Twenty-four
There was a farm house in the near distance; fields with their earth fresh from the plow stretched out far and wide. In the pastureland newborn colts frolicked and played, kicking up their heels, racing like the wind, their tails high. Closer by, daffodils grew in great quantity, and the land seemed gold with them.
Above, the gnarled fingers of an old oak stretched out like webbing across the blue sky. Genevieve could hear the gentle melody of the tiny mill brook bubbling in the background, its melody delightful.
She sighed with contentment, clutching Tristan’s fingers where they lay idly upon her shoulder and planting tiny kisses upon them individually. Then she chose to nibble upon them, and tease the calloused tips with lazy darts of her tongue.
“Uh-hum!”
He cleared his throat, body stiffening, and she gazed at him. Her head lay in his lap and against one raised knee; his back rested against the hardy spine of the oak. He smiled at her ruefully, tracing a damp finger over her lips and warning, “Milady, your heartless seduction can hardly, in all decency, be handled properly where we lie.”
She flushed and reached to touch his cheek, smiling. “Do I seduce his lordship?”
“Aye. Be careful, lest you discover just what arousing a lord can reach,” he returned, and she laughed again, springing to her feet, scampering down to the water to cool her feet. She shrieked gaily when he charged up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist and telling her she was a heartless hussy to abuse his senses so. She looped her arms around his neck and kissed him, dazzled by the feeling that spread through, fascinated by the tender care in his eyes . . . warmed and dizzied by the love she gave—and received.
He took her hand and they walked along the brook in companionable silence. In the days since Genevieve had come they had talked endlessly. Before the fire in the bedchamber Genevieve had tried to explain how she had never wanted to kill him. How she had sworn to her father that she would keep up the battle. She had told him how she had come to love him, bit by bit, and how the longing for him had made her ever more eager to escape.
“I didn’t think that you could ever love me,” she had said.
And he held her tenderly, saying that he hadn’t wanted to love her, he had been afraid, and then so hungry for her, bewitched by her, that he dared not let down a guard.
And walking hand in hand through Bedford, Tristan had spoken about Lisette. For the first time the words had tumbled from him easily, and he was ever more able to put her to rest with each word spoken. He had talked about his father and his brother, and he’d even described that day they had ridden home, laughing about Thomas’ sweet, productive, ugly, but much-beloved wife. She, too, had been slain.
Tristan pulled her hand suddenly and they came into the shelter of a little copse. He dragged her down beside him and gave her a long lover’s kiss, then smiled into her eyes with a sigh. “We should head back. I’m sure Katherine is quite fretful by now.”
But he didn’t rise. He leaned upon an elbow on the soft damp ground and watched her. He was both tense and curious, but in a gentle way, and seeing him beside her so, chewing idly upon a blade of grass, Genevieve was again swept on a tide of her feelings. She loved him so much. The laughter that came so easily to his eyes now. The youth about him. He was so striking a man, and the power that had once been anathema to her was now stirring. Beyond the passion now, she had his heart, and it was an overwhelming gift.
She smiled, Tristan saw, her eyes going soft, and he could not help but feel a little stab of jealousy.
“Did you love him so much?” he asked softly.
“I loved him,” she murmured, and her lashes swept over her cheeks. “Oh, Tristan! You would have liked him well. Axel was ever slow to judge and quick to listen. He had been to Oxford and he had been to Eton, and he loved poetry and music and language! He—he did not want the fight. He warned father that we should cede—that most of the nobility, English and Welsh, would keep clear of the battle. But father was a warrior, you see, and would keep his sworn loyalty. And Axel would be loyal to father. He was a brave man, bright and gentle and dear. Aye, I loved him.” Her lashes raised suddenly, and she smiled ruefully at Tristan. “But never as I love you,” she whispered. “I never felt the . . .”
“Lust?” Tristan suggested, and she blushed crimson.
“Nay, you scurvy knave! ’Tis not what ladies feel!”
“Oh, but it is. And I love my lusty lady, I swear that I do.”
“You have no manners, milord!” Genevieve protested in mock horror.
“Manners, madam?” He caught her fingers and tenderly kissed her palm. “It has nothing to do with manners, I am merely a happy man. I would not be jealous of that poor boy slain in a fray that was not of his making.”
