Twenty-one
“Don’t be absurd—I know her!” Tristan told Jon. “She will never agree!”
He had gone to his friend first, finding him in the gallery playing chess with Lord Whiggin, Edwyna perched behind him to watch the game. Whiggin was a wonderful player, so Tristan had casually dropped a few hints to help Jon lose the game, and baffled, Jon had reproached Tristan. But as soon as he had risen, Tristan had looped an arm about his shoulder, excused himself to Edwyna, and muttered something to draw Jon out to the streets with him. Now they meandered along the docks. It was a clear, cold day, with just a hint of spring in the air. A mortar and pestle etched into a wooden sign indicated the chemist’s shop at their left; beside that was a barber-surgeon’s shop front and across an alley crowded with onlookers, where street urchins danced and a traveling minstrel sang the praises of the new Tudor King, there was an open forge, where the blast from the furnaces warmed the air.
“I still say it is well worth the attempt,” Jon argued, rubbing his hands together. His fingers were cold despite his soft lambskin gauntlets, Edwyna’s gift to him at Christmastide. “There’s a tavern, let’s make our way to it, shall we? Some good ale might make the problem seem an easier one.”
Ten minutes later they were in a private room with a warm fire burning and an awestruck wench assigned to serve them. Tristan sat with his legs stretched out to the fire, one ankle crossed over the other, fingers laced around his pewter pint mug, eyes brooding upon the blaze. Jon was the animated one, still trying to convince him that all he needed do was ask.
“You tell her that you wish to put the past behind you. That for the sake of the child you must not tarry.”
“Jon—she won’t do it, I know.”
“Any woman in her predicament would surely long to marry the father of her child. The Church! Bring up the Church!”
“Rather late, don’t you think? I’m quite sure she knows what I had to say to our good Father Thomas at Edenby.”
Jon swallowed down a draught of ale, slammed the tankard down, and threw up his arms. “Tell her that the King commands it!”
“Ah, but you don’t understand, my friend. One obeys a King that one honors for political purposes. Fathers obey kings; daughters obey fathers. They do so in fear of loss. But Genevieve has nothing to lose.”
Jon stared at him blankly, then rose to open the door and hail the young serving wench to bring more ale. He called out, then as he waited he turned back to Tristan.
“But your idea is madness!”
“Nay, it is not! Bribe the priest, and it is done. It will be easy to bribe the priest once he believes that he is doing the King’s will!”
The girl came through the door then, balancing a tray with heavy new tankards. She set the tray before Tristan, leaning over, pressing her breasts high against her bodice. She was a pretty lass, well endowed and pleasingly plump, with merry brown eyes and bright red cheeks. He smiled at her idly, aware that she probably was considering what sum she might ask him for her favors.
Someday, Tristan mused, she would be fat! And those bright cheeks would fall to jowls ...
And he was being cruel, he realized. At one time in his life he might have found her tempting for an evening; like as not, she knew a trade beyond that of serving ale well! It would have been nothing more than a night of drunken revelry, a simple easing of natural needs . . . she was attractive enough.
Yet all he could see when he looked at her now was a vast and unfavorable comparison to Genevieve. Just as it had been through all those long, long nights in Ireland, when he closed his eyes he saw her. Saw the beautifully slim construction of her face, the high cheekbones, the full lips defined and colored as if with an artist’s brush. Her back, sleek and dimpled and evocative. Her legs, long and supple and slightly muscular, divinely shaped.
Genevieve . . .
He thought of her now, and not of Lisette. And as the wench continued to eye him coyly, prating on about the foodstuffs the inn had to offer, he felt a tremor seize him most suddenly, and he had to admit to himself something he had begun to realize with coming home, something that had taken full root in his heart outside of Henry’s door, something that tore at him even now.
He did not just desire her, he needed her. He was taken with her spirit, with her voice and her words, her tenderness to those she loved. He admired her tenacity and her loyalty to those gone before her. All this time and he had not broken her, for she was too fine to be broken.
When he had returned from battle across the Irish Sea, it had not been to punish her that he had ignored her, but because he had not been able to still the raging war inside of him. It should not have been the gentle whisper of love that spoke to him now.
“Your grace?”
“What?” He shook his head slightly at the tavern maid, and Jon asked if Tristan were not hungry. He said surely. The wench promised him the sweetest food that could fill his mouth. She departed, and he stared at the fire grimly again.
So you love her, fool. You would bury the past and love her; and it is not Henry’s command that you obey to marry her, but the dictates of your own desires. All this you have decided—when it seems possible that she would still plot against you, that she would dance most merrily at your deathbed. She met with Sir Guy in the chapel and he can be trusted just as far as he could be thrown in full armor! Idiot, don’t love her . . .
