Seven
“If we brought a party around so,” Tristan said, making a diagram on the ground, “just a few men in small rafts, we could take the guards at the far tower by surprise. Following along these parapets, we can force those guards to open the gates—before anyone in the keep is even aware of danger. Meanwhile we can have two men assigned to reaching the dungeons and freeing our men there. Before any alarm can be raised at all, we will have subdued the castle.”
Hunched down and balancing on the balls of his feet, Tristan looked from Jon to Tibald. Both were studying his drawing with frowns, as if they looked for a flaw in the plan. They could find none.
Jon spoke eagerly. “When?”
“Nightfall, I believe.”
Tibald shook his great, shaggy head. “My Lord Tristan, you have only just begun to recover. It is a miracle that you live, when we had accepted your death.”
Tristan grimaced, then grinned broadly and stood. He felt wonderful. The true miracle had been the effect of clean, fresh water, a hearty meal, and the physician’s assurance that nothing had been so beneficial to his wound as the sea water that had cleansed it. He was still sore, but not plagued by dizziness or weakness. Having shaved and dressed in fresh garments, he felt as renewed as the ancient Phoenix of myth, rising from the ashes.
“Tibald, I have never felt so ripe for battle in my life. And,” he added, a scowl darkening his features, “we’ve men imprisoned in their dungeons. I fear that we cannot waste time. Jon, you will accompany me—with a group of ten men—around the cliff by way of the sea. Tibald, you will lead the bulk of the men when the gates are opened.”
“And what are the orders to the men—this time?” Jon asked thickly. Tristan gazed at Jon and saw in his eyes the same smouldering fury that he had felt himself.
Tristan walked around to his desk and sat, musing over the question. When he had awakened in his grave of rock, he would have gladly slain them alt—every last inhabitant of Edenby, from soldiers to children—even dogs and cattle. But his temper was easing somewhat. His moral sense was returning, just as his health had been restored. He felt a needed distance from the event now; an objectivity toward all—but one woman.
“Jon, Tibald,” he said at last, lightly drumming his fingers and staring beyond them. “We would gain nothing from mass slaughter. If we kill the masons, no one will rebuild the walls. If the farmers are gone, there will be no one to bring in the harvest. We will need wool for Flemish trade, so we will need shepherds to care for the sheep.”
“You can’t suggest that what was done to us go unpunished!” Jon said incredulously.
“Nay, I do not make that suggestion at all,” Tristan said with a quiet vehemence that set Jon’s mind to rest. “I found,” Tristan continued dryly, “that the greatest torture I faced was not being struck down—it was wondering what my fate would be as I struggled to free myself from my grave and fight my way back to life. Uncertainty and fear are great weapons. The dungeons at Edenby will be full.”
“If we don’t do something more,” Tibald reminded him, “they will not fear or respect us.”
“Oh, we shall have floggings,” Tristan murmured. “And set up a court where the tenants and craftsmen may swear their new loyalties. Infractions will be brutally punished. There will be a steel band of authority that they will learn has no tolerance for anything other than strict adherence to orders.”
“And the night that we go in?” Jon pressed. “What do we tell the men?”
Tristan laughed bitterly. “Tell them that the young women are fair game. We will not take the farmers’ wives, but we will have their daughters.” His eyes narrowed sharply. “There is but one that I claim myself, and that is the Lady of Edenby. When she is discovered, she is to be brought to me.”
“I’d ask a boon,” Jon said tensely.
“Which is?”
“The Lady Edwyna.”
Tristan remembered the aunt who resided in the castle. “She is yours.” He gazed at Tibald. “And have you no requests, my friend?”
Tibald laughed. “Nay—give me a score of broad-hipped farm girls, and I’ll find myself happy. And give me a plot of land on which to build a manor. That is all I ask.”
