Fourteen
By the time darkness fell a second day, Genevieve was feeling truly wretched.
One cramped, cold night in the open had been bearable. She had learned in that time though that she wasn’t so fond of darkness as she might have imagined. She had always loved the outdoors. But now she was not quite so fond of the forest. Last night she had lain beneath the tree she had climbed, and she had slept little. It had been colder than she had expected, and she had awakened long before dawn. She had begun to imagine that a branch was a snake, and soon she was afraid of every rustle and movement. Every whisper of the breeze, every soft fall of leaves. She thought of the wolves that sometimes prowled here and the bears that occasionally foraged in the lowlands.
By morning she was thirsty, but by daylight she was on her own ground. She’d known where to find the brook, where to drink and bathe her face.
But by midday, after walking all morning, she was famished and she had moved quickly enough that she was no longer familiar with her surroundings. She found berries and congratulated herself on her prowess, but the berries had only made her hungrier. In the end she was forced to realize that she was ill-equipped to deal with simple survival.
She’d never thought much about food before. Now it was on her mind constantly. She reminded herself sharply that if she just managed another day, she would be with the Sisters of Good Hope, and they would be good hope for her indeed. She could stay with them until she felt it safe; then she could venture forth and leave the country—Henry’s country—for Brittany, where her mother had been born.
Genevieve refused to think about discomfort; she had to keep walking. Darkness seemed to be falling very early. The tree branches overhead formed eerie shadows, as if they could reach down and touch her, brush her cheeks like spiders’ webs. Twigs snapped all around her. In spite of herself, Genevieve was frightened.
But she kept going until she could hear the soft melody of a brook through the trees. Leaving the darkening trail, she hurried to it and drank thirstily
This seemed as good a place as any to try to sleep and let the night pass. Not too close to the water, lest there be snakes; not too far from it, for it would be wonderful to wake beside it, to drink and bathe before she started out again.
She leaned against a tree trunk, and again thought tortuously of food, Griswald’s bread, fresh and aromatic. His steak and kidney pie . . .
Stop! She warned herself. Good God, she was healthy and well padded! One more night would not hurt her. One more desperate night spent to escape a fate ...
Worse than death? She taunted herself wryly, and she breathed deeply before she could not bear some of her own thoughts. She ached with homesickness, and of all absurdities, sometimes the very man she longed so fervently to escape merged with thoughts of things that she would miss with all her heart, forever.
From somewhere nearby, a branch snapped. Startled and wary, Genevieve pushed herself up and looked around. She almost called out, but caught herself.
How foolish! she thought, her heart thumping. It could be a preying wolf, and if it were, the creature certainly wouldn’t heed her call! It could he a man ...
A hermit perhaps, or a huntsman. A trapper—or did it matter? She didn’t dare trust a stranger in the woods. She closed her eyes, swallowing. If some filthy vagrant were ever to touch her in the way Tristan had, Genevieve might truly think her life not worth living.
She held her breath, for a long while she heard nothing else.
Then again, nearer, a branch crackled and snapped.
Panic sent her heart shooting up to her throat. Silently she scanned the ground around herself. She saw a long heavy stick and reached for it. With her free hand, she reached into the pocket of her skirt for her elegant little dagger.
If it was a wolf, she thought miserably, it was a big one. But wolves were really cowards, weren’t they? Hadn’t her father. told her that once? They usually hunted in packs, and they preferred smaller animals ...
Maybe a big wolf would consider her a small enough animal!
An owl suddenly let out a horrific shriek, swooping down almost on top of her head. Genevieve let out a long shriek herself and jumped to her feet, waving her arms madly above her head—and striking herself with her stick.
Well, she told herself. It could have been worse! She could have sliced herself with the damn dagger!
“Stupid owl!” she swore. And then . . .
She could have sworn she heard a soft echo of laughter. She turned and spun about, straining to see through the darkness. There was nothing. Nothing but the whisper of the wind through the leaves and the gentle tumbling of the brook over the pebbles in its path.
She sat down before the tree again and hugged her arms around her knees. She didn’t sleep; she dozed fitfully, to awake in cramped misery time and time again.
Morning came at last, and with it light.