“Jealous. Hmmph.”
Tristan suddenly leaned over, anxious. “Genevieve, I swear my heart was haunted long but you have cleansed it. Lisette—”
“Oh, Tristan!” She touched his cheek. The breeze wafted above them and the trees swayed and the still brook gave out its melody. She thought she had never known such happiness. “Tristan,” she told him earnestly, “believe me. I am not jealous of your past! I am glad of the love you shared with her.”
He smiled and kissed her, and the heat of the kiss was such that Genevieve gave him a serious tap on the rump and when he rose above her, roaring in mock indignation, she managed to roll from his touch. “Nay, sir! You have more in way of explanation!” She teased at first, then grew serious, for the matter had wounded her deeply. “I hear tell that little Katherine might well have a dozen sisters and brothers over in Eire!”
“What?”
“So the rumor goes!”
“What?” Tristan stood, dragging her to her feet and staring at her quite seriously. “That’s a lie! By the time I sailed the Irish Sea, I was so besotten with my lusting little Welsh wench that I could not go near another.”
“Is that the truth?”
“Aye, and it is! Where did you hear otherwise?”
Where had she? And then she remembered—Guy. Guy had warned her about Tristan’s behavior.
She lowered her eyes quickly, a little spasm of fear taking root in her heart. Tristan had slowly forgiven all those who had played treacherously against him. Even dear old Sir Humphrey now had leave to return to his home in Edenby.
But Tristan hated Guy. Genevieve was convinced that if the knight did not have Henry’s protection, Tristan would have challenged him and slain him long ere now.
She looked up quickly, hating herself for lying but knowing that she must. She smiled. “I don’t remember. It was rumor, my love, and rumor that tore at my heart.”
He cradled her close against his chest. “Tear at thy heart no longer love, for my life lies in its tender recesses.”
“Oh, Tristan.” She looped her arms about his neck and kissed him, and though she longed to stay beneath the trees, she sighed and spoke, her tone muffled against his chest. “We must get back to Katherine.”
“Aye, love, come then.”
They hurried back through the brook and over the pebbles. By the old oak they donned their shoes; Tristan paused, looking out over the landscape.
“I am grateful that you came.” He gazed her way with sly humor in his eyes. “For more than the immediate gratification of lust!”
“Tristan—”
He laughed and hugged her. “Nay, but it is beautiful to me again, Genevieve. I never thought that it could be.” He sighed. “We must return, though. I am very anxious to see Edenby granted a city charter. I just wish . . . well, I wish I could have solved something here. Lisette does not haunt these halls, nor does my father, but something is not right. Jon and I were attacked one night in the street in London—”
Genevieve let out a little shriek. “Tristan! You never told me.”
He shrugged ruefully. “At the time I did not think that you would care. But—” He paused, watching her eyes turn their extraordinary violet color with her concern. He thought to tell her that the assailants were not mere thieves and that it had troubled him since; then he thought that he would not. It would only worry her.
“It was nothing, Genevieve. Rabble, quickly silenced. I don’t know why I mentioned it now. Just . . . well, I wish I could have proven this ‘haunting’ was a trick of flesh-and-blood. Ah, well. Thomas will remain now and eventually the culprit will be caught. It frustrates me though not to solve my own dilemmas.”
Genevieve hesitated, wondering whether or not to mention the shadows she had seen the night of her arrival. She had seen nothing since—and she didn’t want Tristan thinking that she might believe in the ghosts.
Tristan whistled, and Pie—who had been munching springy grass in the copse nearby—trotted obediently to them. Tristan lifted Genevieve up into the saddle, then swung high behind her. She leaned against him as they rode with the breeze to return to the manor, savoring the heat of his chest and the beat of his heart.
Pie was taken at the steps to the manor by a young groom. Tristan caught Genevieve’s hand and they hurried up the steps together. The door opened, and Edwyna—with a loudly squalling Katherine in her hands—accosted them quickly.
“Oh, thank God! Genevieve!” she remonstrated, but with a smile. “This one is hungry, and her temper is even worse than yours!”
“I have no temper,” Genevieve said with a little sniff as she took her daughter, nuzzling against her little neck, delighting in her baby scent. Katherine instantly whimpered and nuzzled her mother in return, seeking out her food supply.
