Twenty-five
“A toast!” Mr. Crowley, master goldsmith, cried out, raising his glass. “A toast to the city of Edenby. And to her founder, my friends, our liege lord, his grace Tristan de la Tere!”
There was a pleasant shower of accolades as the merchants and artisans in the hallway raised their libations in salute. Tristan, seated at the head of the long table in the great hall, stretched out his legs and shoved the last of the papers toward Sir Humphrey, smiling. He had decided that gentleman would be the best choice for mayor. Sir Humphrey had a manor right on the boundary line of the new city; the people knew him and they loved him. He had been a fighter and he had worked among them. He was liked and he was respected.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Tristan said. He lifted his own glass. “And may we all prosper!”
Griswald appeared, and the sound of that old man clearing his throat seemed a cue. The citizens of the newly founded city of Edenby set down their various tankards and glasses and began to file from the hall.
All but Sir Humphrey, who hovered by the fire. Tristan ignored him, lifting a booted foot to set upon the chair beside him and stretching out to sit with more casual comfort in his chair. He lifted his glass idly and drained it, warily awaiting Sir Humphrey’s next comments—which he was sure would be some plea on Genevieve’s behalf.
It was.
“You have done well here, Tristan.”
“I thank you, sir.”
“And you have shown great mercy to your vanquished enemies. You have returned my home to me. Tamkin is quite pleased with being your official steward, a free man now to work for you at his choice. The Lady Edwyna and Jon are blessed with rare happiness. All that—”
“All that I will listen to has been said,” Tristan interrupted impatiently. Go no further, old man! he thought broodingly. He scowled and poured himself more wine. Talk, talk, talk! What could be said? Three times in the fortnight since they had been home he’d gone to see Genevieve. Three times he had stayed near the door, arms crossed rigidly over his chest lest he fall to the desire to reach for her. Three times he had asked her for some explanation.
And three times she had bowed her head in silence.
So the Lady of Edenby was his prisoner once more, confined to her room, and Tristan had taken up residence in the master’s chamber.
Yet he often wondered bitterly if his life were not far more wretched than Genevieve’s, for he had barely slept. He paced, and he ached, and he wanted her. He dreamed of holding her. Yet it was not surrender that he wanted, but love—and love had betrayed him again and again.
He stared into his wine and mused with simmering heartache and anger that she had been in his blood like an obsessive fever since he had first set eyes upon her.
He slammed his wine glass down so suddenly that the fragile crystal threatened to shatter. He threw his feet to the floor and stood, determined to be free of her.
Ignoring Sir Humphrey he strode to the bottom of the staircase. “Jon! Jon! Come down here, will you!”
A moment later Jon came down the stairs eying Tristan curiously—for he had not heard so light a tone in his voice for a long while.
“Come, Jon! Young Mister Piers has opened an inn just at the new city limit. Let’s go and drink his ale and start him on a fine opening of trade!” He turned to Sir Humphrey. “Would you join us, sir?”
“Nay, I think not,” Sir Humphrey said sadly.
“Tristan—” Jon began.
And Tristan slipped a comradely arm about his shoulder. “I’ve a yearning to get drunk. Wonderfully, rip-roaring drunk.”
“Drown your sorrows,” Jon muttered heatedly.
“Drown them, nay! Merely saturate and drench them, Jon. Find solace in some ale—and mayhap in a willing and eager young wench, who knows? Come!”
Tristan waved idly to Sir Humphrey and called out to Matthew for their horses.
Jon followed hastily. Seemed ’twould be one of those nights when it would be best to stay close to Tristan and temper his mood where he could.
He glanced at Sir Humphrey. “Tell my wife, for me, sir, if you would, that I am desperately trying to catch the tiger’s tail.”
Sir Humphrey nodded. Tristan’s long strides were already taking him out; Jon followed him quickly.
