Six
That night Genevieve lay in the semidarkness, alone and safe in her own bed—but afraid to close her eyes. When she closed her eyes, she saw him, dark and burning and furious at her betrayal. She saw him fall again—and she saw the state of the hall once more when she had first descended the stairs. So many of her own guard strewn about the floor, intermingled with the invaders in death as they had never been in life.
She heard again the grief, saw the tears of mothers and children and young girls who found a husband or father slain, a lover lost forever.
There had been no reproach, no whispered words of condemnation from the people. Yet what could they really care who wore the Crown? Except for the minor lords and knights of the surrounding manors, these people lived out their lives on the land, and from the land. By ancient custom, banding together in hardship and in labor, paying their rents, surviving. They seldom journeyed to the next county, much less to London. After what had already passed, she owed them peace—not victory.
But how could she have handed over her father’s holding—all that he had died for—without a fight? In all the days of siege there had been ample bloodshed and agony; she had not blanched, nor shrunk from the wounded. She had buried her own dead and lamented with the others. But today something had been different, something that weighed heavily on her soul.
She was haunted, afraid to close her eyes. She was cold; despite the fire in the hearth, and the warm fur bedspread pulled tightly to her chin, she shivered. By God, she could not forget his eyes, the smouldering, horrible fury in them.
She had killed him. Oh, God! She could not forget him!
Genevieve started suddenly at a rap at her door, where was Tamkin? He should have been sleeping outside of her door. There was always a guard at her door now when she slept, and two massive wolfhounds.
“Genevieve!” It was her aunt’s voice.
Glad of the company, Genevieve sprang from her bed and raced barefoot to the door, throwing it open. Edwyna stood there in a long nightgown, clutching a woolen blanket around her shoulders, her eyes huge in the flickering firelight.
Genevieve noted that Tamkin was curled on the floor, sound asleep—the hounds were curled beside him.
“Come in!” she told Edwyna, and pulled her into the room.
“I couldn’t sleep—”
“Neither could I—”
“We’ve won, and I’m more frightened than ever!”
Soothing Edwyna was always good for Genevieve. It forced her to get a grip on her own emotions.
“It’s all right, Edwyna—we really did win.”
Edwyna ignored the bed and walked over to the mantel to stare into the fire. “Did we?” she murmured, and then shivered. “He’ll come back.”
Wild rampaging chills seized Genevieve, coursing along her spine like the tip of a blade. She didn’t have to close her eyes to see Tristan then—her mind filled with him, blurring the truth of her vision. She saw the fury in his eyes, heard the reverberating power of his rage. But surely . . . surely, Edwyna did not believe he could come back from the dead.
“Edwyna!” she murmured, approaching her aunt and lightly placing a hand on her shoulder, hoping she had not become completely unhinged. “He—can’t come back. He’s dead. I—killed him. They took him out—and buried him somewhere. Edwyna—there are no ghosts. Men cannot rise from the grave to extract vengeance.”
Edwyna was looking at her as if she were the one to have finally snapped from the events of the day.
“Dead—he’s not dead at all!”
“Tristan is dead!” Genevieve almost shouted. “I did it myself, I saw it—oh, merciful heaven, it’s true!”
Edwyna actually smiled a little. “I didn’t mean Lord Tristan—I meant the other. His second in command. Jon of Pleasance.”
“Oh,” Genevieve murmured. Warmth seeped through her again. She sank into one of the chairs—then remembered that it was where he had been sitting and rose again. But Edwyna’s smile had lightened her heart a bit. They had fought an enemy and won—and it was true: Tristan was not going to come from the dead to wreak vengeance.
“The man with the decent smile?” she queried.
Edwyna nodded. “But that smile was gone when he discovered himself trapped.”
“Did he escape?” Genevieve asked.
Edwyna nodded.
“I—I think I’m glad,” said Genevieve. “He appeared young and well-mannered and—”
“Until the end,” Edwyna said a little bitterly. And then she flew into Genevieve’s arms again. “Genevieve! Will it never end? I’m so afraid all over again! They will come back! They will slay us all and raze the castle to the ground for what was done!”
