Twenty
Tristan spent the entire journey into London trying to stay in the company of Lord Gifford—and away from Guy.
His anger was such that he lay awake at night, rigid with heat and fury, yearning to rise and drag the man from his sleep and tear into him with his bare fists.
He hadn’t heard, what had been said between Guy and Genevieve; but he had seen them together. And he knew, in his soul, in his blood, that Guy was plotting against him. In all sanity, however, he couldn’t act—not until he had some proof against the man. If he tore into Guy out of sheer jealousy, he would beyond a doubt weaken his own case with the King. He had to steel himself to patience, to wait until Guy should show his hand. But the waiting was torture.
Jon and Thomas were both with him, though, and that was good, for their cautionary words often kept him in restraint. Jon was quick to remind Tristan that although Guy might be guilty of something, it was still possible that Genevieve was innocent.
Sometimes Jon’s plea in her defense irritated Tristan—he could have sworn she had been hiding something from him when she had spoken to him in the chapel. She might well have been nervous to see him there no matter what, but he could sense a lie in her, and she had been defending Guy. Why? Had Guy really been Axel’s good friend? Or was that a lie, too? It seemed possible to Tristan. He could not forget Guy’s eyes upon Genevieve that night so long ago, when he had first come into Edenby Castle. He had expected a trick then, partially because he could not believe that a man so in love would allow his lady to welcome the victor to her bed.
Arriving in London did not much help Tristan’s mood. From the time he stepped foot into Henry Tudor’s chamber he realized fully that conspiracy and treachery would threaten the realm for years to come. Henry was cool but quite ready to point out things well afoot. Elizabeth’s mother, the dowager queen and still Duchess of York, was already planning for her daughter’s reign. Henry was not ready to act against her, but he knew that in her court she was entertaining a Yorkist faction, among them Francis, Viscount Lovell, one of Richard’s closest friends, and John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln, whom Richard might well have considered his heir after his own young son had died in 1484.
Not the least of it was the pretender, Lambert Simnel, the son of an Oxford carpenter, set up by some source to act as the ten-year-old Earl of Warwick—son of the duke and Clarence, decendant of Edward III’s son Lionel.
Henry knew damn well that Simnel was an impostor—he was holding the real Earl of Warwick in the Tower and could produce him at any time. But the trouble being stirred seemed endless. There would be a rebellion in the future, Henry was convinced. For this reason Henry had summoned Tristan. Henry knew it would take time for rebels to really gather a force against him, but there was a group of Irish lords meeting outside of Dublin, and Henry believed that he could forestall a true invasion and rebellion if that rabble could be broken.
The Yorkist kings had given Ireland home rule for some time; the Irish were naturally interested in the welfare of the Yorkist cause. However the powerful lords had yet to rise, and Henry wanted to buy some time.
Tristan didn’t want to go to Ireland. His mood was so wretched that night that Jon suggested that he might want to ask the King to send back to Edenby for Genevieve. “She could be here upon your return. With Edwyna,” he added wistfully. “And Tristan, since Guy will be going to war with you again . . .”
Tristan turned a furious red. “I do not want her here!” he shouted and strode out, amazed by his own vehemence and the truth of the feeling. He found the street and freedom from all company and a cool breeze to calm him. He walked, realizing that it was true, that he was furious with her, that he was, in his heart, certain that she was plotting against him.
Sitting upon a step at last he groaned and pressed his hands against his face, and he knew that there was more broiling inside of him. It was one thing to want her, to crave her—she had captured his senses. That addiction was something he could understand. He could even tolerate the tenderness for her that he sometimes felt. He could enjoy the laughter that they shared.
But her pregnancy was advancing, and though he was anxious for a healthy child, he could not forget the nightmare, and he could not fight the pain. This was how Lisette had been, when last he had held her living form. This was the time when they had dreamed and planned. He could remember holding her so, speaking of names. His name, his father’s name, her father’s name, a saint’s name . . . She’d promised him a boy and he’d told her that a girl with her beauty would be fine. They’d been shy together and bold together; they’d wanted the babe with such tender yearning.
