Seventeen
There was something awful inside of him, a pain that threatened to rend his head asunder, as if a sword had split his skull.
Outside the tower room, Tristan staggered to the stairs, holding his head between his palms. He was only dimly aware of the things that he had said, and he knew that he had struck her, that some simmering emotion churned and roiled deep in his gut, that he was appalled by his own behavior. Yet he wasn’t really a part of it, not that he could touch or reach, because he could only feel the pain.
His footsteps clattered hard down the winding stairs. At the landing he braced himself against the stone, then ran down the second stairway to the hall below. Jon and Edwyna were still there, in chairs before the great hearth in the hall. They stared at him sharply; he did not see them. He went. out to the yard, heedless of Jon’s voice calling to him.
He knew where he was going—to the sea. To the wind, to the beach where winter’s breeze would be colder than his heart, where he could hope to purge the curious rage and agony that had so suddenly seemed to rip him apart. He could barely remember his own actions or his own words, but he could remember hers. There were things to be done, she had told him, there were ways . . .
Edenby was alive with the day. Within her walls metalsmiths worked and peasants traded their wares. The guards and various men on duty saluted Tristan, yet their greetings died upon their lips, for he did not hear them or acknowledge them. He was anxious only to reach the sea wall and the parapets—and a place against the rock and the sand where he could be alone.
At last he reached his destination: a place on the beach where rock just joined sand, where he could sit upon stone and stare out at the waves, gray today, crashing hard against the land. The water swirled and thundered treacherously; whitecaps rose and slammed themselves into oblivion, and the back wash bore them away again. The air was wet and cold and tasted of salt. Tristan dragged it raggedly into his lungs, pressing his temples inward now, closing his eyes to breathe, and struggle for control, struggle for understanding.
God, how he hated her at times! With what longing he had ached to see her, and yet how he had recoiled in touching her. And before all the saints, he could not, now, with logic returning, begin to understand why! Any man knew the natural conclusion to the mating ritual! Only a blind fool would not have expected to sire a child upon a woman he had taken again and again . . .
He looked up at the sky, where the sun fought a valiant battle against the winter gray of the horizon. He stretched his hands out before him and stared at his fingers, and in time their trembling ceased. He knew that he had acted like a madman.
He groaned out loud and stood, and walked closer to the surf, hearing the crunch of his boots against the sand.
It was the past that haunted him, he knew. It was that murderous scene at Bedford Heath.
He swore again, clenching his teeth and throwing back his head with his eyes closed, inhaling the salt air sharply.
There were things that could be done, she had told him.
Yet she spoke of mercy. Had she none herself?
His lips compressed tightly as he stared on unseeingly to the roil of the water. Could she really hate him so much?
He closed his eyes again, and at last he felt the sharpness of the cold. She was always so beautiful. And so defiant. Ever ready to fight him, to do battle.
But not over this.
“Tristan!”
Startled, he swung around at the sound of the call. Jon was there, standing high upon the rock. He waved, and picked his way slowly and carefully down to Tristan. They stood apart from one another, and Tristan was further startled when Jon suddenly threw his arms up in disgust.
“By God, Tristan! She’s pregnant with your child!”
“You should have warned me.”
“A man does not treat his enemy so poorly on a battlefield!”
“I!”
“You came after me once, for the way I dared to treat Edwyna! Yet I loved her, I married her! While you—”
“Damn you, Jon, if you’d warned me—”
“Warned you? Come, come—your grace! You’re older than I and well aware of the way of the world! Were you not expecting such a thing to occur? Where one tarries, as we all know—”
“Jon, damn you—”
“Nay, Tristan, damn you! Much can be laid at her feet, aye! But this?”
“Jon!” It was deadly harsh, but Jon ignored the tone.
He spoke more softly. “By God, Tristan, if any man can understand, it is I. Yet how you can find such cruelty in your heart to rail against her?”
“Nay, Jon!” Tristan cried out. “You do not understand!” Bitterly, he continued. “Always, always, she cries out that she is denied mercy! Yet what she wants to do—” He broke off, choking at the bile that seemed to fill him, and Jon stared at him incredulously.
