Nineteen
If it had not been for Guy, Genevieve would have enjoyed the stay of their guests immensely.
Christmas was upon them, soft white snow continued to fall, and even under their clouded circumstances there was a great deal of merriment. Each night it seemed that Griswald prepared a finer feast, mummers and carolers came to the doors and musicians came to play in the halls.
Lord Gifford and his party were to stay through Christmas Day. Genevieve was not sure of what passed between this particular guest and Tristan, but she became aware from things said here and there that Tristan was being summoned back to Court. Why, or when, she was not sure. And while the King’s men remained with them she did not ask, for certain questions brought out a cold and dry response from him. They were seldom alone together except for the nights, and the nights were something she had long since given up decrying.
She enjoyed watching Tristan and Jon with Thomas Tidewell. They were all ready to tell some tale of one another as awkward youths, exposing one foible or another. The years melted away when they laughed, accusing one another of some reckless stunt.
One such time came on Christmas Eve. It had been a grand day, with the hall opened to welcome people, the farmers and the merchants and craftsmen, their wives and their daughters. In memory of Christ’s giving, Tristan and the members of the household had bathed and dried the feet of the feeble and poor and needy, and handed out coins; and when that ritual had ended, with Father Thomas and Father Lang giving out blessings to the poor and rich alike, there had been dancing. Tess, barefoot and ecstatic, had danced about the room on Tristan’s arm, only to be swept from him by a bold and bellowing Tibald. Guy had thought to claim Genevieve, but Lord Gifford had rescued her from those too tight and passionate arms before Tristan could be aware of the event.
She and Edwyna danced with many a farmer and shepherd, while Tristan and the King’s men held many a milkmaid. It was the custom of Edenby for the people to come together on this night. Punch was served in a giant wassail bowl, and it was a night when all men might eat, drink, and be merry.
It seemed an especially fine night to Genevieve. She was weary yet awake with the excitement. Fathers Lang and Thomas had retired to the former’s rooms by the kitchen ell to discuss some theology, and the guests had trudged away home. Edwyna had retired with an exhausted little Anne. Genevieve hadn’t seen Guy in quite a while. In the great hall, before the hearth, were Jon, Thomas Tidewell, Tristan, and herself. She had thought to leave them alone, but when she began an awkward excuse Tristan caught her hand and drew her to him, and she somehow wound up resting between his knees, his hands playing idly upon her hair, while they all sat back, tired, and at ease.
And in those moments Genevieve felt a strange tug at her heart, and she wished ardently that she might have known Tristan in a different life, years ago. Before that heinous crime had been done against him.
“Ah, but you should have seen his face!” Thomas Tidewell was saying, grinning at Tristan. “But that was Tristan—ever determined to prove himself to his father. He just had to ride that great black stallion, and the animal did see fit to deposit him straight way in the trough!”
Genevieve gazed up him as he stroked her cheek. “I was all of nine years old!” he protested. “And the younger son. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Your brother was quite amused,” Jon remembered.
“Aye—as was the earl. The switching he gave you was heard halfway down to London.”
“Now that I’d have enjoyed!” Genevieve teased, and he arched a brow to her.
“I can just imagine, milady!”
“It was well, though, for you did learn to train that horse,” Jon murmured.
“Aye, and Pie is another like him.”
“Genevieve knows all about Pie’s manners,” Tristan said, smiling.
She lowered her eyes, amazed at the softness of the smile that crept to her lips, too; it did not seem possible that they could share amusement now over such things between them. She was so contented, like a kitten curled at his feet; soon she was drifting to sleep.
She could not quite stifle a yawn when she said good-night to the others, and she leaned heavily upon Tristan’s arm until they reached the room. She barely made it to the bed, and she lay back exhaustedly, her eyes closing immediately.
“Genevieve, you cannot sleep with your shoes on.”
She heard his voice but dimly, yet heard within soft strains of tender amusement.
“I cannot move,” she groaned.
And he sat to take her shoes from her, rubbing her tired feet, the soles, toes, and heel, with such gentle dexterity that she smiled wistfully, her eyes still closed, and sighed with the sweetest refrain. She knew little else but that manipulation, and vaguely still that later he helped her from her gown and shift, and drew her against his warmth and comfort to sleep.
She woke to sunshine—and Tess in the room, Tristan already up and dressed, and the wonderful smell of chocolate wafting on the air from a silver server set upon the table before the hearth.
