Lie Down in Roses

by Heather Graham

  In time he told her that he must join her father, for if they were to meet up with Richard’s army in a few days’ time, there were still many things to be seen to. Genevieve smiled a little dreamily and offered up her lips to him for a good-bye kiss. When he had stepped out into the daylight, she went back to the hearth and watched the fire burn, with a small smile curving her mouth. Ah, her father! He was so staunch in his beliefs! A good half of England would sit on its tail while Richard went off to fight the usurper, but not Edgar!

  A little shiver touched her with sudden realization. Her father, beloved, the dearest man on earth, might be killed!

  Nay, he will command younger men! she assured herself. Nor would the battle be drawn out. Surely Richard would quickly expel Henry Tudor, quickly send him running back across the Channel!

  But if ...

  A flutter touched Genevieve’s heart; she reached for the mantel to steady herself and she thought suddenly that if she were to lose her father she probably could not bear life. He was still young, he was still handsome; but more importantly he was gentle and kind. And when he talked about her mother in his soft and reverent tones, with love glowing in his eyes, she thought that that was how she wanted to be loved one day—that this was the kind of love that she wanted to elicit.

  “Meditating? ’Tis not like you!”

  Genevieve spun around at the sound of Edwyna’s teasing voice.

  “I was just thinking—that I was frightened,” she answered honestly.

  Edwyna shivered slightly, and Genevieve realized that her aunt had been quietly fearful since the first rumors of Henry’s invasion had reached them.

  Edwyna walked to the fire and, putting an arm about Genevieve’s shoulders, pulled her close. “Edgar, Axel, Sir Guy, and Sir Humphrey are out there now, in the courtyard. Men! I watched them from my window. They have just sent two hundred men to Richard. If I know Edgar, he has sent promises that he will come in person soon.”

  “It just never occurred to me before, Edwyna, that—that I could lose father. Oh, Edwyna! I love him so much! He has always been everything to me! If—”

  Edwyna gave Genevieve’s shoulder a little squeeze. “Nothing will happen to your father; Richard will see to that. But, Genevieve, remember—if Edgar must fight, there is nothing that anyone can do. Men live by honor.”

  “And don’t women?” Genevieve asked sharply.

  Edwyna did not take offense. She smiled, lowered her eyes, and moved over to the great table, helping herself to a cup of the wine remaining there. “Honor,” she mused, “is a very expensive commodity.”

  “What are you saying?” Genevieve cried hoarsely. “Edwyna! You helped to teach me the meaning of honor!”

  “Oh, aye—I do consider myself ‘honorable’!” Edwyna assured Genevieve, still smiling. She held up her chalice, in a toast to Genevieve, and to Edgar’s picture above the fire. “It’s just that love is a far greater thing. I love my daughter dearly. And were Edgar’s honor the price of my daughter’s life or security, I would pay it gladly. When you have children, Genevieve, you will understand.”

  Genevieve turned back to the fire. “No matter,” she said softly. “I know what love is.”

  “Ah yes, Axel! Did you enjoy your moments of privacy with the young swain?” Edwyna changed her tone; she was teasing and light again. Had Genevieve imagined that grave, nearly bitter, side of her aunt? Probably.

  “Swain?” Genevieve laughed back. “Axel is the dearest man, but no swain—and well you know it!”

  “Spoken like a good fiancee!” Edwyna returned cheerfully. “Yours will be a beautiful wedding! Are you anxious, Genevieve?”

  “Of—of course,” Genevieve murmured.

  “You’re not feeling hesitant, are you?” Edwyna asked. “Oh, Genevieve! I was always so happy for you! Your father’s choice being a man of whom were were so fond!”

  “Nay, nay! I feel no reservations!” Genevieve protested.

  “It is simply—” She hesitated, and a flush suffused her cheeks. Then Genevieve laughed mischievously—for if she did not talk with Edwyna, with whom could she talk?

  “Oh, Edwyna!”