Genevieve had never claimed to want his baby. She saw it only as a creation of invasion and violence . . . even carrying it, she was determined to escape, to betray him. He tried to think sanely of the factions that warred within him now. He wanted her here. He missed her fire and her warmth. Yet he hated her with almost as fierce a passion.
He sighed and rose, and headed back.
From the banqueting hall he could hear music. There would be music. Music and dancing and entertainment. It was perhaps his last night here. And God alone knew, the Irish could kill him ere he could begin to subdue them. No one had ever accused the Irish of being weak!
But he could not return to the hall. He walked quickly, with long strides away from the sounds of revelry. He might as well make an early night of it; he would need to ride hard in the morning.
Once in bed, he soon slipped into a deep slumber. And then the nightmare began. Going back, going far back, through mist and memory. He was riding again, laughing again; and Jon and Thomas were woefully merry and deep into their cups and that steady gray kept descending upon them. It should have been night, but it was not—it was smoke, and the acrid and painful . . .
It was a dream and therefore the smoke followed him like a mist, swirling around his feet, distorting pictures, taking him from one place to another. He saw the farm, trampled and razed, and the old man and then the farm wife . . . slain.
Then he was at his castle. The beautiful manor, so meticulously planned for comfort. Where wide windows, not arrow slits, let in the bright light of day.
But there was no light, just the mist. And he was running, running. Running so hard that he could hear the pulse of his heart cracking like a cannon, he could feel his sweat drop into his eyes and the pain burgeoning in his thighs. Faster, faster, and he could get nowhere through that mist.
Then suddenly, shockingly, the scene in the nursery sprang before him. Lisette, her head bowed, her hand extended, as if she reached into the cradle to stroke a child.
He knew now even before he touched her that she was dead. She was dead, dead and bloodied. But it was not Lisette he held. It was Genevieve. Golden hair matted with death and blood, mysterious eyes of myriad colors closed forever. He screamed in ragged terror.
“Tristan!”
He awoke, drenched and shaking.
“Tristan!”
It was Jon calling him. Light filtered in from the hallway, and Tristan began to feel his consciousness released from the horror of the dream. He swallowed and blinked and somewhere recognized that it was fast approaching dawn.
“Dear God, what happened—?”
“A dream, Jon,” Tristan said, but he was on his feet, dressing with all haste.
“Wait! What are you about?” Jon dared place a hand on his shoulder at last. His friend’s shouts had reached him half a hallway down; surely more guests would have heard and would be wondering, and Tristan still appeared as wild as an enraged boar.
He clasped his mantle over his shoulder with a brooch and started past Jon.
“Tristan, wait!”
Jon followed in hot pursuit; Tristan spoke to him over his shoulder. “You were right. I want her brought here.”
“Fine. It is a fine idea, but where—”
“I am going to see the King. I go in his service. By God, he will see this done in answer to that!”
“Tristan, it is barely dawn—”
Naturally the guards appeared as soon as Tristan strode toward the King’s door. Naturally—and a bit apologetically—their pikes fell to bar his way, and the Master of the King’s chamber rushed out anxiously. Tristan was not to be deterred, swearing that he had to see the King, he could not await the dawn.
Henry himself appeared then, but smiled when he saw Tristan. They went into his chamber.
Jon noted that Henry seemed to grow more and more amused while Tristan spoke, sitting upon the foot of his bed, watching his liege man with an acute gaze and a secretive smile. Tristan paced and spoke passionately and eloquently of all his service on Henry’s behalf and how in return he desired that Henry see to the safety and welfare of Genevieve Llewellyn; that Henry see that she be brought to his Court to await Tristan’s return, and that the King should see to her guardianship that no ill should befall her, nor should she find herself able to leave his hospitality should she be disposed to try.
Henry stood at last, and there was something sympathetic about his smile; he knew why Tristan was afraid. He lifted a hand nonchalantly.
“It is done.”
“What?”
