Eight
The moon had risen high; it was little more than a sliver, casting a quiet glow upon the fog and mist that covered the cliff and made intriguing secrets of the bracken that grew there.
The water had been very cold; Tristan and his group of twelve men who took the water route to the beach were shivering from their contact with the sea; their boots were wet and sodden, but they moved without complaint, ready next to tackle the cliffs and the sharp rocks that would lead to the wall and the rear gatehouse.
Tristan led, remembering the way well, a fierce, determined scowl imprinted upon his features the entire way. Jon was behind him, occasionally grunting softly, straining for the grasps and toeholds they needed to breach the cliff. But other than those straining gasps, and the sounds of heavy breathing and the sporadic noise of pebbles cascading downward, the party was silent.
At last they crested the top, and whatever exhaustion Tristan might have been feeling quickly evaporated as he saw the spot where the men of Edenby had sought to bury him with rock.
Jon stood beside him. Tristan lifted an arm to indicate the wall in the moonlight. “We can leap to the wall from the cliff there. You and I shall go first and overpower the guards. Then we shall signal the others with a light.”
Jon nodded. The distance from the cliff to the wall seemed great. But Tristan was already motioning in the darkness. The others were scurrying around them silently. Tristan touched his scabbard, assuring himself that his sword was at his side. Then he started to move down the cliff. Jon watched him for a moment, catching his breath. He saw Tristan plant his feet squarely, bend his knees—and then leap. There was a slight thud as he landed on the center of the parapet. Jon released his pent-up breath and hurried to the spot where Tristan had been. He prayed silently for a second; then with his arms out for balance, he leapt.
He would have sprawled noisily, but Tristan was there to catch him.
“The guard will pass in another moment!” Tristan hissed. Jon nodded, his heart pounding.
It was not long. A guard—recklessly clad with no armor and carrying no weapon but a knife—sauntered into view. Perhaps it was not so reckless to be casual, Jon mused. Who would expect an attack from an unreachable shoreline scored with piercing rock?
The guard came closer. Tristan moved suddenly like a blur of motion in the night. He did not draw his sword; he used his fist with a sickening crunch to level the man.
“He will live,” Tristan muttered, staring down at the guard, “And he’ll have learned a good lesson—that of staying alert!”
Creeping along the parapet, they came upon a second guard on duty. That one was staring out at the night. Jon took that one, very simply tapping the man on the shoulder—and catching his jaw with his knuckles as he turned.
They ventured silently into the gatehouse. Three men were there loudly gambling at dice. Tristan drew his sword carefully and nodded for Jon to do likewise. They rushed into the room, swords drawn.
These guards started, and stood, ready to reach for their weapons.
“I think not, my friends,” Tristan drawled slowly. “Touch your weapons and you die. Stay quiet and pray, and those prayers might well be answered. Jon! Take that lantern and signal the men.”
Jon grabbed one candle with the tin holder about it and retreated from the post to the parapet. The guards eyed one another—weighing their chances of rushing Tristan.
He smiled slowly. “My reputation is well earned. There may be three of you, but my sword is in my hand, and it has had great experience of late!”
The guards were saved from a choice of honor or death. Jon came back in, with five of the men in tow.
“Now,” Tristan said, “if you’ll be good enough to escort yourselves to the dungeons . . .” He raised a brow, and smiled very politely once again.
A guard stepped forward. “We—surrender, Lord Tristan. But we cannot escort ourselves to the dungeons. They are beneath the main keep.”
Tristan shrugged, musing over that knowledge. “You—what is your name, man?”
“Jack Higgen, my lord.”
“Jack Higgen, you will accompany me alone to the dungeons. I’ll take one of your friends’ cloaks—hasn’t anyone told you yet that these white roses must go?—and you and I will proceed to the dungeons alone. How many guards are on duty there?”
“Only two.”
“Don’t lie to me. It will cost you your life.”
Jack Higgen was not yet twenty, Tristan ascertained quickly. He was a tall, slim youth, apparently determined to live. He swallowed, and his throat wobbled with the effort, and then he spoke again. “I swear by the Blessed Virgin there’s none but two guards there.” He shrugged uncomfortably. “There’s no need for more. The place is made of stone and steel.”
Tristan nodded. “Jon, await my return. Then young Jack here can escort us to the main gate.”
