called out a code word, the heavy gates were instantly thrown open in order to admit them. Her captors rode swiftly to the keep. A knight and a serving maid were waiting on the front steps for them.

Mary was lifted down from the horse. She found that she could barely walk after the long ordeal, and the knight quickly swept her up into his arms. Mary peered up at him as he carried her inside, hoping to recognize him and thus appeal to him for aid. But she did not. She was taken upstairs and laid abed in a small chamber that had, not so long ago, been shared by her younger brothers.

Mary was grateful for the bed, but that was all. Holding a hand to her forehead, which throbbed, aware of the baby kicking inside her, her body stiff and aching, she watched the knight leave the room without so much as another glance at her. She turned her gaze on the maid. She was a thin, older woman, busy now poking the fire. Even in June, the nights in Edinburgh were cool. The elderly woman turned and approached. “I’ll be bringin’ ye some hot food, mistress, an’ some good ale. I won’t be long.”

Mary was too exhausted to move; she lay absolutely motionless. “I want to speak with my brother.”

“Yer brother?”

“My brother, Duncan.”

“You mean your half brother, the King, do you not, my dear?” Duncan said from the doorway.

Mary started, tried to rise, and fell back into the bed with a gasp. A cramp had lanced through her abdomen.

Duncan approached and stared down at her coldly. “I think you should rest, sister dear, unless you want your brat born early.”

Fear rushed over Mary. She knew what such a pain could mean; it could mean that the babe wanted to come soon. Babes born early rarely survived, and she was probably three or four weeks from her time. Mary closed her eyes, fighting the fear and the panic.

“A much more sensible course,” Duncan said above her. “Although I cannot decide if I should prefer my nephew to live or die.”

Mary’s eyes flew open. Hatred swamped her. “If you hurt my child—”

“You will what? Hurt me?”

“Stephen will kill you!”

Duncan laughed. “And how will he do that, Mary? I am King. Murderers of kings are beheaded, their rotting heads set upon pikes so all might gaze upon the sight and be forewarned.”

Mary fought to keep hysteria at bay. She had a horrible image of Stephen’s head impaled in such a manner, and she was nauseous. Duncan was right. Stephen would not kill him.

“What do you want?!” she cried fearfully. Her hands held her belly protectively. “What are you planning for me, for my baby?”

“ ’Tis all very simple and very civilized,” Duncan said calmly. “You really have no cause to be distraught.”

Mary was only half-listening, waiting with dread for another cramp, a sign of the babe’s distress. But it did not come, and she relaxed slightly. “You threaten my child. I have every cause.”

Duncan regarded her. “I have no intention of harming your brat. If harm befalls the child, it will be due to you, not to me.”

Mary wanted to believe him. She could not decide whether he spoke true or not. She licked her dry, cracked lips. “If you wish us no harm, then why have you abducted us?”

“ ’Tis not obvious? I do not trust your husband, Mary; in fact, there are many here in Scotland who do not trust him, many who are distraught over his marriage to you. At the moment his power is only pertinent in England, but once your child is born, who knows?”

Mary stared, eyes wide, finally comprehending. Duncan was afraid of her child. In a flash she understood why her child frightened him more than her brothers did. Her brothers had no support. But her unborn son had all of the vast power of Northumberland at his disposal—he would be Stephen’s heir. Her child, if a boy, would also be Malcolm’s grandson, and one day, perhaps, a contender for the throne himself.

Duncan saw that she understood. “That is the crux of it, sister dear. I need leverage over your husband to keep him in my power. I wish for him to continue to support me— for as long as I live.”

Fear clenched Mary hard. She managed to push herself up into a sitting position. Out of breath, she asked, “You have not answered me.”

“Oh, but I have. You see, if you are my guest—you and the child—Stephen will not dare oppose me.”

Mary blanched. “You will hold me hostage? You will hold us hostage? For how long?”

“Indefinitely.”

Mary began to pant. “You are crazy!” But she knew he was not mad. He was very clever. If he had murdered her. Stephen would pursue him, and oppose him, with a vengeance. But if she and her child were hostages, he would have no choice but to support him.

Now Duncan was angry. “If I am mad, then the great Conqueror was mad, too, was he not? After all, Malcolm gave me to the Conqueror as a hostage when I was a small
boy; I was to be a guarantee for his good behavior—not that it worked! For Malcolm cared not about my welfare, and he broke his oath to King William as he willed. I am lucky to be alive! Indeed, I am lucky to have even come home—after twenty-two damnable years!”

Mary stared.

“You shall bear the brat here, you shall live here, for as long as I deem it necessary,” Duncan said coldly. “Perhaps one day your worth will be less, and I will allow you to leave. But the child—if it is a boy—shall remain here.” Duncan smiled. “As I was forced to remain at William’s court. Why are you so pale? Edinburgh is your home, and the brat is a quarter Scot. Really, there is little hardship in this if you think about it. You will only suffer if you choose to consider yourself a hostage instead of a guest.”

