Sixteen
There was no indication of trouble when Tristan reached Henry’s Court in London.
Indeed all seemed to be going exceptionally well. In the halls of Westminster there was all manner of activity.
Harpists, trumpeters, pipers, and lutists sat about, occasionally testing their instruments, awaiting their audiences with the King. Sir Robert Gentry, an old acquaintance of Tristan’s, greeted him from an open solar with one of his prime hunting hawks upon his arm, anxious to give the bird to Henry—it was well known that he enjoyed the hunt.
If anything, the Court seemed quiet and in no great fear of revolt.
One of Henry’s clerics—face smudged with the ink he used to keep his records—came to tell Tristan that the King was aware of his presence and most anxious to see him alone when the time became appropriate. The man went away, mumbling as he read over his records, “To the lute player, two shillings; for the Portuguese falcons, one pound . . .”
“Interesting place, eh?” Robert said.
“Court remains much the same,” Tristan said simply. Sir Robert shrugged with a grin.
“It does, but it doesn’t. Already Henry is placing a very high import on the red rose and the white—romanticizing the past thirty years. I listened while he spoke with a horde of scribes and clerics. I tell you, Tristan, he is a clever man. He will hold that throne of his. Richard is barely cold in his grave, and already he has changed from a handsome, frail young man to a hunch-backed horror. At the same time, it seems, our new King will pay for a fine tomb for his predecessor.” Robert shrugged. “They talk of a new age; our King is a conservative. A clever one.”
Tristan nodded idly at Robert’s words, as a strange pall settled over him. Looking past a young dancing maid with a tambourine and a fellow holding the leash of a bear cub he saw a man he had not expected to encounter again. He stared long, determined to be certain that he was right. His heart beat fast, and a roar began in his ears, thundering like water. His hand fell to his sword, and he was startled by Sir Robert’s touch on his arm.
“Tristan, we stand in the hall amongst a melee of minstrels and dancers, and you look like the Black Death! Sir, take care!”
Tristan gave himself a little shake and stared at Robert. He clenched and unclenched his fingers and inhaled sharply to ease the tension inside of him. He nodded across the hall.
“That man. I knew him in the final days before Bosworth. His name is Sir Guy and he was attached to the old Lord of Edenby. I fought against him. What is he doing here?”
Sir Robert turned. “That young fellow—there? Why, yes, he is Sir Guy Tallyger, recently of Edenby. Aye—he was a Yorkist. But he attached himself to the Stanleys, or so I hear, at the battle. He proved himself a brilliant fighter, slaying men to the right and left of him, defying death. The King is quite taken with him.”
“What?” Tristan swore in disbelief.
“I know only,” Robert whispered for Tristan’s ear alone, “that King Henry claims him a hero, and one should take care with the King—for were you he, de la Tere, you would surely tread warily—you would consider men either for you or against you. And if Henry claims Sir Guy loyal, then that he must be!”
“Loyal!” he came out with a growl. “That man was part and parcel of a pact of treachery. I’d thought him dead—killed perhaps at Richard’s side—not Henry’s.”
“Tristan!”
Tristan turned quickly, knowing the voice. Henry Tudor had left his solar behind to come into the hallway. Women dropped low in curtsies as he passed; men bowed—the hall went still.
“Tristan, you arrived in good time,” said the King, throwing an arm around his old friend. “Come, we must talk alone.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Henry led Tristan back to the solar. The King closed the door himself before any of his entourage could follow.
“God’s blood!” Henry swore then: “Already!” He threw his hands up before him, then clasped them behind his back and began to pace. “In the north, and in Ireland! I am no fool, Tristan. And I will have various Plantagenet offspring to deal with, I know it! But the claimants themselves, they will wait. They will need a few years to gather their forces about them!” He strode to his desk and slammed a fist against a paper there. “Sir Hubert Giles of Norwich! My spies have warned me that he is gathering a force—to ride on London. Sir Hubert—no one! He would put Warbeck on the throne! He is a stupid fool—”
“Henry, aye! He is a stupid fool,” Tristan dared to interrupt the tirade. “Where does he think that he will get? Why, Your Grace, do you let it upset you so?”