“I’ll take her up,” Genevieve told Tristan quickly.
He smiled, the contented husband. “I’ll be there soon,” he promised, and thanked Edwyna for looking after their daughter and giving them precious moments of complete freedom.
Genevieve, halfway down the hall and nearing the stairway, paused when he suddenly called her back.
“Milady, have Mary gather your things tonight. We’ll travel back to Court tomorrow.”
Genevieve nodded and hurried on up the stairs. Katherine was growing more and more insistent.
The room was nicely warm. Candles gleamed from their sconces, and everything was in readiness for their return. The draperies on the bed had been drawn, and clean linen lain for the baby. Mary knew that Genevieve loved to lie down to nurse, and rest, and watch her baby’s face in one. Crooning to her infant, Genevieve started to loosen her gown, walking toward the bed. Then she stopped suddenly, drawn to the windows by a curious speck of moving light just beyond the house.
She moved close to the window to watch, frowning. In the copse of trees nearest the manor she saw the light wavering—and a pair of shadows meeting in some secret tryst. She pressed closer to the window, squinting to see better. Katherine let out a cry, and Genevieve fumbled to bring the baby to her breast while not ceasing to stare out the window.
There were two figures. One man meeting another in the shadow of the trees. Something was exchanged. The one man seemed to hand over documents—the other seemed to receive some payment. They lingered together another moment, then parted.
Genevieve was stunned. She pushed away from the wall, opening her mouth to call to Tristan—
But then she paused. One of the men came out of the trees leading a horse. He was elegantly dressed; she saw the reflection of a gold medal against the rich velvet of his shirt. She couldn’t see his face. But his manner . . . his walk . . . the way he swung with easy grace upon the horse . . . she knew. Just as she knew the horse—a roan gelding with one solid white leg. The horse had come from her father’s stables. It had been ridden out to the Battle of Bosworth Field by Sir Guy.
Her cry died in her throat. What was he doing? She should tell Tristan, but she couldn’t, Tristan was unreasonable where Guy was concerned, and he would use any excuse to rid his world of Sir Guy.
Genevieve bit her lip. She owed Guy something for his care of her and his past loyalty. She couldn’t tell Tristan. She would have to accost Guy herself and demand to know what was going on.
Worried, she lay down at last with Katherine. In time the baby fell asleep, and Genevieve moved her to her cradle. Then Mary came in, and they packed. When that was done, Tristan came up.
Genevieve could have spoken then—but then she was in his arms, and she hadn’t said a word. And for good or ill, it quickly became too late to speak.
* * *
They had barely returned to Court before Genevieve had her chance to accost Guy, or rather Guy to accost her, as it came to pass. Their first night back among Henry’s retinue, the King summoned Tristan for a meeting with the Lord Mayor of London. Anne was in Genevieve’s chamber for some time, playing with her little cousin—Anne was entranced with Katherine. She told Genevieve that her mother had said that Tristan had given Genevieve a baby. Perhaps, Anne said, she might ask Tristan if he would give Edwyna one, too. Genevieve laughed and suggested that it might be much better if Anne asked Jon to give Edwyna a baby.
Mary came to take Anne to her mother. and stepfather and on to bed. Genevieve stood over her daughter’s cradle, cooing softly to her, when the door opened suddenly.
Genevieve swung around with a smile, certain that it was Tristan. It was not. Guy stood there. He quickly glanced into the hall, then closed the door behind him.
“Genevieve!”
“Guy! I want to talk to you! What—”
“Genevieve!”
She could not finish. He rushed to her and wrenched her into his arms, running his fingers over her hair and holding her tightly. She tried to push him away, growing desperate, afraid to shout lest someone come. How had he gotten in? And then she knew of course. Tristan no longer had her watched day and night.
“Guy! Stop it! If Tristan finds you here, he’ll kill you!”
“He won’t come. He is with the King, and I have men who will warn me of his approach. Trust me, my love, I shall not get into a tussle with him now and destroy all my hard work. Genevieve, Genevieve, the time is right. I have laid my plans well, and he shall crash to a swift downfall.”
“Guy, please, cease this—”
“We’ll be together at last.”