  Genevieve plucked up a chalice of wine and carried it with her in a little dance before the fire. “Axel and I shall make a brilliant match! Our cares are the same, our minds match, we’ve everything in common. He respects me, and I admire him! And more! Oh, I do love him, dearly. I imagine us sipping wine before the fire, laughing at the Christmas mummers, sitting down cheerfully to meals. It’s just that ...”

  “Just what?” Edwyna prodded.

  “Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know!” Genevieve wailed softly, spinning about, hair and gown trailing around her as she rushed to Edwyna. “Just—something! That something in all the sonnets, in all the beautiful poetry, in the French ballads, in Chaucer, in the Greek idylls. Edwyna, does it come, does it come with marriage? That wonder, that mystical feeling. That you’d die for his kiss, for his touch! That—”

  “Genevieve,” Edwyna said shrewdly, “you’re in love with the idea of being in love! Love itself is different. It’s quieter, it’s deeper, and that’s what can last forever. What you’re talking about is—”

  “What?” Genevieve asked wistfully.

  “Well, passion,” Edwyna murmured uneasily. She crossed to sit before her tapestry again, picking up her needle, looking into the distance, then pausing. “Genevieve, don’t go looking for passion! Such a thing always hurts those who pursue it—even those who stumble upon it. Be glad that you and Axel are mature, that he is a gentle and considerate man, that—”

  “Edwyna! Is that what it was for you?” Genevieve knelt at Edwyna’s feet. Edwyna gazed into her niece’s immense, beseeching eyes—eyes the color of silver, glittering how, beautiful, enchanting. She winced slightly, reflecting that Genevieve would never do things in half measures. She was reckless and filled with passion; and for a moment Edwyna worried that perhaps Axel had not been the right choice for Genevieve. He was a fine man, but more the scholar than the knight; too gentle, perhaps, for this wild spirit, yearning to soar.

  Edwyna forced herself to answer Genevieve’s question.

  “Was love passionate for me?” She laughed. “Genevieve, my first taste of grand passion left me wondering how on earth anyone had ever managed to write love poems. But then . . .”

  “It did come to you! After marriage!” Genevieve persisted. “Oh, Edwyna! That’s what I want! A man to love me like Lancelot loved Guinevere, as Paris loved Helen!”

  “Destructive love,” Edwyna warned.

  “Romantic love!” Genevieve countered. “Oh, Edwyna, will it come? When we’re married, will it come?”

  What answer could Edwyna give? No, it had never come to her. Not the love that inspired the poets, that kept you from sleeping or eating, that made you shiver with anticipation.

  Yet she had discovered a softer kind of love, and she had discovered that she wasn’t at all a cold woman. Marriage had become fun; they had both been surprised—and pleased. But then Philip had died, and Edwyna had learned all about loneliness.

  Edwyna looked away from Genevieve, feigning a pensive concentration on her skeins of yarn.

  “I think that you care deeply for Axel, and that the two of you should do very well. Now—”

  The door to the great hall suddenly flew open. Edgar burst in with Axel, Sir Guy, and Sir Humphrey on his heels.

  “By God! It will not be borne!” Edgar thundered. His face was red with his rage; he slammed his gauntlets down on the table and started shouting for Griswald to bring meat and ale and plenty of both.

  “Father, what is it?” Genevieve leapt to her feet and rushed over to him. She gazed at Sir Humphrey, an old and dear friend of her father, and on to young and handsome Sir Guy, Axel’s close comrade.

  “I tell you this Tristan de la Tere will sorely rue the day that he entered this world!” Edgar swore. “Daughter! Look at this! Just look at this message!”

  Axel shru
gged at her glance and indicated that she should read the letter. Genevieve gazed idly at the broken seal on the envelope and flipped it open. The handwriting was genteel enough, but the message itself was insolent and presumptuous, and—as her father had stated—not to be endured. It was addressed to Edgar Llewellyn, Duke of Edenby.

  Dear Sir,

  I, Tristan de la Tere, faithful retainer of Henry Tudor, do most solemnly beseech you to recant your stand, to uphold your title, lands, and honor, and to set your assets and energies toward the cause of said Henry Tudor. If, sir, you will, at this time, surrender the castle and your men, I swear that none in your domains will meet with harm, nor shall your people find themselves deprived of property, honor or place.