She let out a long, long sigh of relief, since along with the light came fresh courage. Genevieve stretched and arched her back and looked around. She was completely alone. She smiled up at the sun streaking through the trees. It was bringing warmth already. It was casting shimmering rays upon the brook. Genevieve dropped her stick and her dagger, shed her cloak, and hurried toward the bank.
The water was cold, but the cold felt good. She looked around herself again, oddly uncomfortable, as if the trees had eyes. But she saw no one.
She struggled and dragged her gown over her head and tossed it over on top of her cloak. She hesitated, then pulled her shift off, too—modesty suggested she keep it on, but if she wasn’t cold now, she would be when she came out, and it seemed much smarter to keep the garment dry. Once she had cast it aside, she hurried into the water, gasping as the cold awoke her thoroughly. She laughed then because it felt so good against her flesh. It soothed the blisters on her poor feet. She wound her hair high to keep it dry, and kept on moving into the water—longing only for soap.
At last she rose and started to walk to the bank, feeling revived and enlivened, and ready to start out again. Soon she would be near her destination. Soon—
Genevieve stopped suddenly and let out a gasp. She was so stunned that she forgot her nakedness. For there, leaning comfortably against her tree, was Tristan, whittling away at a piece of wood. Beside him, the piebald grazed peacefully. He looked at her and smiled slowly, but his smile did not reach his eyes.
“Good morning!” he called to her. “Did you sleep well, milady? Pleasant site for a bath, I do say.”
Genevieve was riddled with dismay. Her heart beat in panic, and she despaired. He could not be there! But he was.
Dropping his whittling, he bowed at her slightly. He hunched down near the ground, and in another second Genevieve saw that he had built a small fire. He even had a pan with him with which to cook.
He was very well prepared—unlike Genevieve, who just stood there, naked, staring at him!
Tristan looked at her again, and she thought that his casual greetings were the greatest lies that she had ever known: His expression assured her that he was just longing to throttle her.
God help her—she never did think quickly enough in his presence. It didn’t occur to her that if she forded the stream, she would arrive on the other bank with nothing, absolutely nothing—not even a shift. It only crossed her mind that it was possible that the man could not swim. On that journey home from London, he had not swum after her—he had come in a boat. It seemed like sound logic.
She turned and raced quickly into the deeper water, and plunged heedlessly into it.
She knew moments of elation, then joy, and an astounding sense of freedom. He did not come after her! Each stroke brought her closer and closer to the opposite shore. A few more strokes, and she would be there. Oh, she could see it! The other bank, seeming to reach out to her, seeming to offer the succor she so desperately needed. Ten feet, and she would reach it—
She gasped, and then choked, and then thought that she was drowning for sure. He pounced upon her, and then wound his fingers through her hair. Suddenly she was flying through the water—as he towed her by her hair, using massive strokes with one arm and the powerful kicks of his legs.
Mistaken again, she told herself dully—the man could swim.
He dumped her, panting and gasping and entangled in the sodden mass of her own hair, on the bank. She looked up and saw with dismay what had caused his delay in reaching her.
He, too, had chosen not to soak his clothing. He stalked past her with long strides to retrieve his shirt, watching her as he slipped it back on, then donning his leather tunic, wool hose, boots, and leggings. All that, and she had not yet managed to move.
He came back silently to her, dropping her shift upon her back. “You are in my favorite state, milady,” he said, and surely the water was no colder than his voice. “But if I ever decide to kill you, I’d not have the means be pneumonia. Get dressed.”
Shivering and miserable, Genevieve stood and turned her back to slip into the shift. She realized then that he was at her back. She started, but realized that he merely intended to help her back into her gown. When that was done, he wrapped her cloak around her. She sat, too miserable and exhausted to care about the state of her hair, and leaned against the tree. Silent.
A second later something was pressed into her hands. It was a metal cup, warm to the touch, and something steamed from it, smelling wonderful. She looked at him uneasily. He had returned to the fire; his back was to her.
“Warmed ale, nothing more. I noted that you did not seem to appreciate the wine.”
“Insult to grave injury, milord.”
“It was but a thank-you gift.”
“For what I did not intend to give!”
“Ah, but Genevieve! You offered so much so generously.”
“Rotten, scurry-bastard!” she swore. He did not respond. She sipped at the ale, warm against the chill that had invaded her.