Genevieve pulled her hair from her eyes as she heard Tristan laughing to Tess and wishing her a fine Christmas. Genevieve almost climbed out of bed, but although she had been naked before Tess and naked before Tristan, she’d never appeared before both at once in such a state; so she curled more deeply into the covers. Tess left and the door closed, and when Tristan turned she smiled almost shyly and wished him God’s blessings for Christmas.
He smiled in turn and did not come straight to her but paused by the table to pour a mug of chocolate. When he reached her it was to chide her to move her rump so that he might sit beside her, and when she laughed and did so he slid next to her, his one hand about her as he offered her the chocolate with the other.
She sipped it and felt a great rush of warmth and comfort both from the potion and his arm and casual ease beside her. And yet for all that, a feeling of the greatest shyness swept over her and she kept her eyes lowered murmuring, “I should rise quickly. Surely it is near time for Christmas Mass.”
“Not so near,” he murmured., and taking the chocolate from her he lifted her chin with his thumb and forefinger. His eyes were on her as light as a summer’s sky, his hair was ever slightly tousled about his forehead, and a slow, lazy smile played about his lips. Never had he looked so handsome and tender.
“We’ve some time,” he said lightly, and his smile played more fully across his features with amusement and ruefulness. “I’d not be outdone by the King, you see.”
“Your pardon?” Genevieve murmured with some confusion.
He left her once again and went to where his cloak lay upon the back of a chair. He came back to her with a small package wrapped in blue velvet, placing it into her hands.
She did not open it but stared at him, her eyes grown wide. Again he sat by her side, opening the package of velvet when she could not, setting the clasp aside to reveal a menage of delicate gold filigree and sparkling gems. He drew them from their nest, straightening the piece, and she saw that it was a cap for the hair, intricate, glorious.
“The gems,” he explained, “reminded me of your eyes—in all their moods and hues. Amethysts in mauve and sapphires in blue and diamonds for their glittering fire in passion and in anger.”
Genevieve stared, her heart thundering. She could not speak, and did not know what to feel. Gladness? That he could think of her and such a beautiful thing all in one. Or shame . . . that she had proved herself so entertaining that he would think to reward her with material gain? Were it not that he had taken Edenby! That they had met as friends to become lovers! Were it not the first Christmas where her father lay rotting in his tomb alongside the man who would have made her his wife.
“Genevieve?”
She could not touch it. She kept her eyes low.
“It is—beautiful.”
He leaned across her feet suddenly, studying her, and though her eyes were low he might see them. Primly she smoothed the covers over her breasts.
“Truly, Tristan. The gift is beautiful. But I—cannot accept it. I have nothing for you.”
“Genevieve.”
He touched her chin again, lifting it. She could not read what thoughts played through his mind then, but it seemed again that he had read hers.
“I bought it in London, Genevieve. With rents collected from my estates in the north. I did not buy it to appease your anger, nor to pay for pleasure. I purchased it as a Christmas gift for a woman whose beauty it does so nicely complement. And that is all.”
Tears stung her eyes with his words, and she blinked quickly to hide them from his gaze. He took the jeweled snood from her and knelt, straddled above her, to set it upon her head, and she laughed, telling him that her hair was too wild to do the piece justice.
“Nay, I tend to like this mane of yours wild and disheveled,” he told her, sitting back to survey it. The gentle look of tenderness did not fade from his face, and suddenly Genevieve was glad again, and touched and warmed as if by fire.
She looked quickly downward, her fingers nervously folding over the blue velvet packaging. “But I have nothing for you,” she whispered.
To her surprise, he was suddenly standing. He strode to the hearth, fingers laced tautly behind his back. Genevieve watched after him with some surprise, for he was, in a way, abruptly gone from her, and she could not read him so easily as he discerned her heart from the shades of her eyes.
“Tristan, I did not seek to offend you—”
He turned quite suddenly, yet he was still distant from her; but not angry, merely living in another age, another place, in the darker resources of his mind, and struggling perhaps to speak lightly to her.
“You have a gift now, madam.”
“But I do not—”
He inclined his head, nodding toward the growing slope of her belly beneath the sheeted swell of her breasts. And though his voice went suddenly harsh, she felt that he still meant no anger against her.
“Would you give me a gift this Christmas, then milady? One that I would cherish, one that would allow me to sleep well in the night? If you would, Genevieve, swear to me only that you will care for yourself—and the child that we’ve created. Whether in your heart you call me friend—or your greatest foe. Swear to me only that you will guard your life, and your health, and that of the child.”