  I cannot too greatly emphasize the importance of your friendly actions to Henry Tudor, Lancastrian heir to the Crown of England. I beseech you, sir, throw open your gates and welcome us to your table.

  Most cordially,

  Tristan de la Tere

  Earl of Bedford Heath

  By order of Henry Tudor

  The House of Lancaster

  Genevieve stared up at her father. “How insolent!”

  It was all she could think to say, yet even as she spoke a chill seized her—a chill, as if she had seen some figure rise from a grave.

  “It’s outrageous!” Edgar swore, “and this Tristan de la Tere shall have his answer most hastily! Axel! See that the messenger is shown out, that the gates are barred! Sir Guy, call the priest that he may come and bless our men and our ef-farts! Humphrey, you and I must see to the ammunition, quickly, for we shall stop this churlish agent of the devil where he stands, with pitch and hell’s fire!”

  “Father—” Genevieve began, but he was not listening. Sir Edgar patted his daughter on the head and swept by her with long strides. Axel caught her eyes for one long moment.

  She wanted to speak; she wanted to stop them. Too late. It was as if something unstoppable had whirled into motion. Axel’s eyes were brooding and unhappy.

  Genevieve lifted a hand to keep him from following her father, but he was already gone. She turned to stare at Edwyna. Edwyna returned her stare, stricken.

  “What has happened?” Edwyna murmured. “What has happened? What have we begun here?”

  * * *

  By nightfall the answer was evident. Edenby had joined the battle for the English Crown before that battle had, in truth, begun. The castle of Edenby settled down for a siege; Henry’s men, outside the gates, settled down to bombard the castle. They had cannons and catapults and rams; Edenby had walls that were as close to impregnable as walls could be. Throughout the first night, Edgar’s longbows rained a shower of burning arrows down upon the invaders. Burning pitch and tar cascaded down the walls.

  In turn, powder would flash, stone and rock would quiver and shudder. The smithy caught fire first and burned to the ground; the tannery was razed, and many other of the wooden outbuildings had caught fire. Edenby, though, was a very strong fortress, especially in a state of siege. Edgar could not believe that de la Tere’s men could hold out against them long. Henry would need those men to fight Richard.

  A second night passed in quiet, yet the dawn brought a new attack. In the afternoon came a request from de la Tere, asking Edgar to surrender.

  Sir,

  I should be most heartily glad to hurry on from this place. But Henry is most offended by your stand, and has ordered that this castle be taken. Henry states that there is an ancient relationship existing between the Tudors and Llewellyns, and he is grossly wounded by your raising arms against him. Sir, again I beseech you, Surrender, for I have been ordered to grant no quarter or mercy if we are obliged to take the castle by force.

  Tristan de la Tere

  “No quarter!” Edgar raged, tossing the letter aside. “He shall see no quarter from us! Fool! Has he not yet seen that this fortress is impregnable?”

  Apparently he had not, for the cannons and catapults assaulted the walls the third day, and then a fourth.

  On that night Genevieve climbed to the parapet with her father and stared out to the fields, where a contingent of the enemy slept, just beyond the walls. By their position, Edgar judged that they intended to ram the gates and scale the walls tomorrow. The infamy of it! Within the confines of the castle walls, Genevieve could hear the cries of the wounded, the sobs of the newly widowed and orphaned. Acrid smoke stung her eyes as the outbuildings continued to smolder.

  How she hated this Tristan de la Tere! How dare he come here and make war against them? She hated him with a dread fear—for although Edenby had withstood cannon fire again and again, it would not stand forever against such stronger forces. She wished that her father’s army had not been sent ahead to Richard.

  “We could wait,” Axel cautioned Edgar, knuckles white he gripped the stone to stare out at the campfires. “Wait—and pray that Henry summons them away to battle Richard before they can do further damage. With any luck, Richard—who still commands so many of our men!—will beat back Henry Tudor, and we will be saved.”