“Guy! Stop this madness! Guy, he is my husband. That is our child. All wrongs have been redressed in this. And now! You are going to tell me—”
“Don’t you see, love?” Guy shook his sandy head with a charming, rueful smile. Genevieve thought fleetingly of the way things had once been. Of the days when she and Axel and Guy had ridden to the hunt, when they had laughed in her father’s hall, when they had all been so wonderfully young and innocent of the wars. “It will not matter that you’ve married him! When he is dead, it will not matter. When that noble head is sprung upon the block, he will stand between us no more!”
Horrified, Genevieve drew back. “Tristan! His head upon the block! Never. Oh, Guy, what have you done? Tell me! I saw you, you know. I saw you at Bedford Heath! Guy—”
He started to laugh and he flung himself back upon the bed and stared at her lasciviously.
“Documents, Genevieve! Oh, bless these fratricidal Plantagenet heirs! Edward and Richard and Henry—and then Edward and Richard all over again. My God, they used the same names over and over again, generation after generation.”
“Guy! What are you saying—”
He pounced up upon an elbow excitedly. “Letters, Genevieve, of conspiracy.” He laughed again, so pleased with himself. “It was so easy to hire my spy! A clever man, really. His brother was killed in Tristan’s spree of vengeance, after the debacle at Bedford Heath. He was quite glad to take my money—and become the ‘ghost’ of Bedford Heath. He was serving in the kitchens, you see, so he had easy access to the place. And lo and behold—imagine! A complete correspondence with half a dozen Plantagenet heirs! Addressed to the Earl of Bedford Heath and signed by the Earl of Warwick and others! Genevieve, don’t you see? It’s perfect! These letters were from a past generation, when Edward would be king, but seen now they make it appear that the Earl of Bedford Heath—the noble Tristan de la Tere!—is plotting treason against the King with his Yorkist contenders! Once I have discovered how to bring these letters carefully to light, Tristan will be no more, milady. You’ll be free. And the King will give me Edenby—and you.” He sprang to his feet and slipped his arms around her with such fervent joy and vigor that Genevieve, stunned by his information, could barely control him.
“Guy! Stop! Listen to me, and listen well! You can’t do this! It is madness!” She trembled. Henry knew that Tristan was loyal to a fault. Or did he?
Her blood raced hot and cold. She had to stop Guy. Henry loved Tristan, surely! But it was true, too, she thought with a sinking heart, that Henry could be as nervous as a cat when it came to contenders for the throne. He didn’t want mass bloodshed, but when he was forced to it he could be ruthless. If he did believe that Tristan, someone he had trusted so fully, had turned against him, he might be merciless.
“Genevieve, I love you. I have loved you forever. I will love you forever. I have wanted you for a lifetime. And now I will have you. Your father will be avenged, and Axel will be avenged. Your honor will be avenged, and I will love you still, dearest, despite the taint of his touch.”
“Guy!” She stared at him incredulously. She wasn’t sure if he was mad or touchingly endearing. He was so anxious, so concerned, and so pathetic in his desire. “Please, I do not want my honor avenged! You must cease this madness. Listen to me, Guy! You are my friend, my dear, dear friend! I’d not want to see you hurt, ever. But I am sorry that you love me; I cannot love you. Oh, Guy, can’t you see? I am married to him now, and I love him and I wish only—”
“Genevieve! Genevieve!” He shook her, smiling at her ruefully and with a special tenderness that might have been reserved for a misled child. “I know that you are afraid, and I cannot blame you! My poor love! It will come right! I swear it. I will take care of everything.”
“No, Guy—”
He pressed his lips against her, cutting off her words and her breath. She twisted her head, and he did not notice, for he abruptly released her, hurrying toward the door, “Soon, my love, soon!” he vowed.
“Guy—”
The door closed behind him. “Wait!” Genevieve raced after him into the hallway. He was already gone. Behind her the baby started to cry. Genevieve came back into her room and swept Katherine into her arms, crooning to her. She was so nervous herself that the baby kept crying, and she forced herself to try to be calm. At length Katherine slept again, and Genevieve put her down to pace the room in a fever. What could she do? Tell Tristan? But Guy would die, and his death would lie heavy on her heart—and between them—for all the years to come.
