“Aye—a wonderful puppet!”
Anne smiled and kissed her. Genevieve tried to grin at Father Thomas and Edwyna.
“Don’t fear—all will be well. I intend to practice my ‘begging’ all the way!”
Edwyna smiled, but Father Thomas frowned sternly. “Genevieve!” he implored. “Take care, for such words are treason now.”
She sighed. “Father, I will take care. I have no thought to lose my holdings—or my neck! I will return with all haste, God willing. Be well.”
“God bless you, child, you be well,” he told her, holding her hands tightly. She looked so regal and so bold. Her words were so nonchalant—confident and proud.
He felt her fingers tremble slightly.
“Father, think on it! If only we had offered a meal to Tristan de la Tere and his troops, I should not be supplicant now!”
“Genevieve—”
“We would not have fought, nor seen so many die.” She laughed wearily. “And I—I would not be guilty off treachery and murder. For nothing. For absolutely—nothing at all.”
“Genevieve, you must not dwell on the past. Remember, as I have told you, you could have done nothing differently. Not, and stayed true to your heart, to your people, to yourself.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Father.”
Then she drew her hands from him and waved gaily, “Father, all is well!”
The great gates opened, and Genevieve and her escort rode out from Edenby.
Eight
The moon had risen high; it was little more than a sliver, casting a quiet glow upon the fog and mist that covered the cliff and made intriguing secrets of the bracken that grew there.
The water had been very cold; Tristan and his group of twelve men who took the water route to the beach were shivering from their contact with the sea; their boots were wet and sodden, but they moved without complaint, ready next to tackle the cliffs and the sharp rocks that would lead to the wall and the rear gatehouse.
Tristan led, remembering the way well, a fierce, determined scowl imprinted upon his features the entire way. Jon was behind him, occasionally grunting softly, straining for the grasps and toeholds they needed to breach the cliff. But other than those straining gasps, and the sounds of heavy breathing and the sporadic noise of pebbles cascading downward, the party was silent.
At last they crested the top, and whatever exhaustion Tristan might have been feeling quickly evaporated as he saw the spot where the men of Edenby had sought to bury him with rock.
Jon stood beside him. Tristan lifted an arm to indicate the wall in the moonlight. “We can leap to the wall from the cliff there. You and I shall go first and overpower the guards. Then we shall signal the others with a light.”
Jon nodded. The distance from the cliff to the wall seemed great. But Tristan was already motioning in the darkness. The others were scurrying around them silently. Tristan touched his scabbard, assuring himself that his sword was at his side. Then he started to move down the cliff. Jon watched him for a moment, catching his breath. He saw Tristan plant his feet squarely, bend his knees—and then leap. There was a slight thud as he landed on the center of the parapet. Jon released his pent-up breath and hurried to the spot where Tristan had been. He prayed silently for a second; then with his arms out for balance, he leapt.
He would have sprawled noisily, but Tristan was there to catch him.
“The guard will pass in another moment!” Tristan hissed. Jon nodded, his heart pounding.
It was not long. A guard—recklessly clad with no armor and carrying no weapon but a knife—sauntered into view. Perhaps it was not so reckless to be casual, Jon mused. Who would expect an attack from an unreachable shoreline scored with piercing rock?
The guard came closer. Tristan moved suddenly like a blur of motion in the night. He did not draw his sword; he used his fist with a sickening crunch to level the man.
“He will live,” Tristan muttered, staring down at the guard, “And he’ll have learned a good lesson—that of staying alert!”
Creeping along the parapet, they came upon a second guard on duty. That one was staring out at the night. Jon took that one, very simply tapping the man on the shoulder—and catching his jaw with his knuckles as he turned.
They ventured silently into the gatehouse. Three men were there loudly gambling at dice. Tristan drew his sword carefully and nodded for Jon to do likewise. They rushed into the room, swords drawn.
These guards started, and stood, ready to reach for their weapons.