“What are you talking about?”
“She wants to devise a way to rid herself—”
“You are mad!”
“I am not! I was with her, I heard her! You know that she despises me. Why not the seed that grows within her?”
Jon shook his head, staring at Tristan. “Perhaps her heart does not abound with love—why should it? But I promise you that she is not horrified. Nor was she surprised. The lady, it seems, lacked your naivete on certain natural inevitabilities!”
“Jon, I tell you—”
“Nay! Let me ask you a question, Tristan. Duke of Edenby, Earl of Bedford Heath—and whoever else you may be after your last adventure on the King’s behalf! How did you take the news, sir? How did you greet your lady prisoner? With a grim countenance, with remonstrance? What then would you expect her reaction to be?”
Tristan stared at Jon blankly; Jon returned the stare. The wind rose between them, sharp and keening, but suddenly Tristan felt warmer, and he smiled very slowly. Jon smiled, too, and they began to laugh, and embraced, still laughing.
“I promise you this, friend. She pines for escape, aye—but she plans no harm against herself—or the babe,” Jon said.
“She still plans escape?” Tristan queried. “For what? What does she think that she will do?”
“Reach the Continent eventually, I believe.”
Tristan stared down at the sand, digging a heel into it. “Then she is a fool,” he said gruffly. “I shall never marry, and her child might well stand to inherit.”
“There are laws against bastards inheriting.”
“Not when there are no legal heirs.” He gazed back up at Jon. “Strange,” he murmured. “One would imagine that she would hope to stay. That she would at last become meek and sweet, in the hope that I would marry her and make the child a legal heir.”
“Oh, she’d never marry you, Tristan,” Jon said cheerfully.
“And why not?”
Jon laughed. “Tristan, have you lost your senses entirely? You battled against Edenby, you took everything that was hers, and you—” He broke off, shaking his head. “She simply will never surrender, friend, and that is that.”
“Then that is well,” Tristan said softly. “But she will not escape. Not now.”
“You cannot mean to keep her in the tower—”
“Nay, I do not.”
“then?”
Tristan blinked. “With me, Jon. For—now.”
“Perhaps—”
Jon broke off and they both stared upward at the sudden commotion high atop the rock and parapets.
Genevieve . . .
For a moment she was framed there, against the gray of the winter’s sky, and she was like a ray of sun. Hair unbound and streaming like banners of gold, tall and proud, her shoulders cloaked in white velvet that seemed to float about her. Slim and graceful, she seemed like some mythical maiden sent to dance upon the rock in enchanted splendor . . .
But the agile grace was no dance at all, Tristan thought, and neither was she myth, nor in truth anymore a maid. He remembered that he had left her door unbolted and the guard dismissed. Bless her, shrewd lass, if she had not taken the opportunity to elude them all.
She, too, had reached out to the sea for peace. The surging whitecaps and the blustering gray sky were a soft balm to her soul. Freedom had been her goal, and she had come this way, a nimble goddess, scampering over rock and shale, wall and parapet, as wild as the eternal tempest of the sea.
Tristan’s grin deepened suddenly; seeking escape she had come here—straight into his arms. Her startled discovery of him and Jon below had brought forth a cry; when she had spun to retreat she had but looked into the faces of his men-at-arms, stationed on the wall. Neither up nor down—she had no way to go.
“Genevieve!” Jon called out her name with alarm, and Tristan quickly saw that her light slippers were no good against the rocks, dampened and icy as they were. She was a child of this place, as fleet-footed as a deer, yet she scampered dangerously along, seeking now to elude them by veering northward.
“She’ll stop, surely,” Tristan murmured.
But she did not. She did not attempt to take the path downward; she leapt from rock to rock, seeking greater speed, the wind carrying her hair behind her like shimmering sun rays, the white velvet of her cloak a cloud of light against the gray.
“Genevieve! Stop!” Tristan commanded. She did not hear him—or she chose to ignore him. Her beautiful features were knit with care as she perused each step she might choose to take.
