Lie Down in Roses by Heather Graham (27)

It was Sir Thomas Tidewell singing the boisterous ballad, loud and clear against the cool, darkening horizon. Sir Thomas was deep in his cups and he laughed so hard that he rocked sideways upon his mount. But for the fact that Jon of Pleasance rode next to him to right him, Sir Thomas would have crashed to the ground.

Jon was nearly as inebriated as Thomas; he threw an arm around his friend’s shoulder, and thus they balanced on their horses to sing the ribald refrain together.

As Jon righted himself, Thomas nearly fell again; he was steadied that time by the hereditary leader of their grouping, Tristan de la Tere, second son of the Earl of Bedford Heath. Jon grinned engagingly at Tristan, and Tristan arched a dark brow and grinned in return, shaking his head with resigned patience. The three had come from London, where Tristan had been embroiled in lengthy discussions of Richard III’s accession to the throne. Did Richard’s action constitute a seizure? Or was it a legitimate deed, made necessary because the rightful heir was but a boy of twelve—too weak to manage a countryside ravaged by what poets were calling the “Wars of the Roses”?

The difficulty did not end there. For years different factions of the Yorkist branch of the family had been scrambling for power—petty wars within the larger wars. Tristan de la Tere’s family had managed to stay out of the internal conflicts. Tristan, barely into his teens, had battled for King Edward IV against Warwick the Kingmaker. Edward’s reign had then witnessed a certain quiet. But with the death of Edward IV in 1483, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, took the crown from his nephew, Edward’s son and heir. Tristan knew that there was trouble to come. Moreover this was trouble in which Tristan could not remain unaligned.

“Sing, Tristan!” Jon demanded. “You know the words!”

“He knows the words,” Thomas agreed, adjusting his cap upon his head, “but he does not know the feeling. Ah, those fine ladies, that fine, sweet flesh we enjoyed so at Mr. Wal-cox’s tavern!” He jabbed a finger accusingly at Tristan. “And you would not touch a one of them. Fie, my liege, my lord! You were the devil himself before marriage overtook you! No man knew better how to drain his ale and send the most seasoned fine young thing swooning—lady or slut!”

Tristan arched a brow once again at his friends in silence, his mouth curled slightly into a smile. These were young men—young and in their prime; hard and muscled from endless days in the saddle, from battles waged, from tournaments. Born into the fratricidal struggle for the crown between the houses of York and Lancaster, they had unwittingly been bred and tuned like soldiers—for survival.

And it was to Tristan that this heavy responsibility fell. He was the second son of the Earl Eustace of Bedford Heath; the land from which they all sprung was his father’s domain. Eustace could call forth a thousand retainers at any time; his farms stretched across the horizon farther than the eye could see, and the wool that his farm manufactured was famous by name across the Channel. Tristan’s elder brother would someday take his father’s place and title; but Tristan—unlike many younger sons—had not turned to the Church. Instead he had been granted large tracts of family land. Eustace had freed all of his bondsmen, but Tristan held loyalty from hundreds of tenants, yeomen, and the nearly noble gentry such as Thomas and Jon. From the time he had been a lad Tristan had been imbued with the weight of responsibility that would come his way. He could drink with his friends, but he never allowed himself to reach their stage of drunkenness. Nor could he ever stay free of politics. Tristan could not forget that loyalties were sometimes forced upon men, sometimes chosen—but always demanded a high price.

On this fall day, as the three young friends made their way home, things seemed quiet enough. But Tristan suspected that his countrymen would soon be fighting once more. Richard had deposed his nephew and taken the Crown, and in London the move had been accepted; the Crown needed strength. Tristan had reserved judgment on the undertaking. He felt that perhaps it was better for Richard—older, skilled, a grown man—to take the reins of the country, at least until the heir, a bookish, petulant boy, should reach maturity.

But then that boy and his younger brother had disappeared from their Tower prison. And the rumor was heard that Richard had ordered the murder of his own nephews.