“Edwyna!” Genevieve said, trying to calm her. “You mustn’t worry. Our masons will start at first light to repair the fortifications! The smiths will be busy forging new weapons and armor. And Sir Guy is going to leave with a few men to find the King and his forces, and see if our army cannot be replenished. We sent so many men to fight with the King. Sir Guy will apply for cannon and gunpowder and our men will be invincible again!”
“I wish that I believed that,” Edwyna said mournfully.
“Believe it, for it will be true,” Genevieve promised solemnly.
“Ah, Genevieve! What is it? You are so much younger than I—and so much stronger!”
I’m not stronger, Genevieve thought. I’m a true coward who is delighted to see you because I’m afraid to close my eyes! I keep remembering his touch, the fire . . . his eyes . . . his death!
“We need to get some sleep,” was her only response.
“I don’t want to be alone,” Edwyna murmured, grimacing. “And I can’t even crawl in with Anne because Mary has already done so.”
Genevieve smiled weakly. “Well crawl in with me, then. This night will pass, and the horrors of today will begin to fade. You’ll see.”
They crawled into Genevieve’s bed together and huddled close to one another like children. Genevieve shivered, thinking of what might have happened had Tristan not been killed. And at last she began to reason and assure herself that the day had been a victory. The enemy would have vanquished her; she had vanquished the enemy instead.
Still it was almost dawn before she slept.
* * *
There was darkness—a great, endless pit of swirling darkness. A pit so dark that there wasn’t any pain; there wasn’t anything at all but darkness.
He could not see himself, but he could feel himself traversing that darkness. It seemed he walked for hours and hours and hours before the darkness began to lift—and then it was gray. Like the very worst fogs upon the moors and swampland. The gray came at him soaring and curling, enfolding him.
And then in the gray he began to see shapes. Bodies, fallen all around him. He paused and touched a shoulder to turn over the body. It was one of his men, a young squire from Northumbria, a man who had yet to achieve knighthood. He was dead.
And as Tristan stared at him he saw that the man had no eyes, that the carrion had feasted upon them. A scream seemed to come from the gaping mouth; the blank eye sockets riveted upon him, accusing him, sending a soaring pain to his head so that he staggered back, clutching his temples.
And then he tripped—over another body. His own scream rose to his throat when he saw that it was Lisette’s. Her chestnut hair was matted and tangled about her. Her throat was black and blue; her flesh was gray. There was blood crusted to her skirts ...
But her eyes, too, were gone. Black empty pools of reproach fell on him, touched him, tore into his soul. And then she moved, as if she handed him something; it was another corpse—a small corpse, so small that it could rest in his hand, and he saw that it was the child who had never lived . . .
Again he felt the soaring, stabbing, debilitating pain in his head, and he clutched his temples and started to scream . . .
And dirt fell into his mouth.
For long, long moments he lay there, completely dazed, remembering the dream—and wondering what grime filled his mouth and what cover shielded his eyes from sight.
His head . . . the pain in it was excruciating.
He tried to move; the earth seemed to shuffle and crumble around him, and he heard great, horrible rasping sounds, gasps . . .
And then he froze, chilled by the realization that he had been buried alive. The gasping was his breath in this tomb, where rock covered him and sand and dirt filled his mouth.
Anger gripped him in such great, shocking waves that he trembled, and the black fury caused the pain in his head to explode. Everything grew black again, and he knew he had to calm himself. He could not get enough air. He swallowed, forcing himself to breathe very slowly. Carefully, he warned himself, he must move very carefully . . .
It did not seem that he could move, at first. His arms were useless, his muscles were as weak as butter. He strained with the slim energy he could summon, and at last his fingers moved, ever so slightly. He began to sweat, fearful that he would panic again, and smother. He judged that this hasty grave was not a deep one—just a few layers of stone. He kept moving his fingers, slowly, slowly against rock. He knew that they bled. Earth and stone loosened; at last he felt cool air on one hand, and he cautiously began to free the other.
This was harder than anything he had ever done. Over and over his strength failed him; he tightened his jaw and strove again.