“It is done. Jon will not ride with you but will return to Edenby for the lady. I’ll see that she is comfortably established here, in your chambers, and provided with whatever she might need. She will be watched at all times. She will be safe, and I assure you she will not leave.”
Tristan did not seem to think that it should have been so easy. He stared at Henry, hesitating.
“Is that all, My Lord of Edenby and Bedford Heath?” the King inquired imperiously.
“Aye,” Tristan murmured, still confused.
“Then, let me get some sleep, milord!”
“Aye. Your Majesty, thank you.”
They left Henry’s chamber. Tristan sighed. “Well you are not to accompany me, Jon. I am glad. I’d have you with her.”
Jon touched Tristan’s shoulder. “She will be here when you return.”
He accompanied Tristan back to his chamber and helped his friend put on the full armor in which he would ride from London at the head of Henry’s troops.
* * *
“The King is coming to see you!”
Genevieve felt a little convulsion of nervousness rip through her. Her fingers fluttered nervously to her throat, and she jumped to her feet, allowing the soft white silk dress she sewed for the infant to float to the floor.
“When?” she asked Edwyna, who stood in her doorway looking as stricken as Genevieve felt.
She willed herself to be calm. Henry meant her no harm, she was certain. But in the six weeks or so that she had been at Court she had not seen him, and for him to make this strange appearance now—not summoning her, but coming to her—seemed very strange indeed.
And of course when one had been on the wrong side of a dynastic war, it was always disconcerting to have the all-powerful victor make a sudden appearance.
Her heart then seemed to abruptly catch in her throat with a piercing ray of alarm.
Tristan! Oh, God, he was coming to tell her that Tristan had been killed in Ireland. That her child would come into this world not only illegitimate, but orphaned. Why else would he come to her? She was more prisoner here than guest, with guards at her door day and night. She had been “invited” to various banquets and dinners but had begged his understanding if she declined due to “indisposition”—which she was certain the King understood to mean that she was rather ill at ease appearing in her condition. She had written him a gracious thank-you letter for the cloak; he had returned the social grace. And that had been the extent of things until now. She could only presume it to mean . . .
“Genevieve!”
Concerned, Edwyna gripped her arm and lowered her back to the chair. Genevieve stared up at her aunt, her features exquisite in fear. “Edwyna? Why? Oh, my God, Tristan . . . ?”
Tristan. She missed him, and she was terribly afraid for him. When Jon had told her that he had donned armor to troop off to Ireland she had been appalled, and to her great distress she had spent that swift night before their departure in tears, most curiously praying that a man she had once tried to kill herself might survive an enemy’s blow in a distant land.
It was impossible to hate a man, she had assured herself, when she felt his life inside herself. Winter had brought movement in her womb; the baby was real. Tiny feet kicked against her belly and she touched it tenderly to try to determine just what part of the child was wedged where. She was in love with her child, and therefore could not truly hate its father.
But perhaps, Genevieve had to admit, this was not the whole truth. Was the truth buried in the fears that he lay with an Irish lass even at that moment?
Fear coursed through her again; better that he lay with an Irish lass than dead upon the snow crusted land of Eire . . .
“Genevieve, nay! The King smiles as he comes! Surely, there is nothing wrong with Tristan!”
Genevieve swallowed and nodded, and then realized that she was in no state to greet the King. Her hair was unbound and undressed and she wore a simple gown of blue wool and no jewelry or ornamentation at all. Indeed her feet were bare, for she rested them upon a shaggy ox fur before the fire.
“Edwyna, I can’t—”
It was too late: the King was there, a host of retainers behind him as he knocked lightly upon the door that Edwyna had left ajar, and, seeing them, stepped in. Edwyna immediately fell into a graceful curtsy, and Genevieve, coming to her senses quickly, followed suit awkwardly.
Henry bid them rise, greeting Edwyna politely, then turning his attention to Genevieve, saying not unkindly that he would speak to her alone. Edwyna’s eyes widened and she was quick to bow her way out of the room.