She colored rapidly, knotting her fingers ever deeper in that velvet, for the only time they had ever really discussed the child was that first night of his return, when they had fought so bitterly and so strangely. She didn’t know what he felt; she could well imagine that she must remind him painfully at times of his former happiness. She thought what a wondrous time it must have been for them, young and so in love, with no black clouds between them, man and wife cherishing the babe that would be.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she was very afraid and dizzy and glad. Perhaps they were still enemies; perhaps time could never change that. The world was a treacherous place; and the life could change again. That was her hope, was it not? That some Yorkist would present a claim to the throne?
She didn’t know. It was Christmas; her father and Axel lay buried in the chapel. She should still despise this man with all her heart, yet for all that lay between them and for all that haunted his past, he asked her now, with near a touch of whimsy, that she guard herself—and their child. He did not seem to hate her for living when his wife did not.
“Genevieve?”
She looked up at him at last, and again she was struck by his appearance so that she trembled. Aye, but what a child this would be, for he was so fine and gallant! She was afraid again to speak. I do not hate you! she longed to cry. I am merely afraid that I cannot hate you anymore. Yet I must somehow cling to honor beneath it all and remain your enemy, you who came and saw and wanted and took, who caused my father to lie dead below . . .
She could not think of hating him at the moment. She shook her head slightly in confusion and whispered hoarsely
“Milord, I do intend to keep my health. And ... that of the child.”
Then she was frightened by her admission; she did not want to tell him that she could easily love the life within her, and too easily love her enemy So she jumped from the bed, carrying her covers along with her, laughing to cover her emotion.
“That, milord,” she teased, curtsying as elegantly as she could in her gown of linens, “is no Christmas gift! You have given me jewels—”
“Ah,” he returned, bowing to her, “but you give me jewels nightly, my love. I sleep entwined in that jewel, that golden mane. I told you once—I consider its value immense.”
“Perhaps I could shear it—”
“Perish the thought, milady.”
“Well then,” she murmured softly, “perhaps I should just entangle it about you. Now.”
With her words she dropped her sheet and stood before him, naked and proud and regally beautiful, and most sweetly uninhibited in his presence. Tristan was stunned and fascinated into silence, drawing raggedly for a breath.
“Perhaps,” she murmured seductively, “I should come to you, with your gift, clad only in mine.”
She walked to him, oh slowly! Seductive as a cat, hips swaying slightly, the pad of her feet so light she might have walked on air. And her hair, that crowning glory adorned in the caplet of jewels, was silk about her, floating, sailing, golden ecstasy that curled over her breasts and hips like nature’s grandest cloak.
He could not move. Never before had she initiated so much as a touch, and seeing her thus enflamed his heart and his loins. Yet he could not lift a hand but only stare in amazement.
One that she surely enjoyed, for there was a subtle and lazy smile about her lips, a sensual sway to her supple movement. She seemed as practiced as Eve, and a much richer temptation. She stopped, just feet away, her hands upon her hips, a taunting tilt to her chin and the devil’s own mystique in her eyes.
She pressed herself against him then, on tiptoe, winding her arms about his neck, and leaning against him in such a way that she taunted his body from head to toe, and surely felt the hardened flagstaff of his arousal. But she was mischief incarnate, then, allowing him the full feel of her breasts, then spinning away. “Perhaps I need a bodice!” she declared, draping her hair demurely then about her chest, causing an evocative display of deepest cleavage between the creamy mounds. And she spun again, and her hair with her, a golden rainfall, taunting and teasing, covering and then laying bare all that was feminine and beautiful and all that quickened his senses until they thundered.
“Perhaps—” she began in a purr, but broke off with a startled yelp because his inertia and silence were ended, he was before her, laughing like the lion triumphant, and sweeping her up and into his arms.
“Perhaps, milady? Perhaps what?”
“Oh, but, milord!” she squealed, feigning shock and horror. “You’re dressed—”
“A matter easily remedied.”
“I’d not have you take the trouble—”
“Ah, but I could deny you nothing. And certainly not all of myselfl”
With that he made a leap that brought them both gasping and laughing and hard down upon the bed. And her eyes glittered, still a rage of excitement, as she swept out her arms, carrying rich locks of her hair with her to wrap about his shoulders and neck. He buried his face within it, and then his kisses rained so fast and furious over her naked flesh that she discovered herself taunting him no more but pleading with him, knowing not what she said, simply asking him to fill the need within her.