His other hand fought free of the grave. Lord! He was not deep! It was his weakened state that made such an effort of moving pebbles and earth. He removed dirt and stones from his head, and breathed in cool air.
He strained to sit up; he gave all his concentration to the effort, and at last, he managed to force his torso upward. But the pain in his head was fierce, and again he returned to a world of darkness.
Even in that darkness, he knew that he was alive; and in moments the darkness faded again. He opened his eyes to the night around him, slowly ascertaining that he was upon a huge clifftop. He coughed, suddenly, raggedly—air filled his lungs. He wheezed, he breathed deeply, and then he could smell the sea. Far away he could hear waves lashing the rocks and sand below him.
He closed his eyes again, and inhaled deeply of the sweet night air, pure and cleansed by the sea. The pain in his head subsided to a steady throb. He willed vitality to his limbs once again, and sat up.
He flexed his arms. There was a moon tonight, not bright, not full, but he felt that his eyes would not have managed to open in brilliant sunlight. Finding a large boulder in easy reach, he set his hand upon it and willed himself to stand. But once he had staggered to his feet, gray danced before him—he fell. He sat, forcing himself to patience. He had to wait until the spinning gray ceased to blur his vision.
And as he waited he remembered, with a keen clarity that sent his temper soaring once again. The treachery of her devious, treacherous, whorespun betrayal. He’d been drugged. He had known she was a liar. Her act had been sweetly staged, faultlessly performed.
And he was angrier still because he had known, and had fallen prey to her spell in those moments. Genevieve of Edenby . . . falling to her knees, pleading . . . promising, spinning her web of seduction, finally begging in earnest so that his heart was torn by her beauty and humility—so that she might set him up for an assassin’s blow. And when that had failed, she had tried to slay him herself.
He was shaking in the moonlight, so close had death come to him.
“I will stand!” he swore suddenly, furiously to the night. “I will stand and I will live . . .” He continued to grate out, groping for the boulder once again and straining against it. “... if only for one purpose—to strip that daughter of hell of everything that she possesses . . . her castle, her lands, her honor—and every stitch of her pride!”
The swearing—weak and gasping as it was—seemed to help. Panting out the vow, he came slowly to his feet. Eventually he swallowed hard, let go of the boulder, and stood on his own.
And when he stood he could see Edenby Castle below the rise of this very rock.
His eyes began to blur. He swayed—and realized that he was about to lose consciousness again. He grabbed the boulder, leaned against it, and quickly surveyed his immediate surroundings. There was a mossy plain, sheltered by brush and an overhang not more than a stone’s throw away. Staggering, blinking furiously, he tried to reach it. His legs began to wobble fiercely; he fell to his knees and crawled the rest of the way, then sighed deeply and lay down, closing his eyes and fighting nausea and the horrible drunken mists that clouded his vision even when his eyes were closed.
A drink ... if he could only clear his parched throat with water! But there was no water, nothing to alleviate the thick, swollen feel of his tongue against his mouth. He could only pray that the pain and dizziness would clear if he rested.
He felt a night mist creep around him, and he opened his eyes once more to stare up at the half-moon in the velvet sky. All he need do was think of her. Genevieve of Edenby ... clad in all the silken beauty of her golden tresses, at his knees . . . pleading. Her eyes such a lustre of mauve beauty that he had succumbed to her treachery.
He closed his eyes once again, feeling absurdly serene. Strength seemed even then to pour back into his limbs. He felt as if his heart had found a stronger beat, that he could sleep and wake again.
Because he would have his revenge. Just as surely as the tide would wash the rocks below him, and the sun would rise in the heavens with the morning, he would have his revenge.
* * *
The dawn woke Tristan. He opened his eyes carefully at first, and found that his vision seemed to be fine. He blinked against the rising sun, and then smiled slowly because it was perfect, a golden orb rising out of the pink and gray mists of the cliff.
He sat up carefully. He touched the wound at the base of his skull and winced; it hurt badly to touch. But though he was hungry and wretchedly thirsty and weak, he no longer had the horrible dizzying sensation that had kept him from standing last night. He carefully rose to his feet, and smiled. He could stand.