Dressed in one of the guards’ cloaks with the white rose insignia and the crest of Edenby boldly upon it, Tristan hurried young Jack down the gatehouse stairs to the outer bailey. Jack, prodded by Tristan’s knife at his spine, saluted a guard at a wooden gate that led to the inner bailey. They passed the frame structures of craftsmen and village traders, quiet in the night, and approached the main keep with its high towers and round of parapets. At the door with its massive iron handles there stood two more guards.
“Is that the only entrance?” Tristan demanded, twisting the knife closer to Jack’s spine.
Jack shook his head. “It’s . . . it’s built on a motte. If we veer around to the right, we’ll come to a staircase that rounds to the dungeons below.”
“What else is below?” Tristan asked quietly.
“Only the tombs beneath the chapel,” Jack said.
Tristan nodded. “And guards?”
“Only one at the foot of the steps.”
“Fine. Smile as we approach.”
Jack did so, though his smile wavered a little. The boy was trying, Tristan decided.
“What are you doing there?” the guard rasped out in challenge.
Tristan pushed Jack forward into the guard, forcing them both to fall. He pulled off his cape quickly, throwing it over the pair, then shoving them both to the stairs. They fell heavily along the full, treacherous curve of the stairway. Tristan heard every bang and thud clearly and hurried after them. The other two guards were up, anxious as to the noise. But by then Tristan had his sword drawn and was ready. He eyed the startled men sternly and promised, “If you force me, I’d lose no sleep by taking a life in Edenby.”
They recognized him—he knew it by the horror in their eyes. He inclined his head quickly to keys hooked to a peg in the wall. “I want my men out—and you in.”
With shaking fingers, the oldest guard, a graying man with sad brown eyes, hurried to do as bidden. The dungeons were cleared of Tristan’s men—and filled with the guards except for Jack.
“Lord Tristan!” called out one of his men with awe. “Ah, we’d given you up for dead—” “
“We’d thought to spend our lives in here—”
“Bless you—”
“Shush!” Tristan warned them sharply. “We’ve still work to do this night!”
He instructed those who could to don the guards’ cloaks and mantles, and warned them that they would be outnumbered until the main gates were opened.
Half of the men followed him and Jack; the other half returned to the rear gatehouse to round up what men they could pick off and haul them back to the dungeons. It was a huge place, Tristan realized. His plan had really been foolhardy—it was a miracle that it seemed to be working.
He tensed as he moved along the bailey again with Jack at his side—under knife point again. In moments he would have the castle. He would have . . . her. And though he still wasn’t quite sure what kind of justice he intended to mete out, it would be sweet satisfaction to have her know that he lived—and that revenge was imminent. His heartbeat quickened with anticipation. He would not fail.
“Tell the guards on gate duty that a party of men, returned from Bosworth Field, seek sanctuary in Edenby,” Tristan instructed Jack. Jack started swallowing again. Tristan edged his knife more closely against the youth’s spine.
His words were ragged as he shouted up to the gatekeeper, and the gatekeeper scratched his head in confusion.
“I know them!” Tristan called out himself, strongly. If the gatekeeper knew his face, he could not see it in the darkness. “They are friends!”
To his great relief, the iron gates began to crank open. And behind them the great wooden drawbridge, too, began to fall. For seconds Tristan barely dared to breathe. Then he heard Tibald’s wild war cry—and score upon score of horses thundered through the gate.
Too late Edenby’s guards rushed forward in shock to attempt to defend the castle.
It was all over in seconds. The guard was surrounded and had no choice but surrender.
Tristan found Tibald, and clasped his arm. “I leave to you the business of prisoners—and our positions upon the guard towers.” His eyes, dark and narrowed, turned to the keep. “The castle is mine. Send ten men for duty in the great hall tonight. I’ll not have a repeat of treachery.”
“As you say, my lord!” Tibald agreed heartily. Tristan started for the keep with his sword drawn. There was a rush of footsteps behind him. He whirled, ready for any attack. But it was only Jon.
“I’ve my own score to settle this night,” Jon reminded him.
Tristan threw an arm around him. He smiled, but Jon sensed the contained fury within him. “Revenge is something necessary, isn’t it, Jon? A man craves it—he feels that he will never be whole again without it. It is something that gnaws and tears at the insides until it feels as if it draws blood from the heart!”
Jon glanced at his friend. Aye, revenge was sweet. And he intended to have his share.
But he was heartily glad that he wasn’t Genevieve of Edenby that night. He had never seen Tristan so implacable, nor had he ever sensed such burning tension from the other man.
Together they entered the keep.
* * *
Edwyna had been sleeping. Since the Lancastrians had first taken to assaulting their gates, she had found comfort in taking her daughter into her bed and holding her throughout the night.