Genevieve did not realize that she stared at Henry for long moments. She could not help remembering the last time they had met face to face—when he had turned her over to Tristan and dismissed her from his mind. She knew that already his reputation was being made throughout London. He was quiet; therefore the people considered him sly; careful, and therefore shrewd; cautious with his pennies; therefore mean. But seeing a curious kindness to him as he stood before her, regal but not pompous, Genevieve thought about the man beyond the myth. He was still young, he was not an unattractive man; though Genevieve would admit that she had found Richard more handsome. Still she thought that what was said of him on the streets was exactly what he planned should be said; he was not ungenerous, she knew. Edwyna had told her that the ladies had been whispering about the grace with which he had tossed coins to a slim and barefoot orphan dancing in the street for some small reward. His servants liked him well. Nor was he considered licentious; his loyalty to his dynastic marriage with Elizabeth seemed above any reproach. Rumor had it that he did intend to create a strong treasury for England, that he intended to break the kind of power that could lead his nobles to further civil war. He was fond of astrology and the arts and sciences, and Genevieve had never heard that his table lacked for quality or entertainment.
She flushed suddenly, lowering her eyes, realizing how bluntly she had been evaluating him.
“I am interested in your assessment, milady,” Henry said lightly, and Genevieve raised her eyes to his again. He smiled, not at all aggrieved. “Do you see a monster still?”
“Your Majesty, I never saw a monster,” Genevieve murmured.
“Did you not?” He came forward slightly, appearing nonchalant. Genevieve was certain that he studied her accommodations carefully; she did not know if he was satisfied with what he surveyed or not.
“Truly, I did not,” Genevieve protested. She lifted her hands helplessly. “Sire, I can only say again that I but followed a sworn loyalty.”
“And now?”
She shook her head, confused. “And now?”
“Do you plot rebellion?”
The thought of her plotting anything, heavy with child and forever in her rooms or in the courtyard just beyond, seemed so funny that she had to laugh despite herself. She quickly caught the sound, though, bringing a hand to her mouth with horror.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he murmured, idly gazing about again. “I appreciate quick reaction; it tends to tell the truth. But tell me, then, are you happy?”
“Happy?” This time she caught herself quickly, guarding any reaction to his words. “I—I do not know what you mean.”
The King found the chair opposing that where she had been sitting and slid into it, indicating that she, too, should sit. Genevieve did so nervously.
“Happy, milady. It means feeling well about one’s life rather than thinking ill of it.”
Genevieve flushed uneasily. “I cannot say that I am really happy.”
“You would just as soon leave England?”
She hesitated. “I suppose I would. In honesty, Your Majesty. You must understand, I realize fully that you are the King. My vow was to Richard; once he was dead, I meant to truly swear my loyalty to you. But . . .” She shrugged, smiling ruefully. “Well you are the King and you attainted my property and gave it to Tristan. I cannot get it back. Therefore I cannot be truly happy.”
“You hate him so much still?”
The question surprised her and she answered it even more carefully.
“Is one not supposed to despise the victor—when one has lost everything?”
“Milady, I asked the question,” Henry reminded her, with just an edge of warning to his tone. He leaned forward. “I asked you, Genevieve, if you still so despise Tristan de la Tere.”
She could feel a wash of color flooding over her, and despite the command in his eyes she lowered her own and answered vaguely, “Our relationship is obvious, I believe.”
“Your relationship was obvious before it began, girl.” He spoke softly and she found herself raising her eyes to his once again. Curiously she thought that he did not feel any rancor toward her, and she wondered why he had been so bitterly determined that her father and Edenby cede to him when he had first come ashore from Brittany.
He smiled, sensing her thoughts. “Your father was a Welshman very strongly against me. It aggravated me sorely, and the battle was not certain you know . . .” He lifted a hand idly; that, Genevieve knew, would be that, in way of explanation. He stood suddenly, walking toward the window, turning back. “You have taken care not to appear in public. Are you so dismayed by the child? What are your intentions?”
“I—I don’t have ‘intentions,’ Sire.”
