Five
Tristan made no effort at pretense when he entered the chamber. He searched it thoroughly, glancing her way only once. She had known that he would search her chamber. She was nervous, yet he caught her faint smile before she lowered her head when he was done. So there was no one here; still he expected a trick, and he had to discover it.
He clasped his hands idly behind his back as he regarded her private domain. It was impressive—as Edenby itself.
The bed on its dais was in the center of the huge chamber. The draperies, caught back at the finely hewn posters, were rich brocade in summer shades of green and yellow. The bed frame was elaborately carved, and the headboard was an elegant work of art. A hunting scene was chiseled there—great horses, men with flying mantles and epaulets, and hawks and falcons that flew high with widespread wings to sight wild boar.
Beyond the bed was a great hearth, pleasantly angled so that it formed a secluded corner in the room. It seemed an intimate, inviting place. Cross-legged chairs stood before the fireplace; here a lord might expound upon his thoughts to his lady, or merely enjoy a cup of mulled wine while gazing into the fire.
The chamber walls had been whitewashed, and scenes like those on the Bayeux tapestry had been painted on the far wall. The windows here were narrow archers’ slits, but around them the stones were arched and fashioned to give an illusion of grace and beauty. Trunks lined the walls beneath the windows at various places, and there was a massive, carved oak wardrobe near the door. Near the wardrobe, at the center of the trunks that ranged along the wall, was a finely carved oak dressing table, neatly arrayed with silver combs, bone pins, and various attars. There was a washstand with a beautifully painted pitcher and bowl; the chairs about the room bore upholstered cushions.
It seemed, Tristan thought dryly, that Genevieve of Edenby was accustomed to splendor. But then all of Edenby had spoken of opulence, and power. From the huge jutting bluff of rock to the inner defenses of mortar and limestone, Edenby was built to withstand the heaviest blows. Having passed from the fortifications into the keep, Tristan could begin to understand the obstinacy of these people in their refusal to surrender. Edenby was self-sufficient. Why the gatehouse at the entryway had walls sixteen feet thick—a tough obstacle to overcome, long before the keep itself could be reached. Besides the gatehouse and the keep there were a number of wooden structures: living quarters for the soldiers, houses and shops for the smiths and craftsmen, kitchens, and huge wells, built upon high mottes. There were seven defense towers skirting the stone walls, and another wall—of another stone, from a different date, Tristan was certain—encompassed acres of cottages and farm dwellings. He hadn’t seen much of the keep yet—just the great hall, and now the lady’s chamber—but he had seen enough to realize that it was built for both comfort and defense. Old Sir Humphrey told him that the chapel, adjoined to the great hall, was a picture of superb craftsmanship and beauty with high mullioned windows, great rising arches, red velvet trailers, a marble altar, and a great pulpit carved from one block of wood to portray St. George slaying the dragon.
It was all his, Tristan thought suddenly. A feeling of incredible triumph coursed through his body. His reward, legally, when Henry ascended the throne.
And just as the sensation receded, he was assailed by raw pain, so strong that had he been alone, Tristan would have doubled over with the agony of it. How gladly he would have traded it all—Edenby and anything else that came his way—to go back in time! To be there to fight in defense of what had been his own, to save Lisette . . .
He didn’t really want any of it. He hadn’t wanted to subjugate these people, he hadn’t wanted the death, he hadn’t wanted the damn fight. And suddenly, in a way, he found that Edenby did appeal to him. He could never go back north to the estates at Bedford Heath. He could not return to the place where Lisette had died.
And so this fabulous fortress in the beautiful wilds, had become an enormous prize: a home, of sorts. He could live here. He could, perhaps, even find a certain peace here, eventually. Tristan had no doubt that Henry would win the coming battle. And he knew that the people would not hate him for long. People had an enormous capacity for adapting. He had not murdered Edgar—Edgar had died in battle, defending his beliefs. An honorable thing. And as to Edgar’s daughter . . .