She began to awake with the sound of noise in the bailey; but the sound had died down, and in the pleasant mists of drowsiness she assumed that the guards had handled the disturbance. She closed her eyes again, hugged Anne more tightly to her, and sighed lazily.
She was shocked to full awareness as her door burst open with a thunderous crash. There was a gleam of light from the hall, enough to show a tall figure silhouetted there, feet braced far apart, hands upon his hips.
Edwyna blinked and then gasped. As terror firmly clutched her heart, she leapt from the bed to place herself between the horrible menace of the Lancastrian and her only child.
She could move no more. She stood there, her heart beating like a hare’s as he took a step into the room. She remembered the eyes that had sparkled so brightly with laughter, the lips that had so easily twisted into a smile, the young, handsome face that had once spoken with gentleness and humor.
There was no humor about him now. His eyes glittered like hard gems, his smile was drawn and bitter.
“Lady Edwyna,” he muttered, “we meet again at last.”
He walked idly into the room. She discovered that she could only stare at him. He cast aside his mantle and calmly took off his sword.
“Have you no pleasant words of greeting this evening?” he taunted, with cruel mockery in his tone.
“I—” she began, and then her shaking knees gave way. She fell upon them to the floor, lowering her head. “I did not . . . I did not encourage the plan, Jon! I swear I did not. I did not wish to see you killed!” She could not raise her eyes, and she knew she couldn’t let herself be the coward that she was; there was Anne to think of! Whatever he might choose to do to her, she had to beg that he spare her child.
Yet Edwyna was doing far better than she knew. Jon stared down at her, at her lowered head and her tawny chestnut hair caught by the firelight and spilling over the sheer white linen of her nightdress. The pale light reflected through that material, outlining the fullness of her breasts and the lithe beauty of her form.
He came to her and lifted her chin.
“Do you swear to me, Edwyna, that you were not part of that treachery?” he demanded harshly.
Her eyes filled with tears as she surveyed his harsh expression. She had no thought to fight him or to escape. She tried to speak but could not; she shook her head. Jon dropped her chin and moved away from her. She sobbed slightly, then found her voice. “I did not wish for your death! Yet whatever you would do, find mercy for my child, for I swear she is but five and could have no hand in treachery!”
She gazed at him imploringly, her heart beating murderously again, for not only was he fierce standing there, but he was young and striking—and he touched in her desires that she had never truly fulfilled in her brief marriage. She thought she had gone mad—and perhaps she had.
But before Jon could reply to her entreaty, she gasped again, for there was a furious thunder at the door.
Tristan slammed open the door; he stood there, tall and powerful and enraged, his dark eyes gleaming, his strong features set like granite, and his lips compressed to disappear in a taunt line of fury.
He was alive! Edwyna was horrified. He had truly come back from the dead! She thought that she would faint. He gave Jon one brief glance and came to her, clutching her arms and shaking her.
“Where is she?” he demanded in a guttural voice. Edwyna’s teeth chattered. “Where is she?”
Genevieve, he meant Genevieve, Edwyna thought sickly. She tried to force words from between her frozen teeth. “G-gone! Gone!”
“Gone?”
His rage seemed to encompass her. She had never known fear such as this or the power by which he held her. She had to speak, she knew. She moistened her lips, staring into the tempestuous darkness of his eyes.
“Genevieve ... left today for London.” She moistened her lips again. “She went to London to surrender Edenby to Henry Tudor and to swear an oath of loyalty.”
He continued to hold her in a grip like steel, staring with disbelief and fury. Then he swore with such a vengeful fury that she shrank from him. “Damn her!”
And to Edwyna’s stunned amazement, he released her almost gently, spun about, and stalked about the room with great striding steps. At length he paused before Jon.
“I head out tonight to retrieve my property,” he said with a sudden and deathly quiet. “You’ll see to the castle, and the arrangements as we’ve discussed them, in my absence. No one leaves, and no one is released from imprisonment until my return. You and Tibald are in charge.”
Jon nodded. Tristan strode from the room, his mantle flying behind him like a great banner of justice.
Edwyna gazed at Jon uneasily. He walked slowly to the door and closed it. She felt again the shivers that raked along her spine, and she could not tell if she were terrified or merely waiting. She knew she should be worried for Genevieve; but tonight her own fate stood before her.
She closed her eyes briefly. Her fate was sealed: she knew from the anger, and the purpose in Jon’s face, that this night was his.