“Done,” Tristan said, then added dryly, “Now we have naught to do but put our plans into action. And see that they are fulfilled this time. I warn you both, as I would warn the men—never turn your back upon those people. Take no chances. Trust no soft words or pleas for mercy or—”
He broke off with a frown. From beyond the tent came hoofbeats and an excited rise of voices. There was the blare of a trumpet and then the sound of footsteps racing toward the tent.
Tristan rose and strode the distance to the entrance, ducking beneath it to see the visitors. Jon and Tibald followed behind him.
His men were grouping around the newly arrived party on horseback, calling out greetings and shouting salutations. The newcomers bore banners with the colors of the Lancastrians; fresh red summer roses bedecked their mantles. It was a small group, dangerously small to roam the countryside at this time. Tristan recognized Sir Mark Taylor—one of Henry Tudor’s greatest advocates—in the fore, and stepped forward to meet him, accepting the clamp of his arm as they met. “Lord Tristan!” Mark greeted him. “We’ve urgent matters to discuss!”
Sir Mark was slim and dark, of a strong and wiry build, a man who had spent all his years since childhood in battle. He was a decade Tristan’s senior but neither landed nor titled, and Tristan knew that he sought Henry’s kingship not only for the Lancastrian party, but for his own social rise. Yet there was honesty about him; and few men followed a would-be king without hope of their own gain.
Tristan raised a brow and directed Mark into his tent. The knight, heavily clad in armor, clumped his way in, idly observing Tristan’s diagram upon the floor.
“You’ve not taken the castle of Edenby yet?” Mark inquired.
Tristan shrugged. “The castle will be mine now,” he said flatly, “I’ve no doubt.”
Sir Mark was not much interested in the diagram. Tristan was careful to walk over it; he was not having his conquest taken now by any other—not even a man of his own follow-ring.
“The castle of Edenby will have to wait.”
“What?” Tristan demanded, frowning fiercely. “I am here—I need but a night—”
“The real and true battle for supremacy is upon us. Richard’s troops are amassing—in greater number than ours. You and your men must come with me. By order of Henry Tudor. He needs every able-bodied fighting man that he can draw upon.”
Tristan walked around his table and sank into his chair, compressing his lips, idly clenching his fists together. To have come so close . . . and find himself called away now! Ah, but the taste of revenge grew bitter on his lips. He could well fall on the battlefield and never return.
But the moment of true importance had come at last—the Yorkist King would meet the Lancastrian aspirant to the Crown. He had no choice.
“I will alert the men to break camp,” Tristan said, rising again. Leaving Sir Mark behind him, he set out from his tent.
From the entrance there he stared across the distance of field and cliff to Edenby Castle, rising out of rock and boulder, impregnable, taunting.
“I will return,” he muttered darkly. “Lady, I will return.”
He strode outward in the circle of tents, his mantle flowing behind him, his footsteps strong and sure.
“Break camp!” he called with a thundering conviction. “We ride for the House of Lancaster! The time has come to best a Yorkist King!”
* * *
Genevieve climbed to the ramparts by the main gatehouse and looked back over Edenby, sighing softly with a great deal of satisfaction. Her people were builders. Already the burned-out shops of the smiths and stonecarvers had been timbered, though it would take months to repair the damage done the walls by the Lancastrians’ cannons, Edenby was again totally defendable. A second steel gate had been added behind the outer wall, and new “murder holes” had been added to the gatehouse. Should the enemy ram the heavy wooden gate of the outer wall, they could be trapped in the portcullis of the gatehouse—and men on the floor above could pour boiling oil upon them from comparative safety. Light arrows could also be used and any number of other techniques—or so Sir Humphrey had assured her.
But when she turned her sights the other way, looking southeastward, away from the coast, she saw nothing but total peace and tranquility. It would soon be autumn; the crops were beginning to come in, the grain was being milled. The sheep were beginning to grow their thick winter coats again. All appeared well and fine.
Hearing footsteps behind her, Genevieve started and swung about. She relaxed when she saw Father Thomas approaching her, and ridiculed herself for her nervousness. What had she to fear in her own castle?