“Damn her!” Tristan swore.
He started to run along the beach, anxious to reach her. He caught up easily, since he could run on sand, and at first she was so intent in her preoccupation with her movement that she did not see him, so close. Clutching the ragged edge of one of the great boulders, Tristan sprang upon it and began to ascend toward her.
She looked up then and saw him, and her eyes grew wide as saucers, silver-blue in alarm.
“Genevieve, stand still!”
“Nay!” she cried.
“I’ll not hurt you.”
She did not believe him, he saw quickly as she measured the distance from level footfall to level footfall and leapt down and away from him toward the beach. But she miscalculated the distance of one step, and she landed hard upon her hands and knees, giving a little cry. Tristan’s heart stood still with alarm as he watched her just barely make the jump; he pictured her falling, tumbling down the rough and jagged edges, landing upon the sand with the white of her cloak and the gold of her hair ever marred in a pool of blood.
“Genevieve, damn you, stop! Where do you think you are going? Stand there, stay. I’ll come to you—”
“I cannot—I—”
He jumped to another stone, closer, keeping his eyes locked with hers. “Genevieve, what do you think you’re doing?”
Her eyes sparkled like diamonds, and he wondered if the glitter might not be tears as she lashed out at him in turn. “I was merely attempting to—leave. I wasn’t trying to harm myself or ...”
“Stay, there’s nowhere—”
Her laughter interrupted him and for a moment she looked splendidly triumphant.
“Ah, but there is my lord! You simply do not know Edenby well enough!”
She turned then, and leapt again and again. Swearing, Tristan took flight in her wake, glad of his boots and worried about her slippers sliding against the rock.
But she was as agile as any wild creature as she went from rock to rock . . . until she could leap to the sand. Jon, down the beach, shouted, and started racing toward her. Genevieve was headed toward the north, toward rock; but even as he stared incredulously, he saw a crevice in that rock and knew that she meant to make good her escape there.
“God’s . . . blood!” he swore, and he leapt back across the boulders, trying to reach a point above her again; his only hope of stopping her was to leap upon her.
Panting, gasping, Tristan made that flying leap, sweeping her down hard upon the sand, landing atop her, and rolling with her.
“Oh!” she sobbed out in a gasp, and she was flailing away at him, tears streaming down her cheeks, fighting him as she had not since . . . the beginning.
“Genevieve!”
He caught her flailing wrists, dragging them high above her head, straddling over her in the sand and gasping for breath.
He stared into her woebegone face, saw the sparkling brilliance of her eyes and the state into which they had both fallen, soaked and sandy and gasping and desperate. And suddenly he started to laugh, and again her tears fell and he found himself leaning forward, not angry at all, just determined. He kissed her lips lightly, tenderly, heedless of the sand, of the sea, of Jon thudding along the beach toward them. He tasted her tears and he tasted the grit and he kept laughing once they parted, and she stared at him then in silence, convinced, he was certain, of his madness. He released her and she scrambled quickly and desperately to her feet, backing away from him, her hands behind her to feel for the rock since she kept her eyes carefully locked with his.
“Genevieve—”
“Keep away from me, Tristan!”
He stretched out an arm to her, smiling, and said softly, “Genevieve, take my hand.”
“Tristan, you are mad!”
“Nay, milady, not mad. Merely—sorry.”
“What?” She gazed at him, startled and still. He took a step toward her and it looked again as if she had determined to fly, but he caught her hand and drew her against him, slipping his arms around her.
Her head fell back and she stared at him, her eyes glazed with tears, exhausted and despairing and wary.
“Tristan, you needn’t hate me or—or strike me or—”
“I am sorry, Genevieve. Please, I pray you, forgive me.”
Her eyes grew wide, but she was still tense, ready for some trick. And why not, he thought bitterly—for she hardly knew him. Damned if he’d leave again, even at the King’s bidding!
“If you but let me slip through the rock—”
“I cannot and you know that.”