“Are you horrified?”
“No.” She answered simply.
“Dismayed at a—bastard?”
She watched him, suddenly composed and poised and not about to be cornered, “Sire, bastards have been known to go far in life.”
He laughed, enjoying the answer. “Ah, yes! You refer to my bastard Beaufort ancestor. Well, aye, but then the Beauforts did not remain bastards. John of Gaunt married his Swineford mistress and so all was eventually well. Have you not wondered if Tristan would not eventually marry you?”
Genevieve rose, too. “Nay, Your Majesty, I have not. For I will never marry him. I cannot marry him.”
“Cannot?” The King’s brows rose high. “You cannot marry the man whose child you are about to bear?”
“The man brought about my father’s death, Your Majesty. And he has readily proven that he can take almost anything from me. But my love and loyalty will remain mine, to give when I choose.”
He watched her for a moment, then quickly lowered his eyes, and strangely she thought that he smiled with some secret amusement.
“Tell me, milady, do you give them to me?”
“Your Majesty?”
“Love and loyalty, my Lady of Edenby. Are you a loyal subject, madam?”
“Aye, Your Majesty. You are the King.”
“But you would escape to Brittany if you could?”
“I would consider such a move—honorable.”
“I am fond of the Duke of Brittany, you know. He was to be my keeper; he was always my friend.”
Genevieve held silent. The King continued to watch her for a moment, then he asked about her comfort and she assured him that she was fine. Then she knew that he intended to take his leave, and she could not let him do so without asking as to Tristan’s welfare, though she longed to feign indifference.
“Your Majesty? May I ask ... have you heard how things go in Ireland?”
“They went very well, for the time. Eventually troops will rise, and I will battle again on England’s shores. The lords currently in question have been subdued.”
Her heart quickened; the baby, as if listening, too, gave a tremendous kick.
“Then . . . Tristan will be returning . . . soon?”
“Returning soon?” Henry inquired politely in repetition. “Milady, he returned last night. Good-day, then, Genevieve.”
She could not reply; she was grateful that the King seemed to expect none. He strode from her room and the door closed, and she was so stunned that she sank into her chair without knowing that she had near fallen.
And then it seemed that a fuse, set to burn slowly, had come suddenly to the powder; her temper erupted like a volcano against the jagged pain that enshrouded her.
He had returned to London, he had come here . . . He was here, somewhere . . . right here! He had ordered her dragged up from Edenby and she was here at his command; and he had come back after all these months and he had not bothered to come to see her!
“What happened? What did he say?”
Genevieve was only vaguely aware that Edwyna had come back, that she was anxiously questioning her. She waved a hand in the air and then at last looked directly at Edwyna.
“Tristan is back. Did you know?”
Edwyna appeared quite honestly startled. “Nay!”
“But he would have seen Jon, surely—”
“I swear, Genevieve, Jon said nothing to me.”
“That doesn’t mean that he hasn’t seen him,” Genevieve said bitterly. Then she knew that she was about to cry, and so she bounded to her feet in anger instead. “That vile, plundering, scurvy son of horse manure! Oh! Why didn’t they manage to slay him in Ireland!”
“Genevieve!” Edwyna said, shocked. Then she backed away because Genevieve was so very upset, pacing in a fury, swearing, ranting, pounding her fists against the mantel. There were tears hovering, though, and Edwyna was suddenly afraid.
“Genevieve, please!” She caught her niece’s shoulders and forced her over to the bed, to sit at its foot. Genevieve fought her, trailing out a passionate string of oaths once again.
“Nay, nay! Genevieve, the babe! ’Tis not due for another two months! Would you risk his life?”
At last Genevieve grew calm. Edwyna spoke softly.
“Genevieve, please, I know that you do not want to hurt the child.”
“It would be his fault!”
“It would hurt you bitterly all the same.”
She seemed quiet at last. Edwyna got her to lie down, and she drew the covers over Genevieve’s bare feet and distended belly.