Tristan, as son of a noted peer of the realm, had voiced a demand that the boys be shown. Richard had been evasive, but Tristan had not backed down. Then Buckingham, who had been Richard’s staunchest supporter when he reached for the throne, had turned traitor and was causing insurrection in the south. Tristan had refused to become involved, telling Richard he would not take up arms on his behalf until the king proved himself innocent of the children’s deaths.

So matters stood as they rode north from London that evening, Thomas and Jon sodden, Tristan amused but quietly thoughtful. He was anxious to reach the grand castle he had just completed building, a place that was inodern, built for comfort rather than defense. It was a beautiful home, and more beautiful still was the thought that his wife, Lisette, awaited him there.

“Ah, look at that, will you, Jon?” Thomas demanded disgustedly. “Look at his face! The man has no sense of debauchery left! He is thinking of her.”

Jon laughed. “Well, I might think of her, too—were she mine to dwell on.”

“But she’s his wife!” Thomas complained. “Wives, bah! They are delicate little things of fine family who bring in wealth and property. Tristan, dear, dear friend, my dear Lord Tristan! You’re not supposed to enjoy her, you know! The good wenches at the taverns are put there just for enjoyment!”

Tristan laughed out loud and drew his horse close to Thomas’. He set an arm about the young man’s shoulders and shook his head sadly. “Thomas, Thomas! Son, boy, child! You are wrong. A whore is but love that is purchased, and never could love that is bought be so exquisite as that which is freely given and shared! Think of your song, Thomas! My wife loves me. Never once has she been less than eager to greet me. And yet her face is the fairest ever: a face that shines, eyes that sparkle into mine.... Nay, Thomas, how could I ever want another? Her scent is sweet, the taste of her flesh is as clean as spring air—while your whores smell like a sow pen!”

“Marriage has ruined him,” Thomas told Jon ruefully.

Tristan cast back his head and laughed, and Jon looked at his dancing eyes—eyes so dark they seemed like night and ink when indigo was their true color—and grinned along with him. Tristan and Lisette were indeed a happy couple. Their marriage had been arranged but in six months they found themselves more content with each other than either could have hoped. Tristan was tall as an oak and muscled like a thoroughbred stallion; Lisette was a glorious beauty, with an abundance of dark shimmering hair, an ever-gentle manner, a musical voice, and the face of an angel. A marriage like theirs so seldom happened; it was a union made in heaven. And to complete that happiness, Lisette now carried Tristan’s heir.

Thomas glanced wryly at Jon. “My God—he sounds like a poet!” Then he smiled at the man to whom he owed his allegiance, “Ah, she’s fair, m’lord! Like the angels are fair, and blessed and beautiful. And sweet—too sweet and good for you, oh roughened knight! But, sir! ’Tis sport of which we speak here—”

Jon interrupted laughing.

“Thomas! You were married off to a rich widow with a most luxurious mustache! What could you know of Tristan’s happiness!”

Tristan couldn’t help laughing aloud at that. True, indeed, Thomas’ wife was wealthy, the daughter of a merchant in gold; and although she was nearly as ugly as a hag, her wit was quick and Tristan was quite fond of her. Also in one year of marriage she had produced a lusty, healthy baby boy for Thomas, and therefore he could find little to complain about.

“A pox upon you, Jon!” Thomas cried in mock horror. “If you marry—if ever you find a woman to bear the sight of that pretty face on a man!—may your wife be as frigid as a nun!”

Jon was about to answer Thomas, but his words died in his throat: for the frown on Tristan’s face was so severe that Jon was taken aback. Tristan was a tall, good-looking man—handsome when he laughed, but frightening when he did not. There had been many times when Jon had counted his blessings for being on Tristan’s side, for the young lord was a lethal foe.

He wore that lethal expression now, as if night’s shadow had cast itself over his features: troubled, wary, dangerous.

“Tristan, what ... ?” Jon followed his superior’s gaze focused some way distant.