“How—how did you find me?” she asked him wearily.
He turned to her, then sat again himself, leaning against another tree close to his fire.
“There seemed to be but one place you could go.” He waved the arm with the cup past the brook to the hill that rose above it. “You were almost there, milady. The convent lies just over that crest.”
Genevieve was truly dismayed now. She was so close! If only she hadn’t stopped last night. “I almost made it.”
She hadn’t realized that she had said the words out loud until he suddenly started laughing. She swerved her head quickly to stare at him again—and found honest laughter in his eyes. He was truly amused.
“Nay, milady, you did not! I’d have accosted you last night except that you did not seem to need me. You defended yourself nicely against that vicious owl!”
Now he laughed so hard that he had to set his cup down.
She inhaled sharply. “You were there!”
“All along!”
“You bastard!” She was on her feet, furious. She’d been scared half to death—and it had been him.
“You were afraid of wolves, I take it?” He grinned.
“No. Wolf. Singular. And I had damned good reason to be!” she yelled at him. He started laughing again.
She strode toward him, thunderous, angry—ready to douse his laughter with warm ale. But he was on his feet long before she could reach him, grasping for her wrist. “Oh, Genevieve! At this point, do you really think that would be wise?”
There was a warning behind the laughter. A real warning. She bit her lip and stepped back. “No. No, it wouldn’t. I want the ale—it would be wasted upon you!”
The fire sizzled suddenly; he hunched down again and Genevieve stared at the pan, seized suddenly with a rampant, nearly desperate hunger. Two beautiful fish were sizzling away in the pan, and upon the pack set by the fire, bread and a wedge of cheese had been set out.
Genevieve was ravenous, and her hunger growled loudly within her. She turned her back, not wanting him to see her eyes, how sorely, how badly, she wanted her share of that fish. But he had heard that less-than-ladylike growl and was chuckling softly. She sank down into the soft moss at the base of her chosen tree and stared straight out before her.
To her chagrin, he seemed willing to ignore her.
“Perfect!” he proclaimed. She didn’t watch him—she heard him fix a plate with fish and bread and cheese, and she waited for him to bring it to her, as he had the ale. But he merely sat back against his tree again and began to eat.
“This is better than the rabbit I caught last night.”
She couldn’t help it. She turned on him.
“You son of a bitch! You had a rabbit last night, while I was starving! You let me wait until morning when I was scared to death and—and—”
“It probably did your sweet soul good, my love.”
“Bastard!” she went on. He didn’t appear to notice. He ate his fish, licking his fingers.
“Hungry?” he asked when she paused for breath.
“Not!”
“Good, I wouldn’t mind the other myself.”
“Fine! I’m surprised that you haven’t starved me before now.”
“So am I.”
“You really do hate me.”
“You are keenly observant!” he snapped, but then he paused, staring at her a long moment. His voice softened. “Actually, milady, I don’t know what I feel. I do know what the facts are, though. And you are mine—until I choose it to be otherwise.”
Something about his tone gave her a breath of hope. She rose and crossed to him quietly, then knelt down beside him, seeking out his eyes. “Tristan, you could choose to release me now. The convent is just over the hill. Please, please! Tristan, I didn’t take anything with me. Just the clothing on my back—”
“And the dagger.”
“Nothing! I didn’t touch the jewels, I didn’t—”
“I daresay that you didn’t have the time to think of them,” he answered her softly, his eyes fully on hers.
“Does it matter?” she cried, pleading. “Tristan, I took nothing of value, there is just me—”
He touched her then, reaching out a hand to cup her chin, his thumb halting her speech.
“But you did, you see. To me.” He stroked the sopping mass of her hair and said, “This. This is grander than any jewel, Genevieve.”
He drew his hand back, as if he had not intended his word. He looked at his plate, and his voice grew harsh.
“I’m sorry, Genevieve. At this moment you are of value to me.” He looked up again—and she was amazed at the changes that could take place in him. His eyes looked black again—they had changed color with his mood.
He set his plate down and pushed her impatiently from him. Finding another of his flat pewter plates in the leather sack, he prepared it for her, filling it with fish and bread and cheese.
She shook her head miserably in denial, her eyes downcast.
“Eat it! And eat slowly, or you’ll be sick.”