“You think it that simple, wench? Drive a man beyond the bounds of sanity and deny him the fruit of slow temptation? Nay!”
“Tristan . . . have mercy!”
“Nay, lady, ’tis not one of my finer qualities!”
And with roving kisses and a wanderer’s heady touch, he brought her again and again to a delicious precipice, only to leave her anxious and waiting and pleading . . . and begin again. It was daylight but he spared her no intimacy, staring boldly where he would, resting his head upon her thigh, bringing her near delirium with the stroke of his kiss and the whisper of his touch, then laughing when she declared that she could go no further.
Indeed she would, for most curiously, though she felt weak with the sensations he had wrought, she discovered that he would demand things of her still. When she whispered that he must disrobe, he told her that she must disrobe him; and to her great amazement she did just that, and to her greater amazement still she discovered she could truly be the wanton, covering his chest with the sultry flick of her tongue, sliding against him, lower, lower . . .
Heed his urgings, explore with fascination and ardent administration all of him. And relish, savor . . . his words of urging and passion . . . the sharp, rasping sound of his breath as desire grew. His hands, rough upon her, dragging her to him, bringing them together.
As they had never, never been before. So stunned and sated with it neither could talk, or move, but just lie . . .
But then Genevieve did move with a little gasp of alarm because there was a sharp rapping on the door, and Jon called out to Tristan.
Tristan laughed at Genevieve’s panic and grasped quickly on the floor for the lost covers, pulling them over them both as he bid Jon to enter. Genevieve flushed furiously but Jon merely stood in the open doorway, his hand upon it, and wished them both good Christmas, smiling and reminding them that the hour was late, that all the guests were assembled, that, ahem, they really should dress and rise.
Tristan chuckled and held Genevieve against him despite her dismay and promised Jon that they would be right down.
Neither Tristan nor Genevieve saw the man who stood behind Jon in the hallway, looking in, noting their closeness and dishabille.
Neither of them saw him, or the murderous fury written across his features.
The door closed and Genevieve leaped from the bed, tearing into one of her trunks for clothing. Tristan rose with an amused smile and dressed with a more casual calm. But after he had helped her with her shift and the tiny buttons and hooks on her gown, his smile faded and he held her shoulders closely, staring down into her eyes.
“There’s one more gift I’d have of you, milady.”
Wide-eyed, startled by his tone, Genevieve stared at him in silence, her beautiful features marred by a growing frown.
“Tristan—”
“I have to leave today, Genevieve. I am to return to Court with Lord Gifford and the others.”
“What!” She tried very hard not to let the surprise or dismay show in her features.
“I have to return to Court. Henry has summoned me. I do not wish to lock you in a tower room again, Genevieve. Swear to me that you’ll make no attempt to escape.”
She lowered her eyes quickly, wondering why it hurt so badly, why she should feel such desolation that he should leave her. The morning . . . it was this wretched morning, it had been so exquisite and they had been so close and ...
She was seeing things that were not there, and could not be there, and dear God—where had she lost her pride and dignity along with her freedom and honor?
“Genevieve?”
“Tristan, that is not fair!”
“Genevieve, I do not want to set guards upon you day or night.”
She tossed her head back, looking up at him with agony. “If I gave you my word, how could you trust it? I am still amazed that you dare sleep with me here. You swore that you would not!”
“Perhaps I am mistaken to do so.”
“Perhaps you are!”
He tore from her suddenly, and she flinched. Then he spun to face her again so quickly, his unsheathed sword in his hand, the hilt outstretched.
“Take it!” he roared to her.
She could not. Dazed, alarmed, she stepped back, but he came closer once more, eyes black as pitch with emotion, tension straining the cords of his neck to tautness. He grabbed her, crushing her against him, and the smooth blade of the sword lay between them.
“Take it, milady, take it now—if you would.”
“Tristan, stop this!” she cried out, near tears.
“Give me your word!” he thundered, his fingers around her wrist like steel, clamping so tightly, and she felt he was barely aware that he held her.
“Take the sword, Genevieve, or give me your word.”
“You have it! Let me go, Tristan, please, this—”
“Before Almighty God, Genevieve.”