And then Jon saw. They had come upon a cottage on the outskirts of Tristan’s lands. Darkness was falling quickly and it was not easy to see, but even in the shadow it was apparent that the cottage had been burned. Smoke still drifted up on the night air.

Tristan urged his mount forward at a gallop. Jon and Thomas, instantly sober, followed. Tristan leapt from his horse before the stone cottage, bending low to the ground over an old farmer. He touched the man’s throat and drew back, studying the blood that bathed his fingers. It was still warm.

Jon and Thomas dismounted and were at Tristan’s side. Tristan stood again quickly. With long strides he headed for the smoking cottage and entered through the burned-out doorway. Jon stood with Tristan before the door. In amazement they saw that someone had savagely destroyed the contents of the little house before setting it afire.

Behind them, Thomas inhaled sharply. They all saw the woman’s body at the same time. Tristan strode to her and knelt beside her in unspeakable horror. She had been stripped naked and brutally assaulted, and then left to die in the burning house.

“My God,” Tristan cried out. “Why? Ned was just a farmer, tilling his fields; Edith but a simple farmer’s wife ...”

His voice trailed away and then he straightened suddenly, rigid with terror.

“My God,” he gasped again. Jon and Thomas could read the ragged fear on his features, hear the panic in his voice. He said nothing else but crossed swiftly to his horse and remounted in a blur of movement. Jon and Thomas raced behind him and mounted, both struck dumb with the horror of their friend’s fear.

Murder, heinous murder, committed here on poor, harmless peasants. What then awaited them at their grand manors?

They galloped, madly, down the road, the horses tearing up the turf of autumn. Before they had journeyed far, they again saw smoke against the night sky. All around them the land lay devastated. Cottages were burned to the ground, gardens trampled, fences broken.

And the landscape was a wasteland of corpses.

At last Tristan came by the road of his castle—a castle built for a life of peace. With an unbelieving dismay he saw the bodies of his men-at-arms upon the ground here and there, on the bridge before the moat, the moat with the swans that Lisette loved so dearly.

As if the carnage he had seen on the road had not been enough of a portent! Lisette’s beautiful long-necked swans, floated dismally in pools of blood—no longer the embodiment of grace, but decapitated, ugly carcasses.

Jon watched as Tristan dismounted, his face drawn into a horrible mask of fear. Tristan came to the first of his retainers, the captain of his home guard; that stalwart and loyal man lay bleeding where he had fallen at the door—defending until the end. Tristan fell to his knees, lifting the fellow’s bloody head into his arms. “Sir Fielding! ’Tis I, Tristan. Can you see me? Can you speak?”

“Ah, lord!” The man found strength to clasp his hand. “Forgive us,” he gasped weakly, “we failed you.... We knew not what came! Men . . . men in armor, with no badges . . . no pennants. They stormed upon us ... we would have greeted them in the King’s name! They ravaged. . . they murdered—but said not why. My lord . . .”

There were tears in his eyes. Tristan reassured him hastily, and in greater haste demanded, “My lady, Sir Fielding? My lady wife?”

Tears flowed more freely from Fielding’s eyes.

“I know not,” he said simply.

Jon came to Tristan’s side, and the two raced across the bridge and into the hall. All was silence.

And all was death.

He stepped over one of Lisette’s maids, a young girl who had been brutally slain and left with her skirts about her throat. Had another horror preceded her dying? More of the guard lay dead and dying, in pools of blood upon the floor.

“Lisette!”

Tristan screamed out her name, in prayer, in hope, in grave and horrible fear. His footsteps took him to the stairway as he desperately raced that distance. He searched from chamber to chamber, screaming her name again and again. There was no answer.

He came to the nursery. A small chamber beside his own, where already a cradle, woolen garments, and fine small silks and linens awaited his child.

And there he found Lisette.

She leaned over the cradle, her head bowed within it, her hand trailed over it. Almost as if she were reaching to touch a child.

“Lisette!” He shouted no longer. There was no more need. It was a whispered prayer, a plea, a dread beseechment on the air. Tristan quailed inside, and he could not move. He froze, his hands clenched rigidly at his side.