He picked up the new tankard and drained it in one long, long gulp and then grinned at Jon, grateful for the sweeping warmth and the reckless dizziness that he felt. He never drank to excess; yet this day perhaps he would.
Jon slipped beside him again. “What if she manages to speak?”
Tristan laughed, a glitter to his eyes. “Oh, but she will not!” He recalled that day when Genevieve had so nearly reached the Sisters of Good Hope. “I will not give her the breath of a chance!”
There was suddenly riotous laughter from beyond the door and Jon got to his feet, curious. Into the common room he stared,. where a meeting of one of the city’s guild was taking place. A score of men ate and drank and laughed at the antics of a young musician, a boy not twenty, Jon was sure, but talented with the lute and with his tongue.
Jon stepped out into the room, calling to a burly man at a back bench, with the foam of his ale stuck full to his graying beard.
“What goes on?” Jon asked, and the man, seeing his dress and appearance and the coat of arms upon the brooch that bound the fine fabric of his mantle, stood quickly to speak to Jon. “Milord, the lad sings a song about women, most bawdy and amusing.”
And Jon, having imbibed well himself, went forward to the handsome youth. The youth, too, hastened to sobriety to stand and bow at Jon’s appearance, but Jon grinned and took him by the shoulder and bid him come along. Tristan looked up with surprise when Jon appeared with company, and the rough young lad blushed and bowed and said, “Your grace! I know not why I’m here.”
“Oh, but, young fellow, we need your advice!”
“We do?” demanded Tristan, grinning at Jon. He stretched his feet out comfortably once again, and picked up his ale. “We do, then. So Jon, go forward! Let’s see what this shrewd minstrel might tell us.”
“His grace is a powerful man, my friend!” Jon told the boy. “The Duke of Edenby, the Earl of Bedford Heath. And they are not empty titles, for his lands stretch as far as the eye can see—he is a favored, battle-proven knight to His Majesty Henry VII. But he has a problem, too, you know.” Jon paused, pouring the uneasy youth some ale and slipping it into his fingers. The youth drank deeply.
“A woman?” he asked.
“Aye, a woman.” Jon agreed.
“Beautiful?” the youth asked.
“Like no other,” Jon said.
“Young and fair?”
“Young and incredibly fair.”
“Sweet and gentle?”
“As sharp as ever the thorns on any rosebush!” Tristan replied this time, laughing. He poured more ale, all the way around, and the boy forgot his lowly position with a sloppy smile and slid down to sit beside them.
“A rose among thorns!” he proclaimed.
“A white rose—where the world grows red!” Jon supplied.
“Ahhh ...” the minstrel murmured.
“Now, I say—” Jon patted the young minstrel on the back. “I say that he should woo her sweetly. Say gentle words, and bid her be his bride.”
“She will say nay,” Tristan supplied.
The boy inclined his head in thought, and looked up smiling pleasantly. “I say, take her, milord! A fine knight, sweeping her atop his steed, racing off into the darkness to make her his own! Thus will she then agree.”
“Nay,” Jon said gravely. “He’s done that already.”
“Oh!” the minstrel said perplexed.
“He thinks to trick her, take her down the aisle on his arm, and when she would say nay, have none of it!”
“What if she will not walk?”
“Then he would carry her.”
“Seems to me, milords, a risky scheme at best! But then I am but a poor lad, and I lack the understanding of this maid.”
“So do we all,” Tristan laughed.
The minstrel stood again, walking and pondering. “A rose among thorns, eh? A lady who has well met the great knight’s—sword—yet says aye and nay where she will please, most arrogant! But if one would claim the rose, then one must carefully prune the thorns! Therefore I say try both the plea—and then the force! And consider always this, my lord! That which is most beautiful and best is most often the prickliest to subdue.”
“Met his sword!” Jon convulsed into laughter. “Why, friend—she carries the seed of the blade!”
“And still says no!” the minstrel marveled.
“And still says no!”
“Why, your grace! I’d give the girl the boot of your palm, and have her aye or nay!”
Jon laughed and picked up his tankard. “To Genevieve, then! May she fall—by fair means or foul!”
And Tristan picked up his tankard, and the young minstrel did likewise. And soon he was singing uproarious lyrics, and the day seemed to pass with monstrous speed. They had eaten two great legs of lamb and consumed vast quantities of ale and seen that rosy cheeked wench happily seated on the young minstrel’s lap before they took to the darkened streets, arm in arm, still singing.