Do nothing? Let Guy produce these letters, and trust in Tristan’s allegiance to the King? But what if ... what if Henry were to drag Tristan to the Tower? Tristan would have enemies, as all men of power did. And perhaps those enemies would remind Henry that once upon a time Tristan de la Tere had been a Yorkists through and through.
“Arggh!” With a cry of misery she ceased her pacing and knelt upon the floor, biting hard into her knuckles. It came to her suddenly that Guy had these letters of which he spoke in his possession. Genevieve had seen his lackey hand them to him in the copse. She had seen Guy ride away with them. Back to London? Back to his quarters at Court? If she could search his accommodations, she could steal the documents back—and destroy them. Guy would be powerless to hurt Tristan, and Tristan would never know that his enemy had sought to destroy him.
It was foolhardy, but she was desperate. Her mind made up, Genevieve quickly rose and slipped into the hallway. Breathlessly she scurried down to the servants’ quarters, where Mary was billeted with a number of ladies’ maids. The girl was half-asleep, but at Genevieve’s urging she came back to remain with Katherine.
Genevieve then hurried along the corridors, her heart pounding as she realized that she did not know where to go. Turning and twisting through the maze of corridors, she came upon a guard and asked where the knights might be lodged, Sir Guy in particular. The guard directed her, and she then prayed that Guy would not be in his quarters and that he did not share them with some snoring friend!
She found the room and quickly scanned the hallway before hurrying in.
She closed the door and leaned against it, quickly surveying the space within. All was neat. As yet there was no fire, and it seemed very cold. There were a number of trunks and a cot and a plain writing desk with a single lighted candle upon it, burning out a small flame. Genevieve’s heart quickened anew; Guy would be back any minute.
She pushed away from the door and frantically tried the desk; she could find nothing. She sat back, frustrated, then plunged into the first of the trunks and found nothing but gauntlets and leather jerkins and hose. Again she paused, frustrated and frantic, then plunged into the third trunk, growing reckless. She tossed out breeches and shirts and boots and still came upon nothing. Her fingers raked across the bottom of the trunk and then she knew! Probing and probing and probing, she found the latch to the false bottom and pulled upon it. She fell back as it gave, and then she cried out softly in triumph, reaching for the ribboned and rolled letters.
She stripped away the ribbons and unrolled the parchment to scan the words quickly. A chill swept over her. Dear God, Guy had been right! They were letters to the Earl of Bedford Heath from Yorkist factions, gratefully accepting his aid! Tristan was not that Earl of Bedford Heath—surely it had been his father when Edward was about to go forward to Tewkesberry all those years ago.
But the letters could very possibly bring Tristan to the block now.
There seemed to be some movement in the hall. Genevieve stuffed the letters quickly down her bodice and hastened to right the trunk. She sprang up and ran to the door, cracking it to check the hallway. She slipped out and began a quick walk along the corridor. The candles in their sconces seemed to bum a wavering beat. Her shadow was huge against the wall, and she could hear the staccato beat of her footsteps too loudly.
“Halt!”
At the sudden command she panicked, certain that Guy had returned. If he caught her, he would retrieve the letters. He would perhaps even use that moment to bring them to light.
She started to run.
“Halt! In the name of King!”
It wasn’t Guy; it was just a guard, and the letters were secured safely in her bodice. She breathed deeply, slowing, yet spinning with alarm to realize that the guard had kept running when she had stopped. He slammed against her and she fell, rolling on the hard stone floor. Her head cracked against the wall, and a dizzying pain swept through her.
“Milady—”
Someone was reaching to assist her, demanding to know why she had been running. Genevieve tried to rise, then heard a horrible tearing noise, and realized that the letters were spilling out of her bodice.
And there were suddenly sounds. The hall, so silent before, was alive with movement. Footsteps, many of them, running, coming closer and closer, then stopping all around her.
“What’s this?”
The letters were wrenched away from her. Genevieve blinked, trying to dispel the dizziness of her fall, trying to think.
“How dare you?” she demanded with her best, most imperious tone. “Sirs! Where lies gallantry? I am the Countess of Bedford Heath and Duchess of Edenby and you’ve no right to so accost me! I—”
“My God! Look at this, Anthony! Why, these letters are treason!”