She took the plate, and she began to eat, woodenly. But then she was so hungry that she began to gulp her food, forgetting all else. He stopped her, jerking the plate from her.
“I told you—slowly.”
She nodded, not returning his look, and he returned the plate. He walked away, and she heard him talking softly to the piebald horse. Genevieve wondered dismally if he had ever spoken to a woman as tenderly as he did that great animal.
She finished. Unbidden, she took her plate and his to the stream and cleaned them both, drying them upon her skirt. When she returned to the trees she found him carefully stamping out the fire.
He took the plates and returned them and the mugs to his sack and tied the sack to the back of his saddle. Genevieve was close enough to the piebald for the horse to lean down its massive nose suddenly and nudge her. Taken off balance, Genevieve laughed and straightened herself and patted him on the nose that had just roughly moved her. He came closer, like a big puppy, longing for affection.
“He likes you,” Tristan commented dryly.
She cast him a quick glance. “Why shouldn’t he?” she retorted.
She felt Tristan’s shrug. She ignored him and lightly scratched the horse’s chin. “Hello, young man!” she told him softly. And then she chanced a glance at Tristan again.
“What’s his name?”
“Pie.”
“Pie,” she repeated. “My God, he’s so massive, and so tame!”
“Like a pup,” Tristan said.
“And he rides into battle, against shot and powder and swords,” Genevieve murmured.
“So do men, milady, and many who must face cannon are in truth the most very tame of beasts. He is well trained, Pie here. Don’t ever think otherwise.”
“I was not thinking along that line at all.”
“Good. We’re heading back. Now. And don’t try to elude me again, Genevieve. There are beasts in this forest. More wolves than you might think.”
“I’m surprised that you care.”
“I don’t like my battle rewards mauled.”
She didn’t reply. Pie chose that moment to snort and nuzzle her again. You liar! she thought. Pie is as gentle as any horse she had ever encountered, and her father’s stables had always been full.
Tristan began to walk out of the trees, and Genevieve followed him. When they came to the path, Genevieve could see what she had not been able to discern in the darkness: The convent walls rose right above the road, not a half mile away. She was so close that she could almost touch freedom. Smell it, sense it, feel it.
She might never come this close again. Ever.
“You’ve-blisters?” Tristan asked her.
She nodded.
“I’ll walk awhile. You can ride.”
She stood meekly still, lashes sweeping low over her eyes, while his hands spanned her waist and he lifted her high. She took the reins and walked the horse dutifully behind him as he started out.
Then she leaned low, and whispered softly to the creature; then she pulled the reins to the right and dug in her heels.
The horse, beautifully trained, spun cleanly about. He was incredibly agile for his size, and he took off with a jolt that nearly sent Genevieve flying from the saddle. Within moments he was at a canter, as smooth as silk.
Genevieve bent low, gripping a handful of his mane along with the reins. The cool air flew at her, sending her hair flying, stinging her eyes. But day had never seemed more beautiful; it was almost like flying to freedom.
Pie’s hooves tore away the turf. They mounted the cliff together and they sailed down it. She could see the convent. The low fence before the gardens, the high walls rising behind it. She could see the Holy Sisters tending to their garden patches, like awkward birds in their full black garments and wing-like hats. She could see them, she could almost touch them. They could see her, surely—
She didn’t hear the whistle—not at first.
But Pie did. He stopped dead on a hair. And then he whirled around, and this time he did unseat his rider. Genevieve came hurtling into space; Pie was so big that it was a long, long fall. She saw stars when she hit the ground.
Her head cleared just as she felt the ground beneath her thundering. For a moment she thought that she needed to roll, that the horse might trample her. Then she realized that it wasn’t hooves at all, the horse was standing perfectly still.
Feet were causing the ground to seem to quiver against her ears. Gasping, she pushed herself up. Tristan was coming, running like some ancient Greek athlete. Genevieve quickly stumbled to her feet and tried to weigh the distance. The nuns could see her! They were shading their eyes and looking at her.
She started to run. The distance between her and the wall and her and Tristan seemed to be the same. Perhaps she couldn’t leap the wall, but if she did reach it, surely Tristan could not drag her back. Not with this flock of sainted ladies looking on.