Tristan agreed that he would talk to Genevieve first, and if that failed, Edwyna must be called upon to aid them. Surely she would, for she wished Genevieve well—and anyone with any sense would see this as the best for Genevieve.
“And I dare say that we’ll need her—”
Jon broke off, frowning, fighting for sobriety. Tristan had gone dead still in the night, staring about the alley they traversed.
A cat shrieked; there was movement nearby. Rats? They toured the dock area by the thousands. More perhaps.
Tristan shook his head at Jon, sobering quickly. He indicated that they should walk again. The gates to the palace were still a distance from them, through many dark and narrow winding streets.
Then Jon heard it. Footsteps that followed their own. Tristan continued talking, but Jon was aware that he was careful to space his words so that they could hear.
They rounded a corner, and the footsteps suddenly came full force. Jon felt a swoop of air as they were rushed from behind.
With Tristan he was already turning, his sword unsheathed and raised high. A great, toothless brute in a dirty leather jerkin jumped forward with a knife, while a leaner, more dexterous fellow with a filthy woolen cape tore at Tristan with a battle mace.
The fight was over almost before it began, Jon and Tristan were so accustomed to wielding their swords. Yet while the two thugs lay bleeding in the alley, Tristan swore and reached down to them, trying to find a pulse of life in one.
“Thieves and robbers!” Jon complained. “What is this city coming to!”
Tristan let out an aggravated oath. “They’re dead.”
“Rather them than us! And scum who would murder for a purse—”
“I don’t think they were robbers.”
“Then what?”
Tristan rose, shaking his head. “I don’t know. But a robber would not choose to accost two armed knights. He would prey upon a weak merchant or scholar or craftsman.”
“An assassin then? But who would think to set us up upon the streets? Any man we know would issue a challenge!”
Tristan felt a little chill, remembering Genevieve’s eyes. Would she—seek to have him murdered? She had tried the deed once herself, and had nearly succeeded. Could he believe it of her again?
She had been whispering with Guy in the chapel. Heatedly. Once before they had planned treachery together. Guy, he knew full well, wished him dead. How could he prove such a thing? Did he want to prove that the beauty who carried his child, who had become his obsession in life, wanted not his heart—but his head upon a platter?
* * *
Genevieve started, gazing upward at the sound of the pebble clattering against the glass.
She moved quickly to her feet, leaving Mr. Claxton’s book on chess lying on the chair by the fire, and rushed over to look out into the small courtyard beyond her room. She could see a shadow there, and for a moment it seemed menacing and she shivered. Then she realized that it was Guy, and a little gasp escaped her.
Ducking back into the room, she slipped her cloak around her and hurried out the door to the courtyard. It was dark here, but candles from the open hallway leading to the King’s chamber cast enough light so that one could see without tripping. Genevieve came out, carefully closing the door behind her; yet before she could speak, her open mouth was caught in a quick kiss and she had her back against the door, Guy’s body pressed to hers, his hands on her shoulders—and his eyes upon hers with such open torment that she could not rail against him for all his foolishness.
“Guy! I am most heartily glad to see you well, but—”
“Ah, Genevieve! Genevieve! How it pains me to see you so!” He stepped back rudely, as if her belly contained disease instead of an innocent babe. “But it will not be long now, I swear it. You will be with me.”
Genevieve lowered her eyes. “Guy,” she murmured wearily. “Tristan—”
“Tristan will be taken care of, milady!” Guy said, laughing curtly. “Ah, Genevieve, you are still so beautiful. I dreamt of you night after night. Thinking, yearning.”
“Guy, please,” she murmured nervously. She glanced up at the open hallway, praying that no one would choose to walk by. She was furious with Tristan for neglecting her, but she did not want him to hear that she had been talking with Guy again. And, before God, she did not want him to catch them together again!
“You needn’t worry, Genevieve,” Guy said bitterly. “Your lover plays in a tavern. He will not be back.”
“Until late?”
Guy smiled. “He will not be back. Oh, Genevieve!” He touched her stomach and she felt like jumping back, though she didn’t understand how a friend could make her feel so. “Pray that it is a girl, Genevieve. The King would be more likely give a father’s holdings to a bastard girl. A son though could be frightening.”
“Guy, what are you talking about?”
He shook his head, then laughed. “Although, God knows, the rutting stud might have left a dozen little bastards in Ireland.”
She felt herself stiffen, as a steel blade of jealousy pierced her. She told herself that she was insane to be here—and she felt like bursting into tears. She could have sworn that Tristan wanted this child alive and healthy. That he wanted her. Or would want her again. He gave her so much of himself.