He clenched his teeth and turned to stare with sudden distaste at the woman who stood so quietly behind him. Her silver eyes promised battle and defiance, never tenderness; though her voice was laced with sweetness, her words had a biting edge. She was exceptionally beautiful; she moved with uncanny grace. She had not bound her hair, and it fell about her in a way that even now—when he was thinking that she could never be trusted—suggested the most delicious pleasure. She was nervous, he knew; for her fingers were clenched before her, the knuckles white. Yet her chin was high, and her pride appeared not at all touched, much less shattered. Smouldering fire lurked in the silver glitter of her long-lashed eyes. The cream of her alabaster complexion was touched with a high flame of color now; despite the defiance of her rigid stance, she was extremely self-conscious.
He wanted to strike her, to slap the cool defiance and arrogance from her eyes; yet he also wanted to touch her with tenderness and passion. To explore her exceptional beauty and lose the pain of his heart in the heat of base sexual sensation. He wanted to discover if what he sensed were true: if a rich, wild, and verdant passion lay in her, waiting to be touched.
It was a pity that he didn’t trust her, he thought suddenly. A pity that there was something about her so dual-edged. He had warned Jon to be on guard, and to send half the captains back out to their troops should trouble ensue. She was lightning, a magic he longed to touch, and he wondered what he would feel once she had shown her hand. He would want her still; but whether he would take her, he did not know himself. Aye, he did, he decided.
Have you, milady—as you have so insisted—I will. One last chance I will give you now to renege and then our pact is sealed.
“Do you find the chamber . . . hospitable?” she inquired.
“Very,” Tristan said curtly. He moved to one of the chairs before the hearth and sat, with his elbows upon the claw-curved armrests, his hands folded together prayer-fashion. He tapped his forefingers lightly to his lips. The hearth was behind him; from this position he could survey both her and the door. He had bolted it from the inside, but as the chamber was empty, any trouble had to be coming from beyond. Wary, he continued to sit there, merely watching her through narrowed dark eyes. The longer he sat, the more tightly her folded hands seemed to clench. At last it seemed that her composure broke, and she spoke to him.
“My Lord, surely you are eager to part with your vestments of war. How can you sit comfortably, with your sword still at your waist?”
“My sword?” he inquired politely. He was so accustomed to it that he barely noticed the steel and sheath jutting out along his leg. He smiled at her. “I am used to it.”
“But . . .”
She paused, and he noted that she caught her lower lip between small pearly teeth, perplexed.
“Does it bother you?” he asked her conversationally.
“Aye,” she returned his smile very sweetly, yet did not come near him. It was as if she longed to flirt—to ignite his fire—but not to come near the flame.
“Ummm . . . and why is that?”
“Well, Lord Tristan,” she murmured lightly, her eyes wide with a guileless innocence, “a sword is a part of the battlefield; it speaks of blood and death and carnage. It’s the very weapon which might have killed—”
“I did not kill your father, my lady,” he interrupted her dryly. “I’d have known if I faced the Lord of the Castle—which I did not. Never did I see his crest, so I am quite free of his blood.”
“You came to fight him—”
“Nay, I came for a meal! That would have been that! Then I but gave a request that he relinquish a worthless loyalty to a murderer of a king. He chose not to—and it was his choice. He was a knight who died in battle; that is the way of things, nothing more.”
A flash of anger touched her eyes; the rose beauty of her lips was compressed to a white line. He raised a brow, wondering what had happened to the sweet humility she had been trying to offer him. He showed her a courteously questioning smile; her lashes fell, and when she spoke again it was in dulcet tones.
“Milord, the sword makes me uneasy. As if you would draw it against me.”
“I don’t make war against women.”
“I am the Yorkist who carried on the battle,” she reminded him, stepping toward him as if she pleaded.
“I do not intend to skewer you,” he said.
“Then ...” She paused again, drawing a deep breath, and a touch of impatience tinged her next query. “Why do you sit so? You dragged me up here—”
“Are you anxious, Lady Genevieve? Are you so very eager to give yourself to me?”
“I am eager to get it over witch!” she snapped.
“Milady, I beg your pardon?” He feigned a note of hurt and shock.
“I—”
“If you are not eager, milady, you are free to go.”