Henry sank into the massive, claw-footed chair behind the desk. “It is a fearsome thing to take a Crown,” he said simply. “But, my God, Tristan! I do mean to do right by it! Will you look at the things that have gone on! Oh, aye, I do intend to twist history! God in his infinite wisdom knows that these ‘Wars of the Roses’ were not devastation to the land—just to a damnable Norman aristocracy! Peers! There will be eighteen in the realm for my Parliament! Before Edward’s reign they numbered somewhere in the fifties! Frenchmen—still! All these long years after the Conquest!”
Tristan arched a brow. De la Tere was a Norman name—he, himself, sprang from one of those Norman families—just as the Plantagenets had, and John of Gaunt, through whom Henry claimed his right to the throne, had been a Plantagenet. So what point was Henry really trying to make?
The King rose suddenly. “I am worried, Tristan. Look at the family feuds that have been taking place, the wholesale murder and pillage. I tell you, Tristan, it might be the wars, and it might be the times. Look at ... look at Bedford Heath,” he added softly. “The horror of such slaughter. Such things will not come again! I will not hurry to create peers and nobility, I do swear it! These barons will not become so strong that they think they can rise up against me and murder those who are loyal to me. It will end here, I swear it!” Tristan tensed at the mention of his birthright, but said nothing. Henry gazed at him, seemed suddenly weary, and sank back to his chair.
“I’m sending you north, Tristan. I’ll provide all the men-at-arms, but you’ll be in command. I’ve sent to Bedford Heath for Sir Thomas to ride with you, since all is peaceful there and I know that Jon of Pleasance keeps control at Edenby.”
Tristan felt instantly uneasy. Aye, Jon could keep control, but Tristan did not want to spend time away. Edenby meant everything to him. It was his purpose in his life—subduing the place and bringing it to new peace and prosperity. He couldn’t stay away. How could an absent lord expect to hold authority?
“Henry—”
“Tristan, I need you.”
Tristan lowered his head for a minute, clenching his fists tightly behind his back. He understood. Henry wanted the rebels broken in fair battle, and he knew that Tristan would do it. And no man who expected to live well and prosper refused his King.
“As you say.” But he looked up abruptly, ready to challenge the King anew. “Henry, you have in the hallway a certain Sir Guy—”
“Ah, yes, Sir Guy. He will travel with you.”
“What?” Tristan did not want that traitor at his back again. But neither did he want the man out of his sight. “Sire, perhaps I never fully explained the things that happened at Edenby. The Yorkists surrendered there first in an act of treachery. The castle was turned over to us, but we were drugged and many men were slain or imprisoned. Sir Guy—your noble warrior of Bosworth!—was a part of it.”
Henry shook his head, eying Tristan carefully, and Tristan knew that he had heard the complete story.
“I know of it. Sir Guy came to me, Tristan, with his humble admission. He told me of the betrayal, yet swore that he had no wish for it. He was quick to battle the Yorkists on the field. I saw him, Tristan, with my own eyes. He battled my enemies fiercely, and I believe, if you allow him, he will serve you well.”
Tristan did not believe it one bit, but he had no evidence to prove that the King was wrong.
“When do I go?” he asked.
“Parliament will sit, Commons and Lords. When the session is out you will ride. Meanwhile, my friend, you are my guest. No comfort that I can offer will be too great. Banquets, entertainment, perhaps a joust or a pageant . . .” The King shrugged. Henry loved pageantry, in many forms. And now he was King, free to indulge.
Tristan bowed to him stiffly. He did not want to idle his time away in London, and then in battle. He wanted to return to Edenby.
“How go things in Edenby?” Henry asked suddenly.
“Well enough.”
Henry nodded, watching Tristan.
“And the Lady Genevieve?”
“She fares well enough.”
Henry shrugged suddenly, grinning. Business was at an end. “You were right to extract a promise from me concerning the girl. What good revenue I could have earned bartering the maid in a marriage contract! I should have become her guardian and procured a vast sum from many a man, here or abroad.”
“But you did give me a promise, Your Grace.”
