Lie Down in Roses

by Heather Graham

  She felt a terrible chill, a chill like death. What difference did it make that she lied? she asked herself furiously. In minutes it would be over; it was war, it was battle, and they were fighting the only way that they could.

  “Genevieve?”

  She couldn’t speak; he didn’t seem to notice.

  “I swear to you, by God and all the saints, lady, that you’ll keep whatever vows you make to me. Last chance, milady. Go now, or remember from here on out that I consider a promise a—most sacred vow. Do you intend this?” He spoke so softly. Oh, God, how long could this go on!

  “Of course!” she cried out impatiently. He kept smiling.

  A long silence ensued; like thick clouds, it seemed to fill the air with a tension that might forecast a storm. At last he spoke, still lightly.

  “Well?”

  “Yes, milord?”

  “Start pleasing me.”

  “I—I don’t—I mean—what do you—”

  “I’d like to see this rare and unique gift I’m receiving.”

  “What?” she gasped.

  He waved a hand in the air. “Surely that makes sense to you, milady. Ah, perhaps the request was stated with too great a complexity.” He bowed slightly. “Disrobe, if you will, my lady.”

  A flicker of amusement crossed his features at the chagrin in her face. Genevieve, stunned, still had time to note that his eyes were not black at all. They were blue. The deepest, darkest blue she had even seen. She was frozen to the spot—but she wanted to run in sheer, blind panic. The situation had become desperate.

  She had best do something quickly—something right, something that would convince him to shed the sword—and bare his back to the others.

  Without daring to think long, Genevieve flew across the room, throwing herself to her knees at his feet, gripping the steel-hard muscle of his thigh, and casting her head back to plead. Surely she could plead well. Now—she was begging!

  “Lord Tristan!” she implored, aware that she had startled him by the way he stared down at her, trying to catch her hands to drag her back to her feet. “Please, milord, I mean my promise. It is best to save my people. I give you my vow—but I beg of you! Cease with the weaponry of war, let us douse the lights—let me come gently to this!”

  He cupped her chin, torn by pity. She was beautiful, Tristan thought, smoothing his thumb over her cheek. As beautiful as sunlight, as dazzling as gold, with her hair splayed now about the floor like a cloak of radiance, her eyes on his, naked with beseechment. They were not hard and silver; they were the lightest violet, the palest mauve. Her hands upon him were fragile and delicate, elegant and feminine. He felt a rush of desire that seemed to roar in his ears; the hunger raced through his body. He had nearly forgotten that she was the enemy—vanquished and dangerous. She would ease the hunger gnawing at him. She would be pure assuagement, raw and sweet, and he could take her and forget and fulfill the ravaging needs of his body, if not his heart.

  “Stand up—” he started to tell her softly. But just then he heard something; a noise that should not have been. His eyes narrowed, focusing across the room.

  He pushed her aside, striding angrily past her. He reached out a hand to the secret paneling that had just begun to open. He jerked at the oak; it gave like a thin branch. Michael was caught standing there, his sword in his hand.

  “Michael!” she gasped out in warning—too late.

  And Michael, too stunned to think clearly, backed away, raising his sword. Genevieve gasped out again as she saw Tristan’s mouth compress grimly, his entire face darkening with rage.

  “Drop it!” he warned. In terror, Michael raised his sword, and with a quick rasp of metal, Tristan reached for his. Tristan’s blow was so fast that Genevieve could not believe it had happened. She tried to scream, but could only gasp.

  Michael—giant that he was—fell to the floor; his eyes were open, startled still, and a trail of blood dripped with a ridiculously slow tranquility from his neck and shoulder.

  “No!” Genevieve protested insanely, and Tristan spun around to stare at her. Never had she felt such a furious look of scorn or hatred so intense. She backed toward the wall, grappling for a hold upon the stone to climb to her feet. He approached her slowly, and she wondered with a desperation akin to madness what had happened to Tamkin. She looked around wildly, and her eyes fell to the iron fire poker. But she shrank with horror from the possibility of using it against him—and failing.

