Promise of the Rose Read Free

the point of a sword to swear allegiance to the King of England.
    Mary had been the only maiden present—women were not welcome at such events—and she had come in disguise. It had been a gathering of armies, after another attempt by Malcolm to invade and conquer Northumberland. She had been surrounded by much of the Scot army, all loyal to her father. Yet their numbers had been pitiful in comparison to the forces facing them—the most brutal in the land— that of the Earl of Northumberland. The man she could not remove her gaze from was bastard heir to the earl, Stephen de Warenne.
    He had not noticed her then. She had been standing behind her brother, dressed as Edgar’s page, careful not to draw any attention to herself, she certainly did not want her own family to recognize her, for more than a scolding would come. Edgar had been an unwilling participant in her escapade, for he, too, knew how angry their father would be for this.
    Mary had been mesmerized by the bastard heir, staring at him from around her brother’s shoulder. Once his gaze had connected with hers, a mere coincidence. The moment had lasted less than a heartbeat.
    As she stared at Northumberland’s bastard now, Mary’s fists clenched. Her gaze was riveted on the man. He was one of her father’s worst enemies. She prayed his wound would cause him to die.
    He did not appear to be at death’s door. Although he had to be weak from loss of blood and in great pain, he wore an expression similar to the one he had worn at Abemathy—hard and inscrutable. She knew he was ruthless: never had he showed the Scots any mercy. Was he incapable of feeling? Was he even immune to physical pain?
    One large black tent had been erected in the open field, and the Northumberland banner already flew beside it. It was a striking flag, its field divided into three diagonal bandsof black, white, and gold, in its center a short-stemmed, bloodred rose. Mary watched as a page dragged fur pallets inside the tent while the two knights supporting de Warenne helped him limp within. The tent flap closed behind them.
    Mary collapsed. She was perspiring heavily, her mouth absolutely dry. This was worse, so much worse, than she had first thought. Stephen de Warenne was not just ruthless but a great military commander, exactly like his father, and his prowess was undisputed. He was also ambitious. The family’s astonishing rise to preeminence from a history of landlessness was well known, and the whole realm feared the ambition of all the de Warennes. What was he doing here? What disaster did he intend to unleash upon Scotland now?
    Mary knew she must return to the keep and seek an audience with her father. Yet she was terrified of moving, for to be caught by these men would be a catastrophe. Nothing could be worse. Despite her fear, somehow she must dare to creep backwards, farther into the woods, until she could safely turn and run.
    The camp was busy. The horses were being unsaddled and fed. A small, smokeless fire had been stoked. Broadswords, battle-axes, lances, and shields were placed carefully by the heavy leather saddles. Every indication told Mary that this was a serious war party. If she did not escape now while the knights were still preoccupied with setting up their camp, she would have to wait until they slept, and then there would be watchful guards posted. Mary positioned herself in a crouch, refusing to give in to her fear. A twig snapped as she shifted her weight, but no one heard it.
    She let out a long breath, backing up a step, never taking her gaze from the camp. At that exact moment a breeze materialized, moving the branches of the big oak tree right above her head. Mary froze, praying.
    Several of the knights nearest to the woods—and to her—turned, staring directly at the tree she had been hiding behind. They saw her at once. Mary did not need any more encouragement. She lifted her skirts and fled.
    “Halt! Halt now, wench!”
    She heard them crashing