Thirteen
Genevieve felt absurdly sheltered. She’d been dreaming, and the dream had been good. Soft and gentle and full of whispers. As if she had been cocooned in tenderness.
Genevieve heard the commotion in the courtyard, but heard it dimly. It seemed that she had to fight past walls of cobwebs to wake up. Her head felt heavy, like lead. When she opened her eyes, the sun hurt them. For long moments she didn’t try to move. She accused herself of being a total fool for drinking so much red wine. Anyone—even Annie!—knew that gulping red wine would either make you sick or give you a horrendous headache.
She sat up, clenching her temples between her palms, groaning, giving up, and crashing back to the mattress.
Something was going on in the courtyard, she told herself dully. She couldn’t seem to rouse herself enough to care.
She closed her eyes and wondered curiously at the sense of well-being that she had felt. Her fingers plucked at the coverings, and then she bolted up suddenly, staring across to the hearth, now cold and barren.
She was naked and in her bed and she hadn’t been dreaming. She’d had the company she’d craved during the night.
“Oh ...”
She moaned aloud at the shooting pain that ripped through her head again. How could he! Damn him a thousand times over! Ignore her for days and then just happen to walk in when she was in a stupor. Of all the damnable, bloody nerve. The situation was intolerable.
She heard a sound, loud and grating. The bolt was slipped. Genevieve made a dash to crawl deep and far beneath the covers and pull them to her chin. If it were he ... if he were back, she swore—swore before God the Almighty!—she’d not so humiliate herself again. She’d scratched his devil’s eyes out, she’d—
Someone knocked, and it sounded to Genevieve as if the walls themselves were tumbling down. It wasn’t Tristan. Tristan did not knock.
Ah ... the greatest insult to the greatest injury. The sunshiny, red-cheeked, cow-breasted sweet young thing called Tess was back. She bounced in, cheerful, and atrociously loud.
“Good-morning, milady! I’ve brought you food—” She nodded her head, indicating the tray she carried. “—and I thought I’d ask you quickly if you’d like a bath. Perhaps you’d care to wash your hair, since the sun will dry it—”
Genevieve forgot her rancor with the girl at those words. “The sun?” she interrupted eagerly.
“Aye, milady, while you’re walking—”
“Walking?” She almost bounded from the bed before remembering that she wasn’t dressed. “Tess, where am I walking to?”
Her heart started to skitter and leap. Walking . . . was he letting her go then? Was he going to release her, send _her somewhere?
“Walking, milady. The Lady Edwyna said that you might be with her for an hour, and that she was sure you missed the sunlight and the fresh air sorely. Here—”
Tess moved on into the room to set the tray down. Genevieve frowned, curious and suspicious as to what had brought on this freedom and strange generosity.
Tess turned to her. “Shall I call the boys with water?” Genevieve stared at her blankly for a moment. She started to reply, but then another rapping fell upon the door, and she was made viciously aware of her headache.
What now? she thought. Her little domain had been as silent as the grave for day upon miserable day, and now it suddenly felt like the grand crossroads in London.
“Yes?” she demanded sharply. The door opened, and in came young Roger de Treyne, the handsome Lancastrian who had shown her such sympathy on the long ride to Edenby. Several of Tristan’s men were behind him in the hallway. They had been laughing and talking, and suddenly went dead silent, staring at Genevieve, who was still lying in bed.
Brilliant color flooded over her. Roger didn’t even speak; he just stared, transfixed.
“What goes on here?” came a sharp voice.
The speaker that sent the men stumbling away was Jon of Pleasance. Genevieve knew his voice. Then he, too, was at the door, frowning at Genevieve bundled in her tight wad of covers.
He cleared his throat and tapped Roger on the shoulder. “Put it down, man, put the damn thing down!”
Only then did Genevieve realize that Roger was carrying a large crate. She looked at Jon.
“What is it?”
“It’s from Tristan,” he said simply. “Roger! In the corner! Put the damn thing down now, and go on!”