And she was a little amazed at herself She was almost glad of it. She was cornered, she had no recourse. She had been—whether willingly or no—a part of a great treachery. It was her turn to pay.
And yet she couldn’t ignore his youth, his fine build, his solid muscles. She flushed; she almost longed to touch him, and feel his touch. She should have been ashamed, and perhaps she was. But she wasn’t an innocent girl; she knew the duties of the marital bed, and if this wasn’t marriage—neither was he the husband she had lost. He was younger, and more striking. He promised something . . . more.
Edwyna stood, suddenly calm. Her voice was still ragged, breathy when she beseeched him again.
“My daughter, she sleeps . . .”
Jon inclined his head toward the door and spoke harshly. “Call a servant. See that she is sent to sleep in her own bed.”
Edwyna could scarcely believe him. She couldn’t move. Impatiently he opened the door himself and shouted for a woman to come.
Old Meg, one of the kitchen help, came scurrying up, a look of terror on her face. “Take the child,” Jon said bluntly. “Sleep by her side this night.”
Meg waddled past Edwyna, barely daring to glance her way. She picked Anne up with tenderness and relief that her chore should be so simple a one. She paused before Edwyna. “Her own chamber, my lady?”
“Aye,” Edwyna managed to whisper.
Meg exited with Anne. Jon, without taking his eyes from Edwyna, closed the door again and latched it.
He came slowly toward her. His hands touched her face, and it seemed that the tension fell from them as he held her cheeks and gazed into her eyes.
She didn’t move. He smiled slightly, and his hands came to her breast. “Your heart beats like a bird’s,” he told her.
Still she could find no words. Her breath caught at the feel of his hand cupping her breast, strong and gentle. He smiled again and his fingers came to her throat, lightly stroking her flesh. Then his hands slipped beneath the fabric at her shoulders and pushed the gown downward until it fell from her, leaving her naked to his perusal. He stepped back, surveying her with a quick admiration, the speed of the pulse at his throat increasing with her own.
Then he took a step forward again, taking her into his arms. His kiss was hungry and deep, and the warm pressure of his mouth made her delirious. The kiss was good and exciting, as thrilling as the hardness of his body next to her own naked flesh. He stroked her back gently, and she put her arms around him, her fingers lacing at his neck as she choked out a little cry of surrender and . . . desire.
He lifted her and carried her to bed.
His lips and hands moved over her. He whispered things she did not understand, yet they enflamed her. She knew that she moaned softly, yet with no protest.
And by the time he came to her, divested of his own garments, naked and hard with his desire, she knew that this night would bring no punishment, and no pain.
Just a pleasure greater than anything she had never known before in her life. A pleasure so intense that it was a little like dying—and being born again.
* * *
Genevieve nervously paced the long hallway at Windsor, occasionally glancing at Sir Humphrey. They had been here three days already and were still waiting—with numerous other supplicants—for an audience with the new King.
It had taken long days and nights of hard travel to reach London, and they had difficulty finding lodgings. At last she had been given a room at Windsor with other ladies of family; Mary had been sent to share the servants’ quarters, Sir Humphrey was staying with an old friend, and her guards were lodged in a horse barn.
London was full of refugees. The merchants were having a heyday, while King Henry VII, meantime, granted audiences with the generosity of a miser.
Sir Humphrey, behind her, cleared his throat. “You mustn’t grow so distraught, Genevieve.”
“Oh, I’m worried, Sir Humphrey!” she exclaimed, then lowered her voice so others about the hall wouldn’t hear her. “Perhaps we should have stayed at Edenby. Perhaps we should have waited and sent only a letter, vowing our acceptance of his rule.”
Sir Humphrey shook his head, clutched her hands, and stood back from her.
“Genevieve ... were I but a few years younger!” He smiled sheepishly. “You will enchant the King when he sees you! He will forgive us all, and you will have saved Edenby!”
Genevieve truly was enchanting. She was dressed in silver satin today, a gown with fashionably puffed sleeves, and trimmed with exotic white fox. It had a graceful train and a low bodice. Her hair was free to float down her back like angels’ wings, and the small headdress she had chosen was fragile, composed of semiprecious stones and gossamer silk that hid none of the luster of her hair.
If they could just get in to see the King!
As if called by Sir Humphrey’s desperate prayer, a royal page came before them. “Lady Genevieve of Edenby?” he inquired, bowing slightly and precisely.
“Aye?”
“You may come before His Majesty now.”