  She looked back to Tristan; he was approaching her with a hardened look of fury, stalking slowly—with his sword still in his hand. But even as she stared at him, he whipped about again, and following his movement, she saw that Tamkin had come from the other side of the wardrobe. Tamkin was more prepared; his sword was raised high—he was ready to do battle against the enemy.

  The men came together and their swords clashed mightily, sending sparks shooting across the room. They backed away—and came toward one another again. “Genevieve!” Tamkin shouted as Tristan’s next blow brought him to his knees.

  He managed to stumble back to his feet. But he was barely able to catch Tristan’s next thundering blow with his own weapon. Genevieve realized with a sinking heart that there was a deadly intent about Tristan; this was a fight that Tamkin would lose. Tamkin chanced a dazed and desperate glance in her direction; Tristan was totally oblivious to her. With a quick movement, she reached for the fire poker and hefted it carefully into her hand. She scurried away from the hearth and out to the center of the chamber where the men battled, edging behind Tristan, who still paid her no notice. He raised his sword high, cracking it down with another lightning jolt upon Tamkin’s weapon.

  But though he fought with such fury, Tristan was feeling a strange sapping of his strength. Something that wasn’t quite right about him. As if a soft, warm tide were washing over his body and retreating, taking along with it his power and vitality. He almost wanted to lay his sword down . . .

  He shook his head, to see, to clear his mind. And then he realized with painful alacrity—he had been drugged! Not heavily—subtly. Bit by bit, so that it had taken a long time for the substance to enter his body. Drugged—or poisoned. Whichever . . . He had been wary, but not wary enough. He hadn’t trusted her—and yet he had not thought her so devious. . .

  His sword was growing heavy; he could barely lift it. He had to end this clash of steel now, before he could no longer fight. He had warned Jon that he suspected a trick; he had to shout out to the men below that it was, indeed, a trick. He had to, had to ...

  One last time he raised his sword in a great flying arch. His enemy was a decent contestant at arms—weaker, but ready for defense. Tristan struck his blow, not catching the man, but succeeding in disarming him; with a last thunderous clash of steel, he sent his enemy’s sword flying across the room. He might fall, but he would give his men a chance ...

  Genevieve knew that she had but one opportunity. She must seize it well, and with all her might. With both hands clenched tightly around the poker, she struck Tristan a desperate blow, hard against the base of his skull.

  His sword fell; he held his head in his hands as he staggered. Terror-stricken and stunned, Genevieve backed away. He turned slightly, seeing her. His eyes were glazed with pain and bitter surprise.

  She thought that he would attack her then; grab her and strangle the life out of her. But he didn’t—he only touched her with his eyes for a second. Yet in that time, Genevieve thought that Tristan had seen her clearly—that he knew full well that she had deceived and betrayed him, and that she had struck the blow that was bringing him down.

  She felt laughter and tears bubbling in her throat—he was going down, surely he was going down. She had heard the crack of the poker against his skull; she could see the blood ...

  His look swore revenge, bitter and powerful, as if even in falling he could never really be vanquished. “Damn you,” he muttered darkly. “Damn you, bitch of Edenby, to a thousand hells, treacherous . . . whore! Pray, lad
y, pray that I do die!”

  “No . . .” She murmured, her hand coming to her mouth to choke back a cry.

  But he had already turned from her, swiveling past Tamkin, who was also caught in a dead stupor, and lifting the bar on the door, he staggered into the hallway, and fell there.

  “The others!” she cried. “We have to stop him—he’ll warn them!” No longer immobile, Genevieve forced herself to follow behind him. She felt ill; oh, God, she could not hit him again! But she would have to, lest he issue a warning!

  Tamkin—as if awakened by her words—grabbed his fallen sword and followed behind her. But it was too late.

  “A trick!” Tristan bellowed out from the archway before the circular stone steps. The roar was like the throaty cry of a wolf beneath the moon. “Trick ...”

  He fell to his knees then, grasping his temples once again. An uproar began below, but Genevieve barely noticed. She was staring at Tristan, wobbling, still standing—but leaving a trail of blood along the stone hallway.