Tristan surveyed his position carefully. Before him was Edenby and the rear gatehouse. He noted that there was only one wall here—other than that of the cliff itself. And when he turned around there was the sea. No natural harbor here—it was rock-strewn and harsh. There was a small beach, but even that was rimmed by cliffs and caves and natural rock barriers. No large ship would dare sail close to shore—yet a small raft might well brave the obstacles. A small raft . . . or a swimmer.
It was certain that he could not escape through Edenby. He hadn’t the strength to scale the walls, nor the agility to sneak through the place like a shadow. His only chance was the sea, and that was far below him.
But it was time to move, time to take action. His thirst had become desperate; he had never known before that it was possible to crave water so desperately. Reason was with him, though, and he used that reason to drive himself. If he could reach the sea, he could use the current and waves to carry him; he would round the great cliff, and, if God were with him, reach shore near the cove where his men were camped.
He closed his eyes for one brief moment. He had to get down the near-vertical cliff first.
The same moss that had given him a bed for the night grew over the rock, making the cliffside slick. Tristan went down on his hands and grasped for any hold that he could find—rocks and roots and the spidery branches of the tenacious wild ferns that grew here. At the end he lost his hold; a grunt escaped him as he began falling, rolling with increasing speed along the smooth stone. Then he was suddenly pitched into empty air—and hurtled down hard into a small spit of white sand.
For several seconds he lay there, stunned and breathless. Then he began to flex his muscles, and he laughed out loud. He was covered with scratches and bruises, but he had broken no bones. The sand beneath him was clean and soft, and the sound of the waves that came to him was like a potent wine to his blood—giving him hope and faith and renewed determination. A wave crashed, and seawater washed his body in a lazy embrace, cold and invigorating. He stood and rushed out to greet the water, stiffening as its coldness jolted his body. But he didn’t think about it—he just began to swim.
It was not as easy as he had hoped; the tide was like an enemy that longed to dash him against the rock. His arms tired quickly; the icy water made him long to sleep again—to rest—to give up his hold on life and slip beneath the surface to an aquamarine paradise....
Don’t rest, don’t pause, don’t give up ... he repeated to himself over and over. And though each and every one of his muscles ached with burning pain, he kept going.
Each time he was ready to give up, each time the salt so sorely stung his eyes that he was blinded, he thought of Lady Genevieve. The most beautiful, the most treacherous woman he had ever met. If he did not live, she would never be brought to justice. He would force her to pay in some earthly hell for trying to kill him for the casual, degrading, unholy burial that she had given him.
Anger gave him a burst of energy. Stroke, breathe, stroke, breathe. Again and again . . .
And suddenly the great rocks to his left disappeared. He blinked furiously against the saltwater that filled his eyes. There was land again—a strip of beach.
He kicked—and his foot touched rock. He tried for a foothold and managed to brace against the sand. The shore . . . the shore was before him! The cove . . . he could see tents and men and horses and cooking fires.
Staggering and floundering to avoid the rocks, he moved forward. At last he cleared the water—and pitched forward, blackness claiming him again in a burst of stars.
But voices tore at his oblivion. Arms tugged at his shoulders, lifting him, clearing him from the gentle lap of the sea.
“Tristan! By God and the Blessed Virgin—it is Lord Tristan!”
He opened his eyes. A man—a man with the red rose of Lancaster—was kneeled anxiously at his side.
Tristan smiled with parched lips.
“Water,” he whispered hoarsely, and closed his eyes again. He could do that now—he had made it.
* * *
By midmorning Genevieve had such a headache that her images of yesterday had begun to blur.
Mary had been at her door early; it seemed that everyone in Edenby awaited her orders to begin the day. Genevieve had found herself at a loss; her father had seldom cared much about the running of his castle. He had often been called to court, and had spent years tenaciously clinging to his property with the continual change of the English monarchy. He had loved to hunt, and had spent numerous hours with friends on debates of philosophy and theology. He had been concerned only with his comfort—and his rents!—as far as the running of Edenby had gone.