“I swear it, before Almighty God, by all the saints! Just, please, Tristan, let me go, do not look at me so—”
He released her, and turned his back to her, sliding his weapon back into the scabbard. He was silent, dark head bowed. Then he turned back to her and stretched out his hand, willing her with his eyes to take it.
“Come, we are awaited.”
She studied his eyes but could fathom nothing about the man. Hesitantly she gave him her hand, and they left the room together.
* * *
Even while the day wore on and Tristan remained within her reach, Genevieve felt the desolation of his leaving.
He stood by her at Mass, while Father Thomas and Father Lang gave sermons. Genevieve continually felt that both these men, her friends, stared at them with condemning eyes.
This is not my fault! she wanted to cry out. But perhaps she was beginning to feel that it was, for she was not taken against her will night after night—she had quite literally embraced the enemy to her bosom.
She lowered her head for prayer, but did not pray. Edwyna had admitted to her once that Father Thomas had gone to Tristan, appalled by the relationship he shared with Genevieve. Father Thomas, it seemed, had demanded that Tristan either wed her or release her.
And Tristan had merely reminded Father Thomas that he himself was not free of the sins of the flesh—a fact that everyone in Edenby knew, but no one discussed.
That had been that. Tristan had no thought of marriage, now or ever. Which, Genevieve proclaimed, was to her liking. She’d had no choice but become his mistress. But she could not marry him. For marriage, she would have to vow to love him, to obey him. She would have to give the vows—and giving that vow would he the greatest disloyalty. He could take her chastity from her—he could not take her loyalty. That she still owed to her father, to Axel, to those who had died in defense of Edenby.
And still she was wretched because she was frightened. Tristan had told her he would never marry anyone. She was certain that he believed her protestations and carried no delusions that she longed for marriage.
But what would the future bring? It would be one thing to run by herself, to seek sanctuary, penniless. But not with an infant. What would she do when Tristan’s fancy turned and his fire for her ceased to burn? She did not want to be frightened; usually she could convince herself that she eagerly awaited that moment.
But the heart was a fickle thing, more treacherous than any man. There was not just fear, but stark terror in the idea that she longed to cry because he was leaving. God help her! She would miss the passion, and the play, and the tender moments. And she would long for them to come again.
“Genevieve, the service has ended!”
He whispered the words to her and she nodded and rose from her knees. He told her that he had to meet with Jon in the counting room and asked her with a rueful grin if she would pack his clothes.
Aye, she needed to gather his shirts and his good mended hose and join Edwyna, for the table would be heavy laden again today and the hall would be plentiful with guests before the men rode away.
But Genevieve hovered behind in the chapel, staying behind one of the pillars when Father Thomas looked about and closed the doors. Once he was gone Genevieve walked to the tomb where her father lay beside her mother, in their sepulcher of stone. She touched that stone, and the tears that had seemed so hot and heavy behind her eyelids all morning now spilled soft and silent down her cheek. “Oh, father, dear father, I love you, I do not mean to dishonor you . . .”
She touched the stone, and it was cold, and it gave her no answer to the heartache and confusion she felt. She found herself smiling ruefully through her tears and tenderly touching the face carved from marble.
“You’re going to have a grandchild, though. And it will be his son. And you really might forgive him if you knew him. You might have asked him to your table, father. You’d have been glad to offer him hospitality, for he is fascinating. And what was done to him was horrible and heinous and ...”
She broke off, knowing that he was dead; he could not release her from any vows. He could not rise up and tell her that he understood, that even Christ had said, “Love thine enemy.”
She walked farther and came to the second new sepulcher, where Axel lay She thought that the artist had done well in capturing the facial features of her fiance. Even in marble, Axel slept like the scholar, like the gentle thinker, more prone to a fascination with science than to warfare.
And through her tears she reflected that he might have understood; Axel was always forgiving. Ever so slow to judge others.
“I miss you, my love!” she whispered, and then she wondered why he had had to die, because she wished so fervently that she could just talk to him.
“Miss him!”
The hiss was startling loud behind her ear and Genevieve swung about in confused panic. Grasping the marble tomb behind her she stared into the furious eyes of Sir Guy.
“Guy! You frightened me—”
She broke off because his hand slashed out and he struck her full against the cheek. She cried out in amazement, clasping her wounded flesh, yet pausing when she would have struck back in simple fury and self-defense.
He really hadn’t known what he had done, he was so irate, near delirious—and stabbing into her verbal barbs that were terrible.