  But Edgar disagreed. He and Axel looked at the wall where it grew weak—where the men would attempt to scale it.

  “We must go out. We must go out this night in silence and decrease these odds against us somewhat!”

  “Father, no!” Genevieve cried heartily. “You cannot go! You are the lord here, you cannot risk—”

  “I cannot send men out to do battle in my name if I do not lead them!” Edgar replied softly, and he hugged his daughter to him, stroking her hair, smiling. He looked at Axel over her head, and only when Axel was gone did Genevieve realize that her father had already given the order for a host of his men to slip out the gate.

  Edgar took her cheeks between his palms, and stared into her eyes with a gentle smile. “You mustn’t be afraid, my daughter,” he told her. “God is my right, and I shall conquer my enemies!”

  Genevieve tried to smile but she could not, and she clung to him again. They came back through the castle to the courtyard and the great gates. Then Genevieve was left to watch as her father lifted his hand, and the men followed in silence as they slipped over the wall to assault the enemy camp in darkness.

  At the top of the wall she saw Axel pausing, looking down at her. She met his eyes with all her love in her own; she brought her fingers to her lips and let a kiss fly to him.

  He ran back down. He drew her into his arms and his mouth fell upon hers with a hunger that sent fire cascading down into her. His arms were warm, his body hard against hers . . .

  And then he was gone. Gone, just as she smiled and thought, this, then, is it. This is passion, this is love, this is the aching, this is the need to be touched again. Oh, Axel!

  He had reached the wall, and disappeared over it.

  The night wrapped around Genevieve, and she suddenly felt terribly alone in the silence. Edwyna had gone to lie with Anne, her arms hugging her daughter. The priest might have been company for Genevieve, but he could not be with her. He was too busy giving the last rites to so many.

  She was alone in the silence . . .

  And then the screams began to come, and the night erupted. But she was still alone when the men dragged the body of her fiance back through the crack in the gate.

  “Axel! Oh, God, oh, no!”

  They hovered around her then, her father’s men. Sir Humphrey cleared his throat to tell her that Axel had fought wisely and well. That he had been daring and courageous.

  Genevieve could only stare down in horror. At his face, proud, scholarly, beautiful; his eyes, their hazel light put out forever. “Oh, Axel!” She strove to kiss him in disbelief, then stared at her hands where they had touched him and screamed, for they were covered in blood from the wound at his throat.

  But further horror awaited her. Sir Guy, looking dismayed, told her the news.

  Lord Edgar of Edenby had not returned from the foray. Guy and Humphrey meant to go in search of him, yet Genevieve would let no one stir but at her command�
��with her in the lead.

  “I rank here in my father’s absence,” she told them coolly, and despite all protests it was Genevieve, finally, who slipped over the wall to search among the bodies at its base.

  Thus it was she who stumbled upon Edgar—mortally wounded but still alive. She began to cry and sank to her knees, to sweep her arms about him and hold him to her breast, cleaning the blood from his face with her skirt, soothing, talking, swearing that all would be well.

  “Dearest daughter, sweetest child, mine angel!” Edgar words rasped against the heaving of his chest. His hand trembled and shook when he lifted it to touch her face.

  “Child, it is yours—”

  “Nay, father! I shall bathe your wounds, I shall—”

  “You bathe them now with your tears,” he told her gently. “I know that I am dying. Yet I leave all to you with the greatest pride! Our honor, our loyalty. Genevieve, you are ruler now! Be careful, be loyal, care for those who would serve you. Never, never surrender. And be of good cheer! Let not our people suffer in vain. Genevieve, Axel will guide you now. You will marry, Genevieve . . .”

  A great convulsion shook Edgar; he did not speak again. Tears fell down Genevieve’s cheeks in torrents as she rocked her father. He did not know that Axel had traveled the route to heaven before him; he had not known how horribly bereft she now found herself.

  Sir Guy came upon her and lifted her to her feet. “Genevieve! In, we must come in! The enemy still lurks, hurry—”