“Stephen will not allow this,” Mary found her voice. “He will appeal to the King. Rufus will force you to return me, you shall see.”

“No, my dear, you are wrong. For Rufus has decided that he erred when he agreed to your marriage to de Warenne. Just recently, in fact, he gave me carte blanche to do with you and the child as I see fit.”

   Mary knew that she must regain her strength quickly. Time was not on her side, not with the babe due in a month. She spent the next few days in bed, resting and recovering from the long, hard ride to Scotland. She ate large, hearty meals and drank much water, avoiding wine and ale, which increased her tendency to lethargy. She left her bed to take exercise twice daily in the bailey, working the stiffness from her muscles, hoping to keep her body strong. And she planned her escape.

She would escape. There was no question of that. Mary’s determination had never been stronger.

She had ascertained that Stephen had yet to be informed of her whereabouts; Duncan had told her that he was in no hurry to do so. His amusement had been palpable. Mary hated Duncan even more, for it was plain that he was delighting in tormenting her husband. Stephen must be anxious and worried for her, coveting some word that she was well. But
Duncan had no intention of relaying that word, at least not just yet.

Yet even if Stephen knew where she was, it was doubtful whether he would be able to gain her release. Mary thought that Duncan had not lied when he had said that he had Rufus’s approval in this endeavor, that Rufus was not on her side. Only too well, chillingly, Mary could recall the last time she had seen Rufus. He had been staring at her with undisguised hatred.

Mary thought that there was a slim chance that Rolfe and Stephen could persuade Rufus to force Duncan to release her, but that was not enough. Mary had not a single doubt that she would be forced to leave her child behind as a guarantee of Stephen’s continual support for Duncan, just as Malcolm had given Duncan as a boy over to the Conqueror. Children were used as hostages all the time. The idea of leaving her child behind was as abhorrent as death itself.

It was all the more reason to escape.

Now, before the child was born.

Mary was no fool. She was aware that her condition would not make it easy for her. Still, escape would be far more difficult, even impossible, with a tiny newborn. Mary also knew that she might be risking her own life and the baby’s. But she was determined to see them both through the ordeal safely. She thought that her resolve, which had never been greater, and her love for both the babe and her husband, would carry her through to safety. Nothing was going to stop her from being reunited with Stephen again, from bearing her child there in his presence, from rearing their child together. Not Duncan, not anything.

Mary did not need a plan. She had been raised at Edinburgh, and she knew every nook and cranny of the castle better than anyone except, perhaps, her three brothers. Duncan, who was a stranger to his new home, and his soldiers, half of whom were Norman mercenaries, could not know of the secrets the keep held. As with most towers, it had been built with an enemy siege in mind. A secret door let onto a short tunnel that allowed the castle’s residents to pass beneath the castle walls and flee to safety beyond the moat.

Mary waited a week. On the eighth night after her arrival at Edinburgh, she knew the time had come. She was becoming ungainly, she waddled instead of walked, but her strength had returned as much as it ever would. Mary could only pray that her swollen body would not slow her down that night.

No guards were posted outside Mary’s chamber. Apparently it was beyond anyone’s belief that a woman in her condition would attempt to escape. However, the maid slept on a pallet in the hall just outside her door. Mary refused to consider hurting the old woman, who had been nothing but kind to her. Instead, when the Great Hall had finally fallen into silence, when Mary could be certain that Duncan was amused with his latest paramour, she called out loudly for the woman. When Eiric was awakened, hurrying to her side, Mary was sincerely apologetic. “I am sorry, Eiric, I know ’tis late, but I cannot sleep. I fear the babe desires to grow even more, for I am starving! Please, go to the kitchens and bring me beef stew, warm bread, a lamb pie, and some of that salmon we dined on this noon.”

Eiric gaped. “My lady, you will get sick!”

“I am starving.” Mary was firm. “Go, Eiric, but make sure the salmon is heated, for surely I will get sick if I eat cold leftover fish.”

Eiric left with no further protest. Mary was briefly delighted. She would have to rouse other maids to help her with the repast. Mary knew the old serving woman would heat up everything, and as the fires in the kitchens were now out, it would take a long time. Mary thought that she probably had an hour or more of a start on Duncan and his men.

   But she had not counted on the dogs.

The night was starry and bright. When Mary first slipped from the tunnel and outside, she was briefly elated. She would not need to light any of the candles she had taken with her, for the half-moon and the galaxy of stars were enough for her to see by. And as she had used the tunnel many times as a child, she knew exactly where she was. So far her escape had been impossibly easy.