* * *
Edwyna did not have much trouble locating Tristan; in fact had she not been with Genevieve all morning, she would have known that he was back. In the great hallways of the palace the men were talking about his brilliant tactical maneuvering against the recalcitrant Irish lords; the women were whispering about his manly appearance, with his armor and without. Edwyna but followed the titterers out to the gardens. Despite the cold March day there was a gathering about a silent fountain; a minstrel was playing his lute, and creating bawdy lyrics and a merry tune as he went along. The countess of Hereford and a few other ladies were sitting upon a bench and laughing, and a number of men were drinking from a deep pot of steaming mead set out for their comfort.
Fools! They should all freeze in the cold, Edwyna thought indignantly, and she was further irritated to see that Jon, smiling that charming smile of his, was seated beside Tristan. The countess—the widowed and very active Countess—was behind the two men, too close, with way too much bosom exposed for the weather.
Edwyna paused, then smiling demurely herself, sidled through a cheery group to reach her husband and Tristan. They were singing along with the minstrel, raising their cups, but Edwyna was gratified that though her husband kept singing, he also most gladly reached out an arm for her. She slipped into the slim space allowed her between Jon and Tristan. She accepted a kiss and a sip of the mead from her husband—but then turned her eyes on Tristan, who was still singing in his rich baritone, laughing, eyes dancing, and not averse to the wanton touch of the beautiful Countess behind him.
Tristan gazed at Edwyna in return and she was quite certain that he wasn’t at all drunk. There was something shrewd in his gaze; he knew she had come to accost him, and coldly dared her to do so, although he greeted her warmly when the minstrel had stopped and other voices were chiming that he begin again.
“You’re home, oh noble Lord of Edenby!” Edwyna said.
“Ah, sweet Edwyna! Do I detect a barb? Jon, take care! The honeyed bride yet has claws!”
“Edwyna—” Jon began.
“I am glad to see you alive and well, Tristan,” Edwyna continued.
“But of course he is alive and well, Edwyna!” proclaimed the Countess, as her elegant fingers slipped down to stroke Tristan’s chin. “So gallant a knight would easily beat down the bloody Irish!”
Tristan’s smile slipped with some annoyance. “The ‘bloody’ Irish were fine men of poor conviction,” he said quietly.
There seemed to be another set of fine lines about his eyes, Edwyna thought. And a slash across his hand was turning to a white scar. It was strange, she decided sadly, that a man so proficient in battle should hate it so.
He was handsome, and he was hard—and he was the knight just returned from fierce warfare, yet she was also suddenly convinced that this blase attitude of his was false; that he really had no taste for this merriment, that instead he brooded. Like a man ... haunted.
She lowered her voice slightly, but otherwise ignored those around her.
“You have not seen Genevieve.”
“Yes, I thought I’d do her that favor.”
So darkly! So bitterly he spoke! For a moment Edwyna was at a loss, but the Countess’ elegant little fingers were dangling over his shoulder then. She knew that it meant nothing to Tristan. But she was suddenly so infuriated for Genevieve that she wanted to hurt him anyway—and she knew just where to strike.
“I had merely thought you might be concerned,” she said lightly. “A child born at this point would surely die.”
She reached him—oh, definitely!
“Edwyna!” Jon admonished her harshly, but Tristan drew her attention, snatching her hands in a grip that could crush.
“What has she done?”
“Why, nothing, milord, but she knows that you are back.”
He was on his feet, striding away, with shoulders squared. Someone called after him; he did not turn.
“Edwyna, by God—” Jon threatened her.
She turned on her husband and dropped her voice to an urgent whisper against his reproach for her. “Jon, it could be true if he does not see her. She was . . . wild!”
He stared at her and she thought again how handsome he was and how lucky she was. And then his lips touched hers, and she knew that they were all right. If only she did not have to worry so about Genevieve.