“What?” she gasped, stunned by his words. Then she murmured, “I meant only that . . . that I am, quite naturally, a little uneasy; I ...” Her voice trailed away. Genevieve was more than a little uneasy. The more time that passed between them, the more terrified she became. She felt as if thunder rumbled around them, but the skies outside were entirely clear. He wasn’t doing what had been expected, and she was failing miserably. He was supposed to be enchanted, eager to shed his sword, and so ardent that he would fail to pay attention to the things around him. She had feared defending herself until he could be brought down; but he was coming nowhere near her. He was so cool . . .
Yes, he was cool—while she felt that searing probe of his eyes in a thousand ways. They seemed to hold both humor and wariness—and a warning that raked along her spine and wound tightly like a coil in her abdomen. He was very real to her now: a hated enemy, but also a man. She was afraid that they would murder him, and equally afraid that they would not. She had to get him to disarm himself; the wounded who had regained the city after the battle had claimed that he could not be bested, that he was a winged Mercury with a sword.
He smiled at her again, a distant, mocking smile, as if he were totally indifferent to her. He despised her, she realized, with a dangerously controlled hatred, leashed beneath a cordial demeanor.
Yet it seemed he had not come with a destructive malice: he was giving her a chance to leave. She wished suddenly that he had been a monster, old and horrendous and cruel. She had to hate him. She wanted no decency from him, nor did she want to have to admit that he was enormously appealing.
His midnight eyes were far too shrewd at this moment. She swallowed, forcing herself to picture how her father had died in her arms. She could not lose her nerve; she could not go running from the room: If she did, she would have betrayed her most loyal supporters. If she left, this Tristan de la Tere would soon discover Michael and Tamkin, and if rumor were true, they would surely be slain.
“Where do those thoughts lead you?” he murmured suddenly. She realized that her face had given away her rapid flux of worry and emotion. He stood, and she stepped back slightly, shivering again at the ripple of muscle beneath his shirt.
He would come to her again! She thought in panic. He would reach for her and wrench her to his side, and she would feel those lips burn against hers. She would feel his hand upon her, and she would tremble and shake and seem to melt like boiling oil. She would be too weak to stand, unable to fight. And even when it was over she would be branded by that kiss, burned and branded for all time ...
But he did not approach her; instead he walked around the chair to lean against the mantel and gaze into the fire. “You’re a most intriguing character, Lady Genevieve,” he told her, his dark eyes riveting hers again so quickly that she almost cried out. “What motive lurks in your heart, I wonder?”
She lowered her lashes. “Good will to my people, that is all,” she lied.
He did move toward her then, and she had to steel herself. He touched her hair where it framed her cheek, and for a moment his eyes followed the movement of his fingers. He lifted a long lock of her hair and played it over his hand. And she somehow managed to remain still, though she thought she would go mad. His nearness sent great waves of heat to engulf her, as if her flesh and blood were seething with something explosive and disturbing. She noticed that his scent was clean and fresh, and that he was bathed and shaved. He stared into her eyes then, and for a moment she felt like his prisoner, as if his will alone could bind her.
And then he dropped her hair as if he had lost interest again, and casually sauntered back to the fire, resting one booted foot against the low stone fender and casting an arm idly against the mantel.
“So . . .” he murmured, staring at her quite frankly, “you intend to keep your promise?”
“Promise . . . ?” she murmured blankly, and again he hiked a dark brow, and his lip curled slightly with amusement.
“Your promise, Genevieve. To entertain and delight . . . and please me.”
“Ah ... of course,” she murmured uneasily.
He smiled. “You should be warned, milady. Well and truly warned. You’ll not break a promise to me,” he said softly.
She felt a terrible chill, a chill like death. What difference did it make that she lied? she asked herself furiously. In minutes it would be over; it was war, it was battle, and they were fighting the only way that they could.
“Genevieve?”
She couldn’t speak; he didn’t seem to notice.
“I swear to you, by God and all the saints, lady, that you’ll keep whatever vows you make to me. Last chance, milady. Go now, or remember from here on out that I consider a promise a—most sacred vow. Do you intend this?” He spoke so softly. Oh, God, how long could this go on!
“Of course!” she cried out impatiently. He kept smiling.