“Aye. But what of your plans for the future? You are not intending marriage?”
Marriage. A shooting agony streaked through Tristan. All that he could remember of marriage was death. It had somehow become a hallowed thing, and the mere mention of the word the greatest disrespect to Lisette.
Marriage? To Genevieve, of all women . . . to the golden blond witch who had tried to murder him, who had buried him, who was now, in all justice, his property. His mistress, concubine, whore—aye, even his obsession, his fascination!—but never his wife.
“Nay, Sire, I’ll never marry again.”
Henry sighed. “You make too much of marriage, Tristan. It is a contract between two families most often rather than between a man and a woman. You are young; you will marry again.”
Tristan smiled vaguely. “I will not marry again.”
Henry shrugged. “Perhaps then, at some time in the future, you will release the girl to me.”
Tristan grated his teeth together; Henry wanted her back, he knew it. But even as King—or especially as King—Henry would not go back on a promise. And Tristan would never give her up until he had ... purged himself of her.
He exchanged a few more words with the King, then went to gather his belongings and settle into his rooms in the castle. Dusk was descending and dinner would be served soon, but Tristan had no interest in the meal.
He lay upon his bed and stared up at the ceiling. He grew tense, musing on Sir Guy. He could not fathom how the man—any man!—had allowed Genevieve to be the instrument of attempted murder. Unless Genevieve had begged the honor. Still a father would not have allowed her to barter herself, nor a brother. Or a fiance.
But he had seen Guy watch Genevieve. Watch her in the hall that fateful night. And he had seen that Guy had blanched each time Tristan had touched Genevieve, and he knew that Guy was in love with her. Perhaps the man was just a fool! Tristan thought—for only a fool would fall in love with her.
And with that thought he wondered about himself again, curious at the ache that welled within him. I am bewitched, he admitted. Bewitched . . . he promised himself, but never in love.
Love had been that tender emotion he bore Lisette; love had been the happiness with which she had promised him a son.
It was all so long ago. He felt a sudden pain, sharp and debilitating. Yet that pain did not stay with him now. It struck, and it faded, to be replaced by a longing for Genevieve.
“Aye, bewitched!” he said aloud, and then he swore—because he was so anxious to return to Edenby, and her.
He rolled over, restlessly, thinking that he should go to dinner, that he would be hungry in the night. He simply had no taste for Court.
At last he rose. The light was gone and he lit a candle to dress by. Edenby—and Genevieve—would be there when he returned. There was no urgency. She would be there in the tower—for the simple reason that victory had been his.
He left his apartment and paused again in the hallway as he thought of Sir Guy. Genevieve had no recourse but to await Tristan’s return. But Sir Guy—who had plotted with her, used her, exposed her to dishonor—would be riding with him. It seemed the greatest irony. Tristan smiled grimly.
“Be grateful, Sir Guy, that she was not yours,” he said aloud. “Adore her from afar if you like, but keep your distance, sir. For, I swear, in time I will prove you false! And if you are dreaming of some future in Edenby with Genevieve, then surely you will die, sir, for she is mine, and what is mine I do not relinquish!”
Then Tristan laughed, aware that he was talking to himself. He hurried along the darkened, empty hallway, and as he neared the great hall where dinner would be served, he began to see friends and acquaintances, men who would ride with him, men who would sit beside him in the Parliament.
He had been reserved a place along the King’s dais. He found himself seated beside one of Elizabeth’s Woodville cousins, who was quite pretty and charming company while he ate. Tristan relaxed somewhat. He shared his cup with her courteously, as was frequently the custom, and he drank enough to feel warmed and easy.
But his eyes were ever wary, and in time he saw Guy approaching him.
Tristan stood before the younger man could reach him. He made no comment and waited until Guy bowed deeply, and stared at him then, tall and proud—and somehow apologetic—all in one.
“Your grace, I have been commanded to serve you, as you are aware, and have therefore sought this moment to beg your pardon.”
And a good moment, too, Tristan thought, weighing his enemy carefully. What guest of the King would create a disturbance in the banqueting hall?