* * *
“If you’ll not talk to Tristan, I still cannot see why you will not talk to me!” Edwyna complained, exasperated. Genevieve was pacing again, like a wild creature in a cage. Edwyna sat with little Katherine on her lap, thinking of what a beauty the child would grow to be—with Tristan’s coloring and her mother’s delicate features. She watched the baby with a special, glowing wonder now, for she believed that she would give Jon—and Anne!—the baby they so wanted before the fall harvests were in. And she argued blindly with Genevieve because she could not bear to see both her niece and Tristan so wounded and terribly at odds.
“I can’t talk to you, Edwyna,” Genevieve said with a soft sigh. “You would think it your duty to tell him—”
“I am your aunt! Flesh and blood!”
Genevieve smiled a little wanly, and paused to look at Edwyna directly. “And, nay, I am sorry, I cannot trust you in this, for you’ll insist upon doing what you think is right. You cannot help me, but you can cause great calamity.”
“Genevieve! Don’t you understand?” Edwyna began.
“Aye, I understand,” Genevieve said wearily, and she ceased her pacing to curl up at the foot of her bed. “He thinks that I went to Bedford Heath to find some such evidence against him. I did not, though, Edwyna, I swear it!” She laid her head back on the bed, close to tears, and disgusted with herself for her lack of strength. But she was not only heartsick and desperate—she was tormented by morning sickness again. She wondered what this new pregnancy would mean to Tristan—if anything.
Oh, it had to mean something! They could not go on like this, could they? She shivered and hugged her arms to her chest. Edwyna had told her that he and Jon had ridden off together. That he had been imbibing large quantities of wine and was in a wild mood. Had he truly finished with her, then? What did men want of their wives but heirs? Possibly this child would be a boy—and then he wouldn’t need to care if he ever came near her again . . .
“Genevieve, I swear by God most holy I’ll not betray you in this!” Edwyna promised her softly. “You have to speak on it, you are eating away at your soul and sanity in here!”
“I’m going to have another child,” she blurted out.
Edwyna was silent for several seconds. “He will be pleased, of course. But . . .”
“It will not make him forgive me,” Genevieve finished bitterly on a little note between a cry and a laugh. “Oh, God, Edwyna! What—”
“Tell me,” Edwyna said serenely.
“Edwyna, you’ll go to hell if you’re lying to me, you know!” Genevieve promised her severely. “Honestly, it could make matters all the worse.”
“Let me hear it, please.”
And so Genevieve, glad to be able to talk about it, told Edwyna about seeing Guy at Bedford Heath and how she had planned to accost him herself. “Edwyna, can you understand? He was father’s man, he was Axel’s friend. I could not let him be killed if I could save him!”
“Please, go on,” Edwyna said grimly.
“Well, at Court he came to my room. And he started on and on about how he loved me and how he had solved everything. He started telling me about these letters he had stolen. And so ...”
“And so you decided to steal them back. But the guard got suspicious and chased you—and found them.”
Genevieve nodded unhappily.
“Tell him!” Edwyna exclaimed in a fair temper.
“I can’t! He’ll merely think that I was in league with Guy!”
“You should have told him from the time that you saw Sir Guy on his property.”
“Maybe,” Genevieve said dispiritedly. She moved back to her bed and sat. “Maybe. But still, oh, I don’t know! I—”
Genevieve broke off, staring open-mouthed at her door—which had just opened. To her utter amazement, the object of her conversation stood before her.
Sir Guy. In a black cloak and cap, with even his hose dark, and his velvet shirt a dusky gray beneath it. He stood there for a moment, poised, his sandy hair curling over his forehead in minor disarray. He smiled slowly at Genevieve.
“I’ve come for you, love. I’ve come to rescue you.”
Seconds passed in which she was too stunned to speak. Her mind seemed to work so slowly!
Her hand fluttered to her throat. How had he got in? Young Roger de Treyne was supposed to be her guardian. Where had Roger gone?
Fear and anger rose in Genevieve. “Guy,” she said coldly, “what are you doing here? Didn’t it occur to you that I might have talked to Tristan? I am sure you heard that I had an evening’s excursion through Traitor’s Gate.”
