Read Promise of the Rose Online
Authors: Brenda Joyce
Promise of the Rose (57 page)
Stephen started. “You were at Abemalhy then?!”
She smiled slightly. “I rode with Edgar, disguised as his squire.”
“You minx,” Stephen said softly. “So that beautiful lad who kept staring at me was you!”
“Y-You saw me?”
He actually blushed. “I saw you. I was most uncomfortable, thinking myself attracted to a boy.”
“Oh, Stephen!” They gazed at each other, awed, each wondering privately if their love had been born that winter day in such a strange way, each deciding that it was so.
Stephen leaned forward to brush her mouth with his. “Enough conversation, dear heart. You must rest now quietly.” He was smiling, his expression so tender that it was remarkable.
But Mary’s pleasure died. She moaned, long and low, her face as white as death. For a very long moment she was wracked with pain. Finally it began to subside, and then it was gone. “S-Stephen,” she said huskily. “Please fetch the midwife to me.”
Stephen blanched himself. “Wait until I return, Mary. Just this once—do not do anything rash!”
But patience again eluded Mary, or it eluded the child. When Stephen returned, the midwife beside him, he heard a baby’s mewling cries. His heart quickened, disbelief etched itself onto his face. He had, in part, been jesting—he had only been gone a few minutes. He flung open the door. Mary lay sprawled limply on the bed, but when she saw him, she smiled. The covers were thrown off of her, and between her legs a tiny, bloody newborn lay.
Stephen saw the blood and, having never witnessed a birth before, thought that he was about to lose his wife. He rushed to her frantically. She laughed softly, low and pleased. Startled, he looked at her. She entwined her arm with his. “I peeked, my lord.” Triumph filled her tone. “ ’Tis a boy.”
She turned to the midwife, who had already cut the babe’s cord and wrapped the small mite up. “Show his lordship his son.”
The midwife turned, her face creased in a smile, holding up the tiny, wide-eyed infant. “Got all his fingers and all his toes, yer lordship, an’ he’s a big boy, too, considerin’ he’s a bit early. An’ he’s wide-awake now, too!”
Stephen stared in shock. “My son?”
“Your son,” Mary said happily, drawing his befuddled gaze. “A stong, brave lad, eager to come into the world and greet his father. Give him the babe, mistress.”
Before Stephen could object, the tiny newborn was in his arms, hardly more than two handfuls for his oversized father. Stephen was surprised to see that the infant’s eyes were actually wide open—and focused on him. “Why, he’s looking at me,” he murmured, new, inexplicable feelings washing over him. Then he smiled tenderly. “Look, madame, see how alert he is.”
“Like his father,” Mary said softly. “Just like his father.”
And Stephen smiled at her, filled with a rush of pride. “For this, madame, you will know your every fondest dream.”
Mary cocked her head. “I already have my fondest dreams, Stephen, I have the babe and I have you. What more could there possibly be?”
But there was more, of course.
Mary convalesced at Kinross. Stephen remained with her, leaving his own affairs in the hands of his steward and castellan. A month after their babe was born, whom they named Edward after Mary’s brother, they returned to Alnwick.
As they approached the looming keep, Mary sensed that something was afoot. Stephen rode beside her liner, and whenever he looked at her and his son, there was something else in his expression other than the tender warmth she had come to expect. The sparkle in his eyes was both secretive and satisfied; she could not decipher its precise meaning. But the man was up to some trick—and he was terribly pleased about it.
They were greeted at the keep by the entire family. Mary was in shock as Stephen helped her from the litter while a nurse held little Ned. The earl and countess rushed upon her, to kiss and embrace her and tell her how thrilled they were that she was safe and well and home. Then the Bishop of Ely
swept her up, whispering in her ear that he would baptize the boy, that no one else would have that honor. Brand kissed her smack on the lips, and Isobel oohed and aahed over the newborn babe.
And through all this pandemonium, Mary wept, because standing behind Stephen’s family was Edgar, Alexander, and Davie.
She held out her arms. Her brothers rushed forward, whooping. Characteristically they refused to hug her. Edgar lifted her up and twirled her in the air, Alexander socked her shoulder, and Davie demanded the right to hold Ned. Surrounded by the three boys, holding her son proudly, Mary looked at her husband. He smiled at her, and she smiled back.
Mary was exhausted. She crept into the chamber she shared with Stephen, grateful to be alone for this one minute. Her mind was filled to overflowing with wonderful, festive images of her family and Stephen’s family carousing during dinner in the hall below. It had been a grand homecoming, indeed.
Mary put the sleeping baby down in the cradle by the bed. Tears formed in her eyes. She felt such a rush of love for her son—and for her dear, beloved husband.
She knew now that this visit signified far more than a mere familial reunion. She was well aware of how brotherly Stephen was to Edgar, Alexander, and Davie, and she was grateful. There was a message that had been conveyed this day: Stephen had taken on the responsibility of her brothers’ welfare. And now she knew without being told that she had indeed failed to trust him. She knew in her heart that one day there would come a time when Stephen would act to fulfill the promise he had made to Malcolm; one day he would put Edgar upon the throne. She had no doubt.
Mary realized she was not alone. She turned and froze.
Standing in the doorway was Stephen, and he was holding out a rose.
A single, perfect, short-stemmed red rose.
Mary moved forward, almost afraid to touch it, to touch him. This big, powerful man offering her the gift of a red
rose was a sight too beautiful to behold. “Stephen,” she whispered, and this time the rush of love was so great, it was almost painful. Now she understood that without pain, there could never be such a grand and consuming love.