* * *
Genevieve must have slept. When she opened her eyes again she felt a dull pain throbbing against her temples and then a fiercer pain that stabbed no real part of her body but seemed to tear against her heart. She had known, she had known she was nothing to him but a foe, to be broken and used—but somehow she had allowed herself to care anyway. And she couldn’t stop it now; couldn’t stop the pain or the feeling, nor could she cease to torment herself. Here she was, so swollen with his child that she could not face company, and there he was, out with others, not even bothering to tell her that he lived.
She closed her eyes again, then opened them wide, not at all sure how she was aware that she was not alone, but looking instinctively to the doorway.
He was there, just inside the door, with one foot upon a trunk, his elbow casually upon his knee, watching her. He was aware that she had wakened, yet he had not bothered to announce his appearance. At first she just returned that stare, dismayed by the assessment. His eyes were very dark and guarded. His shoulders seemed to strain against his royal blue tunic, and the masculine allure of the man seemed to command the very air around him. Dark hair fell across his forehead, and he looked both young and severe at once.
And here she lay, after all these months, with no dignity about her. Hair free and tangled and tousled with sleep, the wool loose and ugly about her—her feet still bare. She felt grossly misshapen, and terribly at a disadvantage.
Genevieve sat up abruptly, drawing her back to the bedpost and bracing her palms against the mattress.
Oddly enough, it was at that very moment that she came to know how very much she loved him, how painfully and deeply she did care. Wrongly—without honor, it was true. And it hurt so badly because she had never felt so lost and alone, so perfectly aware that she was not loved in return. He had not even bothered to come to her—for he had surely found other interests, other women.
“So. You are back.”
Oh, she had not known that she could sound so bitterly cold herself! She saw him stiffen at the tone of her voice, and she thought, my God, I sound like a shrew—and I cannot help it. He didn’t reply. He walked over to the bed and she didn’t know which was stronger, the craving to burst into tears and plead for him to take her into his arms, or the trembling desire to strike out at him.
She did neither. He sat on the bed and she inhaled, drawing into herself as much as possible, keeping her eyes open and level with his. Inside she trembled with awareness of his clean, manly scent, his face and features, and the bronze of his hands against the white-laced edge of his sleeves.
“You’re well?” he said.
“Nay, I’m horrid! I do not wish to be here, I—stop!”
He was reaching beneath the hem of her blue wool, sliding his hands along the length of her legs, calves, and thigh, to reach the hard mound of her stomach. Outraged, she tried to stop him, but she should have learned that no one stopped Tristan when he was determined.
Breathless, she grit her teeth to hold back her tears and glared at him in fury. He did not note her face though; he gazed upon her bare belly and moved his hands over it as he would.
“Don’t!” she cried again, trembling.
He looked at her at last. “The child is mine.”
“The flesh is mine!”
He smiled, and her heart caught at the sight of that smile, and then again she wondered with whom he had been smiling before, with whom had he laughed. And in all these months who had he charmed and seduced and touched and kissed and cared for?
“I felt him kick.”
“He doesn’t want you here, either!”
“But I am here.”
“A bit late for any real concern, I believe.”
He drew his hands away at last and turned, rising from the bed. “I didn’t think that I would be the one you would be waiting for.”
“You were the one who ordered my presence.”
“But not the one you gave the passionate good-bye to in the chapel.”
Good God, she had forgotten all about Guy. Forgotten that he had ridden with Tristan. Forgotten that he was a friend, that she should care desperately whether he had lived or died.
“You’ve had no other visitors?”
He spoke bitingly, mockingly. She answered in turn.
“If I had them, milord, I would not know. They could not have gotten past your guards.”
“The King’s guards, milady.”
“ ’Tis often one and the same.”
“It’s good to know where you’re sleeping.”
“Why should you know, when I do not?”
“Do you care?”
His back was still to her; his voice was casual. But she could suddenly not answer, and at last he swung back to her, something so demanding about his expression that she longed for a place to hide. Why was he doing this to her? If he did not care, he should just leave her be.
She lowered her eyes and tried to drag her gown back down over herself, and he laughed again, catching her hands then placing both of his own over her bare stomach again.