Yet he had never pretended theirs was an affair to last forever. He might well have bedded a dozen little Irish whores, and he would consider it his right and his business to do whatever he chose. She was merely a trophy of war. She had come with the castle—just like the furnishings and tapestries. But oh, God, how had she been so stupid after all the tragedy in her life to allow him to claim her heart?
“Guy—”
“Nay, love, don’t look at me like that! I’ll not hurt your babe, so mine must inherit. A boy . . . we can give to the Church! Your son will rise high!”
“Guy! Please, you are making no sense!”
He touched her cheek, and again he spoke raggedly. “He would have married you, do you know that? I’ve spies among the King’s closest servants. The King admires you. He was forcing de la Tere’s hand. If he did not marry you, Henry would have taken Edenby from him. Perhaps a threat only . . . but I couldn’t take the chance.”
“What?”
“The King demanded that Tristan marry you. Henry is even placing a dowry with you, greater than Edenby. Tristan will own as much land as the highest nobility. Henry planned on being very careful. Don’t give your nobles power unless you know damned well they’ve reason to be completely loyal.”
She was shaking; she felt that she would fall. But when she opened her mouth to speak again, she gasped, falling silent instead. She heard something behind her. In her room. And no one entered there—not even the King!—without warning. Except for Tristan.
“Guy! Please! Get out of here. It’s Tristan!”
Guy grinned smugly. “Nay, it is not!”
“Genevieve!” The call came from inside, a deep, demanding baritone. Guy started violently.
“I told you!” Genevieve hissed. “Go, please! Oh, for God’s sake, Guy—he will kill you!”
He turned and fled across the courtyard, leaping up on one of the trellises to reach the arched hallway overhead. The door behind Genevieve moved; she gasped, leaning her weight against it, until she was certain that Guy was gone.
Tristan came out, shrouded in shadow—reeking of ale. She could not see his face in that shadow; she could only pray that he had not seen Guy.
“What are you doing out here?” he demanded.
“Nothing.”
“It’s freezing out here.”
“I—was looking at the moon.”
“There is no moon.”
“Oh ...” She remembered Guy’s words to her then, and she felt an aching torment begin to swell within her. “What business is it of yours!” she cried out, ready to sail past him, but he caught her and wrenched her against him, slipping one arm about her waist to hold her tight and using his free hand to stroke the mound of her stomach.
“It is completely my business, my love.”
“You’re drunk!”
“Only a bit.”
“You’re breathing on me.”
“Ah, yes. You would prefer that I do not breathe.”
“Tristan, damn you, let me go! You said you did not wish to inflict yourself on me last night—go wherever you were then, I pray you!”
“Nay, lady, last night was a curious exception. I am home. And it is cold—you will come in now.”
Still his features were in shadow. She tried to wrench from him, then knew she would never succeed. She felt slightly ill. She ached to have him hold her with tenderness, not restraint. She had waited for him, wanted him for three long months.
And then she thought of Guy’s words . . .
“In, milady!”
She rasped out a protest but she was off her feet and back inside and he was closing the courtyard door most firmly. Ignoring him, Genevieve walked over to the fire. Hmmph! And damn him, he had been drinking all day ...
“I’ve something to say to you,” he told her from a distance. She turned slightly, noted the sharp and wary fire in his dark eyes, and felt a sizzle of longing race through her. Oh, how she wanted him! His lips on hers, his hands stroking her. All the tender feminine softness of her own body against the sinewed maleness of his ...
It seemed so long since she had really seen him. She just wanted to touch him, even if he were a roving cad. She looked back to the fire, hardening herself as a spark of pride and defiance came to the fore. Let him talk! Oh, the scheming blackguard! So the King was fond of her now . . .
“I have thought long and hard. For the good of Edenby and the future of our child, I will marry you.”
“Oh, will you?” She was able to spin around, laughing.
“Three weeks from today. The bans will be cried. And I must make a trip to Bedford Heath.”
“Oh. I thought, milord, that you would never marry?”
His mouth tightened and for a moment he did not reply. “Genevieve, you are very nearly delivered of an illicit child.”
Her temper soared. If she’d had something to throw, she would have thrown it.
“Ah, milord! I hear that Ireland is nearly repopulated with Englishmen since your stay there! Run back to the enchanting green forests of Erin with your wedding proposals!”
“Genevieve—”
“Nay!” She stomped a foot against the floor, aching and near tears. “I’ll not marry you! You killed my father, you stole my land! And one day, milord, I will have freedom—for my child and myself!”