Roger did. He stepped into the chamber, set the crate in the corner, then turned and gave Genevieve a deep and appreciative bow. “Milady, it is wondrous joy to see you,” he said.
“Good morrow to you, Roger,” she murmured.
Jon cleared his throat. “Roger, Tristan does return.”
“What? Oh!” Roger straightened quickly. “Milady,” he murmured to Genevieve, and he quickly took his leave. Genevieve watched him, angry in his behalf. Was Tristan such an ogre then that even his own men needed to fear him?
Jon was still there, in the doorway. Genevieve turned her gaze to him. “What is going on? What is it? Tess said that—”
“The crate is a gift from Tristan.” He hesitated. “A true gift—the contents came with us, milady, and not from Edenby. And aye, yes, I’ll be back with Edwyna for you in an hour—for an hour only, Genevieve. Is that time sufficient for you?”
She smiled at him. “To leave this room?” She laughed. “Jon, give me but five minutes, and I shall be ready!”
“An hour, milady,” he grinned. He closed the door.
Tess let out a sigh. “Oh, milady! He sends you gifts!”
Genevieve looked at the girl and frowned. She gathered the covers about herself and climbed curiously from the bed. She hurried over to the crate and found the lid easy to open.
It took her several seconds of staring to realize what the crate contained. Then she plucked out a bottle and stared at it, dead silent as color flooded through her again—far more brilliant than her earlier blush, her shame was mixed with blind fury this time.
“Oh!” she screamed wrathfully, heedless of Tess, heedless of anything or anyone. She definitely had not dreamt the night, she hadn’t imagined any of her own part in it. And leave it to Tristan to mock her, to send a whole case of the deadly stuff that had done her in!
“Milady!” Tess cried.
The bottle had crashed against the wall. Crashed and shattered, and wine ran down the whitewash. “I will kill him!” Genevieve swore. “I swear it!” She stalked the room, with the bed coverings flowing behind her. “Damn him! Oh, God, damn him! To eons in hell! To fire and pitchforks and may he rot and—”
“Milady, please!” Nearly in tears, Tess stood before her, as if she wanted to run but knew not where. As if she had been ordered to serve a demented witch.
Genevieve stopped dead still and approached the girl.
“Get him up here,” she said.
“I can’t—”
Genevieve gripped her by the shoulders.
“You must! Tell him to come—now!”
“Milady, I cannot! I—”
“Do it!”
Tess gave out a little scream and began to pound loudly on the door. It flew open; Jon was standing there.
“What goes on here?” he demanded.
Tess started to talk, but she was so incoherent that Jon pushed her on out and looked at Genevieve for some clarification. Genevieve came at him, all bundled up in linen and fur, her hair streaming behind her like some mighty, golden banner. She was flushed and her eyes glittered, a deep entrancing silver. Jon was too fascinated for a moment to realize that she was near hysteria.
“Genevieve! What—”
“Tell Tristan that I want to see him!”
“Genevieve, I cannot. Tristan is gone.”
She stopped still. She stared at him suspiciously, warily.
“Gone? For . . . good?”
He ducked his head, for a smile came to his lips at the hopeful sound of her voice.
“Nay, lady, not for good. He has gone to the outlands, and will be away two days or so.”
“Oh.” She grew calm, and smiled at him—a beautiful bewitching smile. “Gone . . . for two days,” she said politely. “Then, this kindness, this outing, is something for which I must dearly thank you, Jon.”
“Nay, Genevieve, Tristan gave that order.”
The gentle smile slipped away, and her eyes grew icy.
“Ah. As he ordered the Bordeaux?”
“Not to your liking, as I see,” Jon commented.
Genevieve waved a hand in the air, sweet once more. She crossed the room and knelt before him, kissing his hand quickly. “Thank you, Jon, I shall be ready in an hour.”
Jon cleared his throat. “One hour, aye, milady. Shall I, uh, send Tess back to you? Do you wish water?”