“I think not, my friends,” Tristan drawled slowly. “Touch your weapons and you die. Stay quiet and pray, and those prayers might well be answered. Jon! Take that lantern and signal the men.”
Jon grabbed one candle with the tin holder about it and retreated from the post to the parapet. The guards eyed one another—weighing their chances of rushing Tristan.
He smiled slowly. “My reputation is well earned. There may be three of you, but my sword is in my hand, and it has had great experience of late!”
The guards were saved from a choice of honor or death. Jon came back in, with five of the men in tow.
“Now,” Tristan said, “if you’ll be good enough to escort yourselves to the dungeons . . .” He raised a brow, and smiled very politely once again.
A guard stepped forward. “We—surrender, Lord Tristan. But we cannot escort ourselves to the dungeons. They are beneath the main keep.”
Tristan shrugged, musing over that knowledge. “You—what is your name, man?”
“Jack Higgen, my lord.”
“Jack Higgen, you will accompany me alone to the dungeons. I’ll take one of your friends’ cloaks—hasn’t anyone told you yet that these white roses must go?—and you and I will proceed to the dungeons alone. How many guards are on duty there?”
“Only two.”
“Don’t lie to me. It will cost you your life.”
Jack Higgen was not yet twenty, Tristan ascertained quickly. He was a tall, slim youth, apparently determined to live. He swallowed, and his throat wobbled with the effort, and then he spoke again. “I swear by the Blessed Virgin there’s none but two guards there.” He shrugged uncomfortably. “There’s no need for more. The place is made of stone and steel.”
Tristan nodded. “Jon, await my return. Then young Jack here can escort us to the main gate.”
Dressed in one of the guards’ cloaks with the white rose insignia and the crest of Edenby boldly upon it, Tristan hurried young Jack down the gatehouse stairs to the outer bailey. Jack, prodded by Tristan’s knife at his spine, saluted a guard at a wooden gate that led to the inner bailey. They passed the frame structures of craftsmen and village traders, quiet in the night, and approached the main keep with its high towers and round of parapets. At the door with its massive iron handles there stood two more guards.
“Is that the only entrance?” Tristan demanded, twisting the knife closer to Jack’s spine.
Jack shook his head. “It’s . . . it’s built on a motte. If we veer around to the right, we’ll come to a staircase that rounds to the dungeons below.”
“What else is below?” Tristan asked quietly.
“Only the tombs beneath the chapel,” Jack said.
Tristan nodded. “And guards?”
“Only one at the foot of the steps.”
“Fine. Smile as we approach.”
Jack did so, though his smile wavered a little. The boy was trying, Tristan decided.
“What are you doing there?” the guard rasped out in challenge.
Tristan pushed Jack forward into the guard, forcing them both to fall. He pulled off his cape quickly, throwing it over the pair, then shoving them both to the stairs. They fell heavily along the full, treacherous curve of the stairway. Tristan heard every bang and thud clearly and hurried after them. The other two guards were up, anxious as to the noise. But by then Tristan had his sword drawn and was ready. He eyed the startled men sternly and promised, “If you force me, I’d lose no s
leep by taking a life in Edenby.”
They recognized him—he knew it by the horror in their eyes. He inclined his head quickly to keys hooked to a peg in the wall. “I want my men out—and you in.”
With shaking fingers, the oldest guard, a graying man with sad brown eyes, hurried to do as bidden. The dungeons were cleared of Tristan’s men—and filled with the guards except for Jack.
“Lord Tristan!” called out one of his men with awe. “Ah, we’d given you up for dead—” “
“We’d thought to spend our lives in here—”
“Bless you—”
“Shush!” Tristan warned them sharply. “We’ve still work to do this night!”
He instructed those who could to don the guards’ cloaks and mantles, and warned them that they would be outnumbered until the main gates were opened.
Half of the men followed him and Jack; the other half returned to the rear gatehouse to round up what men they could pick off and haul them back to the dungeons. It was a huge place, Tristan realized. His plan had really been foolhardy—it was a miracle that it seemed to be working.