He rushed forward.

She looked so peaceful there. Perhaps . . . and fell to his knees, taking her into his arms. Her head fell back and he saw the bruises at her throat, the trail of blood.

Like the swans, she had been butchered. Blood, blood, so much blood . . .

“Lisette!”

Now it was again a scream, a shriek of agony so deep that it burned his soul. Tristan held her, then clasped his poor dead wife to him, rocking her, rocking the tattered remnants of her youth and beauty.

Jon came upon him there. He watched in horror as his friend held Lisette, smoothed her hair, rocked her, as if she lived. Blood covered Tristan’s tunic and his cloak with its white ermine. Jon had never seen a man so demented with grief.

He was afraid to speak; and there was even more to tell Tristan.

And then Tristan spoke. Like a rasp, like the sound of steel against stone.

“What happened?”

“Tristan—”

“What happened here?”

Jon swallowed and spoke as evenly as he could. “Geoffrey Menteith lies wounded by the fire. They were attacked for no reason, with no warning. By men with no mercy. Our soldiers fought, well and bravely, yet they were overrun.” He couldn’t go on. He couldn’t tell Tristan the rest.

“Tell me what else was said!” Tristan roared. God in heaven, he sounded like a lion—wounded, vicious, terrible.

“Your father is also dead, Tristan. And—your brother. His wife. His ... infant son. All are ... slain.”

Tristan did not move; he did not blink. Warmth swamped him—sticky, horrible warmth. Lisette’s warmth, Lisette’s blood, her life. The life of their child not yet born, lost before she had succumbed to death herself,

There was a whimpering in the corner. Jon moved, for Tristan could not. Beneath a fallen wardrobe Jon found a young girl, Lisette’s handmaiden, cowering, sobbing now, eyes glazed with shock. Jon touched her, and she screamed and recoiled. Then she knew him as friend and flew into his arms, babbling incoherently. Before long, however, her sentences had become all too coherent

“Oh, oh my lords! Dear God! How my mistress screamed and screamed, and begged and pleaded for mercy!” sobbed the maid. “They caught her in the hallway and took her . . . by force . . . but rape was not enough! She pleaded on her knees, in tears, for her own life and for the child. They . . . they chased her here . . .”

Tristan turned his attention fiercely on the girl, and then he paused, swallowing sharply, lowering Lisette gently to the floor. What he saw next nearly broke him.

His child lay on the floor. But six months in the womb, born dead and yet perfect. A perfect boy. Fingers, toes, limbs, all fully formed.

Jon followed Tristan’s glance. “Oh, God,” he cried out. “Oh, God most Holy . . .”

Tristan set his miscarried child upon his slain wife, and cradled both tenderly in his arms. The girl began to talk again, in great bursts of terror.

“Hush!” Jon commanded, lest Tristan hear more. Jon was afraid. Afraid further when Tristan lifted Lisette and carried her tenderly through to his own chamber, laying her on the bed, kissing her on the forehead, as if she lived, leaving the baby beside her.

Jon paused but a moment to assure the girl that the assailants were gone. Then he chased after Tristan, who, with deadly purpose, was heading back down the stairs, down to Fielding. Fielding, receiving water from a woman who had returned from the forests where she had hidden, talked to Tristan.

“One of them said that ye’d not demand again to know about the Princes in the Tower, Lord Tristan. That Richard would be pleased with this day’s work.”

“My God!” Jon cried out in heedless horror. “The King would not order this carnage!”

Fielding eyed him wearily. “Like as not, yet a man with an urge to please him ...”

“When did they leave? Where did they ride?” Tristan demanded tersely.

Tristan should weep, Jon thought. No one can bear this grief. He should cry.