Nightmares.
These nightly torments continued to plague her. Genevieve would have expected to dream of her father, of Axel, and of poor Michael. But it wasn’t of them that she dreamed. It was of Tristan de la Tere.
She had been so very busy . . . trying to rebuild, struggling along with Tamkin and Giles to see that their food supplies and their defenses were brought back to survival levels. Perhaps the nightmares were natural. The day kept her too busy to remember the good about those she had loved; the night claimed her exhausted mind and sent it further terror instead.
In her dreams she walked the cliffs alone as around her the sky grew dark and stormy. Unable to find her way home, she would start to run—only to race into an implacable wall. Looking up, she would discover that she had run into a corpse—that of Tristan de la Tere. But he would be very much alive in death, as virile and powerful as ever; and he would laugh at her, reach for her, swear that she would pay, that she would join him in death. Genevieve would try to run, but his fingers would entwine in her hair and she would be forced to meet his deep, dark eyes, which fascinated and compelled her—and left her speechless, unable to fight. She would feel the fire those eyes kindled in her blood, a blaze that threatened to engulf her for eternity . . .
Then he would hold her tightly, and she would feel the strength of his arms; and his brutal, deep, and searing kiss would enflame her like burning oil. She could feel his hands on her, so intimately that she felt she would melt with the shame of it ...
And then all would grow cold. His hand, his lips. He would smile at her and his features would take on an icy mask of cruel mockery, he would whisper that his kiss was the kiss of death.
“My Lady Genevieve!” Father Thomas called, interrupting her thoughts.
Genevieve turned to him. “Yes, Father?”
He smiled at her with his now customary concern and lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “There is nothing, really, that requires urgent attention. The Flemish merchant has arrived to pay for his wool. He and his party are in the hall, where the Lady Edwyna sees to their welfare.”
“Perhaps I should go back,” she murmured.
“There is no need,” Father Thomas said.
She gazed at him curiously, with a little smile. “Then what is it you wish to speak about, Father?”
“I have no thought to speak at all. I thought that you might care to—as you have not been to the confessional lately.”
Genevieve stared out at the land, then turned to face the westerly cliffs and the sea. “Father,” she said, “would you accompany me out the rear gate? I’ve a sudden yearning to walk along the beach.”
He arched a brow, then shrugged, somewhat disturbed by the silver and gray storms that seemed to rage in her eyes. “You should not venture out without the guard—”
“Then summon a member of the guard, will you, Father?”
He shrugged and did so. Moments later they followed the parapets and towers around until they came to the rear gatehouse. They did not traverse the cliffs; there was a slim path, overgrown with thistle and weeds, that led between bluffs to the scant area of beach. The guards positioned themselves discreetly. Father Thomas remained behind Genevieve as she laughed and ran to the water, shedding her shoes and heedless of her gown, to allow the tide to run over her feet. She turned back. “Father! Have you never run through the sea?”
“I was not born near the sea,” he responded, but he smiled suddenly, and Genevieve returned his gaze, aware that he thought that she had been far too morose in the days past.
“You have missed much!” Genevieve told him. “Come and feel the water!”
He stepped forward skeptically. Genevieve was already sitting in the sand, so close to the water that the waves washed over her again and again, loving the water that rushed all around her. Father Thomas joined her, wincing as the cool water soaked through his frock to chill the flesh of his rump.
She was staring straight out at the sea. “Father, did you return the body of Lord Tristan to his men?” she asked him, sounding most casual.
He hesitated, having no desire to tell her that they had not been able to find the body. The entire cliff was rock—and Tamkin could not be blamed for forgetting such a burial place at such a tempestuous time. Nor had there been an odor to assist them; the sea here kept the rugged terrain fresh, and they had given up the search. It was likely that marauding wolves and buzzards had taken their toll.
“It is something you need not worry about,” he told her.