Terrible, in that they dragged up every bit of shame and humiliation she had ever felt, every tug and tear of guilt upon her heart, every pain of horror and loss . . .
“—by God, Genevieve! Edgar’s daughter, Axel’s betrothed! Lady of Edenby, late and great. Don’t come too near, don’t dust her hem with a spark of love or desire. Proud, Genevieve! The ruler, the duchess—the whore!”
“Stop it!” she shrieked, slamming her fists against his chest at last, and watching, finally, the crazed look begin to leave his eyes. “Stop it!” she whispered then, looking anxiously to the door and remembering that Tristan’s wrath could be a terrible thing—and that he did not trust her with Guy.
“Why?” Guy demanded sullenly then, sweeping a stray lock of sandy hair from his eyes and watching her with pained reproach. “Your lover is busy in the counting room.”
“Guy, damn you! I chose no lover! I fought to the bitter end, I fought with the weapons you chose for me. And when the battle was lost, I was left to pay the price, while you rode from here and became a traitor to your cause—”
“Nay, I was with the Stanleys! They rode for Henry, and I was caught into it! Richard was doomed; I fought for us, for Edenby, Genevieve! I risked my life before Henry that he might see that I was loyal—that he might give me Edenby. And you.”
Genevieve stared at him miserably.
“Guy, I am attainted, and this property given to Tristan. Surely you know that—”
“And that you pay the price.”
She didn’t care for his tone, the deep sarcasm in it, and she started to speak but he interrupted her with a gale of laughter.
“Ah, yes! You pay the price, poor Genevieve! I’ve not seen him beat you! Rather I see his hand reach for yours, and those delicate fingers fit into them trustingly. I do not see him drag you up the stairs. I see your feet tread after his willingly I see your body swell with his child, and I see your bright flashing eyes and your maidenly flush when he touches you. And I’ve seen you—aye, milady, I’ve seen you!—by his side, damp and trembling and disheveled and curled happily into his arms after his sword has thrust inside of you!”
“Guy! How—”
“Whore, Genevieve! All of London knows that you’re the Lancastrian’s whore! Tell me, milady, what else would you do next to dishonor your father and Axel and Michael—slain, buried! —by his hand? Marriage, milady? Do you strut and saunter and lay upon him with smiles and sighs, hoping to leave your father’s spirit screaming forever as you become his wife?”
“I—”
She hated him but she understood his pain—as he could not hers. And she was ashamed.
“Excuse me, she said coolly, holding her head high. ”I would pass by.”
She started past him; he caught her hand and pulled her back; and when she would have screamed and railed into him, she saw the mist of tears held back in his eyes, and she could not hate him for the words he had said so cruelly to her.
“Guy—”
“Genevieve, forgive me!” He fell to his knees, holding her hand, pressing his cheek to it. “Genevieve, I love you. I have loved you forever. I cannot bear this.”
“Guy, please!” She came to her knees before him, seeking out his eyes. “Guy, please! You musn’t. You musn’t love me, and you musn’t grieve for me. He—”
“He has to die,” Guy said thickly.
“Nay, Guy! Don’t be so foolish!” Genevieve cried with alarm. “Guy, were he to die Henry woutd—”
“I serve Henry, too!”
Genevieve shook her head impatiently. “Tristan has served Henry long and well, and they are close. Were Tristan dead Henry would but give this property to another.”
“To me!” Guy proclaimed, and Genevieve shivered because there was suddenly a cunning and sly look about him.
“Guy, I don’t—”
“Genevieve, Genevieve! Never have I played the fool. Don’t fear, I shall rescue you soon, I swear it! And Edenby. I can be crafty and quick. Be patient, love, be patient, and wait for me.”
“Guy, please, this is madness! Don’t, please don’t do anything! Edenby prospers and the people do well, and I cannot do anything else to endanger others again. Guy you musn’t—”
His hand jerked hers suddenly, and she thought quickly enough to cease speaking. He stood, jerking her along with him, and suddenly he was touching her no longer and she was very afraid to turn and see why.
But she could hear the footsteps. A measured stride against the aisle stone, relentlessly bearing down upon them.
She was afraid to turn, but at last she had no choice. Guy stared over her head, silent and still and deathly white.
She spun, at last.
Tristan stood there, tall and regal in his heavy mantle of crimson, held at the shoulder with a brooch of the new fashion, an emblem of the white rose entwined with the red. His head was bare, his hands were upon his hips, and his expression was so dark and so severe that Genevieve trembled despite herself. She wondered desperately what he had heard of the words between them, if anything.