“By God, Tristan, you are so angry, and it is not my—I did not—I mean—”
“Shush, Genevieve.”
Tears sprang to her eyes once again and in confusion she tried to speak. “I swear, Tristan, I did not mean to kill—”
“I know, Genevieve.”
Tristan suddenly became aware of Jon, who had caught up and stood panting behind them. They were all silent beneath the gray sky. Genevieve continued to stare at him warily.
Jon said, “It grows cold out here, Tristan. Fiercely cold.”
Tristan nodded without turning around, his eyes still upon Genevieve’s. He dipped to pick her up, and her arms encircled his neck. Still their eyes held each other’s until Tristan started back up the path.
“I can never cease to wish for freedom,” she whispered as they came back to the parapet.
He did not reply to her, and she spoke again.
“What—” She paused, swallowing painfully. “Where do we go from here? Our battle has no end.”
She seemed so young then. So very young, and so very lost. And tender, with her arms soft around him, her eyes wide, and the lashes still dampened with her tears.
“Perhaps a truce then,” he suggested.
She did not look right or left as he came to the courtyard and across it and to the doors of the keep. They entered, and Edwyna let out a little gasp, rushing toward them. Tristan kept moving up the stairs to her chamber; he opened the door with a shove.
The master had returned. In the hearth a fire burned brightly. Cradling her against him still, he sat down before it, aware of how she trembled.
And he just held her. Against his body, against his warmth. Feeling her shake and shiver and inhale in jagged gasps that were the remainder of her sobs.
“Tristan—”
“Shhush, be easy. I’ll not hurt you again, I swear it.”
Slowly the tension eased. She rested soft against him, in the cocoon of his arms, and he knew that she slept. He set his cheek against the top of her hair, felt its angel silkiness against his flesh, and closed his eyes. He had wanted her so badly. Now he felt nothing but tenderness.
In time he stood and laid her carefully upon the bed, loosening her cloak, then bringing the covers warmly over her. He smiled crookedly, ran his fingers over her cheek, and left her to sleep. He did not bolt the door.
Tess was coming up the stairs. She greeted him with a bob and a profuse show of welcome. Tristan responded not unkindly, and told the girl to leave the Lady Genevieve to rest for the afternoon, and to see that she was brought a warm bath before the evening meal.
“She will dine in the chamber?” Tess asked.
“She will dine with us below, if she so desires.”
Tristan hurried on down the stairs. Jon and Edwyna were before the hearth, staring at him, wary and trying to pretend that they were not.
Tristan warmed his hands before the fire, looked at Jon, and smiled.
“Well I’m quite certain that you’ve a long accounting for me on the events taking place in my absence. Shall we, Jon?”
He politely indicated the counting room.
Tristan grinned and called to Griswald for some ale in the counting room and whistled as he preceded Jon to their work.
* * *
Genevieve awoke with a start. She thought at first, with some confusion, that Tristan had returned only in a dream, but then she felt the grit and sand upon her, and she knew for certain that he had indeed returned.
Returned . . .
She bolted up, curious at her surroundings, having to look around to assure herself that she was no longer within the tower room. She was not; she lay within her own chamber, and she had slept more peacefully here today than she had in many weeks.
She hugged her knees to her chest, shivering as she thought of his initial reaction, and wondering with some awe at the vast change that had come over him at the cliffs. Good God, she did not know what to feel. Her shivering ceased, and a curious warmth swept through her as she thought of his soothing words, of the fact that he, Tristan de la Tere, relentless as steel, had sworn out an apology to her and offered with a strange tenderness the olive branch of peace.
She felt suddenly giddy and hot, and pressed her cool palms to her flushed cheeks. She had been tired, sick, and wretched for so long. She had lain awake nights wondering where he was and what he was doing.
And now she was glad of his return. She was more than glad, she thought with a certain shame; she was nearly giddy with the pleasure of it. Elated now, oh, aye! Elated with his return. She was so glad of his return—and his determination that they find some small oasis of truce.