He tensed as he moved along the bailey again with Jack at his side—under knife point again. In moments he would have the castle. He would have . . . her. And though he still wasn’t quite sure what kind of justice he intended to mete out, it would be sweet satisfaction to have her know that he lived—and that revenge was imminent. His heartbeat quickened with anticipation. He would not fail.
“Tell the guards on gate duty that a party of men, returned from Bosworth Field, seek sanctuary in Edenby,” Tristan instructed Jack. Jack started swallowing again. Tristan edged his knife more closely against the youth’s spine.
His words were ragged as he shouted up to the gatekeeper, and the gatekeeper scratched his head in confusion.
“I know them!” Tristan called out himself, strongly. If the gatekeeper knew his face, he could not see it in the darkness. “They are friends!”
To his great relief, the iron gates began to crank open. And behind them the great wooden drawbridge, too, began to fall. For seconds Tristan barely dared to breathe. Then he heard Tibald’s wild war cry—and score upon score of horses thundered through the gate.
Too late Edenby’s guards rushed forward in shock to attempt to defend the castle.
It was all over in seconds. The guard was surrounded and had no choice but surrender.
Tristan found Tibald, and clasped his arm. “I leave to you the business of prisoners—and our positions upon the guard towers.” His eyes, dark and narrowed, turned to the keep. “The castle is mine. Send ten men for duty in the great hall tonight. I’ll not have a repeat of treachery.”
“As you say, my lord!” Tibald agreed heartily. Tristan started for the keep with his sword drawn. There was a rush of footsteps behind him. He whirled, ready for any attack. But it was only Jon.
“I’ve my own score to settle this night,” Jon reminded him.
Tristan threw an arm around him. He smiled, but Jon sensed the contained fury within him. “Revenge is something necessary, isn’t it, Jon? A man craves it—he feels that he will never be whole again without it. It is something that gnaws and tears at the insides until it feels as if it draws blood from the heart!”
Jon glanced at his friend. Aye, revenge was sweet. And he intended to have his share.
But he was heartily glad that he wasn’t Genevieve of Edenby that night. He had never seen Tristan so implacable, nor had he ever sensed such burning tension from the other man.
Together they entered the keep.
* * *
Edwyna had been sleeping. Since the Lancastrians had first taken to assaulting their gates, she had found comfort in taking her daughter into her bed and holding her throughout the night.
She began to awake with the sound of noise in the bailey; but the sound had died down, and in the pleasant mists of drowsiness she assumed that the guards had handled the disturbance. She closed her eyes again, hugged Anne more tightly to her, and sighed lazily.
She was shocked to full awareness as her door burst open with a thunderous crash. There was a gleam of light from the hall, enough to show a tall figure silhouetted there, feet braced far apart, hands upon his hips.
Edwyna blinked and then gasped. As terror firmly clutched her heart, she leapt from the bed to place herself between the horrible menace of the Lancastrian and her only child.
She could move no more. She stood there, her heart beating like a hare’s as he took a step into the room. She remembered the eyes that had sparkled so brightly with laughter, the lips that had so easily twisted into a smile, the young, handsome face that had once spoken with gentleness and humor.
There was no humor about him now. His eyes glittered like hard gems, his smile was drawn and bitter.
“Lady Edwyna,” he muttered, “we meet again at last.”
He walked idly into the room. She discovered that she could only stare at him. He cast aside his mantle and calmly took off his sword.
“Have you no pleasant words of greeting this evening?” he taunted, with cruel mockery in his tone.
“I—” she began, and then her shaking knees gave way. She fell upon them to the floor, lowering her head. “I did not . . . I did not encourage the plan, Jon! I swear I did not. I did not wish to see you killed!” She could not raise her eyes, and she knew she couldn’t let herself be the coward that she was; there was Anne to think of! Whatever he might choose to do to her, she had to beg that he spare her child.
Yet Edwyna was doing far better than she knew. Jon stared down at her, at her lowered head and her tawny chestnut hair caught by the firelight and spilling over the sheer white linen of her nightdress. The pale light reflected through that material, outlining the fullness of her breasts and the lithe beauty of her form.