“Genevieve—”
“You lying, rutting stud—rogue! I’ll not marry you, I promise you that! The King commanded this, you fool! I will gloat most happily while he strips you of power!”
He did not show any anger. He arched a brow pleasantly—and started toward her. She felt his warmth long before he touched her, swept his powerful arms around her. She felt dizzy, so keenly aware of him that it took her a long time to find the strength to push away. Yet she could not escape, only stare into eyes darker than any midnight and totally determined.
“Milady, you will marry me three weeks hence.”
“Say what you will, milord. The wedding vows will not leave my mouth!”
“We shall see, won’t we?”
“I tell you, I will not do it!”
“You may tell me whatever you please!”
For the longest time they held there, eyes at war, tension crackling heatedly between them.
And then Tristan hiccoughed, releasing her, swaying slightly, and gripping the mantel.
“Oh! You drunken, wenching lout!” she cried, tears of fury and hurt forming in her eyes. Here he was demanding marriage, while she was caged in a room like a heavy brood mare and he was out drinking and philandering all day. She’d not have it; he wouldn’t touch her, oh, she swore it!
“Wenching?” he inquired politely, and then he started to laugh, and indeed, though he could hold his ale remarkably well, it was quite apparent that he was—drunk! He reached for her again and she let out a squeal and ducked to escape him, but she was hardly light on her feet and his hands found a hold upon her shoulders. The fabric of her robe came away in his grip, and she was left to trip and struggle with her gown. Laughing, he found his way to her, disentangling her by disrobing her; she found his eyes, heatedly, again.
“Nay, I’ll not entertain you after you’ve spent the days drinking and whoring and—Tristan!”
She was in his arms, furious—comfortable. And he was staring down at her most cryptically, smiling warily. She banged a fist against his chest, but it just fell there and she lowered her eyes. “Tristan,” she choked, and her words were but a breath, “I—cannot. I don’t believe that I’ve many weeks left and ...”
“Shush, Genevieve. I simply wish to sleep, and hold you and the babe.”
He laid her tenderly down and doused the candles. She heard him strip and thought bitterly that she hated him, oh, she really did, for all that he’d done and for—making her so miserably jealous and hurt and indignant . . . and in love.
The sheets moved, and he was beside her. She felt all the wonderful heat of his naked body and all the strength in his arms as he pulled her against him, stroking her gently, tenderly.
Time passed, and he held her only.
“I’ll not marry you, Tristan!” she warned him, her voice catching as tears rose that she had to swallow down quickly.
“Sleep, Genevieve.”
Silence fell between them, until she was compelled to speak once again.
“I am glad that you were not killed, Tristan. I swear it. I was—anxious that you return alive. But I’ll not marry you.”
“Hush, Genevieve. Sleep.”
She fell silent.
He brushed a kiss against the web of her hair. And wondered. Someone had tried to kill him that night. And if he was not mistaken, there had been a shadow in the courtyard.
* * *
Tristan spent the next few days mostly in the company of the King and his ministers. Despite foreign affairs, in which the King wished Tristan’s opinions, Henry had also determined that Edenby might be granted a Royal Charter to form as a city rather than as a walled town and appendages. Tristan liked the idea; he thought it promoted growth and education and welfare for the artisans and farmers alike. Henry, he knew, was interested in having another city where certain of England’s goods might be transferred abroad—with the assurance he would receive all his royal taxes.
Genevieve still refused to appear publicly. Curiously, though, he enjoyed their time together—even the sharp barbs of her quick tongue. She intended to win—but he was determined to be the victor in this battle, and enjoy its fight. He did not trust her; beyond that he loved her, and he had missed her, and he was quite content to lie beside her and stroke her at night, laughing with pleasure each time he felt the movement within her.
She had her defenses, too, he knew. He did not mention marriage again; he simply set the mechanisms he needed into action. She took care to warn him now and then that she would not marry him—he could force her into being a concubine, but never a wife. Nor did he deny her accusations, but merely frowned, wondering where she had heard such tales.
He hadn’t been attracted to another woman since he had met her. Long before he had been able to admit in his traumatized heart that he was falling in love, he had known simply that she was all beauty and all magic—that anything else would pale in comparison. He’d barely seen another woman during the entire campaign.
There was one final trip he had to make. On a morning in mid-April he rose and kissed her where she slept still, curiously childlike in her blanket of golden tresses with her belly so distended. He stepped back ruefully, painfully, to tell her that he would be gone for a week or so.
He thought that something of misery danced through her eyes, but it was so quickly gone he resolved himself to the fact that she did despise him. The past remained alive in her heart.