“Oh, aye, if you please, Jon.”
When the door closed Genevieve was hard-pressed to contain her joy. Tristan was gone! And she was going out with Jon and Edwyna—who would be so easy to dupe!
She bit her lip, feeling suddenly guilty. Jon and Edwyna were the only people willing to fight for her these days; they didn’t deserve Tristan’s wrath. She closed her eyes, swallowing back her worries. Tristan could not really blame Edwyna, and Jon he would forgive. Besides, she couldn’t think about them now. She had to plan.
Tess came back to the room, still ill at ease. Genevieve smiled sweetly, chatted while she bathed, and even allowed Tess to brush out her hair when it had been washed. Genevieve was entirely sweet and convivial.
Genevieve was careful to wear her hardiest hose and her most comfortable gown, and she took her warmest hooded cloak. While Tess was busy straightening the bed, Genevieve dug deeply into her wardrobe for her small jeweled hunting dagger.
When Jon and Edwyna came for her, she was ready. Guilt seized her anew as Edwyna rushed in and hugged her with fierce joy; Genevieve felt doubly her betrayal. She’ll have to understand, please God, make her understand! Genevieve thought.
“I brought a picnic,” Edwyna said breathlessly, looking at Jon with pleasure.
“Oh, lovely! Oh, I do thank you!” she said to Jon. She lowered her eyes and asked humbly. “Could we possibly have our picnic in the meadow to the west?”
“I hadn’t thought to go beyond the castle walls—” Jon began.
“Jon!” Edwyna whispered to him, but Genevieve could hear the words. “Really! She is but a slip of a young girl and you are a full-grown knight! Surely you will be master of the situation.”
His pride thus appealed to, Jon wasn’t left much choice.
“All right,” he said. “Shall we go?”
“Aye!” Genevieve said. “Oh, but Jon, one more thing? This—this gift of Tristan’s. It is truly mine?”
“It its.”
“Good.”
Genevieve’s voice grew cold. She turned back to Tess, now straightening out her dressing table. “Tess?”
“Milady?”
“The wine, I’d like you to have it. As you might have noted, I really don’t care much for Bordeaux.”
“I couldn’t—”
“Please, please, do!” Smiling serenely, Genevieve closed the door behind her.
There! He apparently liked Tess, and sodden women appealed to him. Well, he could have his over-endowed little farm girl—just as sodden as he liked!
* * *
It could have been a wonderful picnic: The autumn leaves were glorious, and the sun shone brilliantly overhead. They brought a hamper of fresh-baked bread, new dairy cheese, and little kidney pies, all prepared with special tenderness by dear old Griswald. Jon had shrewdly brought a small cask of ale.
Genevieve realized as she ate that she really did like Jon. He laughed easily, he had a quick wit—and he was in love with Edwyna. It showed in his eyes, in his voice, in every little nuance of tenderness and care that he showed her. Watching them, she sighed, and it occurred to her suddenly that they shared something she had always craved. It was love, wondrous love—the love that stirred poets to write and balladeers to sing.
He was short with Edwyna only once—when Genevieve asked about Tristan’s previous home and his past. Edwyna gazed at him with anxious eyes and started to reply, but Jon jumped in.
“Edwyna! Remember his words!”
Edwyna lowered her eyes and said simply, “Jon and Tristan are both from the north. A day’s ride out of London.”
Genevieve narrowed her eyes. So! Edwyna couldn’t even talk because of “his” words! His—Tristan’s!
She asked Jon for more ale, careful not to let him see her expression. She must make her escape soon. Tristan! Soon, she assured herself to give courage to her plan, she wouldn’t have to care any more. She wouldn’t feel the horrible, aching conflicts! She would no longer succumb to the power of his touch. Nor would it matter that, for him, it was all a taunting game.