He came to her and lifted her chin.
“Do you swear to me, Edwyna, that you were not part of that treachery?” he demanded harshly.
Her eyes filled with tears as she surveyed his harsh expression. She had no thought to fight him or to escape. She tried to speak but could not; she shook her head. Jon dropped her chin and moved away from her. She sobbed slightly, then found her voice. “I did not wish for your death! Yet whatever you would do, find mercy for my child, for I swear she is but five and could have no hand in treachery!”
She gazed at him imploringly, her heart beating murderously again, for not only was he fierce standing there, but he was young and striking—and he touched in her desires that she had never truly fulfilled in her brief marriage. She thought she had gone mad—and perhaps she had.
But before Jon could reply to her entreaty, she gasped again, for there was a furious thunder at the door.
Tristan slammed open the door; he stood there, tall and powerful and enraged, his dark eyes gleaming, his strong features set like granite, and his lips compressed to disappear in a taunt line of fury.
He was alive! Edwyna was horrified. He had truly come back from the dead! She thought that she would faint. He gave Jon one brief glance and came to her, clutching her arms and shaking her.
“Where is she?” he demanded in a guttural voice. Edwyna’s teeth chattered. “Where is she?”
Genevieve, he meant Genevieve, Edwyna thought sickly. She tried to force words from between her frozen teeth. “G-gone! Gone!”
“Gone?”
His rage seemed to encompass her. She had never known fear such as this or the power by which he held her. She had to speak, she knew. She moistened her lips, staring into the tempestuous darkness of his eyes.
“Genevieve ... left today for London.” She moistened her lips again. “She went to London to surrender Edenby to Henry Tudor and to swear an oath of loyalty.”
He continued to hold her in a grip like steel, staring with disbelief and fury. Then he swore with such a vengeful fury that she shrank from him. “Damn her!”
And to Edwyna’s stunned amazement, he released her almost gently, spun about, and stalked
about the room with great striding steps. At length he paused before Jon.
“I head out tonight to retrieve my property,” he said with a sudden and deathly quiet. “You’ll see to the castle, and the arrangements as we’ve discussed them, in my absence. No one leaves, and no one is released from imprisonment until my return. You and Tibald are in charge.”
Jon nodded. Tristan strode from the room, his mantle flying behind him like a great banner of justice.
Edwyna gazed at Jon uneasily. He walked slowly to the door and closed it. She felt again the shivers that raked along her spine, and she could not tell if she were terrified or merely waiting. She knew she should be worried for Genevieve; but tonight her own fate stood before her.
She closed her eyes briefly. Her fate was sealed: she knew from the anger, and the purpose in Jon’s face, that this night was his.
And she was a little amazed at herself She was almost glad of it. She was cornered, she had no recourse. She had been—whether willingly or no—a part of a great treachery. It was her turn to pay.
And yet she couldn’t ignore his youth, his fine build, his solid muscles. She flushed; she almost longed to touch him, and feel his touch. She should have been ashamed, and perhaps she was. But she wasn’t an innocent girl; she knew the duties of the marital bed, and if this wasn’t marriage—neither was he the husband she had lost. He was younger, and more striking. He promised something . . . more.
Edwyna stood, suddenly calm. Her voice was still ragged, breathy when she beseeched him again.
“My daughter, she sleeps . . .”
Jon inclined his head toward the door and spoke harshly. “Call a servant. See that she is sent to sleep in her own bed.”
Edwyna could scarcely believe him. She couldn’t move. Impatiently he opened the door himself and shouted for a woman to come.
Old Meg, one of the kitchen help, came scurrying up, a look of terror on her face. “Take the child,” Jon said bluntly. “Sleep by her side this night.”
Meg waddled past Edwyna, barely daring to glance her way. She picked Anne up with tenderness and relief that her chore should be so simple a one. She paused before Edwyna. “Her own chamber, my lady?”
Lie Down in Roses Page 14