“Don’t miss me too much,” he told her, and when she turned her back on him he was too tempted by the idea to plant a good smack against the rise of the rump to resist.
“Oh!” she cried, swinging back in outrage.
And like a satisfied alley cat, he simply smiled. “Fear not—I’ll be back in time for our wedding.”
He left her then, with no explanation because he could not explain it. He had not been home to Bedford Heath in nearly three years, and he knew he had to go back.
Jon and Thomas Tidewell rode with him. It was almost exactly as it had been that day all those long months ago when they had come home to find carnage and disaster.
But the day remained serene, and night fell sweetly. Tristan saw that the fields were being prepared for spring planting, that thatch-roofed cottages had risen again to grace the landscape. Men worked in the fields, and a farm wife came running out to greet him and tell him that he had been missed.
That night he ate in the hall with Jon and Thomas, and all his servants greeted him kindly. The guard and the people came, the priest and laymen, the tenants and the artisans and the soldiers. With his steward and the captain of the guard and Jon and Thomas he went over his business affairs, and before the fire in his beautiful manor house he sipped a fine wine.
Jon and Thomas did not want to leave him, but he sent them to bed.
And all night he saw her: sailing about the dining hall and the gallery; sitting, sewing, before the fire, letting her fingers play over the harp, turning cards at the table, and smiling with elation when she won a game. He heard her whisper, and he felt her caress.
He trudged to the nursery and to his bedroom. He lay down where he had lain, when they had laughed and played together. He did not sleep but spent the night staring into the darkness, remembering.
The next day there was a memorial service in the chapel, and Mass was said for the souls lost. Tristan looked over the beautiful effigies carved of his loved ones in his absence, and he understood fully how Genevieve had felt on Christmas Day.
The artists had caught something of Lisette. Her relief was neither stark nor plain; her eyes were closed, but it looked like they might open at any moment, and her lips were carved in the beautiful semblance of a smile, as if she knew some secret. Tristan believed fervently that she rested somewhere in Heaven, and perhaps she smiled so sweetly in stone because she was beyond earthly pain, as he could not be himself.
He had no lack of business to attend to in the next few days. Bedford Heath had prospered because Thomas had seen to it, but Thomas had been in Ireland with Tristan on his last journey, and so there were months of accounting to be caught up and numerous decisions to be made. Tristan had thought that he would never come back, and he knew that he did not want to stay here. But the land was his; the title was his, the wealth and the manor and the rents were his. He was going to marry Genevieve. He would leave heirs behind him, and perhaps his son or his grandson would return and find his happiness here.
The priest warned him that his manor was considered haunted; Tristan disdained that information. Would that it were! Would that his father could whisper advice to him, that his brother could bluster and laugh, that Lisette could reach out . . .
It was not haunted, but he was. By coming back, he had purged some of that feeling from his heart. He was glad of Henry’s order. He was going to marry again. Start over again. And here he had discovered in the gentle carving of Lisette’s face that it was all right to ... love again. He could not be a fool; his life could be forfeit. But Genevieve was going to be his wife, and he would tame her rather than break her and savor the fire until he dared to show the tenderness.
On the night that he rode back, he was later than he had planned. He saw the King briefly, then hurried toward the chamber where Genevieve awaited, his heart pounding out a staccato beat. Ah, but you are a ruthless fellow, he reminded himself. And you will succeed.
Jon and Edwyna met him in the hallway. Edwyna looked prettily flushed, and Tristan smiled secretively, aware that she had greeted her husband with tremendous—if quick—ardor. She caught his glance, and flushed again, and he laughed, and she began to whisper worriedly.
“Tristan, I’m sure she does not suspect! But she is so angry with you! I told her where you had gone, since you did not—” She cast him a reproachful glance. “But Tristan, her time has nearly come and she is distraught and therefore—”
“More shrewish than ever!” Tristan answered. “And you needn’t whisper. Has she dressed? Is she ready?”
Edwyna nodded unhappily. “I have told her that we are going into the City, that we will see no one with whom she is acquainted. I told her that the establishment is one of the King’s favorites and that he has asked you specifically to dine there.”
“Well then,” Tristan murmured. “Let’s get her, shall we?”
“Perhaps you should go alone,” Edwyna said.
“Edwyna!” Jon chastised her. “Will you quit acting like such a frightened little goose! She will suspect something.”
“You’d send me after that shrew alone?” Tristan teased.
“Hmmph!” Edwyna protested. “Oh, I should not be a part of this!”
“But don’t you want your niece to be respectable and your great-nephew to be legal issue?” Tristan laughed.