She turned to him suddenly, fiercely. “Men truly do not come back from the grave, do they, Father?” she asked him.
He laughed. “Nay, that they do not. Is that what worries you?” he asked her.
She shook her head sheepishly. “Not really—I suppose I knew the truth. I have just been thinking ... when I was young, my father used to bring me here. I was not a ‘lady’ then—not a grown one, at least—and he would allow me to swim and play by the shore. Edwyna used to come, too, and we brought food, and the sun shone. Those were the easiest, most delightful days.” She sighed, drawing a pattern with her finger in the wet sand. “I wonder, Father, what it would be to live so again. What it might have been to live when the country was not in constant turmoil. I wish I could go back—such a little bit of time, really. Before my father’s death. And Axel’s, and Michael’s. And before—”
She broke off abruptly, painfully.
“Before the ... the ... death of the Lancastrian?” Father Thomas could have bitten his tongue; the word had nearly tumbled out.
“Before his murder. Yes,” she said softly. “I wish I could go back. Oh, God, it’s horrible. I really couldn’t have acted any differently. I had to—to do what I did. Sometimes I just wish—” She shook her head miserably, staring at the water, where the blue and gold sky and the indigo sea met to form the horizon. “I wish that my father had given Tristan de la Tere a single stupid meal. Then none of this had come to pass!”
“You wish that you hadn’t been forced to do what you did,” Father Thomas broke in gently, slipping an arm about her shoulders.
“Will I go to hell, do you think?”
He shook his head. “Genevieve, you did what you had to. You fought with what weapons you had. You fought in defense.”
She nodded, swallowing unhappily. “I keep dreaming of hell. Are you so sure that I will not wind up there?”
“I am convinced that God knows the hearts of men—and women. And your heart, dear girl, is pure.”
She didn’t feel that her heart was very pure. Nor did she believe that God would be so forgiving of the fact that she had tried to use her physical beauty to lure a man to his death. Perhaps, though, he would understand that she’d had no choice.
“I worry, still.”
“About the battle to come?”
“Aye. So much blood has been spilled! Do you believe that Richard will triumph? Then, at last, our wars will end, when the Tudor is defeated.”
Again Father Thomas hesitated. He’d had a few strange dreams himself in which he had seen a country united, and peace and prosperity coming to the land. But in that picture, a dark spot blurred Edenby, as if it must endure some greater trial before finding peace.
“Peace is not achieved easily,” he said, then added optimistically, “but you heard the King’s messengers. Richard’s forces far outnumber those of Henry Tudor!”
“Umm,” Genevieve murmured, standing. “The last we heard from the traveling minstrel was that they all seem to be amassing at a town called Market Bosworth. Perhaps we shall hear soon that all is well.”
“Perhaps,” Father Thomas agreed.
Genevieve smiled impishly The fresh sea air seemed to have cleared her soul of nightmare images. “Turn your back, will you, Father? I’d not have your sense of propriety upset. But I’ve the urge to take off my gown and swim again.”
“My lady—”
“Please?” She laughed, and he was glad of her laugh. “Await me by the cliff—I shan’t be long, I promise!”
Father Thomas did as she bade him. And Genevieve quickly forgot his presence. Leaving her velvet gown upon the sand, she took to the water in her linen shift, delighting in the chill, diving deep to enjoy the sense of freedom. She had not felt so young and easy in what seemed like forever; for these few minutes she could forget everything again. It was as if the sea could cleanse her of memories and the blood upon her hands.
When she emerged at last she felt lighthearted and very confident. Her hair was a soaking mantle around her, but she rejoined Father Thomas with a steady smile.
“Do you know, Father, I feel much better.”
“Behaving like a fish is not truly considered proper behavior for a lady of your standing, Genevieve.”
“But I had such a wonderful time.”
“Then I am glad. A husband, though, might not approve.”
She sobered suddenly, shuddering slightly. Again, Father Thomas was sorry he had spoken
“I believe, Father, that I prove myself daily. I do not need a husband.”