Guy had light hazel eyes and sandy hair and the fresh appeal of anxious youth. A scar nicked his cheek—obtained at Bosworth Field, no doubt, Tristan thought. A well-trained knight; but then Tristan felt no doubts about the man’s prowess in battle—it was his loyalty that was suspect.
“I have heard that you fought for Henry at Bosworth Field,” Tristan said.. “Tell me, sir, what brought about your sudden change of heart?”
“A goodly number of things, milord,” Guy said gravely, “and I pray that upon our journey northward you will allow me to give you a full accounting of them.”
“Oh, I will,” Tristan promised gravely. “Indeed I will.”
Guy bowed deeply to Tristan and to the young Woodville heiress, and then took his leave. Tristan watched him go.
* * *
Parliament sat, and Tristan was part of it. Henry was duly accepted and his will became known. Men argued—and the government went on.
The days passed pleasantly enough. Tristan was reunited with Thomas Tidewell, and he managed to listen, without too much pain, to Thomas’ accountings of the property at Bedford Heath. Richard had attainted Tristan’s property, but had been too busy to make it more than a show of words. Thomas had remained, and of course with Henry’s ascension to the throne, the property had reverted back to Tristan.
There were great feasts every night and fascinating entertainment. One night there was a group of dancers, agile and fascinating, and Tristan was elated to discover that he felt a hum of desire for one of the girls, a little redhead who could leap like a deer. Yet when the King called her near he found himself thinking that her face was too round, her hips were too wide, and that her eagerness did not appeal to him.
He tossed her a coin and sent her away—and then retired quickly for the night. He wrote Jon a letter about Thomas and his report on Bedford Heath and on the curious appearance of Sir Guy. Then he stretched out on his bed, anxious for sleep—but plagued by nightmares of Lisette and the baby floating in pools of blood. When he awoke he longed to be at Edenby, with Genevieve. His passion for her provided such a tempest of physical appeasement that he could forget the past.
Parliament ended and Tristan at last was able to leave with Henry’s troops for the north. Thomas rode at his side and Sir Guy was never far behind him.
When they reached the rebels’ castle, they were forced to lay siege. Tristan was wary, but this place was no Edenby.
Tristan was patient and cunning. They did not lose a man. The residents and soldiers came out after eight days, laying down their arms, begging for mercy, swearing they would all give their oaths of loyalty to the King.
Tristan thought that Henry would feel magnanimous, since, though he had a few wounded, he had not lost a man. He ordered that only the ringleaders be taken to London for trial, and sat with a jury of twelve of his own men to accept the surrender of the others, hear their oaths, and grant them pardon.
Sir Guy sat with that jury. And unobtrusively, as he had for all the time that they had been together, Tristan watched the younger man.
Guy had battled well. He had stormed the gates; he had shown no fear. His personal valor during the suppression of this rebellion had been faultless. He had consistently shown a respectful demeanor toward Tristan.
But Tristan recalled waking in his burial bed of rock and stone, and he knew that he would never give up. There was a fault with Guy, and so help him, he would find it.
Guy did not mention Edenby or Genevieve until they neared London with their contingent of five hundred men. Only then did he ride quickly to catch up with Tristan, at the head of the column stretching like a great, breathing snake through the outlying towns.
Tristan knew that he was there. He sat calmly on the piebald, staring straight ahead, making no acknowledgment, forcing Sir Guy to at least clear his throat.
“Milord?”
“Sir Guy . . . ?”
“Forgive me, I have to ask. Edenby was—my home. I had a manor just outside the walls, toward the forest. How fare the people? Old Griswald in the kitchen, and Meg! Older still. And—”
“The Lady Genevieve?”
Tristan was surprised that he could make the suggestion so coolly. Sir Guy lowered his head.
“Aye,” he said softly. “How is my lady?”
“Well,” Tristan said curtly. “Edwyna has recently married.”
“She has! Who—I mean, may I inquire—”
“She married Jon of Pleasance. I believe you met him. He was there the night that Genevieve, er, killed me. You remember?”
Guy did not look up.
“She married—one of your men?”
“Aye.”