“Oh, all right! Let’s go!” Edwyna said.
Together, they went for Genevieve.
“The two of you flirt and act like long-lost lovers,” Tristan warned them.
“I’ll just act drunk,” Jon offered.
Tristan opened the door to the chamber. He smiled as her head raised quickly from her work. She was dressed—and she looked beautiful. All his tenderness rose within him. Some of her hair was twisted into elegant braids that looped through the gold-jeweled headdress he had given her. Some of the rich golden tendrils were free and curled and waved beneath it like a train of shimmering gold. Her gown was girdled just below her breasts, and the great sweep of her fur-trimmed skirt hid much of her advanced pregnancy. She stood, and conflicting emotions raced through her eyes like stardust; they were blue and they were silver and then they were mauve, and she wavered slightly. Tristan liked to think that she considered approaching him, that she had missed him . . .
“Good evening, Genevieve.”
“Is it, milord?”
“Oh, do be pleasant!” Edwyna pouted from the doorway, her arms happily about her husband.
“Genevieve!”
Jon went to her, kissed her hands, complimented her appearance—and smoothed the way. Tristan strode forward and took her arm and said impatiently that they must be off.
“Are we taking a carriage?” Genevieve demanded stiffly at his side.
“Nay. I’ll not have you jolted. Your time is too close.”
They quickly traversed the hall. The Earl of Nottingham saw Tristan when they passed through the long gallery. Tristan waved and they hurried along, out of the steps to the palace, past the night guards, out to the great gates. Genevieve’s head was lowered, he saw, and her features flushed.
“You are well?” he asked anxiously.
“I am fine.”
“You are—embarrassed by your condition!”
Her face blazed. “Aye!”
“You needn’t be.”
“I’ll not marry you, Tristan.”
“Henry could give you to a fat, ugly old lord!” Tristan warned direly.
“That would serve you right!”
“Ah, but you would suffer nightly!”
Thomas stepped up behind them, and Genevieve flushed again because he had obviously heard their words.
“And he could have liverish lips and belch in bed!”
“Thomas, can’t you find a lady of your own to torture?” Genevieve wailed.
“Nay—for with Tristan as my liege, my time is lamentably limited!”
“When the babe is born,” Tristan retorted, “you can have all the time in the world, for you’ll have to return to the care of Bedford Heath. As soon as Genevieve can travel, we’re going back to Edenby.”
“Not ‘we,’ ” Genevieve protested sweetly. “I’ll belong to that fat lord with the liver lips.”
“What a fate!” Edwyna shuddered, and they all laughed, and walked again.
But Genevieve looked up at Tristan, and though her fingers trembled in his hand and a great desire welled up within her, she forced herself to remember the battles, the invasion—and the fact that he used her still.
“I will not marry you, Tristan. And you’ll not coax me into changing my mind by an elegant supper or special entertainment. I’ll never give you that satisfaction, I swear it.”
He merely smiled. Minutes later they came to a handsome building, made of stone. A liveried servant met them at the door, and Genevieve did not recognize the colors of the livery or the emblem emblazoned at the shoulder.
“Who owns this establishment?” she demanded.
“A friend of the King’s,” Tristan answered evasively, and they were ushered down a hall to a private dining room.
Genevieve paused at the table, a hand held against one of the massive, fine carved chairs as she looked about. Banners hung from the high ceiling, and the walls were paneled and decorated with various arms.
Tristan came to her, courteously taking her hand and pulling out her chair. “Sit, my love.”
“I’m not at all your love,” she retorted softly, “and I own to a great fear of sitting.”
“Ah, but you must! And have no fear—I’ll sit all the way at the other end of the table!”
She sat. Edwyna did the same, then the men. Instantly a host of servants—all in the same handsome livery of lime-green and black—came and went. Wine was poured, and they were offered a multitude of entrées, from candied eels to tender beef, from fish to fowl to rare, exotic fruits. The meal took time, and for all that there was to eat it seemed there was far more to drink, and Tristan, carefully watching Genevieve from his end of the table, was quite glad to see that she was nervous—and raised her cup frequently.
Edwyna kept up a steady chatter; Thomas and Jon laughed most frequently, too. Only Genevieve and Tristan were silent.
And then the time was upon them. Tristan nodded at Jon, and then came around for Genevieve, who commented to Edwyna that this place more resembled a private residence than any inn or tavern. Tristan grimaced over her head to Jon; he led her down the hall, but not to the door by which they had entered.