And she wondered if he was thinking that she had plotted and planned this rendezvous.
He smiled suddenly, bowing to the two of them. A smile that was deathly and frightening, that did not begin to touch the black pitch anger in his eyes.
He bowed. “Milady. Sir Guy.”
“Tristan.”
Why had she spoken? He had asked her nothing yet, and her voice seemed laden with guilt.
That cutting smile of his deepened and he nodded toward her, then gazed past her at Guy. He walked forward and touched her, and surely felt that she did not just tremble but shook like a loose leaf in a winter’s storm.
“Your cheek is red, milady.”
Never had she heard such a threat, such rage, kept under such taut control in his voice.
“I—fell,” she lied quickly. “ ’Twas Christmas, and I was anxious to visit my father’s grave. I slipped trying to kiss his marble cheek.”
Tristan stepped past her, viewing the statue, slipping off his gauntlets as he looked at Guy with a high arched brow. “Is that what happened, Sir Guy?”
He took a moment to answer, watching Tristan carefully, then keeping his voice level.
“Aye, milord. I came to help milady, nothing more, when I saw her fallen.”
Tristan nodded then to each of them, smiling again, with a coldness that made Genevieve shiver afresh. Ah, if looks could kill, she would be fallen now, writhing in the agony of that blow!
He drew his touch idly over the marble and went on to the relief of Axel’s handsome features. He touched the marble there with easy fingers and gazed at Genevieve again.
“A handsome young man. It is a pity that he had to die,” he said coolly.
“Aye,” she replied equally coolly. She would not tremble before Tristan, before her father’s tomb!
She dared to step forward beside him and very tenderly place her fingers against the marble lips. And tears once again stung her eyes. “He had no stomach for the fight,” she said honestly. “He believed that those wishing the war should be allowed to murder one another—and that we should just wait to see the outcome, as most of England was doing! But . . . he would support my father, for he was his liege lord, and Axel was very loyal. And courageous.”
“Aye, as the rest of Edenby,” Tristan said flatly, ignoring her speech and turning back to Guy. “Henry must be grateful, Guy, that you turned your courage and your prowess to his side.”
Guy did not reply. Tristan’s fingers suddenly snaked around Genevieve’s wrists.
“We are leaving now, milady.”
“Now!”
“Aye, milady.” He inclined his head slightly toward her, and she still felt the fury in his voice such as she felt it in his touch.
“Tess packed for me. And winter’s light fades quickly; we will want some daylight. Guy, you are ready to ride, I presume?”
Guy nodded stiffly. Tristan started out, his boots sharp on the stone aisle, his grip still iron about Genevieve’s wrists.
The party was assembled in the courtyard. Edwyna stood with Griswald and several other servants and the boy Matthew, ready to hand up the stirrup cup to the lord of the castle and his group.
Tristan did not release his hold of Genevieve until they were outside in the courtyard. Guy followed slowly behind her, and she did not dare turn around.
Lord Gifford found her and said courteously that he would be anxious to see her again. Thomas Tidewell, Tristan’s friend, gave her a brotherly hug and thanked her for her hospitality. She could only smile weakly in return. She knew that Tristan would deny that even the hospitality had been hers.
Edwyna stood there, sorry that they should go so soon. Tristan muttered darkly even to Edwyna, saying that the weather was worsening, they needed the good hours upon the road. And then he leaped upon Pie, and the great animal pranced toward Genevieve; Tristan stared down at her from that great height, straight and one with the horse, his eyes still a condemnation that burned through her. She swallowed uneasily and returned his stare. He bowed to her, courteously, coolly.
“Milady, you are at liberty no longer.” He looked over her head and she turned and saw that he nodded to Tibald, who waited with arms crossed.
And her heart seemed to sink. She would not be allowed outdoors again. Tibald had his orders. He would sleep before her door now, she knew, perhaps changing places now and again with young Roger de Treyne.
She swung around to stare at Tristan again, moistening her dry lips to attempt to speak.
“Tristan, I did not—”
He bent down low to her, whispering sharply.
“Milady, take care. If I ever catch you so with him again, I will lay a whip against your flesh myself with the greatest pleasure. And I will kill him. I swear it. So be warned.”
He straightened, shouted and lifted a hand, and the party of men and horses went thundering out the gates of Edenby.