From the chair Edwyna made a little sound, and Genevieve realized that Edwyna was seeing things much more quickly than she. Understanding. Knowing the import of Guy being able to stand there—inside Genevieve’s door.
“I was sorry,” Guy whispered. “Ah, Genevieve, what a fool thing you did! But you didn’t give my name to your husband. Else he’d not be gone without you now—and you’d not be awaiting me here.”
“I’m not awaiting you!” Genevieve cried out, jumping up. “I nearly lost my head over you, Guy!”
He strode to her quickly, and though Genevieve backed away he caught her to him. “Come on, Genevieve! We’ve got to go now!”
His touch hurt. His hold on her was a painful grip, and she felt a rising panic. “Guy! I do not want to go with you! I am Tristan’s wife! I—”
She broke off because he shook her with such cruel vigor that she had to gasp for air and then stare at him, incredulous again.
“Guy!”
“I love you, Genevieve! I wanted you—”
“Guy, you were my friend! You were Axel’s friend! I never loved you, you couldn’t have presumed—”
Next she broke off because he was laughing. And because his eyes were filled with terrible malice. “Genevieve, you are with me or against me! Edenby was to be mine—”
“What?” she retorted, straining against his grip. He wasn’t a weak man; he was practiced at arms, and his power was almost as great as Tristan’s. Desperately she looked over his head to Edwyna. Edwyna was sitting very still, her eyes wide, her hand protectively covering little Katherine’s head. Edwyna shook her head slightly, and Genevieve felt a new rush of trembling fear. She understood the look in Edwyna’s eyes. Go carefully—this man will hurt you. Hurt—all of us.
“Guy! I was never to marry you—”
“So much, Genevieve. I’d lie awake nights and imagine how it would be here. I’d lie on the bed and you’d stand before me and toss your clothes aside and crawl atop me—”
“Guy! I was never promised to you! I loved Axel—”
“Are you coming with me, Genevieve? I wanted Edenby, I wanted Edenby badly. And still one day I might have it. We’ll meet up with other Yorkists in Ireland. One day they’ll rise against Henry. And perhaps then we’ll come back here. Perhaps they’ll allow me to hack Tristan de la Tere’s head from his body.”
“Oh, Guy! Don’t you understand! I love him! I will not go anywhere with you! Go! Quickly. Before he comes home. Before the guards discover you! Listen! I love him. Freely. I—”
She screamed, crashing to the floor, when he hit her. She gathered herself up again, stunned. And he took a step toward her, staring down at her in a maddened wrath.
“You will come with me. Willingly. You little bitch, I will have you—‘til I tire of you and your arrogant ways! Little fool! ’Twas no Lancastrian knight killed Axel on the battlefield! I killed him! And I killed old Edgar.”
“Oh, my God!” Genevieve breathed.
He smiled charmingly. “And I’ll kill again and again, Genevieve. I’ll kill you—rather than leave you to him. I’d much rather you come along with me.”
Genevieve took a deep breath and screamed as loudly as she could.
He kicked her in the ribs. Edwyna chose that moment to leap from the chair, but before she could reach the door a stranger with a drawn knife appeared to block her way. Edwyna backed up into the room, sheltering the baby against her chest. She spun to Guy, her lips quivering. “Where, where—”
“Oh, little Anne? Why she is fine. Locked in with Mary and that other little serving slut.”
“Sir Humphrey?” Edwyna asked, wetting her lips.
“Bleeding on the floor,” Guy said distastefully. “And that old man Griswald ... well, he might live. The rest of the mewling servants here were easily cowed. A number of them are in the tower. And that de Treyne lad, well he fought but we caught him from the rear, eh, Filbert?”
“From the rear,” the man at the doorway grinned.
“There are a host of guards outside these walls—” Genevieve threatened, but Guy seemed undisturbed.
“We’ll be gone before they can be summoned. Edwyna, give me the brat.”