Michael had acted as their steward. He had kept everything running smoothly, from the castle itself to the farms beyond. He had collected the rents, he had supervised the grain mill. He had, in short, done everything. And until this morning, Genevieve realized sadly, she had never known it.
When her father had died she had been ready to assume his command. Directing their defenses had been a balm to her soul. She hadn’t had time to worry that she would fail; she had been in such emotional turmoil that she had expected no insurrection and received none.
But now she felt lost. Michael was dead. Her father was dead. Axel was dead, and Sir Guy was leaving soon. Half of Edenby lay in ruins, and danger still lurked beyond the walls.
Mary told Genevieve that Father Thomas and Sir Humphrey awaited her in Edgar’s counting room. Edwyna was still sleeping; Genevieve decided to let her be, and dismissed Mary with the message that she would be down soon.
She dressed in a somber gray velvet that suited her mood, tied her hair into one long braid, and descended the stairs. Sir Humphrey and Father Thomas rose as soon as she entered. From behind her father’s sturdy oak desk, Sir Humphrey cleared his throat; he offered her the chair, wishing her an awkward good-morning.
Genevieve took the chair there and watched Father Thomas a little uneasily. By choice, he had spent the day before in the chapel—on his hands and knees. He had not approved their plan—and had plainly said so—but he had acquiesced when it had been agreed upon by the others. He was a tall, slim man with a keen wit.
A commoner, he had chosen a life in the Church more from vocation than as a means to rise above the menial and hard labor of a tenant farmer. Genevieve had been pleased Father Thomas had come to Edenby; he was not so strict that she spent her life on her knees saying novenas, nor was he so lax that she felt she had no spiritual guidance at all. He was usually like a friend, slightly older, often very wise—and quietly in the background when she needed him. He was a very good-looking man, with tawny hair and dark green eyes, and Genevieve was certain that he kept discreet company with one of the craftsmen’s daughters. He was a man of the Church, yet not entirely supportive of its rules for the clergy. But perhaps that was what she liked about him, Genevieve reflected: he lived by God—and by common sense.
“We’ve the dead to worry about, my lady,” he told her now, wasting no time.
“They must be buried as their families choose,” Genevieve replied. “Tell Jack, the stonemason, to carve their stones. Edenby will pay.”
He nodded, bowing slightly, then asked. “And Michael?”
“Michael,” she murmured softly. “Michael must be interred in the chapel, beside my father whom he served so well.”
“That is well, Lady Genevieve,” Father Thomas said. Genevieve didn’t like the way that he was looking at her, or his tone. Both seemed disapproving, but even as she gazed at him a little rebelliously, Sir Humphrey began speaking. “The walls must be repaired, yet so many have been lost that the tenants are afraid to take the time from the fields to build. Some may surely be spared, yet who shall work and thus lose his income, and who should not be called? Also there is the matter of the guard. More men must be chosen, yet which families shall you honor?”
There was a quill sitting on the desk. Genevieve picked it up and idly tapped upon a parchment accounting for the rents. “As to the walls, Sir Humphrey, the able-bodied workers must be split in two groups. They shall alter their work each day, and no one shall lose out. I will have Tamkin advise me on who should be called to join the guard. Giles, from the kitchen, must be promoted to Michael’s position, for his knowledge of the castle is great. Sir Humphrey, if you would be so good as to speak with him, I’ll see him here now. And ask Tamkin to see to the division of men so that we waste no time, lest we find ourselves weakened against another attack.”
Sir Humphrey seemed vastly relieved; he bowed to her and went in search of Giles. Genevieve watched his departure, then turned back to Father Thomas, aware that he was staring at her.
“What is it, Father?” she demanded curtly. “I feel your disapproval. How have I offended you?”
He walked toward the mullioned window that looked out upon the inner bailey. The sun was scarcely up, and the pink glow of morning was showing the ruin of the smithy. He turned again.
“My lady, I was distressed that you should use the promise of carnal delight to lure a man to his death, yet I was overwhelmed by the opposition. Now it has come to my attention that you struck the blow yourself, and ordered that a Christian knight should be denied a Christian burial.”