A long silence ensued; like thick clouds, it seemed to fill the air with a tension that might forecast a storm. At last he spoke, still lightly.
“Well?”
“Yes, milord?”
“Start pleasing me.”
“I—I don’t—I mean—what do you—”
“I’d like to see this rare and unique gift I’m receiving.”
“What?” she gasped.
He waved a hand in the air. “Surely that makes sense to you, milady. Ah, perhaps the request was stated with too great a complexity.” He bowed slightly. “Disrobe, if you will, my lady.”
A flicker of amusement crossed his features at the chagrin in her face. Genevieve, stunned, still had time to note that his eyes were not black at all. They were blue. The deepest, darkest blue she had even seen. She was frozen to the spot—but she wanted to run in sheer, blind panic. The situation had become desperate.
She had best do something quickly—something right, something that would convince him to shed the sword—and bare his back to the others.
Without daring to think long, Genevieve flew across the room, throwing herself to her knees at his feet, gripping the steel-hard muscle of his thigh, and casting her head back to plead. Surely she could plead well. Now—she was begging!
“Lord Tristan!” she implored, aware that she had startled him by the way he stared down at her, trying to catch her hands to drag her back to her feet. “Please, milord, I mean my promise. It is best to save my people. I give you my vow—but I beg of you! Cease with the weaponry of war, let us douse the lights—let me come gently to this!”
He cupped her chin, torn by pity. She was beautiful, Tristan thought, smoothing his thumb over her cheek. As beautiful as sunlight, as dazzling as gold, with her hair splayed now about the floor like a cloak of radiance, her eyes on his, naked with beseechment. They were not hard and silver; they were the lightest violet, the palest mauve. Her hands upon him were fragile and delicate, elegant and feminine. He felt a rush of desire that seemed to roar in his ears; the hunger raced through his body. He had nearly forgotten that she was the enemy—vanquished and dangerous. She would ease the hunger gnawing at him. She would be pure assuagement, raw and sweet, and he could take her and forget and fulfill the ravaging needs of his body, if not his heart.
“Stand up—” he started to tell her softly. But just then he heard something; a noise that should not have been. His eyes narrowed, focusing across the room.
He pushed her aside, striding angrily past her. He reached out a hand to the secret paneling that had just begun to open. He jerked at the oak; it gave like a thin branch. Michael was caught standing there, his sword in his hand.
“Michael!” she gasped out in warning—too late.
And Michael, too stunned to think clearly, backed away, raising his sword. Genevieve gasped out again as she saw Tristan’s mouth compress grimly, his entire face darkening with rage.
“Drop it!” he warned. In terror, Michael raised his sword, and with a quick rasp of metal, Tristan reached for his. Tristan’s blow was so fast that Genevieve could not believe it had happened. She tried to scream, but could only gasp.
Michael—giant that he was—fell to the floor; his eyes were open, startled still, and a trail of blood dripped with a ridiculously slow tranquility from his neck and shoulder.
“No!” Genevieve protested insanely, and Tristan spun around to stare at her. Never had she felt such a furious look of scorn or hatred so intense. She backed toward the wall, grappling for a hold upon the stone to climb to her feet. He approached her slowly, and she wondered with a desperation akin to madness what had happened to Tamkin. She looked around wildly, and her eyes fell to the iron fire poker. But she shrank with horror from the possibility of using it against him—and failing.
She looked back to Tristan; he was approaching her with a hardened look of fury, stalking slowly—with his sword still in his hand. But even as she stared at him, he whipped about again, and following his movement, she saw that Tamkin had come from the other side of the wardrobe. Tamkin was more prepared; his sword was raised high—he was ready to do battle against the enemy.
The men came together and their swords clashed mightily, sending sparks shooting across the room. They backed away—and came toward one another again. “Genevieve!” Tamkin shouted as Tristan’s next blow brought him to his knees.
He managed to stumble back to his feet. But he was barely able to catch Tristan’s next thundering blow with his own weapon. Genevieve realized with a sinking heart that there was a deadly intent about Tristan; this was a fight that Tamkin would lose. Tamkin chanced a dazed and desperate glance in her direction; Tristan was totally oblivious to her. With a quick movement, she reached for the fire poker and hefted it carefully into her hand. She scurried away from the hearth and out to the center of the chamber where the men battled, edging behind Tristan, who still paid her no notice. He raised his sword high, cracking it down with another lightning jolt upon Tamkin’s weapon.