“Nay!” Edwyna screamed and tried to race from Guy. Genevieve rose to her feet, swaying but determined. She lunged at Guy like a she-cat but he turned with a snarl and slapped her hard to the floor again. His hands fell on the baby. Edwyna screamed again, but the man at the door left his stance to rip at her hair, jerking her backward, and Katherine fell into Guy’s arms. The baby cried now, aware of the tumult in the room.
Genevieve scrambled to her feet again, crying out and pouncing toward Guy. But he managed to stop her with a few subtle words.
“I’ll slit her throat, Genevieve, and I’d most gladly slit the throat of his child. She should have never filled your belly. Now, my grand Lady Genevieve! You’ll put on your cloak and go outside and you’ll sweetly ask the stable boy for your cloak.”
“I am a prisoner here!” Genevieve spat out at him, yet she was in terror, for he held her squalling child, and she had little doubt that he would do as he threatened. Oh, God! She had never imagined the truth! Her father had not died in battle—he had been slain by his own man! And Axel, dear Axel. Oh, God, Guy had been murderous and unscrupulous and insane all along—and they’d never seen it!
“Nay, milady, you needn’t fear. When we rode I talked casually to the boy, telling him that perhaps you would ride with me. And he just smiled—you see, my dear, your husband did not care to tell the common rabble that he and his bride were at odds once again!”
What could she do? There was no help from within the keep walls. Perhaps in the courtyard she could scream and rouse the guard, and they would know that a true traitor was in their midst.
“I’ll—I’ll come,” she said. “Please, just give my baby to Edwyna and I—”
“Nay, milady. I will carry the child. And if you do not smile as sweetly as a ray of sunshine to all around you, I will snuff out her odious life in a second’s time.”
“You bastard! You vile snake, you are spit on the ground—” Edwyna said suddenly, snarling into action. But as she started for Guy, he struck out hard; Edwyna was thrown against the bedpost and fell to the floor in a silent heap.
Genevieve cried out and rushed to her aunt, kneeling down in anxious fear. Oh, she breathed at least. “Edwyna, dear Edwyna—”
Genevieve screamed as Guy tugged ruthlessly on her hair.
“She is alive—leave it at that. Get your cloak. We’re going.”
Trembling, Genevieve dug out a light summer cloak. She slipped it around her shoulders and gazed down at her aunt’s fallen body again.
“I can kill her before we leave, Genevieve. Perhaps I should. You won’t doubt me then.”
“I am coming,” Genevieve said. She marched past him. Outside her door she stopped with a horrified gasp and rushed to the fallen body of Roger de Treyne. Blood carried a trail across his forehead, but, oh, bless the saints! It appeared that he, too, still had breath in his body.
“Get up!”
Guy wrenched her to her feet. Katherine started to wail and Guy compressed his lips in a snarl. “I can really make her squeal, Genevieve.”
She lowered her eyes quickly and let him lead her to the stairs. Katherine still sniffled in his arms, but she sensed her mother’s presence and did not scream. Perhaps she knew that her life depended on quiet.
In seconds they were out of the hall. From a distant parapet, a guard saluted. Genevieve could hear laughter from the rows of shops within the walls.
Matthew came to her, and she smiled and told him that she would ride with Sir Guy He smiled in return and said he would quickly bring the horses.
Oh, Matthew, Matthew! Can none of you see that this is wrong! The sun shone so strongly while they waited! The air seemed so warm with the summer and the sky so blue. Voices dulled to a lazy chant and she could hear them so clearly, as clearly as the terrified beating of her heart. Tristan, I love you, she thought. I love you so much! With all my heart! And yet I was so foolish! Please, please believe that I did not run away with him!
Edwyna would tell him the truth, she assured herself. Pray to God he would believe it. And he would come for her, oh, surely he would . . .
But would he reach her? Or would Guy abduct her in truth and take her captive to Ireland’s shores? Or tire of the quest and slay her and Katherine, as he had so many others.
She almost cried out, feeling his powerful hand on her arm and knowing that he could throttle her baby in a second. And just when she thought that she could not stand any longer Matthew returned with the horses.