Genevieve felt a flush of annoyance. “Father, I struck down the man who was about to kill Tamkin. It did not please me to do so; it was necessary. Perhaps I was wrong to allow his body to be so callously taken, but I was distressed when I gave the order. Is that all, Father? I will be at Mass; please understand that my prayers for my own shall precede those I would offer for an enemy.”
Father Thomas stiffened. “My child—”
Genevieve tossed the pen onto the desk irritably. “Please, Father! Don’t ‘my child’ me! I am doing the best that I can!”
He smiled then and came to the desk, lifting her chin. “I’m sorry. This has been quite difficult for you, hasn’t it? A father lost, a betrothed slain. Responsibility resting upon shoulders too slim—”
“They are not too slim, Father Thomas,” she said softly.
He smiled again, then moved away. “I was worried, Genevieve. I prayed yesterday that you would not be injured. It was a risky plan. And now I pray that the murder will not live with you because I know your soul. I feel that we were not honorable, and that sits hard with my conscience.”
“What is honorable?” she charged him heatedly. “Were they honorable—attacking Edenby with no provocation?”
Father Thomas sighed. “Your father was given the opportunity to surrender. To live, to maintain his position. All he had to do was capitulate to the demands of the Tudor.”
“Father, it would not have been honorable to betray a vow once made! My father was sworn to Richard—loyalty cannot shift with the wind.”
“Perhaps not—but the Lancastrians did battle fairly—and we did not.”
“There is never anything fair about battle, Father,” Genevieve said stubbornly. “It was not fair to see our buildings burn—with our people inside of them. It was not fair that I should watch my father die. We fight with what weapons we have, Father. There was no remorse among the Lancastrians when my father died; should we regret the death of their leader? Victory is costly—but not so costly as defeat.”
“Well spoken,” Father Thomas murmured. He shrugged. “But I’d have your permission to see that Lord Tristan is brought down and returned to his men for proper interment. A messenger came early this morning requesting his remains.”
Genevieve waved a hand in the air. “Do what you will,” she sighed softly. “Then I’d have you leave me be, for I wish to make a survey of the damage and see what state our defenses are in. And our fields—I’d not have us all starve this winter.”
“We’ve one more matter to discuss, my lady,” Father Thomas said gravely.
“And that is?”
“Your marriage.”
She sat back, staring at him in stunned surprise, and feeling a pain she had not allowed herself before sting her eyes with the promise of tears. “Axel barely grows cold in his grave, and you would speak to me so?” she demanded harshly. She remembered him acutely then, young and handsome and gentle, and ever ready to smile; beloved.
“Genevieve, I do not speak so to hurt you,” Father Thomas said quietly. “But you must guard your position. You are a woman alone now, with vast holdings. A tempting fruit for the plucking, and there are many less than noble knights about.”
“No one can force me into marriage, Father. Were I bound and gagged and dragged to an altar, I could not be forced to speak. I am, perhaps, as you say, a woman alone. Yet I shall remain for the time being. Edenby is strong. We will make it stronger.”
Father Thomas still hesitated. “Sir Guy has approached me, as your spiritual advisor—since your father is dead—with a suggestion of a union between you two.”
Again Genevieve was startled. “Sir Guy?”
“Aye.”
He was strangely silent. Genevieve stood, smiling slightly, and moved around the desk. “You’ve an opinion, Father. Give it to me, please. I’ve not the patience for innuendo this morning.”
He raised his brows and shrugged. “There is no reason to disapprove the match. He is young and spirited, of suitable family. But he reaches—for he is landless. I believe you could make a better match that would ally us with the lords of our coast.”
She frowned watching him. He still wasn’t telling her what he was really thinking. “Father, I’m not really surprised by Sir Guy’s approach. He was Axel’s dear friend. He cares for me. And I do care for him. But I cannot think of making any marriage arrangements at this time. I have lost a betrothed and will not dishonor him so.” She paused, then asked curiously, “Do you dislike Guy, Father?”
“Nay, I do not dislike him. I know little of him. But . . .
“What?”