“Tristan, were we the King’s guests?” she asked. “You paid no one for the food or service! And I’ve seen no other guests—and you’re going the wrong way! This is not where we entered!”
But it was the door to the Bishop of Southgate’s private chapel. Tristan opened it and urged her in, and despite the wine she had consumed, Genevieve was too instantly aware.
How could she not be? The bishop himself awaited them at the altar with two young acolytes at his side.
“No!” Genevieve balked. “No! Tristan, I’ll not do this! Edwyna, I’ll not! It will not be legal! You can’t do this, you can’t do this!” She tried to twist from Tristan’s hold.
“Damnit, Edwyna, she didn’t drink enough!” Tristan grumbled.
“What did you want me to do?” Edwyna wailed. “I could not pour it down her throat!”
“Come on!” he swore to Genevieve.
She was simply incapable of losing a fight, gracefully or otherwise. Ranting and raving, she strove to kick him and pummel him with her fists.
“Genevieve, bound and gagged or on your own, you will marry me.”
“Dear, dear!” said the bishop coming forward. He was a gray-haired man with pleasant eyes and stern features. “Child, you’re expecting this man’s wee babe. The King wishes you to wed. Be reasonable—”
Genevieve was not listening. She took a swing at Tristan but missed and caught the bishop in the chin.
Tristan caught her flying fist and apologized to the bishop over the sound of her protests—growing tearful now.
“I will await you at the altar,” the bishop stated.
“Genevieve—” Edwyna tried to plead.
“You—whoreson!” Genevieve accused Tristan, her eyes wide as his arms clenched tight around and he lifted her, striding down the aisle. “Bastard, rat, scum—”
His hand clamped over her mouth. Thomas, Jon, and Edwyna followed uneasily behind them. Tristan stood before the altar with Genevieve locked in his arms, his hand clamped like steel over her mouth. His shirt was ripped, his hair was in his eyes, and he was panting. He smiled. “Proceed, please, Father. We are ready.”
And so the service began. The bishop read the marriage ceremony quickly—very quickly. Tristan was asked to swear the vows and he did most gravely.
Genevieve awaited her chance. Trembling, tears burning her eyes, she awaited. Tristan would have to move his hand for her to speak, and then.
“Genevieve Llewellyn . . .”
And he went on to state her parentage—returning her titles to her. “Do you . . .”
Never! Obey! Take to husband, cherish, and love?
It was time to answer. Tristan would have to let her go. His hand slipped from her mouth and she inhaled to shout out her definite and absolute refusal.
“I do n—”
His mouth clamped down over hers—just like the day when she had tried to summon the nuns for help! Covering her lips, devouring her breath. She struggled, she twisted, she slammed her hands against him. Tristan merely motioned for the bishop to continue. The bishop cleared his throat and did so.
Genevieve could hear the words, but they grew dim. Stars and then blackness appeared before her—now she couldn’t hear words at all. She began to weaken.
He moved his all-consuming mouth from hers at last. She struggled for breath—and found herself receiving a host. Their wedding ceremony was complete down to the Mass now being said . . .
“No!” she gasped, and Tristan’s hand clamped over her mouth once again. And then, as she struggled both to breathe and free herself, she was suddenly set down rudely on her feet. She swayed, not certain that she could stand. Tristan caught her, and for a moment she could do nothing but stagger for balance and air.
Then she was suddenly wrenched about—led back down that aisle and out of the chapel and to a desk. And Tristan was signing papers that the others had already witnessed.
“I’ll not sign!” she shrieked, but ruthless fingers wound around hers, and protesting all the while she did sign.
“It’s not legal!” she swore, breaking free of Tristan at last.
He didn’t answer her. He was just staring at her. The bishop stepped forward, clearly angry.
“Milady, it is indeed legal! Why, I did hear you give your vow just as these other witnesses did. I assure you, my dear, you are most legally married.”
“Oh!” Tears rushed to her eyes. She felt the swollen bruises on her mouth and the steel of arms on her as if he held her still. “Oh! I hate you, and Edwyna and Jon—and Thomas! You had no right, you had no—”
She broke off suddenly, feeling something new—like the touch of a knife against the small of her back.
“Oh!” It came out like a whisper, and then she gasped, confused and amazed as it seemed that a cascade of water came from within her to drench her. And she realized blindly that her babe was coming. Everyone was staring at her, she could see through a haze. Staring, unaware . . .
“Tristan!” She was going to fall, she knew; she needed him.
He came to her and picked her up just before the room could spin to blackness.
“Dear, dear,” she vaguely heard the bishop say. “The marriage is quite legal—and not a moment too soon, so it seems!”