“You are hurt now, you feel Axel’s loss keenly But you must marry one day, you know that.”
She shook her head vehemently. “Perhaps I shall not. I have fought too hard and lost too much. Axel was rare. Husbands think to rule a wife’s land—and the wife. I cannot be ruled, Father. I have come too far.”
Father Thomas shivered slightly. She meant what she said. The dark pall that had blurred Edenby in his dreams seemed to fall about him now. He looked up at the cliffs and shivered again. He felt a sense of foreboding.
But Genevieve was hurrying on ahead of him, smiling again. “I think I shall order a holiday,” she called back to him. “Surely we can find an appropriate saint’s day, wouldn’t you agree, Father? The people have worked hard. It isn’t May, but we’ll have a Maypole! We’ll roast lamb and beef and dance beneath the moon!”
It was a good plan, Father Thomas admitted to himself. Genevieve had earned the loyalty of her tenants. To them she was young, and beautiful, and heroic. But she also needed the celebration herself. Something to appease her spirit and allow her to laugh again.
“Aye—we can find an appropriate saint,” he agreed dryly. But even as spoke the sun seemed to fade. Storm clouds were encroaching upon them from the west.
From the area of Market Bosworth, Father Thomas thought a little dismally. What was happening out on that battlefield now?
* * *
On the night of August twenty-first, Tristan silently walked beneath the stars and stared out—at the hundreds and hundreds of campfires that could be seen blazing from all the many troops encircling Ambien Hill, awaiting the morrow.
Henry’s scouts had been out all day. Tristan knew almost as much about the enemy’s movements as their own. King Richard had ridden that morning from Leicester, trumpets resounding, his men-at-arms, archers, and cavalry before him. Even in his armor he was a slight figure. He wore a golden crown so that both his own men—and the enemy—would know him on sight.
Tristan stared at the campfires, then bowed his head. Richard was not without courage. Not without valor, not without his fine virtues. Yet too many sins lay upon his soul. His climb to power had been too careless.
Tomorrow, Tristan thought, God would choose the future king.
He fell to his knees, trying to pray. It seemed to him as if he had somehow forgotten how. The night seemed like pitch except for the campfires. Like my life, he thought—dark. But then he discovered that he was praying.
Let me live, Father. Let us be victorious. I do not fear death, but for all that has befallen me I fear my soul will never know peace until I have found vengeance. I do not seek to slay her in return. Only to take what was promised.
Was it wrong to pray for vengeance? Perhaps not. Perhaps God, too, was a warrior.
Tristan stood and stared up to heaven, grinning a little crookedly. “Tomorrow,” he whispered softly to the night breeze, “will tell.”
He started back to his tent. Sentries saluted and he saluted in return. Not far away Richard probably surveyed his own camp, as Henry Tudor was doing now.
Tristan slipped into his tent. He should have been thinking of battle, of strategy.
Not two feet away Jon was already asleep. Tristan laced his fingers behind his head and stared into the darkness of his tent. If he opened his eyes or if he closed them, he saw her. He saw her in white, with mist around her; saw her hair, shimmering gold, saw her eyes, shimmering silver. The curl of her smile, the passion when she pleaded, when he had found pity . . .
“If I live tomorrow, Genevieve of Edenby, I swear I shall have that castle—and you—or die in the trying,” he whispered out loud. And then he smiled. Heat, desire, and fever: to be fulfilled, and then purged, cleansed. Vengeance was perhaps a good thing. It had given him the will to live; now it would give him the will to triumph.
The battle would begin with the dawn.
* * *
August twenty-second, Year of our Lord Fourteen Hundred and Eighty Five . . .
The day had become gray, with storm clouds joining the mass of swirling black gunpowder that hovered near the ground. The heat was so great that Tristan had taken off his helmet. Beads of grime formed on his forehead, and filth blackened his face.