Guy swallowed and licked his lips. “And the Lady Genevieve—?”
“She has married no one, if that is what you’re asking.”
Guy thanked Tristan quietly and turned his horse around, riding back to the rear guard.
Tristan did not think long on this interview. He was almost quit of the man. He could see the spire of Westminster and he knew he was almost home.
* * *
Tristan spent one day in London, but even the one day seemed too long. December was already upon them. Then Henry released him, and he was able to ride for home. A fever burned within him, and he rode hard and fast, resting, when he did, more for the piebald than for himself. For one night he stayed at an abbey of Franciscan brothers. The next he rested but for a few hours, unable to sleep, brooding as he stared up at the moon.
Almost there, almost there, almost there . . .
He did sleep, against the hard back of his saddle. But as dawn came he woke with a start, realizing with horror that his own scream had wakened him and that he was staring at his hands, trying to wipe some invisible blood from his hands. Lisette’s blood, the babe’s blood, all that blood. He would never forget; he could only search out a semblance of peace.
He whistled for Pie, and together they found the nearest stream and drank. Tristan bathed his face and hands in the icy water, glad of its bite against his skin.
By midmorning he could see Edenby, rising from the cliffs. His heart gladdened and he quickened his speed, galloping the last few miles. At the gatehouse he slowed until his men recognized him and shouted out a welcome. In the yard Matthew was waiting to take Pie, and at the doors Jon stood with Edwyna, clasping him as he entered.
He was home. Edwyna kissed his cheek and drew him to the fire. Griswald brought warm mead, sweet with cinnamon. And Tristan sat, sipping the mead, filling Jon in on events in London, on Thomas’ appearance, on the battle fought in Norwich. Yet even as he spoke he was aware of a fever of urgency. Finally he looked at Jon directly and asked, “How goes it here? With Genevieve?” He glanced at Edwyna, hard, quick. “No escapes, no breaks?” His voice was oddly harsh and cold, in contrast to the rampant fire within his body.
Edwyna flushed unhappily and looked to Jon, and Jon, bless him, looked angry suddenly.
“Oh, nay, Tristan. No breaks.”
“Where is she?”
“In the tower, as you ordered, of course.”
“She—” Edwyna began, breaking off as Jon threw her a warning glance. “Well, I have spent an hour with her daily, and we—we have brought her out each day. For—exercise. Oh, dear God, I sound as if I am speaking of a prized beast!”
“Edwyna!” Jon said sharply.
“Her health!” Edwyna defended herself, staring at her husband reproachfully. “We had to bring her out; she’d have been mad. And she—”
“And she what?” Tristan roared. Tension crackled all around him. What were they getting at?
They both stared at him uneasily. Tristan returned that stare as if they had both gone mad. Then he threw up his hands in disgust. It didn’t matter. He was here now. And it had been stupid to sit there so, pretending that the first thing on his mind was not to race to the tower and wrench his prisoner down into his bed. And be damned with the fact that it was broad daylight, morning still.
“Never mind. God alone knows what has gotten into the two of you!”
Tristan was up, and quickly heading for the stairway with long strides. Edwyna glanced at Jon. Jon shook his head sternly to her, and she bit her lip, remaining still.
At the second floor Tristan paused, startled by the trembling that came to him. Ah! He taunted himself, but you have admitted to obsession and fascination. You know her to be a witch, a creature either of Satan or of the angels. Beautiful beyond the earth and more tempting than ever the ripest fruit . . .
He hurried up the winding stone stairs to the tower and paused once again. He nodded to the young guard there to leave, and slid aside the bolt.
She was lying still upon the bed. All dressed in white, soft white that flowed and fell about her. Her hair was untied and loose, and heat flowed into his loins at the memory of that gold and silk entangling him, covering them both, falling over her hips and his own . . .
She turned to him, rolling with startled fear, instinctively bringing her pillow with her and hugging it to her breasts. Her eyes came to him ... silver, growing wide, and then narrowing.
She knew it was me, he thought. She knew it was me when the door opened, yet she is startled, for none knew when I would return. And is she glad, or is she not?