She smiled at Sir Humphrey, trying to wink with assurance, and started to follow the page. But a tap on the shoulder stopped her, and she turned around to cry out with startled surprise.
Sir Guy was standing there. Handsome and unharmed—and wearing a very red rose by the brooch of his mantle.
“Guy!” she gasped out.
“Shush!” he warned her, pulling her quickly aside. “It’s a long story, Genevieve! But I had to see you, to tell you to take heart! I served Henry at the Battle of Bosworth Field.”
“Henry!” she gasped put, stunned.
“I had to—I did it for Edenby!” he told her. “I know that your audience before the King is now. Whatever he should say, accept. If aught goes wrong, I will plead with him. He will know that I stand by your side,” Guy grimaced, “and that I was loyal.”
“Lady Genevieve!” The distraught voice of the page who had lost her called out. Guy gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then hurried off into the crowd of milling supplicants.
“I’m . . . here,” Genevieve said distractedly to the page. She smiled brilliantly, her poise somewhat collected but still shaken by Guy’s appearance. She willed herself to stand straight. She would plead for Edenby—but she would plead with pride.
She was not alone before Henry. There were several other lords and ladies in the solar where he held his audiences. She was led to the back of the room, and from there surveyed the King.
He was young, not unhandsome, with a slim face. His nose was long and prominent, his eyes small, dark, and shrewd.
A council of ministers was ranged about him, and as people were introduced and brought before him, his counselors whispered, he weighed their words, and made judgments.
Genevieve began to breathe more easily as she saw that this new King seemed to be dealing lightly with his subjects. A noble of Cornwall—an old knight, long a Yorkist supporter—was brought before him. The old man spoke eloquently, telling Henry that he had fought only where his vows had lain. But Richard was dead now, and he was glad to see the end of the wars. He would swear his loyalty now to Henry Tudor and keep that oath as ever he had kept that which he had given before.
King Henry VII dealt gently with the old man, saying that his oath of allegiance and a “minor” fine—which seemed rather a large fine to Genevieve—would be necessary for peace to be sworn between them.
Others came forward and were dealt with. Then Genevieve’s heart caught in her throat as she heard her own name called. She walked through the room to stand before the throne and the King, her chin held high. She knelt before him, then rose to meet his eyes, stunned by the interest and amusement she saw in them.
“So you are Genevieve of Edenby,” he murmured. “Come to seek audience with us?”
She felt acutely uneasy. His eyes were slimming over her as if they shed her of all her clothing within his mind and mused over her assets and possible worth with a special intent.
“Aye, Your Grace,” she murmured, smiling humbly. “As did many fine and valiant lords, my father had sworn his loyalty to Richard III. And a sworn oath, Sire, must in all honor be kept. Yet with Richard’s death, so dies the oath. We of Edenby would gladly lay down our arms and sue for the peace that your Majesty so magnanimously seeks for his country.”
Henry was smiling, as with some secret joke.
“Lady Genevieve, you are very beautiful—and most gracious before us,” Henry said slowly, as she heaved a sigh of relief; things were going to go well. He smiled at her, and she felt a rash of release and joy. She would be hit with a great fine such as the Cornish lord had received, but Edenby could pay such a fine. And they would have peace.
“Very beautiful,” he repeated, and she frowned as she noted that he glanced off into the crowd as a slightly lascivious smile crossed his lips.
He gazed back at her, his small eyes once again surveying her form with sly amusement. He was a man, she thought uncomfortably, with a sense of humor even his closest followers sometimes found appalling. He was clearly enjoying himself at this moment. She felt suddenly as if she were lost and groping, and she didn’t understand why. Why didn’t he demand a fine from her? Was she supposed to say more?
“Your Grace,” Genevieve murmured, “we do swear our loyalty to your realm . . .”
“Yes,” he said at last with a long sigh. “But I am afraid, my lady, that it is not your position to do so.”
“Your pardon, Sire?” she said, puzzled.
He smiled. “Edenby laid down its arms days ago, Lady Genevieve.”
“Pardon?” She gasped again, still confused, yet aware now that something was very wrong somewhere.
The King was gazing past her toward the crowd once again. She heard footsteps, light against the velvet sweep on the aisle. She turned, frowning.
Lightning swept through her—a firestorm of horror and disbelief.
Tristan!
She blinked. It could not be! Could not be! He was dead, dead and buried. She had slain him herself, she had seen the light go out of his eyes, out of his soul.