He had told her that his chivalry was buried somewhere; so, it seemed, was his heart. And the “pleasures” that he enjoyed with her he enjoyed elsewhere, she reminded herself, thinking of Tess. Yet why this should be a bitter blow, she knew not.
Relaxed, comfortable, Edwyna lay back on the oxhide blanket, laughing at something Jon had said. He leaned over her, whispering. They were completely caught up in themselves.
They were in the midst of a huge field; to the west were hills, blanketed by forest. Genevieve stood.
Jon was not so enamored as to forget her. He was on his feet in a moment. “Genevieve?”
“I’d like some of the fallen leaves, Jon. I could fashion bows in all those hours that I’m locked away.”
He looked at her uneasily. He gazed down to Edwyna. Edwyna looked at Genevieve suspiciously.
Genevieve gazed from one to the other—as innocently and as sweetly as she could manage. Guilt riddled her spine.
“Stay close!” Jon warned her.
“I will,” she promised meekly.
And she did at first. She stayed closer than she meant to be, and her ears burned. Jon did love Edwyna. He was telling her so. And she was whispering in return, in awe and in tenderness.
Genevieve stooped and collected, stooped and collected and came closer and closer to the border of the trees. She slipped into them and chanced one backward glance.
Tears stung her eyes at the sight of them—so in love with one another, and so beautiful together.
And for the most absurd moment, Genevieve had second thoughts. She had a vision of Tristan bending over her thus, not in the fire of raw passion, but with tenderness. Tristan, no longer the magnificent beast, but her knight, loving and gentle.
She shook her head, dispelling the mood. Good God, had she gone mad? Tristan hated her, he used her. She must escape him for the salvation of her soul! She was not strong enough to resist him—some alchemy had made them explosive together. No matter that she denied him; she was molten at his touch.
She straightened, turned and ran.
“Marry me,” Jon was saying.
Edwyna stared at him, blue eyes growing as wide as the sky.
“Marry me.”
“But—”
“You said that you loved me.”
“I do. Oh, God, Jon! You know that I do! But you’re . . . and I’m . . .”
“I’m a man, and you’re a woman,” he teased. “We’re definitely the right two sexes.”
She started to laugh, but the pain tripped her up. “Jon! I am one of the vanquished enemy, remember!”
“You are the greatest beauty to ever touch my life.”
“No, you’re the greatest wonder I’ve never known, I’ve never felt—oh, Jon! Can this be possible? I’m a widow, I’m not young, I have a daughter—”
“And I swear to you, I’ll love her as my own.”
“Oh. Jon . . .”
“Then you’ll marry me?”
She started to cry.
“Damn, Edwyna—”
She threw her arms around him and kissed him, and kissed him—and kissed him. And still she was crying. “I shall marry you! Oh, my God, yes, Jon, yes!”
He lost himself then. Lost himself in her eyes, in her kiss, in the arms around him. Suddenly Edwyna went rigid with panic. “Jon!
“What?”
“Where’s Genevieve?”
“Damn!” said Jon, springing up. “Damn her!”
Quickly scanning the fields, Jon burst into a sprint. He raced to the edge of one field, but the forest was thick, and he would never spot her on his own. Damn her! He’d been warned not to trust her.
Jon returned to Edwyna, who was glumly packing away the picnic. He was enraged. “You planned it!” he accused Edwyna. “It must have been amusing. ‘Oh, Jon? I can handle Jon! I’ll seduce him, and you run!’ ”
“What?” Edwyna gasped.
“This morning, madam! Remember your assurances? ‘She is but a slip of a girl, and you’re a full-grown knight.’ Edwyna—you—bitch!”
“You’re wrong.”
Jon refused to look at her.
“Jon, you must believe me! I swear, I didn’t—”
Fury possessed him. He slapped Edwyna with such force that she crumpled before him, sobbing. He didn’t care—he just hurried away, shouting for the guard.
