Promise of the Rose by Brenda Joyce Page B

would be a bit richer afterwards from the ransom.
    “Do not do anything foolish,” Brand warned, no mockery in his tone now. “Remember what you have just said.”
    “Thank you, little brother, for your confidence.”
    Brand shrugged. “The King is anxious to know what you have learned.”
    Stephen lowered his voice. “Carlisle can be taken. But we end the peace.”
    “He is not interested in the peace, Stephen, he is interested in securing the North so he may turn his attention elsewhere.”
    Stephen grunted, already knowing this.
    “You shall give me a full report?”
    “On the morrow,” Stephen said with a sigh.
    Brand nodded, picked up his cup of mead, and leaned back in his chair. His mouth curled. “I bring you tidings.”
    Stephen helped himself to a large slice of bread. “From Father?”
    “No, from Adele Beaufort.”
    Stephen said nothing.
    Brand fingered his eating knife. “She sends you her warmest regards.”
    Stephen said, “And I send her mine.”
    Brand shifted to face him directly, all blandness gone. “But not in the manner that you shall send your regards to little Mairi this night, if you find that she is in truth little Mairi.”
    “Enough.”
    “You do not know Lady Beaufort. You have barely spoken to her. I, however, have had much opportunity to observe her since she has come to Court. She is no ordinary woman, Stephen. The lady you wed in three months time will be most unhappy if she hears you have installed a beautiful mistress in your chamber.”
    “Do not fear,” Stephen replied harshly. “I have no intention of jeopardizing my relations with Adele Beaufort.”
       Stephen stepped out onto the ramparts. There were only a few watchmen on the towers, and he was as alone as he could possibly be. He stalked to the northernmost wall and stared out over its crenellated edge. It was a nightly ritual when he was at Alnwick, to stand thus and gaze upon his domain.
    As far as the eye could see, the land belonged to his father, Rolfe de Warenne, and one day it would be his. Ancient Northumbria. Stephen felt a fierce rush of pride and possessiveness. His father had come to England with his overlord, William, the Duke of Normandy, and fought by his side at Hastings twenty-seven years ago. He had been the landless younger son of a Norman comte, seeking the spoils of invasion in a new land. He had been the Conqueror’s most trusted military commander from previous campaigns in Maine and Anjou, and his reputation hadgrown after Hastings. Soon he had been awarded Aelfgar for his loyalty and military prowess. With the Conqueror’s permission and encouragement, Rolfe had gradually pushed his borders north and west until they encompassed all the territory that was now theirs. And with it, all the power.
    Stephen was very aware that one day all the power of Northumberland would be his. He had been born a bastard—his parents had not been able to marry until his father’s first wife had died—but he had been made his father’s heir. It was a vast responsibility, a heavy burden, one he had assumed the very day he had been sent to foster at the King’s court at the tender age of six. But he had never questioned his duty to his father and Northumberland, not then, not now, and not in all the years in between. A man did what he must, always. He had learned that lesson the same day he had ridden away from home with the King’s men, not returning for nearly a decade. Marrying the Essex heiress, Adele Beaufort, was merely another duty he would bear.
    They had been betrothed for two and a half years, and they were finally to be wed this Christmastide now that she was sixteen. Rolfe had wanted the union to take place two years ago, but Adele’s guardian would not hear of it. She would bring Stephen a large estate in Essex and, more importantly, much silver coin. Coin was something his family always needed. Unlike most of the King’s other great magnates, Northumberland carried the huge military