But though he fought with such fury, Tristan was feeling a strange sapping of his strength. Something that wasn’t quite right about him. As if a soft, warm tide were washing over his body and retreating, taking along with it his power and vitality. He almost wanted to lay his sword down . . .
He shook his head, to see, to clear his mind. And then he realized with painful alacrity—he had been drugged! Not heavily—subtly. Bit by bit, so that it had taken a long time for the substance to enter his body. Drugged—or poisoned. Whichever . . . He had been wary, but not wary enough. He hadn’t trusted her—and yet he had not thought her so devious. . .
His sword was growing heavy; he could barely lift it. He had to end this clash of steel now, before he could no longer fight. He had warned Jon that he suspected a trick; he had to shout out to the men below that it was, indeed, a trick. He had to, had to ...
One last time he raised his sword in a great flying arch. His enemy was a decent contestant at arms—weaker, but ready for defense. Tristan struck his blow, not catching the man, but succeeding in disarming him; with a last thunderous clash of steel, he sent his enemy’s sword flying across the room. He might fall, but he would give his men a chance ...
Genevieve knew that she had but one opportunity. She must seize it well, and with all her might. With both hands clenched tightly around the poker, she struck Tristan a desperate blow, hard against the base of his skull.
His sword fell; he held his head in his hands as he staggered. Terror-stricken and stunned, Genevieve backed away. He turned slightly, seeing her. His eyes were glazed with pain and bitter surprise.
She thought that he would attack her then; grab her and strangle the life out of her. But he didn’t—he only touched her with his eyes for a second. Yet in that time, Genevieve thought that Tristan had seen her clearly—that he knew full well that she had deceived and betrayed him, and that she had struck the blow that was bringing him down.
She felt laughter and tears bubbling in her throat—he was going down, surely he was going down. She had heard the crack of the poker against his skull; she could see the blood ...
His look swore revenge, bitter and powerful, as if even in falling he could never really be vanquished. “Damn you,” he muttered darkly. “Damn you, bitch of Edenby, to a thousand hells, treacherous . . . whore! Pray, lady, pray that I do die!”
“No . . .” She murmured, her hand coming to her mouth to choke back a cry.
But he had already turned from her, swiveling past Tamkin, who was also caught in a dead stupor, and lifting the bar on the door, he staggered into the hallway, and fell there.
“The others!” she cried. “We have to stop him—he’ll warn them!” No longer immobile, Genevieve forced herself to follow behind him. She felt ill; oh, God, she could not hit him again! But she would have to, lest he issue a warning!
Tamkin—as if awakened by her words—grabbed his fallen sword and followed behind her. But it was too late.
“A trick!” Tristan bellowed out from the archway before the circular stone steps. The roar was like the throaty cry of a wolf beneath the moon. “Trick ...”
He fell to his knees then, grasping his temples once again. An uproar began below, but Genevieve barely noticed. She was staring at Tristan, wobbling, still standing—but leaving a trail of blood along the stone hallway.
And then, to her great and numbing relief, he fell. Heavily, and completely—and with barely a sound except that of his muscled weight thudding hard against the cold stone of the floor.
For long seconds in which her heart seemed to beat a thousand times, Genevieve stood still, scarcely daring to breathe. Tamkin, too, remained silent and still. It seemed that neither of them could believe that Tristan was really down.
But he was. Genevieve took a step forward. Blood was oozing from his skull, matting his hair. His flesh was taking on a dingy pallor. His back did not rise and fall with his breath, for he had no breath left.
“I’ve killed him,” Genevieve whispered, and it was half with horror. “Oh, my God!” She wailed, “I . . . I’ve killed him. I’ve killed a man!”
She was suddenly shaking so fiercely that she couldn’t stand. Tamkin came to her, holding her shoulders fiercely, looking into her eyes. “You saved my life,” he told her with a little shake. “Stay here, but be careful—I must get below.”