But the young widower—the new Earl of Bedford Heath—did not. He listened attentively to Fielding. And by then the men-at-arms from the northern boundaries of the property were flocking in, the wounded were beginning to walk about in their bandages. Tristan said nothing, but they were behind him when he turned. Outside, in the night air, more and more of the peasants and the craftsmen and the servants who had fled were returning. No order was given, for no words were needed. Horses and armaments began to appear in the courtyard, and in minutes a good-sized contingent—including many wounded men, had formed. Tristan needed only lift a hand, and they followed.

They caught up with the murderers—having followed the trail of the troop of mounted men—at midnight. Tristan’s forces were outnumbered, but this meant nothing. Tristan was an avenging angel; he was death incarnate. Sword and mace swung alike, in fury, with no fear. He had no care for personal safety, and men dropped in his path like felled trees.

At the end there were only prisoners, pathetic men who whined and cringed in fear, for in their hearts they knew they could ask no mercy. They refused to talk—until they saw Tristan’s face—and then they hastened to speak, swearing they had not touched his wife, nor slain his father or his brother.

Tristan leaned over one saying, “Who did this? Who ordered this?”

The slightest hesitation brought the answer.

“Sir Martin Landry, dead there, Lord Tristan, slain by your hand. Please, for the love of God, have mercy! He claimed that we were blessed by the King!”

Even then Tristan did not believe that Richard had ordered the attack. Richard might have wanted him chastised or reproached in some way. But not this slaughter of women and children. Still, Richard might well have ordered his own nephews slain. And though he might not have said, “Go out and do murder,” he might well have ordered the attack, and not have known what kind of scum he had sent to do his bidding.

Tristan turned his back on the men.

“What shall we do with them?” Jon asked. Thomas stood beside Jon, quiet, stiff. For with Tristan’s sister-in-law and brother he had found his own wife, the dear and charmless hag, the witty young woman who had given him his beautiful son, butchered and slain.

“Mercy!” screamed one of the men.

Tristan spun about. He could not bear the word.

But he had no chance to take action; Thomas had slain the man, who died, choking upon his own blood. Two men remained living. Tristan could not find it in his heart to grant mercy.

He breathed in deeply. “We will keep them prisoners until—”

One suddenly came to his knees at Tristan’s feet. “Slay me not! Drew there went into the house; Drew raped your wife! I ne’er touched her! He cast her over the cradle—”

The man broke off, noting something horrible in Tristan’s face. Tristan had realized that blood soaked the man’s front, and that he was not wounded. And if he had not attacked Lisette, how could he know that she lay over the cradle.

“I did not kill her, I did not kill her. Drew—”

Drew, the sniveling coward, cut in. “You liar, you were the first! The first to take her! Blame it on me! Nay, you—”

Tristan turned away; he wanted to disembowel them while they lived, to torture them slowly and surely. He had never known a feeling of such rage and sickness.

“They’re murderers, Tristan,” Jon said quietly. “Death is the penalty.”

Death was too easy, Tristan thought. But he swallowed and walked away, calling out over his shoulder, “Hang them.”

He heard no more. No pleas, no accusations. He rode silently at the head of the men back to his home. Nay, manor, castle, property, holdings—but never home again.

Already the blood was being scoured away. The bodies of his kin were being cleaned by gentle hands, anointed by the priest. They would be laid to rest, masses would be said for their souls . . .

Jon and Thomas stayed with Tristan all night. He did not eat, he did not drink, he did not sleep, and he did not cry. The horror, the vengeance, brooded in him like a terrible storm.

At daybreak he kissed his father’s proud old cheeks, the same to his brother, his brother’s wife and child. He kissed poor Thomas’ ugly wife.

And Lisette . . .

Lisette he took in his arms, holding her tenderly, rocking her. Commanding that she be buried with their son, the child who had not lived to know his love.

He did not remain for the funerals. He left the place in Thomas’ hands; Jon would ride with him, Jon and his troops.

As day broke, Tristan had made a plan. He was going to Brittany, where Henry Tudor, the Lancastrian claimant, was gathering his forces and preparing to seize the Crown of England from Richard III.

Henry Tudor would be very glad to welcome him.