“Milady!” he said, leading the mounts from the stable. He made his hands into a mounting platform for Genevieve and she swung unto the horse he had brought her, a bay mare.
Guy swung onto his mount easily, even with little Katherine in his arms. Genevieve feared that she would choke, watching him mount his horse with her baby. He could drop her! He could trample her beneath the horse’s hooves . . .
“We’ll just ride in the forest for awhile,” Guy said pleasantly to Matthew.
“Aye, Sir Guy!”
“Run ahead and tell the guard to open the gate, boy,” Guy said, and he tossed Matthew a coin.
“Aye, sir!” Matthew agreed. He stared at Genevieve with a peculiar smile, then ran ahead. Guy chuckled very softly and Filbert made a snickering sound behind them.
“Genevieve, my love . . .”
Guy gave her mare’s rump a smack, and the mare trotted obediently alongside him. In seconds the guards at the main gate waved down to them, and they were quit of Edenby. Once again Guy smacked her horse’s rump, and she cried out as they raced southward along the jagged terrain that rimmed the sea.
Katherine began to scream freely in tears at last, and Genevieve urged her mount purposely closer to Guy’s. Guy, scowling, slowed.
“Please, Guy, give her to me! I can cry out no longer, I cannot give an alarm, please, give me my daughter—”
Guy passed the baby to her with a frightening abandon. “Take her! And shut her up! Now!”
Genevieve held her baby close. Guy dismounted from his horse to loop the reins over the mare’s neck so that he could lead her and so that Genevieve could have no control. Katherine continued to scream despite her mother’s arms.
“Shut her up!” Guy bellowed.
“She’s—hungry.”
“Then feed her!”
“I cannot feed her before you! We must stop, I need a place—”
Guy laughed, and the sound raked along her spine like a score of needles.
“You’d best feed her before me. I’ll not stop until we’re far, far away.”
“Tristan will come after you.”
“Tristan will be busy.” He smiled at her so pleasantly then that she instantly knew a whole new rash of unreasoning fear.
Then he pointed behind them. She had to stare for several seconds before she realized that a billow of smoke was rising into the summer air.
Genevieve gasped. “The castle! It’s—”
“Burning. On fire.” He started to laugh again. “I told you, Genevieve, if I cannot have what I want, then no one else may have it.” His tone roughened and he stared at her with a cruel and malicious curl to his lip. “I’d rather destroy it.”
“You’ve killed them!” she choked out. “All those people, trapped within—”
“Maybe a few got out. Pray for them, Genevieve. And ride!”
* * *
Matthew knew that it was wrong. Lady Genevieve had smiled but she looked as if she would burst into tears at any moment. Aye, Sir Guy had come to Edenby before—with the King’s men, to boot—but it was still wrong. Why, when the lord and lady had come from London, terse as they were with one another, they’d both been gentle with that wee babe. The lady would hardly trust the child to her new husband’s arms—so why allow this knight to take her upon a horse so?
He didn’t think on it long—thankfully. Certain that something was wrong, he tore into the great hall. And lo and behold, the old knight, Sir Humphrey, lay on the floor, moaning. And from the kitchen there came a noise as to wake the dead.
And he could smell it. Smoke.
Matthew raced outside, screaming for help. In seconds guards were rushing about the place. He took the stairs two at a time. He nearly tripped over the man near the landing, but bent to him instead.
Roger de Treyne came to with a groan.
“Fire, sir, fire!” Matthew warned. And Roger needed to hear no more. He stumbled to his feet swearing. While Matthew rushed on up the tower stairs, Roger stumbled into the Lady Genevieve’s chamber. The curtains were ablaze, and the bedclothes had caught.
And the Lady Edwyna lay at the foot of the bed.
Roger hurried to her. The fire crackled and spread while he bent, dizzy himself, and swept her into his arms. He raced out just before one of the ceiling beams crashed down to the floor with a terrible shower of sparks and deadly force.
He did not stop until she was outside, moaning and gasping for air. Then she gazed at him, eyes glazed, and her face all smudged.