Stephen said softly, “It will not prick you again, my love, for its thorns have been shorn.”
Smiling through her tears, overwhelmed, Mary reached out and accepted the rose without feeling a single thorn.
“I always keep my word,” Stephen said.
She cradled the rose to her breast. “I know.”
“I intend to fulfill my pledge to your father, Mary. One day Edgar will be Scotland’s King.”
“I know that, too.” She began to cry. Stephen trusted her, and that was the greatest gift he could give her next to the gift of his love, and he had been giving her that without reserve since he had arrived at Kinross.
“You have all of me, Mary,” he said solemnly.
“I know that, too,” she whispered. Power, purity, nobility, passion—the promise of the rose. She rose up on her toes and kissed him. “Thank you, my lord.”
And he held her hard.
BRENDA JOYCE
BRENDA JOYCE
is the bestselling, award-winning author of SECRETS, SCANDALOUS LOVE, and THE FIRES OF PARADISE. All nine of her historical romances have been highly acclaimed, and four of them, including the first three novels in the “Bragg” saga—INNOCENT FIRE, FIRESTORM, and VIOLET FIRE—have won six awards from
Romantic Times
and
Affaire de Coeur.
She has also won three industry awards for her trendsetting promotional bookmarks and the 1991 Golden Pen Favored Author Award from
Affaire de Coeur.
Brenda Joyce is currently working on her next novel.
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Brenda Joyce
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Chronology of Historical Events:
Malcolm III (Malcolm Canmore), King of Scotland, 1058–1093.
William I (William the Conqueror), King of England, 1066–1087; he is also Duke of Normandy.
1070 Lanfranc appointed Archbishop of Canterbury.
1072 Malcolm III forced to swear fealty to William I at Abemathy; Duncan sent to English Court as a pledge of peace.
1079 Malcolm III invades England and fails to advance his frontier, forced to swear fealty again.
William II (Rufus the Red) King of England 1087–1100.
Rebellion of Norman barons led by Odo of Bayeux, Earl of Kent, in 1088; rebels crushed, Odo is banished, his lands forfeit.
1089 Lanfranc dies, the see of Canterbury left vacant for four years.
1089 William II claims Normandy, campaigns there with some success.
1091 Malcolm III is forced to swear fealty to William II at Abernathy.
1092 Carlisle is conquered by William Us forces, its local ruler driven out.
1093 Anselm of Bec appointed Archbishop of Canterbury.
November 13, 1093, Malcolm III killed at Alnwick by the Earl of Northumberland’s forces; Edward is fatally wounded.
November 16, 1093, Queen Margaret dies at Edinburgh Castle.
Donald Bane attacks Edinburgh Castle; his nephews flee, taking the Queen, their mother, with them and burying her at Dunfermline. They flee to the Court of William II.
May 1094 An Anglo-Norman army deposes Donald Bane and Edmund; Duncan becomes King of Scotland. His half brother Edgar is one of the charter’s signatories.
November 1094 Duncan II is overthrown and murdered by Donald Bane and Edmund.
Donald Bane and Edmund, joint Kings of Scotland, 1094–1097.
1095 Robert, Duke of Normandy, goes on Crusade and mortgages Normandy to William II.
Fall of 1097 Edgar is crowned King of Scotland.
Edgar (the Peaceable), King of Scotland, 1097–1106.
1100 William II dies in a hunting accident or is murdered.
Prince Henry (Henry Beauclerc) seizes the treasury that day; three days later he is crowned at Westminster, a few months later he marries Matilde (Maude), the daughter of Malcolm III and Margaret, taking her out of a convent to do so. Henry I, King of England, 1100–1135.
1106 Henry I invades Normandy, victorious at Tinchebrai; he unites the kingdom of England and the duchy of Normandy; his brother Robert is imprisoned for the rest of his life.
Alexander I (The Fierce), King of Scotland, 1106–1124.
David I, King of Scotland, 1124–53.
This is a work of fiction, and I have interpreted the above events and the historical characters who moved them with
great liberty, and much enjoyment. I tried to adhere to the chronology as closely as possible, but the reader may note that Carlisle was taken in 1092, not 1093. Also, while Edinburgh was not the official seat of the King of Scotland, I made it so because history does show that Mary and her brothers fled the burgh in November 1093 after the deaths of Malcolm, Margaret, and Edward. I hope my readers will forgive me for any errors I might have made. There is much conflicting data for this period, when there is any data at all.
I would like to say a word about the Church in the eleventh century. It was hardly as rigidly defined as it is today. The King still exercised vast powers over many religious affairs, although at this time many reformers in the Church began to argue and fight for complete jurisdiction of all their affairs, such as the right of appointment, investiture, etc. There were high prelates who were irreligious or atheists, men who, it appears, were great knights rewarded with their offices by the Conqueror and his sons—just as there were truly great and saintly men. Some archdeacons in this period were not ordained—like Geoffrey de Warenne.
Finally, a very interesting note. When embarking upon this venture, I was locked into this time period because Stephen was conceived in this book’s prequel,
The Conqueror.
My muse told me that his love would be a Scot princess named Mairi. Thus I was compelled to accept Malcolm and Margaret as Scotland’s King and Queen—as her parents. I was thrilled when my research unearthed such a rich conflict for me to use. But I was soon stunned. For when I paid closer attention to Malcolm and Margaret personally, I found that not only had they six sons, but two daughters—and the oldest one was named Mary, and she married a Norman count.
Of course, I have fictionalized her life completely. At least, so I think.
Brenda Joyce loves to hear from her readers. You may write to her at P.O. Box 1208, Wainscott, N.Y. 11975.