* * *
Genevieve could only run a short distance at this speed before she doubled over with pain. Gasping, she straightened, wondering how long it would he before they came after her. She had to go farther—they would have horses. She started off again. Running, slowing, running again. Thank God that she was young, that she was fleet of foot. And yet it might not be enough. She was near exhaustion when she heard the sounds of pursuit. Horses’ hooves crashing over the bracken, shouts rising, even a trumpet flaring.
Jon had called out half of the castle! Genevieve thought with dismay. She’d never elude that many men. She prayed that they had not brought the hounds.
Tiring again, Genevieve looked up. She had but one chance—to climb a tree. Wait until they passed her by.
She hesitated. The sound of shouting, of horses crashing through the brush, came closer and closer. Genevieve climbed.
* * *
The search party was directly beneath her. Through the leaves she could see Jon and young Roger, who had stopped for a consultation. Genevieve winced, barely daring to breathe.
“Farther!” Jon said furiously. “We hunt until we find her.”
Roger said something to Jon, who laughed bitterly. For a moment he sounded like Tristan.
“I deserve his wrath! I fell for everything that woman said to me! But, you see, he warned me about Genevieve, and not Edwyna!”
They spurred their horses and went on. Genevieve bit her lip to keep from crying out. Oh, you fool! She wanted to tell Jon. She did nothing to you but love you!
What had she done? She had ruined any chance of happiness for the aunt who had loved her and fought for her! Genevieve felt ill.
But she couldn’t possibly go back. She could only pray for Edwyna—and hope that God would choose to show mercy.
Genevieve was miserable. Her arms and legs ached terribly, but she dared not climb down—daren’t even move, until they had ridden far past. She waited in loneliness and guilt, until night fell.
* * *
Things had gone well, Tristan thought, very well indeed. He was returning with all manner of gifts from his tenants—many of whom had never seen Edgar and therefore could not mourn his passing. Tristan had spoken with farmers about the new system of rotating crops. He had talked with the shepherds about prices for wool.
He was even feeling somewhat sorry for what he had done to Genevieve. The people might not have seen old Edgar, but they did know his daughter. “She come to us in the fever, ye ken?” an old woman had told him. So she hadn’t always set herself upon a pedestal, he told himself. She had chanced illness and death to bring succor to those afflicted.
Home. He stared up at the castle once he had ridden past the gatehouse. Home. By God, it was becoming home.
He swallowed. He felt glad—and anxious. Already, he felt trembling inside of him, and rising heat. After a meal and a long drink of ale, he would go to her. She could rail against him or ignore him as she chose; he would hold her until she admitted that she had to come to him. He would make love to her because he had to; and he would sleep beside her tonight because he wanted to.
He called out to Tibald and the men to take their rest. Young Matthew, smiling and shy and handsome in his new livery, came running out to take the piebald. And Tristan stared for the great hall.
He knew before he reached the doors that something had gone wrong. Jon opened them; Jon stood before him, grave, proud, and penitent, all in one. His saddle pouches were slung over his shoulder, as if he only awaited for Tristan’s return before undertaking a journey. Jon bowed before him. “She escaped me,” he whispered. “She—she tricked me. Against all your warnings. I swear, though, I shall find her. I have betrayed your faith. I—”
“Jon, Jon—cease!” Tristan said wearily. Curiously, he felt no anger toward Jon; he just felt cold. He walked past Jon and up the steps. Griswald was there, hovering nervously, anxious to see to his needs.
Jon followed him. “Tristan, I—”
Tristan took a goblet from the tray Griswald offered. He swallowed deeply.
“Jon, tell Matthew for me please to feed the piebald lightly, and leave his saddle upon his back. I shall go for her myself.”
“Tristan, damn you, I failed you!”
“Nay, Jon.” He actually smiled. “I gave her the freedom; it shouldn’t have been done until I returned. I need you here. If you owe me anything, you owe me your service. Here. Griswald, bring me something to eat, in the counting room. And pack some food for me, too, please. And ale.”
Jon stared at him in disbelief. “I’ll just change my things,” Tristan murmured.