She warmed further, remembering his arms about her, remembering the blue of his eyes when he had looked into hers, smiling out his strange tenderness, giving her his gentle promise that he’d not hurt her again.
She swallowed suddenly, sharply, thinking that to be a promise that he could not keep. She was hurt; neither of them could change that. She was afraid to think of the future, no matter how blithely she spoke of it to Jon and Edwyna. She hadn’t dared think yet that the miserable sickness that tore at her each morning was the beginning of life. And when she did she found herself feeling weak, and being ridiculously assured that she would have a strong and noble child, striking if it resembled its father . . . noble bastard though it might be. There was really little else to think. Except to wonder what would happen when he tired of her, of lust and revenge... When he returned one day with a bride sanctioned by the King, a woman to increase his position and wealth through her title or possessions.
Genevieve determined in a sudden fever not to dwell upon her fascination with the man who was the cause of all of her misery. She sprang from the bed, shaking her hair, wishing that she might wash it and cleanse away the gritty feeling of the sand. As she stood upon the dais she gazed curiously at the door, and with a sudden flurry of hope she raced toward it.
To her amazement, it opened. She closed it again and stood there trembling. He had said that there would be a truce.
She could run, she thought.
Run ... and risk being dragged back—once more.
Or she could accept this matter of truce as it had been given and fulfill her part of it. And she was so tired! So weary of the fruitless attempts. He had proven time and time again that she could not escape him.
She started back into the room, biting hard upon her thumbnail.
“Milady!”
The soft call and a rap upon the door interrupted her thoughts. The door opened and young Tess stood there—cheery as ever:
“Did I waken you, milady?”
Genevieve shook her head.
“Nay, Tess.”
“Ah, good, for I was told not to do so, yet the time grows late. I’ve told the kitchen boys to bring the tub and the water, as I knew you’d want to dress for dinner.”
“Dinner?” Her heart thumped hard against her chest.
“Aye, milady!” Tess gave her a smile as big as sunshine, and Genevieve thought regretfully of all the rancor she had so often felt for the girl. Tess seemed as pleased as she for the freedom suddenly granted her charge.
“Downstairs, milady, in the great hall. You’re to take your rightly place at that table. Oh, milady . . . !”
Genevieve laughed and she actually hugged Tess and Tess hugged her back, as happy as a pup.
Then Tess left her and called for the boys, and Genevieve stepped back upon the dais, awaiting the water and the bath that she had craved. She told herself primly that it was pathetic to find such pleasure in things that had been her birthright.
But she could not listen to that voice; she could only be happy. The future still loomed dismally before her, but tomorrow would come whether she found happiness in the moment or not. For the moment she wanted peace. And whether one admitted it or not, she wanted Tristan.
* * *
Tristan came into the hall at dusk, having ridden the distance of the wall with Jon.
He wondered how he would find her—defiant and cool or simply proud? Or perhaps she would have ignored the chance to be in the hall entirely, preferring to stay away. He strode in, and was suddenly still.
Genevieve stood by the fire, staring into it with pensive eyes. She was dressed in royal blue, with golden trim and an edge of fur about her wrists and hem and breast. Edwyna sat by the hearth, serene as ever, with her tapestry before her.
Both women turned. Tristan saw only one.
He sought her eyes, and they seemed neither silver or mauve but a color to match that of her gown. The firelight played upon her and caught all the highlights in her hair, making it dazzle with greater glory than the blaze itself.
And she smiled. Hesitantly, tremulously.
For the life of him, he could not move. He could not bring one foot before the other to reach the hearth.
Tristan found motion at last. He lowered his eyes from Genevieve’s and hurried toward the fire, drawing off his gauntlets to stretch out his hands to the warmth of the flame.
“There are all manner of wares being bartered and sold,” he said. “Winter brings the peddlers here for warmth.”
“Ah, yes! But surely not such a selection of goods as you’ve recently seen in London!” Edwyna proclaimed.
And Tristan laughed and said aye, London was brimming with goods—trade was already increasing again, and there was a new manner of gown being worn, having just crossed the Channel from France.