He strode slowly toward her, not dressed for battle as she had seen him last, but in fine and elegant attire. His hose was royal blue, his tunic a shade to match, trimmed in fine ermine. His mantle was a brilliant red, and caught at his shoulder with an emerald brooch. He was smiling pleasantly, yet there was no warmth, no humor in that smile. It was cold and chilling and deathly and mocking.
He towered before her, filling the whole room with his energy and power. Genevieve thought that she would faint.
He bowed low to her. He stared into her eyes. She could only stare back as molten lightning ripped through her again. Her knees shook.
Father Thomas had lied to her! Men could come back from the grave, for Lord Tristan had done so. As dark and vital as ever, as menacing, as strongly masculine and threatening. Staring at her, here, now. With those eyes dark as fire, blue as midnight. Eyes that taunted and reminded. She had forgotten nothing of him.
He had forgotten nothing of her.
“Lady,” he murmured, smiling briefly; then he directed his gaze to the King. “Your Highness.”
“Ah, Tristan! This is the lady you seek?”
“Aye, Your Grace. You’ve met, I see. Still I give you the Lady Genevieve, my sweet, beloved mistress.” His gaze raked Genevieve once again and bowed once again, most mockingly, before directing his next dry remark to the King again.
“At the lady’s request, I assure you.”
The room started to spin before Genevieve’s eyes. King Henry laughed as though he were part of a great and wonderful joke.
“We are glad to have seen her, Tristan. I understand your insistence on my promise, for I could well have been tempted . . .” His voice trailed away with insinuation. The room seemed incredibly quiet, as if all eyes and all thoughts were on Genevieve. She realized with sickening clarity that she had never had a chance here—that explained the King’s bemused greeting.
Tristan had exacted some kind of promise regarding her from the new King.
She could barely breathe. How was it that even before Tristan had spoken, Edenby had no longer been hers?
“Take her,” Henry said briefly, dismissing them.
A mist reeled around her. He was alive. Tristan was alive, and standing behind her, and ready to claim her! It was her nightmare, the worst of all nightmares, come to life! If he claimed her, it would surely be to kill her, to execute her slowly for the treachery she had wrought . . .
She felt his hand, like a hot iron shackle, wind about her arm. She gazed into his face, saw the chilling triumph and hatred in his eyes—wrenched furiously from him, racing forward to kneel before the King.
“Your Grace!” she pleaded. “Place me in the Tower, if you would. Take me before your courts! Sire! Have mercy, for I offered no treason against you—only loyalty to the King my father had sworn allegiance to! Sire . . .”
She heard Tristan’s soft laughter. He took a step forward, and tears of pain sprung to Genevieve’s eyes; he had trodden—purposely, she was sure, upon her hair.
“She does this well, Sire, does she not? She pleads so prettily. Why, this is the same position she took before me—just seconds before I was treacherously attacked by her men.”
“Your Grace!” Genevieve pleaded. “Surely you understand loyalty—”
“Ah, but not a knife in the back, lady!”
“Your Grace—”
“My lady,” Henry interrupted her, bending low, and so fascinated by the silver beauty of her eyes and the golden flowing cloak of her hair that he would have gladly listened to her plea—and kept her at Court—had he not made a solemn vow to Tristan. “My lady, I fear that your fate is sealed. I, too, make promises and owe loyalty. You do understand. Now, go, lady. I have spoken. You are beneath the—guardianship?—of the Lord de la Tere.”
She shook her head, unable to believe that the King could refuse her. That he had handed her over to Tristan like property—to be owned, used, to be discarded if he liked.
A heavy hand rested on her shoulder, and she heard a mocking whisper searing the flesh at her throat and sending shudders throughout her limbs.
“Genevieve, you make a fool of yourself before the multitude! Rise and walk out of here with me—or else you shall depart his Royal Grace and all this nobility like a wayward girl, cast over my shoulder with my handprint firmly established upon your treacherous but lovely and most noble derriere.”
“No!” she grated desperately. Panic had assailed her, stark, animal panic. She made her first serious mistake. She rose quickly, bowed to the King—and tried to run.
Laughter rose all around her.
She did not take five steps before she was jerked back by the hair. Barely aware of what happened, she was spun about so suddenly that her head reeled, and her feet flew out from under her.
Tears stung her eyes as she was crudely carried from the solar, jounced about like a sack of grain, with whispers and laughter surrounding her on all sides.
It must be a nightmare! And she would awake. Tristan was dead. Good God, hadn’t his death haunted her again and again and again? He was dead!
But he was not. His hold upon her was like steel. She was his prisoner—by royal decree.