“She is in a conspiracy! The King must see these!”
“Lady of Edenby! She is a Yorkist! She has always been so—she fought Henry when he landed.”
The accusations were coming at her fast and quick and through the haze that spun before her eyes. At least ten of the King’s royal guard stood grouped around her.
“Nay! They are no treason—” she cried. “They—”
“They implicate Lord de la Tere!” someone said.
And then another stepped forward, looking at the letters, staring keenly at Genevieve. Genevieve knew him vaguely. One of the Sir Nevitis—a member of a vast and powerful family, ever anxious for more and more power. They, too, had a connection with the Crown.
“Sir—” she began, but he cut her off crudely, his eyes narrowing with sharp and pleased appraisal.
“Madam, I charge you with ‘high treason’! Take her to the Tower! I shall accost his grace de la Tere immediately!”
Sir Nevill turned around. Genevieve felt herself grasped roughly by both arms. She jerked herself free, tears that she would not allow to fall stinging her eyes.
“I shall walk! Do not touch me!”
And she did walk, but her heart was tremulous with terror and her knees would scarcely hold her. The Tower. Prisoners were held in the Tower for years on end; prisoners left the Tower to lay down their heads upon a block.
And Sir Nevill was going after Tristan. With all the letters in his hands. And they would drag Tristan off and ...
Katherine! Was she crying? Did she fuss, had she awakened, did she miss her mother? Did she need her, did she hunger? Oh, God, if not now, in time she would awaken. Katherine! Oh, what would become of her precious and innocent babe if she and Tristan were both taken to the Tower?
Genevieve stumbled. One of the guards reached with strange courtesy for her arm, but she jerked it back, blinded by her tears. She tried to hold her head high and turn to the man with dignity.
“Could you—” She had to start over; she could find no voice. “Could you find the Lady Edwyna, wife of Sir Jon of Pleasance, and see that she tends to my daughter?”
“Milady!” This guard was of the kinder sort. He bowed most courteously to her, and someone was sent.
Then the corridors seemed to stretch and stretch until they exited by the rear and came to the river Thames. A boatsman was hailed.
Genevieve could hear the constant slap of the water against the boat. She could look up and see a million stars dotting the sky. The moon was out, high and full.
It was better to look up than across the water.
She could hear the oars pound the water. Slowly, surely, rhythmically. She swallowed, and she fought her nausea and her panic, and she tried not to think, not to find reproach; yet the bile rose in her throat and she could not help herself. What else could she have done! She’d had to try to destroy the letters! Else Tristan would have faced the charge of treason anyway, or Guy would have died a bloody death and Tristan might have been charged with murder . . .
Tristan. Where was he now?
* * *
Tristan stared with cold fury across the King’s privy chamber to Sir Nevill. He hadn’t said a word to the charges against him—indeed he had not moved. He remained where he had been when Nevill had burst in upon them, sipping a chalice of the King’s finest Bordeaux, his stance casual before the fire.
“As you can see, Your Majesty—” Nevill continued to Henry, seated at the table before the newly signed charter which would make Edenby a city, “—these letters are awful and horrible proof—”
“That my father and family and I fought for King Edward at the battle of Tewkesberry,” Tristan interrupted disdainfully at last. Eyes boring into Nevill’s, Tristan came from the fire past Henry’s clerks and stood beside the King, pointing down to the letter. “See here, man! The Earl of Warwick is a ten-year-old boy! This is not the penmanship of a ten year old—”
“Rubbish!” Nevill swore. “Letters would be written by his clerics—”
“And this! This which now claims me guilty of treason. If you would care to search the records; Your Majesty, you would know that penmanship to belong to Edward III!”
Henry pushed the letter from him, staring at Nevill. “I don’t need to make reference to past documents; I’ve studied many. This is Edward’s writing. The parchment is old and frayed, and a blind man might well tell that this is no new missive but an old and fading correspondence. Sir Nevill! Where did this come from?”
Nevill appeared both surly and unappeased, but directly questioned by the King he could not back down. “They were on the person of the Duchess of Edenby, Sire.” He bowed toward Tristan. “My Lord de la Tere’s Yorkist wife.”
Tristan stiffened and his blood boiled. Genevieve!