She could barely breathe. Her blisters burned into her feet more deeply with every step and it felt as if long needles tore into her calves. It didn’t matter. She could see the disbelieving look on one young sister’s face. She could almost sail over the wall . . .
Suddenly she was sailing but not over the wall. She felt a sharp impact and flew up into the air, then came down hard. She twisted and tried to rise, but a hard weight bore down on her
She gasped for air, and stared up into Tristan’s eyes. His dark, sweat-gleaming features were grim; his lips were parted.
“God in his infinite heaven!” Came a voice, and Genevieve felt a thrill of joy again, for one of the sisters was coming to the little wall, staring over at them. She almost smiled; she was glad that she didn’t because Tristan’s eyes were narrowing and she realized, too late, that he had a few plans of his own.
“Genevieve, my love, my life! I warned that you must take care with Pie! Dearest!” he cried.
And he leaned over and kissed her.
She fought that kiss, twisting and flailing. But his hands were flat on her hair, right next to her face, pulling it to keep her head still, and his weight was such that she could not even squirm. In seconds she wasn’t thinking so much about escape as she was life—she could barely breathe.
“My goodness!” murmured one of the sisters, shocked.
Tristan moved from Genevieve then, just as she thought that she would pass out. She was desperate for air, she couldn’t begin to speak. Tristan stood quickly, swept Genevieve up in his arms, and bowed to the sisters.
“Good day, ladies! Forgive me, please! God’s blessings upon us all.” He smiled sheepishly. “Newlyweds, you know.”
Titters of delighted laughter followed his words and Genevieve quickly found her voice.
“Newlyweds, my—”
The rest was muffled; another suffocating kiss fell her way. She watched him raise a gallant hand to the sisters and wave.
To Genevieve’s dismay, they waved in return; a few of the younger ones looked rapturously enchanted, but one or two of the older ladies shook their heads in disapproval.
They returned to their work.
And Tristan quickly carried her back to the piebald and set her down with a thud. She gasped, still thinking that she might cry out for help. He was ahead of her once again, clamping a less than gentle hand over her mouth.
“One word, one word, and so help me God, Genevieve, you will have blisters on your rear to match those on your feet, Holy Sisters or no, I swear it!”
Exhausted, more than certain that he would carry out his threat and less than certain that her scream could be heard, Genevieve heeded his warning. She leaned her head against Pie’s great neck and continued to gasp for breath.
His sudden grip about her waist was hard and harsh and she almost landed on the other side of the horse when he lifted her. He didn’t hand her the reins. He set a foot in the left side stirrup and mounted the horse behind her. Pie flicked his tail and started up at a canter.
Tristan rode hard. Genevieve stayed as straight as she could. The wind seemed to blind her, and in time she wondered that Tristan could be so hard on the horse that he was so obviously fond of.
And then they slowed. He was silent, but he was there. And upon the animal’s back, they were forced far closer than Genevieve wanted to be.
She was so tired.
Tristan didn’t speak. And at long last, growing cramped in the saddle, Genevieve asked, “How long—’til we reach Edenby?”
“By nightfall.”
Tears rose bitterly to her eyes. It had taken her so long to walk! It had been such a hard, desperate journey.
I should have figured out a way to steal a horse! she railed silently against herself.
But she had not. And Pie could eat twice the distance she had made in less than half the time.
They stopped only once, and Tristan still had nothing to say to her. He handed her food without a word, and she ate without a word. They both drank ale from the same cup without a word, and then started out again.
This time Genevieve could not remain rigid. She was exhausted from lack of sleep and exertion. In time her eyes closed of their own accord, and her head fell back against Tristan’s chest; his mouth compressed in a tight line.
Genevieve woke with a start, certain that she was falling. She was falling, but only into Tristan’s arms as he lifted her from Pie.
“Where are we?” she whispered sleepily.
“Home,” he told her curtly, and she instantly began to fight his hold.
“No, milady, not now!” he told her, and his arms tightened.
He shouted out an order, and someone came for the horse. Then with his long, sure strides he carried her up the steps and into the great hall. The doors opened, and all the warmth of the hall seemed to come flooding out to them.
Jon was silhouetted there, with Edwyna behind him. They stepped back for Tristan to enter with Genevieve.