And his touch was light and gentle. Palms against her, fingers stroking. She closed her eyes, thinking how grossly distorted she was, how vulnerable he had made her, how he must be thinking that she was grotesque, ugly. She wished desperately that she could cover up, that she could at least be slim and trim so exposed.
“He moved again. You’re wrong. He likes me, and he likes to be touched. He knows.”
She opened her eyes. His head was bowed, but he was smiling still. And she trembled, admitting to herself that he gazed at her with a tender fascination now. He was making no attempt to humiliate her; he merely demanded, as was his way, to have what was his.
“He kicks strongly . . .”
There was pain in his voice. And a sudden, excruciating pain in his features. A tremor seared Genevieve’s heart, and her fingers moved against the sheets. She wanted to touch his face so badly, to ease away the pain she did not understand.
She lifted her hand, but it fell flat at the sudden rapping at the door. Tristan pulled down her gown, smoothing it over her stomach, then reached for the covers, bringing them protectively over her.
“What is it?” he called out.
“Lord de la Tere! The King has been seeking you. He wants you in his privy chamber at once, Your grace.”
Tristan stood. He felt her eyes on him, and returned her stare, then offered her a deep, mocking bow. She glared at him, pale, her eyes sparkling like crystals.
“You’ll excuse me?”
She did not reply. He left the room and closed the door behind him, then followed the liveried page down the twisting halls and corridors to the King’s privy chamber.
What now? Tristan wondered. I will not go away again! I do not know how to be with her, but I do not know how to be without her. I must regain something that I have lost.
He stepped on in. Henry awaited him behind his desk, tapping his fingers against it. Tristan twisted his jaw and clenched his teeth together. Don’t tell me I’m to ride again, I beg of you, Your Majesty!
He bowed, inclining his head warily. “Sire?”
“Tristan. I am grateful, you are aware, for your loyalty and service.”
“Aye.” Cautiously.
Henry stood. “I want you to marry Genevieve Llewelyn.”
“Marry!” Tristan stared at him blankly.
“Marry, Tristan. I’ve told you before—it’s a contract. Marry. Take her to wife.”
Tristan shook his head. “I—I can’t—”
“Well, you will. I’ve given you her holdings. I’ll add to that the Treveryll estates and you’ll be one of the most powerful men in the Kingdom.”
“I—don’t seek further wealth.”
“You will do it because I ask it of you.”
“Why?” Tristan asked in a whisper. Marry. He couldn’t.
“Tristan! It’s a contract! It’s a way of cementing family bonds and loyalties. She is going to have your child. She came from a family of steadfast Yorkists. The white rose and the red.”
Tristan stared at him. A contract. It was a contract only. No, marriage was love and ...
He didn’t dare think any further. He stared blankly as Henry picked up a pen and started writing, then looked at him again.
“Tristan, I command this—as your King. If you won’t do it for my pleasure, I will have to take Edenby—and Genevieve—from you and give them elsewhere.”
“She’s pregnant! With my child!”
“Oh, many a man would happily claim your bastard for the sake of such a beauty and Edenby.”
“Be damn—” Tristan began, and then he remembered he spoke to the King. Well he would be damned if anyone else was taking Edenby. Or Genevieve.
“Henry—there is one difficulty. The lady will refuse to marry me.”
Henry looked up. “Will she?”
“Emphatically.”
The King shrugged and went back to his work.
“You’ll think of something, Tristan. Oh—I do think that this wedding should take place before the child is born. A boy stands to inherit, so you’ll want him to be legitimate issue.”
Tristan kept staring, blankly.
“That’s all,” Henry said.
Tristan turned and left.
The doors closed behind him. For a long while he stood in the hallway, unable to believe that Henry was forcing his hand. He thought long and hard about Lisette. She was dead. Nothing could change that.
Genevieve would not want to marry him. But she had to do so, and then their child would be legitimate and she would be his undeniably. Forever. And if Guy so much as touched her, he’d have every right in the world to challenge him.
He felt lightened suddenly. He smiled, and then he began to whistle as he stepped down the hall. Genevieve would see it his way. He had the perfect plan.