Edwyna pounced upon Tristan with questions about the City. He suggested that they sit down to dinner, where he would answer all that he could for her. Griswald appeared to announce happily that everything awaited Tristan’s leisure; he smiled almost shyly at Genevieve, announcing that he’d prepared all “milady’s favorites.” Genevieve blushed slightly and gazed at Tristan.
He offered her his arm and she took it. And at the table he took the place reserved for the lord of the castle, and sat her in the seat reserved for the rightful lady.
Tristan knew that the delicacies served that night were none compared with those at Henry’s Court; yet they tasted far better to his lips. The wine was sweeter than any he had known in ages, and the conversation flowed smoothly.
Genevieve was quiet but responsive. Tristan did most of the talking, telling Edwyna about fashions and Jon about the meeting of Lords in Parliament, the battle in Norwich, and the state of things about the City. They talked about Sir Thomas Tidewell, and Jon eagerly asked about his old friend.
And then Tristan looked at Genevieve.
“I saw an old friend of yours, too, milady.”
“Sir Humphrey?” she queried softly.
“Nay, I did not see him, though I heard that he is well. The friend I speak of is Sir Guy.”
Her hand lowered nervously to her wine glass. “Sir Guy? He was in—London?”
“Aye.”
“In the—Tower?” she asked painfully.
“Oh, nay—he, too, fares very well. He changed sides, so it seemed, at the last minute and battled bravely for Henry.”
“He—what?” Genevieve gasped out.
Tristan leaned back, watching her. A startling jealousy raced through him, keen and sharp.
“He fought for the King—King Henry, that is.”
“That’s not possible!”
“But he did.”
Her eyes lowered, and he wondered what she thought. Edwyna anxiously changed the subject, and though Genevieve’s reactions stayed with Tristan a long time, he eventually ceased musing over them, since they could not matter much now.
They stayed a long time at the table that night, all aware perhaps that they had reached a peculiar milestone. None of them mentioned Genevieve’s condition, nor Tristan’s reaction, not any of the events of the day. They seemed like any two young couples, enjoying each other’s company.
Somewhere through that conversation Tristan looked across at Genevieve through the soft haze of the candlelight. Her eyes were on his then, curious, and though she quickly looked downward at his gaze, he had seen the seductive beauty in them, and everything about him quickened. He waited for what seemed like a proper amount of time, then rose, stretching out a hand to her, apologizing to Jon and Edwyna with a mention that he was tired from his journey.
And he tensed then, wondering if she would refuse his hand, wearily hoping that they needn’t endure another battle this night.
She did not fight him. She accepted his hand, and he felt her fingers trembling as they walked up the stairs and into the room.
Genevieve stood by the closed door as Tristan crossed to the fire which burned brightly in anticipation of their arrival. He sat and pulled off his boots and watched the fire. Then he was staring at her and her heart quickened because he was so very handsome, because she could not help the loneliness she felt, the ache inside at missing him, and the hungers he had awakened within her.
He stood again and came to her. And he did not speak, but touched her hair, then drew her to him, and took her lips with the lightest touch. Then his hands were upon her gown, drawing the strings from her bodice, and with that touch she began to quiver because the excitement rose in a liquid rush, spreading heat throughout her. She did not demur as he slid the gown from her shoulders.
As his lips touched her shoulders.
As he knelt, drawing his hands so lightly over her breast, then taking her nipple into his mouth, and tugging at it gently.
She threw her head back, swallowing at the cascade of sensation that swept through her, bracing herself against his shoulders. She realized suddenly that he was looking at her face.
“Does that hurt you?”
And she shook her head, flushing. “Nay,” she said softly. She shook her head again. “Nay!”
And in sudden shame and emotion, she slipped her arms around his neck, burying her head against his shoulder. He inhaled, sharply, raggedly, and was on his feet, staring down at her.
“Thank God, lady, for I could die with the wanting of you tonight!”
He carried her to the bed, and made love to her with such tenderness and passion that in the end Genevieve was certain that it had been just a little bit like dying . . . and finding Paradise.