He walked up the stairway, heading for the master chamber, but paused at Genevieve’s open door. He stepped inside and he saw the wine stain against the white wall.
He left the room hurriedly and changed his clothing, wishing he had time to bathe. His good mantle he exchanged for heavy wool, his dress boots for a heartier pair with thick soles, and he started back down the stairs. He still felt a terrible chill. Am I angry? he wondered. Furious. So furious that I dare not let it go. And why? Because she has betrayed me again, when I needed her.
Jon was still in the great hall. Tristan slipped silently into the counting room, where he found a plate of roasted lamb and mint jelly. How smoothly this place runs, he thought idly.
He drew out his map of the area, certain that he knew where she would run. He pinpointed the destination, then rolled the map to take with him.
He started into the lamb. Not because he was hungry, but because he knew he would need the sustenance if he was to catch her.
“Tristan!”
A voice, soil, feminine, hesitant, called out to him. He had not closed the door. He looked up to see Edwyna there, stricken as she watched him.
He sat back. “Lady Edwyna?”
She came into the room and knelt at his side, staring up at him beseechingly. “I swear, I had no part in it! I didn’t know! I should have guessed, but I thought . . .”
He interrupted her, frowning as he reached down to lift her chin. A slight bruise remained on her cheek. She flushed and pulled her chin away, murmuring, “Jon thinks that I—planned it.”
“Good God,” Tristan breathed.
He was on his feet, racing out to the hall. “Jon, damn you! You struck her.”
Jon reeled around in stunned surprise and his face, penitent until now, suddenly darkened with anger. “You, Tristan, are going to tell me how to handle my woman?”
“You struck her!”
“She caused it!”
“I don’t believe that!”
Edwyna was behind him, soil tears falling from her eyes.
“Jon, I swear to you that I did not!”
“Man, what is wrong with you?” Tristan demanded hotly. Incredulously he realized that he and Jon were about to come to blows.
“Jon, please . . .” Edwyna came between them, going to Jon like a supplicant. Crying, she fell before him. “Please!” she whispered desperately.
“Have you no compassion in you?” Tristan shouted.
“Why should I? You have none!”
“I have been betrayed, and you have not!”
Tristan spun heatedly around, leaving them together. He stomped back into the counting room and collected the few things he needed and came back out. Edwyna was on her feet again, still crying, but they were close and Jon was whispering to her.
They broke apart, realizing that Tristan was back.
“I am coming with you,” Jon said. “It is my fault.”
“No. I am going alone. I’ll find her.”
“You must!” Edwyna said. “There are bears in the hills, and wolves and—” She broke off then, as if just realizing that at this point it might be better for Genevieve to meet with a wolf than with Tristan. She swallowed.
“And trappers—wild men, who acknowledge no king or authority.”
“Tristan,” Jon said, “fifty of us went in search of her and could not find her! Please, at least let me—”
“Jon, I will find her, because I know where she is going. I know her mind, better than yon—” he paused, and smiled wryly again. “Better than Edwyna, even. She is on foot, I hope? You two didn’t provide her with a horse?” The query was lightened by his smile. They both flushed and looked at one another uneasily.
“Nay. She is on foot,” Jon assured him
Tristan started out the door, then he turned back. “Edwyna, there is a small tower room, I believe.”
“Aye,” she replied, looking curious.
Tristan’s smile was grim now. “See that Genevieve’s things are taken there. And that mine are transferred into her chamber.”
He left them standing there together and hurried out. The night had grown chill. He wondered vaguely if she were cold; then he hoped bitterly that she was.
But as he took the reins of the piebald from Matthew and thanked him and took his leave, he remembered the terror in his heart when he had come upon her that night, sleeping at the hearth, and he had thought her dead.
He rode out of the walls, and he looked up at the rising moon. “I pray, lady, that no harm befalls you,” he whispered, and then he nudged the piebald into a fleeting gallop. Haste might make all the difference.