Nodding but without comprehension, she felt only a stir of breeze as Tamkin left her, stepping over the fallen corpse of their enemy.
Genevieve just stood there shaking, unable to tear her eyes from the immobile, sinewy body of the Lancastrian knight. She tried to tell herself it was justice, but she felt his blood on her hands, and her soul.
Trembling so that she couldn’t stand, she sank to the floor. And she did start to laugh then, and cry, threading her fingers through her hair, pressing against the sudden, throbbing pain in her temples. If she closed her eyes, it would all go away. The attack of the Lancastrians, the battle, the great body of the man she had slain.
But when she opened her eyes again, he was still there. Crumpled, lifeless, broken, on the top stair. His eyes were closed; she could see only the thick dark hair, clumped and matted now with blood ...
And yet she thought that she saw his eyes. Dark and vengeful, furious, and promising all the fires of hell as he damned her and damned her . . .
She pressed more tightly against her temples. Noises drifted up the stairs and finally permeated the horrible numbness and hysteria that had gripped her. A great melee was taking place downstairs. Things had not gone as planned; this had been no smooth deceit, practiced wisely and well. Downstairs men were fighting, dying.
Genevieve could not move. The fate of Edenby—and of herself—was being decided in the great hall, but she could only stare at Tristan’s body on the cold stone step, and pray that it would disappear.
* * *
The battle below was not as violent as Genevieve thought. Indeed had Tristan’s warning not come, there would have been no clash of arms at all.
Yet Jon, alerted by Tristan earlier, had kept a wary eye on things from the moment Tristan had left the room. He had relaxed somewhat when a group of musicians had come to the gallery, playing gentle ballads and slightly bawdy tunes. Jon had been finding the great hall of Edenby Castle to be filled with many splendors—not the least of which was the Lady Edwyna.
She was not a girl. He assumed that she was a year or two older than himself. But there was a grace about her lacking in younger women, he thought, and the beauty of her face was enhanced by richness of character. She was slim and elegant and soft-spoken—and very nervous.
Jon had spent the majority of the afternoon and early evening at her side, trying to ease her fears. They had talked of little things, of the wonders of this castle of Edenby, where she had grown up. She told him of her marriage, sadly stating that no, her husband had not died in battle, but of disease, and that her brother, the late Lord of Edenby, had called her back from the north country, determined that she should be married again and form an advantageous alliance when the time was right.
“And you did not mind?” he asked her.
“Mind?” She asked him, her eyes curiously wide, as blue as the wildflowers that grew along the rocky coast.
“To be bartered twice?” he asked a little gruffly.
She merely smiled, lowering her eyes. “It is the way of things, isn’t it?” she asked him dryly. “Shall I get you more wine?”
But he had chosen not to drink that day; in Tristan’s absence, he was the captain in command, and Tristan had expected some treachery. The state of the men was making him a little uneasy. Too many were laughing now, heckling the minstrels at their bawdy songs. Forewarned, they were all drinking sparingly, yet they appeared drunk. Tibald, too, Jon noted, was uneasy. The middle-aged knight was still seated at the banquet table, frowning as if something wasn’t quite right.
But what? The scene appeared most pleasant. Yorkists and Lancastrians talking, joking, drinking together. The peasant girls serving the wine now were young and buxom and earthy, laughing at the jests, seeming not to mind the lewd pinches they were receiving.
Maybe the tenants of Edenby did not care which royal heir received the crown; maybe it made little difference to them who ruled in the castle. But that wasn’t consistent with the battle they had fought, holding out long and hard, against ridiculous odds.
It was as he looked around the great hall at this scene that Tristan’s shout came to him, a gasping, thundering warning that emitted from the winding stairway toward the rear of the hall.
Jon’s eyes fell on Edwyna. He saw the alarm in her face, and horror—and he knew that the entire day had been a trick. Still staring at her, stunned and furious, he backed away, drawing his sword. “To arms!” he cried.
But most of his knights paid him little heed; only Tibald arose, and Matthew of Wollingham, and two others.
Now the Yorkist guard of Edenby began to enter the room. Jon saw old Sir Humphrey with his sword raised.