He straightened his shoulders and said, “If you truly wish my opinion, Genevieve, I will give it. It was wrong for that young knight to suggest that a high-born lady offer herself as whore to the enemy. A true knight goes to battle and lays down his own life first.”
Genevieve turned away from him, her interest in the conversation waning. “Oh, I daresay that the idea was rather clever—and he was terribly worried, Father.” Her lower lip trembled slightly. “Had we not lost Michael after so many others . . .” She paused. “Perhaps I will go on pilgrimage soon, Father. And pray for their souls—and my own. For now,” she added brusquely, “I must tend to things here. You will tell Sir Guy only the truth—that I cannot speak of marriage now.”
“He will leave soon. You will offer him the stirrup cup?”
“Aye . . . Before Mass?”
“He leaves any moment.”
“To seek aid,” she began to murmur, but broke off as there was a sharp rap at the door. She and Father Thomas gazed at one another, and both shrugged. Father Thomas moved to the door and opened it.
Sir Guy himself was standing there, his handsome face flushed and excited. “Genevieve!” He rushed to the desk, then, as if remembering himself, paused to nod to Father Thomas, “Good-day, Father.”
“Good-day”
“Genevieve, the guards in the northern tower recently spotted a party riding from the north. Riding—with banners flying high. It is a group of the knights displaying Richard’s colors—and the white rose crest of York!”
“Bid them enter—”
“I did!”
She raised a brow slightly at such an assumption of privilege, but he was so excited that he didn’t notice.
“They’ve come for men!”
“For men!” she cried with dismay.
“Aye. The troops are amassing. Henry Tudor has an invasion force ready to meet the King, and Richard is calling upon his loyalists. They say his troops will so far outnumber those of the invaders that the Tudor will not stand a chance!”
Genevieve stared blankly down at the parchment. So it was coming at last—the true battle for the Crown. With God’s help, Henry Tudor would be defeated.
She should be glad. But she had hoped right now for the King’s aid—not to have to help his cause.
She sighed. “Sir Humphrey is too old to go. Tamkin I cannot spare. Take ten of the guard, and see that they serve with their own horses and that we provide the armor. Also if any of the village youths wish to go as foot soldiers, they have my blessing—if they have that of their parents.” And what shall I do? she wondered a little bitterly. Already we struggle . . .
“It will be over soon!” Sir Guy said joyously, and he leaned across the desk heavily to plant a kiss upon her forehead. “And when I return, Genevieve . . .”
Father Thomas cleared his throat. “If we have messengers from the King as our guests, perhaps we should be seeing to their comfort.”
“I’ll see to it—” Guy began. But Genevieve interrupted him.
“Aye, Father. As the Lady of Edenby, I shall see to it.” She stood regally, squaring her shoulders. Responsibility had fallen upon her; she’d no choice but to take it. But it was something that she was determined not to relinquish. Father Thomas was worried that she was a woman alone; well, for the time being she would stand alone, and neither Guy, nor Father Thomas, nor anyone else would take what was hers by right. She had fought too hard to maintain it.
“Sir Guy?” she queried politely. “Would you see to the men and arms we offer the King?”
“Aye, Genevieve!” he agreed. He caught her hand and kissed it feverishly, then rushed out.
Father Thomas lifted a brow to her, smiling slightly. “I believe he feels he is the lord of the castle already.”
“Perhaps he will be one day,” Genevieve said. “And perhaps he will not. Father, I’m discovering that I enjoy my power. Perhaps I will do so all my days!”
Father Thomas started to frown disapprovingly, and she smiled. “Oh, Father, let’s take this a step at a time, shall we? Right now we must go give food and drink to the King’s men, and send them all on their way—although, God knows, surely I am needier than the King at this moment! And then . . .”
“And then?”
“Then we must have Mass for our dead,” she said quietly. “Father?” She offered him her arm. “Will you stand with me now and serve as host in my father’s place, since I would be wary of any other man?”
He smiled. “Aye, Genevieve. I’ll stand at your side. And,” he muttered, rolling his eyes towards heaven, “I will pray for your soul at Mass.”