The room swam black in his anger, denial, and bitter admission. Genevieve . . . she had come to Bedford Heath. She had whispered—and he had fallen into sweet seduction, into love. He had fallen as he had fallen before. Into her sensual web. Into the golden allure. In the heat . . . into the fire.
She had betrayed him again—whispering not just passion, but love. Lying with him again and again in ecstasy’s abandon, searing his heart and soul and sense and—making him believe. Seducing him, compelling him, until he could die, drown gladly in the perfume of her sweet scent.
The pain was harsh agony within him, a knife wound that rendered him weak. Yet before Nevill he could not falter. She was his wife. Their war had always been a private one. She was Katherine’s mother ... nay, he could not falter before Nevill!
His features stayed rigid, cold, and ruthless. “Where is my wife?”
“On her way to the Tower.”
“I signed no warrant!” Henry roared.
“Your Majesty! I saw treason—she is a Yorkist!”
Tristan ignored Nevill and turned to Henry. “Your Grace, I would go retrieve what is mine, and deal with it as I see best.”
Henry sighed, watching Tristan.
“Perhaps you judge too harshly,” he said, studying the man.
“Nay,” Tristan said bitterly. “She has betrayed me again. Yet it is my concern. I beg your leave to take her from Court. Our business is done, and I would keep her in my own tower, by your leave.”
The King nodded, and Tristan strode from the room.
* * *
“Oh, God!” The whisper escaped her because Traitor’s Gate—like the jaws of death—loomed suddenly before her. Genevieve could not control the shivering inside of her.
The constable was waiting the boat’s delivery on a dock damp with moss and slippery with water. Her heart started to thunder, and she thought that she would not be able to stand, that she would faint and fall.
“Halt, ahoy there!”
The command came from behind. Genevieve whirled in the rocking rowboat.
Another boat approached, with Tristan standing tall within it: His mantle flowed behind him. Blessed God, he wore no chains! He held papers in his hand, papers he gave with cool propriety to the constable as his craft drifted to the step and he leapt upon it.
“The lady is not your prisoner, sir, but is to be delivered unto my keeping.”
“The constable scanned the note with the King’s seal upon it and nodded.
“Milady?”
One of the guards reached for Genevieve’s hand to help her from the boat to the step. She looked at her husband. His features were in shadow, but his expression was harsh. And as her foot fell upon the slick step, she felt the heat of his anger, which reached out in the night to sweep over her in waves. He did not touch her but surveyed her coldly.
But he was there to retrieve her! He was not under arrest!
“Madam!” he said hoarsely, through tight-clenched teeth, and bowed his head, indicating the other boat. She tried to step into it and she stumbled. He caught her elbow, and she feared that he would wrench away her arm. Steeling herself against the pain, she bit into her lip to keep silent, and he released her to allow her to sit.
Silence cold and dark fell over them as the boatsman pushed away from the steps, and they left Traitor’s Gate behind. A breeze swept up, and again Genevieve heard the constant lap of the water against the wood of their craft. She wanted to talk; she wanted to throw her arms around Tristan and cry out her fear and her anguish and tell him how desperately grateful she was that he had not suffered.
She opened her mouth, but it was too dry for sound. She looked at him and knew that she faced a stranger. Fear danced through her like the reflection of the stars against the moat and then the Thames.
“Tristan ...” At last she spoke his name as they neared the shore. It came as a croak, dry as brittle leaves. And she got no further. He leaned precariously across the seat to grip her chin in a painful vise.
“Not now, madam. I will hear it all, later!”
She did not attempt to speak again until the hired boat had brought them to the shore and a wretched long walk had returned them to their room.
Seated on the bed, anxiously rocking Katherine’s cradle, Edwyna jumped to her feet at the sight of them.
“Genevieve!” She hugged her niece, talking frantically. “Genevieve, Tristan! Oh, I was so heartily worried. I—”
Tristan pulled Edwyna from Genevieve, bringing her to the door. “Find Jon,” he told her curtly. “Tell him we go home in the morning. Ask him to go to the King for our papers and to formally request our leave.”
Edwyna nodded miserably. Tristan closed the door.
And Genevieve stared at him in heartache and misery. She could not fathom his fury, and so she gave out a desperate little cry and came hurriedly to him, whispering his name and bringing her trembling fingers to his cheek.