“You found her!” Edwyna cried. But she didn’t look at Genevieve, and Genevieve knew that she was glad of her recovery—but angry.
And why not, Genevieve, thought. You used her and you used Jon and you betrayed their kindness and your trust.
“Aye, I have found her,” Tristan replied shortly. He strode on past them, Genevieve struggling against him.
“Tristan, please, just let me tell them . . . Edwyna and Jon that—that I’m sorry. That—”
He didn’t stop walking. He looked down at her skeptically.
“Sorry that you escaped?” he whispered the taunt.
“Nay! I must escape you, and you must realize that! I am sorry that I—”
“Betrayed them?”
“Damn you, please, just let me—”
“They really don’t want to speak with you, Genevieve.”
She didn’t have an answer for him because she was staring at the door to her room—as they went on past. Tristan walked to the next staircase, the one leading to the tower.
“We passed my room.”
“My room, milady.”
“What—”
“I have discovered that I’m fond of that chamber.”
“But . . .”
Her voice trailed away in disbelief. They had reached the top of the winding stairway, and with the shove of a boot he had pushed open the one door there. He stepped in, and Genevieve gasped again with startled horror.
The tower room had been opened and cleaned and especially prepared. For her.
There was a hearth here, the focal point of the room. The bed was large and soft and ample, and there were chairs and a table. Her trunks lined the walls.
There was but one window, though. One lone window that sat high, high above the ground with nothing beneath it. It wasn’t that it was a terrible room or a particularly drafty room or a cold room. But it was just so isolated.
Tristan set her down upon her feet. Her legs, cramped from so much riding, would not hold her. He caught her when she started to fall and carried her to the bed.
He stepped back and Genevieve sat up quickly.
“Here? You’re—” she could hardly speak the words. “You’re locking me up—up here?”
“Aye,” he said, looking coolly regal.
“You chased me all that distance, ran me down like a fox, to drag me back and lock me up in the tower?”
“Aye, milady, that I did.”
Genevieve felt faint—but somehow, suddenly strong at the same time. She shrieked out, insane with anger, and wishing in those dark seconds that she could have killed him. She pitched herself off the bed like a snarling tigress, and she was so swift that her first blow reached him, her nails raking a pattern across his cheek, her force nearly sweeping him from his feet. He rallied quickly, though, catching her disastrous tangle of hair and jerking her head back so sharply that she cried out, giving up the fight. He released her and she sank to the floor, and yet she had never been less beaten. She stared up at him, hating him, venom turning the tears in her eyes to a crystal mercury that condemned as no words could.
“You are a monster,” she told him softly. “I have never met or seen or known of a creature on this earth less merciful.”
He didn’t answer her right away. Then he hunched down slowly until he was on a level with her, looking deeply into her eyes.
“I have tried to be merciful, milady.”
“You are cruelty itself!”
“Nay, milady. Shall I tell you what cruelty is?” He had gone very tense, and he stared at her with pitch black eyes, but suddenly Genevieve knew that he was not seeing her at all—that he didn’t look at her, but beyond her.
He didn’t touch her; his fingers knotted together before her, so tightly that the knuckles were white.
“Cruelty . . .”
His voice was almost a whisper, and carried some pain that she could barely touch yet seemed to invade her.
“Cruelty is a man waking to an alarm in the night, slain in his own bedroom. Cruelty is a peasant woman slain in the midst of her baking; or her husband, old and gray, butchered with his own scythe. Cruelty is rape, brutal rape. And it is death on top of that rape, even though she screamed, even though she surrendered, even though she begged and pleaded that they not hurt or cut or maim her but let her live just for the child that she carried . . .”
His voice trailed away.
It was as if his eyes focused on her again, and could not bear what they saw.
He stood abruptly, then stiffened. Genevieve raised her head, unaware that tears she could not understand were falling silently down her cheeks.
There was someone standing in the doorway.
Tess. Red-cheeked, bright-eyed, bobbing, and eager to please.
Tristan didn’t seem to notice her. He stepped to the left to go past her.
“Milord . . . ?” Tess queried.
Tristan looked back into the room, as if rudely reminded of something.
He shrugged.
“Clean her up,” he told Tess crudely.
And then he walked away, the sound of his footsteps quickly receding as he hurried down the winding stone stairs.