And then one of the guards was upon him. He raised his sword and fought, catching the man off-guard, and striking a lethal blow hard across his midsection. The man slithered to the floor in a pool of blood.
Jon heard a sharp gasp and looked to see Edwyna, pressing her body against the stone archway and clinging there with horror as she stared down at the slain guard. Her eyes came to his, shocked and frightened. All around them, cries rose and fell; steel clashed—and the dying moaned.
Jon knew he had to get outside of the keep, to the men in the bailey. With whatever men he could salvage, he had to retreat.
But he never felt more bitter, more betrayed, and he smiled at Edwyna over hard-clenched teeth, and bowed slightly.
“My lady, pray that they kill me, for should I live . . .”
He did not finish his sentence. Another guard was upon him, and as he fought he backed his way to the door. “Tibald, Matthew! Lancastrians! We draw back!”
From the corner of his eye he saw that Tibald, at least, had understood. The older warrior was battling his way to Jon’s side. And then Matthew was with him, too; they had formed the wall of their own defense. But with a heavy heart Jon realized that several of his men were already slain. Four others had not died; they had merely crashed face-first into the banqueting table. Of the fifteen men who had entered the great hall of the keep, only five were leaving the “hospitality” of Edenby Castle.
They finally reached the door; Jon kept their pursuers busy while Tibald lifted the heavy bar. And then they were in the daylight, freed to the realm of the inner bailey. But here, too, disaster had struck. Some men were engaged in battle; others, apparently unhurt, lay still, with their eyes closed and ridiculous grins upon their faces.
“Lancastrians, retreat!” Jon ordered, and he was sickened with the knowledge that each man must fend for himself, and that they would be leaving so many behind, to be cast to the dungeons—or hanged or slain.
“Jon!”
Tibald was at his side, mounted and leading Jon’s steed. Jon leapt upon the beast, and fired out the order to retreat again.
They barely escaped before heavy steel bars of the inner portcullis fell at their heels. And again, as their horses’ hooves clattered over stone to the drawbridge at the gatehouse, the heavy oaken gate was rising even as they traversed it; Jon’s horse shied away from the widening gap. He slammed his heels against the great beast’s side, and it leapt the distance to the rocky earth below.
Tibald cried out; Jon, hearing the shrill whining of Tibald’s horse, reined in. Tibald’s mount seemed to have broken a leg in the fall.
Jon spun around to allow the older warrior to leap up behind him, then they raced heedlessly down the natural cliff defense wall, barely aware of the heavy rain of arrows that followed them.
Far down in the valley, Jon at last slowed in his horse and took stock of the situation. Of the fifty men who had entered the castle today, there were not twenty-five left—many of whom were bloodied and wounded, groaning and pitched forward upon their horses.
“To our camp,” Jon said hoarsely, “we will regroup.”
Of all that had been lost this day, Jon could think only of Tristan. Tristan shouting down the warning with fading breath. Tristan, who had been moved to offer Edenby mercy despite the honorless murder done at Bedford Heath to those he loved.
Betrayed here again. And Tristan was surely dead now, for the Yorkists would never let him live.
Jon thought of all the times his friend had saved him in battle. He sped ahead of his torn and weary men, for he was a valorous knight, and he mustn’t let them see the tears that stung his eyes.
When his friend, his leader, his brother-at-arms had needed him, Jon hadn’t been able to save him.
He pulled his mount to an abrupt halt and stared back at the castle, shaking with rage.
“By God and the saints most holy—I’ll not leave this place without his body!”
The men, even those most painfully injured, fell silent,
“We will stay here!” Tibald cried.
“A thorn in their side—’til we’ve the strength to strike again, and throw them to their knees in the dirt!” roared Matthew.
“For Lord Tristan!” Tibald’s voice rang out.
And the cry went up all around them. They all would gladly die in the effort, but they would have vengeance for the man they had served.
Jon nodded; the party trudged onward to their camp.
And as he rode now, Jon thought with a new fury of the ladies of Edenby—fighting their men’s battles with beauty and treacherous wiles. He would like to see them both stripped and whipped and sport for every one of a hundred men—then left with their fine flesh bared for the buzzards.