  And then, to her great and numbing relief, he fell. Heavily, and completely—and with barely a sound except that of his muscled weight thudding hard against the cold stone of the floor.

  For long seconds in which her heart seemed to beat a thousand times, Genevieve stood still, scarcely daring to breathe. Tamkin, too, remained silent and still. It seemed that neither of them could believe that Tristan was really down.

  But he was. Genevieve took a step forward. Blood was oozing from his skull, matting his hair. His flesh was taking on a dingy pallor. His back did not rise and fall with his breath, for he had no breath left.

  “I’ve killed him,” Genevieve whispered, and it was half with horror. “Oh, my God!” She wailed, “I . . . I’ve killed him. I’ve killed a man!”

  She was suddenly shaking so fiercely that she couldn’t stand. Tamkin came to her, holding her shoulders fiercely, looking into her eyes. “You saved my life,” he told her with a little shake. “Stay here, but be careful—I must get below.”

  Nodding but without comprehension, she felt only a stir of breeze as Tamkin left her, stepping over the fallen corpse of their enemy.

  Genevieve just stood there shaking, unable to tear her eyes from the immobile, sinewy body of the Lancastrian knight. She tried to tell herself it was justice, but she felt his blood on her hands, and her soul.

  Trembling so that she couldn’t stand, she sank to the floor. And she did start to laugh then, and cry, threading her fingers through her hair, pressing against the sudden, throbbing pain in her temples. If she closed her eyes, it would all go away. The attack of the Lancastrians, the battle, the great body of the man she had slain.

  But when she opened her eyes again, he was still there. Crumpled, lifeless, broken, on the top stair. His eyes were closed; she could see only the thick dark hair, clumped and matted now with blood ...

  And yet she thought that she saw his eyes. Dark and vengeful, furious, and promising all the fires of hell as he damned her and damned her . . .

  She pressed more tightly against her temples. Noises drifted up the stairs and finally permeated the horrible numbness and hysteria that had gripped her. A great melee was taking place downstairs. Things had not gone as planned; this had been no smooth deceit, practiced wisely and well. Downstairs men were fighting, dying.

  Genevieve could not move. The fate of Edenby—and of herself—was being decided in the great hall, but she could only stare at Tristan’s body on the cold stone step, and pray that it would disappear.

  * * *

  The battle below was not as violent as Genevieve thought. Indeed had Tristan’s warning not come, there would have been no clash of arms at all.

  Yet Jon, alerted by Tristan earlier, had kept a wary eye on things from the moment Tristan had left the room. He had relaxed somewhat when a group of musicians had come to the gallery, playing gentle ballads and slightly bawdy tunes. Jon had been finding the great hall of Edenby Castle to be filled with many splendors—not the least of which was the Lady Edwyna.

  She was not a girl. He assumed that she was a year or two older than himself. But there was a grace about her lacking in younger women, he thought, and the beauty of her face was enhanced by richness of character. She was slim and elegant and soft-spoken—and very nervous.

  Jon had spent the majority of the afternoon and early evening at her side, trying to ease her fears. They had talked of little things, of the wonders of this castle of Edenby, where she had grown up. She told him of her marriage, sadly stating that no, her husband had not died in battle, but of disease, and that her brother, the late Lord of Edenby, had called her back from the north country, determined that she should be married again and form an advantageous alliance when the time was right.

  “And you did not mind?” he asked her.

  “Mind?” She asked him, her eyes curiously wide, as blue as the wildflowers that grew along the rocky coast.

  “To be bartered twice?” he asked a little gruffly.

  She merely smiled, lowering her eyes. “It is the way of things, isn’t it?” she asked him dryly. “Shall I get you more wine?”

  But he had chosen not to drink that day; in Tristan’s absence, he was the captain in command, and Tristan had expected some treachery. The state of the men was making him a little uneasy. Too many were laughing now, heckling the minstrels at their bawdy songs. Forewarned, they were all drinking sparingly, yet they appeared drunk. Tibald, too, Jon noted, was uneasy. The middle-aged knight was still seated at the banquet table, frowning as if something wasn’t quite right.