She never touched him. The back of his hand came hard against her cheek, and she was flung carelessly back to the bed by the force of it.
“Nay, madam!” He thundered. “Never again! Never again will I fall for your beauty or your lies, and never again my own desperate desire! I love you—so you whispered, and whispered well, and I—stupid fool, who had already felt the iron of your treachery against my skull, fell into the sweet seduction of your willing arms and supple thighs. Why should you come to Bedford Heath? For love. Bah! You were there seeking some means for my downfall, but you missed your mark on this one, lady! The King is not stupid, and he knew the charge of treason false!”
Aghast and incredulous, Genevieve stared at his steely countenance as he stood over her, untouchable, unreachable—the iron warrior upon the field of battle. Her cheek throbbed from his blow and yet the tears that came to her eyes were not of pain. He thought that she had stolen the documents! That she had searched his records and his books and his home . . . and thought to see him imprisoned.
That she had lied. That her love, admitted so painfully, had been nothing but a lie.
“Tristan!”
There was such pain to her cry, such agony, that it gave him pause. He faltered. He wanted so desperately to believe her. To reach out and hold her. To love her tenderly and bathe away the tears and hold her to him in naked tenderness . . .
Nay! Again and again she deceived him! With beauty and grace and evocative allure. What fool of a man could fall not once but again and again to the drumbeat in his loins and ragged tempest in his heart.
“Lady, you’ve played the traitor against me one time too many! ”
“Tristan, I did not!”
“Then what?” he perched beside her. She cringed when he reached for her shoulders, wrenching her up to face him. He shook her and her head fell back and he was met by those incredible eyes with their lying glitter of tears once again. “Then what?”
She laughed, and she cried, and she laughed again.
She could accuse Guy—and he would slay Guy. Yet not even that would save her from this awful wrath, for he would merely think that she had conspired with Guy.
There was no help for her.
“Tristan, please—”
“Tell me, Genevieve!”
“I—cannot.”
He hurtled her away from him and she lay upon the pillow, dazed. And then Katherine began to cry, fretful and hungry.
And with that cry Genevieve felt her breasts sting, heavy with her daughter’s delayed meal. She was so weary! She could barely turn, barely force herself to face Tristan to rise to go to her daughter.
But Tristan was up. Like a tiger, his energy was restive and explosive. Distraught, Genevieve still assumed that he would take the babe from her cradle and bring Katherine to her.
He did pluck her from the cradle. And then he started for the door.
Genevieve lost her inertia. She sat up, then sprang up in growing alarm, for he was opening the door with their daughter in his arms.
“Tristan!” She raced for him, and paused when he turned to her with incredibly cold eyes. Tears streaming down her cheeks; she did not try to touch him, but reached out her arms in beseechment.
“Tristan, what are you doing?”
“Lady, you are not fit to raise her.”
“She’s my child!”
“And mine, madam.”
“Tristan! Good God! You could not be so cruel! Oh, please, God, have mercy, you cannot take her from me!”
He stood, ruthless and unrelenting. She could not see for her tears. She fell on her knees before him, her head bowed. “Oh, my God, Tristan, please, do with me what you will, but don’t—don’t take her from me!” Her voice broke—and she was broken.
And Tristan stared down at her, at the beautiful blond head bowed before him. More than anything he wanted to believe! He wanted some miraculous excuse that would prove her innocent. He wanted to cradle her into his arms—he loved her with all his heart and wanted her more than ever. It was as if a part of him were being slowly severed away.
His eyes misted and he could barely see. Her fragrance cascaded around him. She was a cloud of golden beauty, pleading at his feet.
Katherine sobbed loudly.
Tristan inhaled, clenching his teeth tightly together. He reached down for his wife’s hands and drew her to her feet.
He returned his squalling daughter to her arms and heard her fervent, broken words of gratitude.
For a moment he stood there. He watched as Genevieve brought the babe to the bed, and lay with her. He watched the baby latch onto her mother’s swollen breast, and tremors shook over him with the tender beauty of a sight that had never failed to touch him.
Then he turned and left, slamming the door shut with a finality more chilling to Genevieve than any words he had ever spoken.