It was a hard and bitter death to the gallantry he had been feeling.
* * *
When the noise died down, Genevieve still could not move. Huddled to the floor, she kept her palms pressed over her eyes.
There was a soft sound of footsteps coming up the stairs; they were too light to be man’s, but Genevieve was barely aware of the sound. Even when she heard a soft gasp, she could not look up. But when she heard Edwyna murmur, “Oh, dear God!” she at last looked up.
Edwyna was standing just below Tristan’s body, afraid to walk around it. Genevieve tried to speak; sobs tore at her throat and her voice was shrill.
“He’s dead, Edwyna. He’s dead. I killed him, Edwyna!” And suddenly she was laughing again, and crying.
Edwyna stepped over the prone body and came to her, stooping down, putting her arms around her. The women hugged each other tightly, trying to comfort one another while they both were caught in a new wave of chills and sobs.
“It’s over,” Edwyna said, “it’s over now, it’s over now.”
And then there was the clump of heavier feet upon the stairs. Sir Guy was there, with Tamkin behind him.
Sir Guy came to one knee beside Genevieve. “My lady, you are our heroine!” he told her. “You have prevailed; you brought down their lord, and they died and fled without him. You killed him, you are—”
“No, no, no no!” Genevieve cried. “I am no heroine! Please, please! Just get him out of here!”
Sir Guy nodded at Tamkin. Between them they strained to lift the muscular body of the fallen man, an incredible deadweight now. “My lady,” Tamkin murmured uneasily, with a glance at the body, “what arrangements—”
“Out, out!” Genevieve cried.
And so the men shrugged, and stumbled down the stairs with their burden.
In the great hall those Lancastrians who lived were being dragged down the dank corridor that led to the dungeons far below.
“Where do we take him, Sir Guy?” Tamkin asked.
“To the rear,” Guy said after a moment. “To the seaside; we can bury him quickly there, beneath the rock and sand of the cliff.”
“It will not be a Christian burial—” Tamkin said slowly and unhappily. The body of such a lord should be returned to his men, and given proper leave and interment.
“Nay—he goes to the rocks! You heard Lady Genevieve—she wants him out, now!”
Sir Guy was a knight; Tamkin was a guard, elevated by his lord to position of castle guard. He compressed his lips and held back his thoughts, and he and Sir Guy found a litter. They carried the corpse through the rear bailey, past the charred remains of cottages and craft houses that had been burned in the fighting, to the rear tower and gatehouse. This faced the sea, with the cliff itself forming the main wall.
“Here,” said Sir Guy, panting when they neared the top of the crest that dropped to a small beach below, and the sea.
“Here? But I cannot dig a grave—”
“Cover him with stones,” Sir Guy said. “If the buzzards do not take his eyes, he can, in death, survey his folly!”
Sir Guy dropped his end of the litter and dusted off his hands, as if they were filthy. Tamkin noted with a certain resentment that Sir Guy’s fur-trimmed mantle, hose, and tunic were neatly in place, without a tear or a stain. Where had he been during the fight? Tamkin wondered with rancor. Or was Sir Guy so adept with his sword that he need not sweat to do battle?
“I leave you to it,” Sir Guy said, and turned to head back to the rear gatehouse.
Tamkin looked down at the man who had almost slain him, and he shivered. Such a knight deserved more respect than this dismissive burial and the callow comments of a Sir Guy. But there would be much to do in Edenby. Walls and parapets to repair—in case the Lancastrians planned to try again. There would be new wounded to tend to, the hall to clear . . .
Tamkin hastily arranged stones over and around the body. It still wasn’t right; a great lord fallen was still a great lord—even if he were the enemy.
Tamkin was no clergyman, nor did he often do more than daydream and mumble responses at Mass. But as the sky grew dark above him, he fell to his knees and muttered out a prayer for the soul of the lord who had been betrayed.
They had won today; they had been victorious. But Tamkin didn’t feel triumphant; he just felt a little sick.
They had not defended their lady; their lady had defended them, and she had not appeared triumphant at all. It was a poor sort of victory, founded on deceit instead of honor.
Tamkin muttered out another prayer and very tiredly retraced his steps to the castle.