Long ago he had tossed away his pistol, finding it useless in the melee. He fought with his sword, on horseback, blindly slashing down those who sought to skewer or dismount him.
The tremendous odds hadn’t dampened the heart of the Lancastrian forces. They fought with greater ferocity—for if they lost, they would be demolished.
Tristan fought near Henry Tudor, with a guard around their would-be king. Henry Tudor was no coward; he was a young man not yet thirty years—a man willing to fight for the Crown he sought. But his true talents lay in wit and strategy. He was of medium build and medium height, shrewd and determined, but not as powerful as many of those who would find great pride and glory in bringing him down.
Even as Tristan thought this, a great burly Yorkist broke through their ranks, wielding a pike. Tristan spurred his mount; the heavy beast reared and plunged toward this new threat. Tristan raised his sword and brought it down with all his strength against the pike, which snapped before the steel tip could reach Henry Tudor. The giant Yorkist roared out his rage and charged Tristan, unbalancing him from his mount. Against the cries and shouting and running footsteps and the distant explosions of cannon and gunfire, they rolled together in the field that had become nothing but muck and blood amid the bodies of the dead and wounded, men and horses.
The Yorkist was on top of Tristan, striking at him with knotted fists. Tristan twisted, sending the Yorkist toppling forward, and Tristan used his momentum to rise. The shaft of the pike lay by him. He grabbed it hastily and brought it down upon the back of his enemy with such force that it snapped again. The Yorkist started to rise to his knees, but let out a grunt and fell forward into the mud.
Dazed, Tristan turned to find his mount and his sword before he could be attacked again. Henry was there, mounted, and leading Tristan’s horse.
“You saved my life,” Henry said briefly. Tristan accepted the reins of his horse without reply; Henry Tudor did not waste words, so he offered no denial. He glanced at the slim face of the man to whom he had given his allegiance and nodded. “We’ve still a battle to win,” he replied.
How much longer could it go on? Tristan wondered. The sky grew darker and darker, and the dead were everywhere. White and red roses lay trampled in the filth. And still it went on.
In the end the battle was decided by Lord Stanley and his son—and his three thousand men. They were, for all intents and purposes, aligned with Richard. Yet when Richard charged upon his white horse for Henry, the Stanleys cast their powerful lot with Henry Tudor.
Tristan knew that Henry had met and negotiated with Sir William Stanley. But from that meeting Henry had learned that he would be supported only if he proved he could win the battle. Until the turning point the Stanleys had appeared to be with Richard. Clearly they meant to cast their lot with the winner, and in their movement then they did decide it all.
Richard was trapped—crushed between Henry’s troops and the massive wing created by Lord Stanley’s men. But he fought bravely until the end.
Finally Tristan heard a cry go up.
“He’s dead! The King is dead! Richard III is slain—they’ve seen him, the corpse stripped naked by our own and lain over his horse that all may see him!”
“The Yorkists are dispersing—and scattering! They are retreating from the field! The battle is won!”
And it was true, Tristan saw. Like a wave, the enemy was retreating. By narrowing his eyes, he could see a horse running wild, with a naked body cast over it.
A foot soldier ran forward, bearing the golden crown that Richard had worn. He fell to his knees before Henry, offering it up.
And Henry began to laugh, deeply, heartily. “The battle, my friends, is indeed won!”
“Your Highness!” the foot soldier called out reverently.
And Henry sobered, his pinched features now severe. “I am not King—not until I am crowned so! But that, loyal servants, will be soon. To you all, my gratitude. Promised awards are yours, and in turn I will have the promise that we will build this country and make her rich beyond imagination!” He swiveled quickly in his saddle. “Sir Mark, you will ride for Elizabeth of York. She will be brought to London.”
“You’ll marry her, Sire, and the title will be secure—” Sir Mark began, but Henry Tudor quickly cut him off.