“Anne! My daughter. Oh, my God, Roger—”
“Milady, milady, the wee one’s ’ere!” Matthew cried, leading out little Lady Anne along with Mary and Meg and a host of the household servants. Anne sniffled and pitched herself into her mother’s arms; Edwyna rocked her, shivering and whispering, “My baby!” over and over again and then she suddenly stared at Roger. “Genevieve! He’s taken Genevieve! We’ve got to summon Tristan and Jon and—”
“I’ll go now,” Roger said grimly.
“Nay, wait!” Edwyna cried. “He might not believe you, but he must believe me!”
Roger stared at her, confused.
“That she did not go willingly,” Edwyna said softly, and Roger nodded.
“I’ll get the horses,” Matthew said.
And Edwyna, finding strength, took command. “Oh, bless us, Sir Humphrey! You are well. See that everyone makes it out. Griswald, account for everyone! See that the fire is stopped. Anne, oh, Annie my love! You take care of Mary, she is crying and scared! Little one, I’ll be back soon.”
Matthew had the horses; Roger was ready for her. With Matthew’s help she swung into the saddle.
* * *
It was no good. He could drink until the stars ceased to shine at night, and it would still be no good. He could smile at buxom tavern wenches and try to tell himself that the merry promises in their eyes could heal his burning flesh, but it could never be true. He could laugh and joke and tease and swig ale until the end of time, and it would not still the longing in his heart. Only one wench could heal him, with her love like balm, like scented oil and potent wine.
Go to her! He told himself. The cry was in his heart and in his soul: Go to her, take all her sweet beauty into your arms.
He slammed his tankard down suddenly. Jon, morose beside him, looked up quickly.
“Tristan—”
Tristan stood and threw coins upon the table. “Let’s go home,” he said softly. And Jon gazed down from his eyes, relieved. He didn’t know what had brought about the change in Tristan, he was simply glad of it.
He rose, too, and called out a thank you to the saucy wench who had served them—disappointed now to see that her quest for the sport of a noble lord seemed lost. And lost it was. His mind made up, Tristan was heading for the door.
But they did not reach it before it was suddenly burst inward.
“Edwyna!”
At the sight of his wife’s smudged face, Jon scrambled desperately forward, heedless of the tankards and trenchers that fell in his wake. “Edwyna, my God! Roger! What is the meaning of this?”
“What in God’s name happened?” Tristan demanded tersely from behind him.
Edwyna spoke quickly and gravely.
“Sir Guy. He has taken Genevieve and Katherine. He set fire to the hall, but that does not matter now, Tristan.” She watched his expression. “Damn you, Tristan! This was no plan, no conspiracy! Guy stole your papers, and Genevieve tried to steal them back so that you would not kill Guy or go to the Tower. Oh, and worse, much worse. He is mad, Tristan, he must be—and he has been! Genevieve’s father did not die from a battle wound—Guy killed him, as he killed Axel, so that he could have Genevieve. And he has her now, Tristan, and—” She broke off with a little sob. “—and the baby! And some of them are out, but he knows this territory. Tristan, you have to find her. He’ll hurt her. She’ll fight him—you know how she fights!—and he’ll kill her or the baby! And she cannot ride as he’ll make her, she’ll lose the new one—”
“When?” Tristan thundered out. “Who is he with? How many men?”
“Not an hour. One man. Filbert, he called him—”
Tristan swore in a loud raging cry. “Filbert! The man was a servant at Bedford. My God, I will kill him! If he touches her, if he harms her or Katherine—”
He did not finish the thought. He was out the door with a savage stride, and indeed fury and anguish laced his eyes so that they burned with the sure and primitive fury of hell’s fire. In seconds he was up on his enormous piebald.
Roger and Jon exchanged glances and raced after him, mounting their horses in bold, desperate leaps.
But they could not keep up with Pie, for he raced with the wind, and his master’s great heartbeats sounded along with his hoofbeats.
A cry could be heard on the air. A battle cry, hoarse and chilling and terrible, and far older than any war created by Kings of Lancaster or of York.