  But what? The scene appeared most pleasant. Yorkists and Lancastrians talking, joking, drinking together. The peasant girls serving the wine now were young and buxom and earthy, laughing at the jests, seeming not to mind the lewd pinches they were receiving.

  Maybe the tenants of Edenby did not care which royal heir received the crown; maybe it made little difference to them who ruled in the castle. But that wasn’t consistent with the battle they had fought, holding out long and hard, against ridiculous odds.

  It was as he looked around the great hall at this scene that Tristan’s shout came to him, a gasping, thundering warning that emitted from the winding stairway toward the rear of the hall.

  Jon’s eyes fell on Edwyna. He saw the alarm in her face, and horror—and he knew that the entire day had been a trick. Still staring at her, stunned and furious, he backed away, drawing his sword. “To arms!” he cried.

  But most of his knights paid him little heed; only Tibald arose, and Matthew of Wollingham, and two others.

  Now the Yorkist guard of Edenby began to enter the room. Jon saw old Sir Humphrey with his sword raised.

  And then one of the guards was upon him. He raised his sword and fought, catching the man off-guard, and striking a lethal blow hard across his midsection. The man slithered to the floor in a pool of blood.

  Jon heard a sharp gasp and looked to see Edwyna, pressing her body against the stone archway and clinging there with horror as she stared down at the slain guard. Her eyes came to his, shocked and frightened. All around them, cries rose and fell; steel clashed—and the dying moaned.

  Jon knew he had to get outside of the keep, to the men in the bailey. With whatever men he could salvage, he had to retreat.

  But he never felt more bitter, more betrayed, and he smiled at Edwyna over hard-clenched teeth, and bowed slightly.

  “My lady, pray that they kill me, for should I live . . .”

  He did not finish his sentence. Another guard was upon him, and as he fought he backed his way to the door. “Tibald, Matthew! Lancastrians! We draw back!”

  From the corner of his eye he saw that Tibald, at least, had understood. The older warrior was battling his way to Jon’s side. And then Matthew was with him, too; they had formed the wall of their own defense. But with a heavy heart Jon realized that several of his men were already slain. Four others had not died; they had merely crashed face-first into the banqueting table. Of the fif
teen men who had entered the great hall of the keep, only five were leaving the “hospitality” of Edenby Castle.

  They finally reached the door; Jon kept their pursuers busy while Tibald lifted the heavy bar. And then they were in the daylight, freed to the realm of the inner bailey. But here, too, disaster had struck. Some men were engaged in battle; others, apparently unhurt, lay still, with their eyes closed and ridiculous grins upon their faces.

  “Lancastrians, retreat!” Jon ordered, and he was sickened with the knowledge that each man must fend for himself, and that they would be leaving so many behind, to be cast to the dungeons—or hanged or slain.

  “Jon!”

  Tibald was at his side, mounted and leading Jon’s steed. Jon leapt upon the beast, and fired out the order to retreat again.

  They barely escaped before heavy steel bars of the inner portcullis fell at their heels. And again, as their horses’ hooves clattered over stone to the drawbridge at the gatehouse, the heavy oaken gate was rising even as they traversed it; Jon’s horse shied away from the widening gap. He slammed his heels against the great beast’s side, and it leapt the distance to the rocky earth below.

  Tibald cried out; Jon, hearing the shrill whining of Tibald’s horse, reined in. Tibald’s mount seemed to have broken a leg in the fall.

  Jon spun around to allow the older warrior to leap up behind him, then they raced heedlessly down the natural cliff defense wall, barely aware of the heavy rain of arrows that followed them.

  Far down in the valley, Jon at last slowed in his horse and took stock of the situation. Of the fifty men who had entered the castle today, there were not twenty-five left—many of whom were bloodied and wounded, groaning and pitched forward upon their horses.

  “To our camp,” Jon said hoarsely, “we will regroup.”

  Of all that had been lost this day, Jon could think only of Tristan. Tristan shouting down the warning with fading breath. Tristan, who had been moved to offer Edenby mercy despite the honorless murder done at Bedford Heath to those he loved.

  Betrayed here again. And Tristan was surely dead now, for the Yorkists would never let him live.