“I marry for no title! All here know and history will tell that I negotiated for Elizabeth’s hand long before this day! My title will be my own! Not until I am duly King will she be my bride. I marry for peace in this realm. The Houses of Lancaster and York will be united under one name. Tudor!”
Henry cast Tristan a glance. “Well, Lord Tristan, what would you have? Do you come to London with me? To shake battle from your blood and bones in splendor? Come, speak to me, man, for I always pay my debts; and I owe you my life.”
Tristan shook his head, smiling dryly. “I would return to Edenby and take the castle, Sir. I’ve a personal matter to clear there. If you would truly reward me, give over the castle—and its lady—to my keeping.”
Henry Tudor tightened his hold on his mount as the animal belatedly sought to fight its bit. He raised a brow. “As you wish. Would you take more men and arms?”
“Nay—only those men who are mine. I believe I know how to take the castle with as little bloodshed as possible.”
Henry watched him for a moment. “I mean what I say, Tristan, that I want peace. We were at war; there are nobles I will strip of power and some who will reside in the Tower. I dare say that some will eventually lose their heads, for if they oppose me now it will be treason. But I intend to extract no great revenge; only those who refuse to accept my claim need fear for their lives. Edenby is yours—but it has always been a prosperous place, and I want those taxes. Warfare has bled this country. See that you take the place in my name. I trust you to follow my policy.”
“The Lady of Edenby—” Tristan began, but Henry interrupted him impatiently.
“The woman is your concern. Do with her what you will.”
Tristan smiled slowly. “I’d like that as a promise, Your Grace.”
“Why do you press me so?” Henry inquired irritably.
“Because she is young and very beautiful and of unimpeachable family line. Should another make a claim, I would have you remember that she is not to be a reward or a pawn in a marriage game. No matter what I choose to do, she is mine.”
“The promise is yours!” Henry bellowed. “Good God! This over a woman! Leave me now for your Edenby. I’ve other requests to fill and the business of a kingdom to claim!”
Henry spun his mount about and rode off.
Tristan just sat still for a moment. It felt as if the sun had broken through the clouds, though it surely had not. Elation filled him like a rampaging fire, and he threw back his head to shout out his joy and triumph.
Jon, battle-grimed and weary, made his way toward his friend. He frowned as he gazed at Tristan. “Victory is one thing; you sound like a cock crowing in the morning.”
Tristan laughed, but then his features tensed. “We’ve permission to take Edenby. With royal warning not to mar its value, but . . . with free leave and blessing!”
Jon smiled, too. A sweet breeze swept around them, cool with the promise of rain. It filled Tristan with a thunder of elation. After all that had been done to him, and all that he had fought for, resolution was near. He turned to Jon, his dark eyes glittering with a purposeful fire.
“Gather our forces—we ride hard tonight. We will waste no time.”
The breeze was indeed sweet. As sweet as the long-awaited promise of revenge about to come their way.
* * *
Genevieve was in the counting room, looking at Tamkin’s accounting of the rents. The paper was blurting before her a bit. They had celebrated their summer “May Day” the night before, and she had freely imbibed ale with the peasants, danced with them about their pole—and had altogether a far too enjoyable time to meet the morning with anything other than a headache.
She was fiercely startled when the door suddenly banged open and Sir Humphrey entered, white-faced and shaking. “It’s over! The battle at Bosworth Field is over. Richard was killed.”
“What?” she cried out with astonished alarm.
He nodded, swallowing sickly. “Henry Tudor goes to London, where he will be crowned King.”
“How can you know?” Genevieve queried, fighting the nausea that rose in her. It couldn’t be! Richard’s forces had well outnumbered the invaders! How could it be?
“One of our men stumbled back to the gates. He is ill and wounded, but he says there is no doubt. He saw King Richard’s body himself. The Yorkist forces were badly beaten and scattered. Henry Tudor is the victor.”