Neither of them spoke. He came to her at the bed, and he caught her chin in his hand, staring warily into her face, and suddenly curious.
She was as beautiful as ever, if not more so. Silver and gold and cream and rose ... her lips were rose, aye, yes! Like the flower, like the red rose . . .
But she was paler. Her face was thin and ashen.
“Are you ill?” he demanded, and he was startled at the hoarse rasp of his own voice.
She tried to free herself from his grasp. He let her go and she took her pillow defensively, backing up to curl against the headboard, as if he were an unknown enemy again.
“I asked you. Are you ill?”
She shook her head. He felt at a loss, and because of it continued harshly.
“Come here!”,
She trembled then, but her chin rose and those magnificent silver eyes of hers sparkled out a fresh fire.
“Who do you think that you are, milord de la Tere! Gone for months, and then you return, and—”
“My whereabouts, milady, are none of your concern. Rest assured only that I am here now.” He stretched out a hand to her, and when she did not take it he caught her arm and pulled her to him. She swore, lashing out at him, but he laughed, determined to have none of it, and he kissed her with such need and such passion that she had no breath to fight him. When he drew back his head from hers at last and gazed down at her she was hypnotically splendid, with that brilliant fire in her eyes and her lips parted and damp and her breasts heaving beneath that white linen.
“Let me go!”
“I cannot.”
“It is morning—”
“I have missed you.”
“Oh, I’m quite certain. You have been off to Henry’s Court, going forth in battle again, fighting, burning, pillaging, plundering, raping, ravishing—”
“Ah. You are jealous. You’re wondering whom I ‘raped and ravished.’ ” He laughed. “Milady, this might quite well shock you. Most of your sex might well be eager and anxious to rape and ravish me.”
“You conceited oaf! Bastard! I do not care in the least, I assure you! Go back to them then, just let me—”
She broke off, catching her hand to her mouth, swallowing fiercely. Her eyes were suddenly huge with misery and alarm.
“What is the matter?” he demanded of her, so startled that he eased his hold, and she, scrambling like a nimble deer, leapt from his hold to the ground, barefoot, shaking her head, and trembling.
“Damn, Genevieve, you’ll not—”
“Please! Please, can’t you leave me for a minute!”
He stood up curiously. She looked fragile and tremulous and more ashen. Beautiful and delicate ...
It dawned upon him slowly, very slowly. He came to her, as if in a dream, and though she exclaimed something and tried to elude him, she had nowhere to go. He caught her and with no passion tore open the night dress, encircling her breast with his hand, and knowing the weight to be great, the tiny blue lines of the veins to be more prominent, the nipples wider and darker . . .
And his hand came quickly with no tenderness low to her belly, and she shook like a wild mare captured, straining with that wildness against the manacled vise his fingers held upon her wrist.
“Damn you!” she swore. “Will you leave me be! I am sick—”
Something horrible and cold swept over him; he felt as if an icy blade pierced his heart. Visions spun before his eyes, visions of blood and of death . . .
“My God, I could wring your lovely neck!”
She had never, through everything, heard him speak with such quivering fury, and it astounded her. Deeply. So deeply. For she was the wounded party here, she the wretched one, with illness claiming her each morning, and the knowledge that life could never be the same, that society would ban her, that her dreams of any future were dead.
“God damn you!” she said, her voice low. “It is hardly my fault!”
He just stared at her. So rigid, so cold. She had not known what reaction to expect, but never this! She had thought that he might be amused, that he would laugh. But he was furious.
His eyes were cold as death and so shockingly full of hatred that she railed against him in panic again.
“Don’t worry—it is none of your concern!”
He just kept staring at her. Helplessly she said whatever came to mind.
“I can be gone! It—it can be gone! There are ways, there are things to do—”
He slapped her, hard.
She fell to her knees with the force, and screamed when he wrenched her by the shoulders.
“Don’t you ever, ever say such things again. Ever. You understand that there is nothing to be done! By the saints, I swear, you do anything about this and I will teach you that the world can be merciless. I will flay you alive.”
As abruptly as he had come, as he had touched her, he dropped her, his eyes blacker than any pit of hell, and he left her.