“Oh, dear God!” Genevieve groaned, leaning an arm across the desk and resting her head upon it. “Perhaps . . . perhaps it will mean nothing. There are still others who could make a bid for the Crown. Perhaps this Tudor upstart will also be killed! ”
She hadn’t seen Edwyna enter the room, but now her aunt spoke, running to the desk to take Genevieve’s hand and implore her.
“Genevieve! We must give it up now! We must! If we do not accept this man as King, he will send others out to crush us! Genevieve! Please, think of us all! If you go to this man, swear your loyalty—lay down our arms and our crest of white roses—he will perhaps let us be!”
Genevieve sat back in the chair, staring at Edwyna’s huge, moist blue eyes. She gazed past her aunt to Sir Humphrey.
“Well?” she inquired wearily.
He shook his head unhappily. “I see no other way, my lady. Edwyna is right—we must swear our loyalty to this new King. And pray that he does not intend to punish the countryside.”
“Please, Genevieve!” Edwyna implored once more.
Her head began to pound viciously. She pressed her temples between her thumbs and forefingers.
“Genevieve!”
“You are right. I must go to plead the favor of this upstart King!” She wished the pain would leave her head so that she could think. “If he does indeed become King, half of us could wind up in the Tower or on the block. I will go to him and swear our loyalty.”
Edwyna was already on her feet. “I’ll pack for you. He is a young King. If you wear your jewels and your finest gowns, he will not be able to refuse you.”
“I hear that he is sly, shrewd, and cold—and far more concerned with pounds and shillings than he is with women. But do what you like.” She paused again and added bitterly, “If I am to beg, I may as well be regally dressed for the occasion.”
Edwyna was already gone. Genevieve rose wearily and gazed at Sir Humphrey. “You, sir, will accompany me. And Mary must come along. And an escort of five—”
“Ten, if I may suggest it, Lady Genevieve,” Sir Humphrey interrupted her. “The countryside will be crawling with soldiers beaten and in need. We would be prime picking for attack.”
“Ten then,” Genevieve said. She sighed. “We might as well leave this afternoon; I’d have this over as soon as is possible.”
Less than two hours later, Genevieve and her escorts were ready to ride out of the gates.
Father Thomas and Edwyna stood by to raise the stirrup cup and wish them a good journey.
“When our men return—those who do—care for them all. They were loyal to Edenby, and to the House of York.”
Father Thomas nodded gravely.
“And if Sir Guy returns, see that he is made comfortable in the castle.”
“I will,” Edwyna murmured anxiously. Little Anne was at her mother’s side, wide-eyed at the proceedings. Genevieve found herself leaping from her saddle to hug her little cousin.
“Annie—I’m going to the City! Be good now, and I will bring you back a lovely doll or a puppet! Would you like that?”
“A puppet?”
“Aye—a wonderful puppet!”
Anne smiled and kissed her. Genevieve tried to grin at Father Thomas and Edwyna.
“Don’t fear—all will be well. I intend to practice my ‘begging’ all the way!”
Edwyna smiled, but Father Thomas frowned sternly. “Genevieve!” he implored. “Take care, for such words are treason now.”
She sighed. “Father, I will take care. I have no thought to lose my holdings—or my neck! I will return with all haste, God willing. Be well.”
“God bless you, child, you be well,” he told her, holding her hands tightly. She looked so regal and so bold. Her words were so nonchalant—confident and proud.
He felt her fingers tremble slightly.
“Father, think on it! If only we had offered a meal to Tristan de la Tere and his troops, I should not be supplicant now!”
“Genevieve—”
“We would not have fought, nor seen so many die.” She laughed wearily. “And I—I would not be guilty off treachery and murder. For nothing. For absolutely—nothing at all.”
“Genevieve, you must not dwell on the past. Remember, as I have told you, you could have done nothing differently. Not, and stayed true to your heart, to your people, to yourself.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Father.”
Then she drew her hands from him and waved gaily, “Father, all is well!”
The great gates opened, and Genevieve and her escort rode out from Edenby.