“Genevieve.”
“Aye!”
“Come here!”
She turned. He was seated upon the bed, his arms crossed over his chest. She did not move.
“Come here!”
She could resist, she could make him come to her. She was so ruffled that he would well deserve the fight . . .
Yet she was suddenly tired and weary and so very frightened that she had given herself away; nor could she forget the things that he had said to her, the horror he had known. Once long ago, he had probably been charming, quick to laugh, and to tease—and be tender. Once, his wife might have known a most gallant young knight. She might have lain with him and laughed and teased in return, and it might have been . . . beautiful.
Yet Genevieve only saw glimpses of that man. She knew the warrior, the invader. And it was the invader commanding her now. Still tonight she found that she could not disobey that command.
She came to him. And when she stood before him, he set his hands around her waist, and suddenly hiked her up and over so that she lay beside him. He brought his palm against her cheek and he stared into her eyes; and though his smile remained, his laughter had faded.
“I brought her here, Genevieve, because her mother was widowed, because their land is nearly worthless with no man to work it, because she needed the income and was eager to work.”
Genevieve swallowed. “A—pity,” she murmured. “She adores you.”
“Does she?”
“Tristan—”
“Tell me, how do you know?”
“Tristan, please—”
“Never, Genevieve, have I touched her. Does that please you
“I told you—”
“I know what you told me. But I’m telling you what is truth anyway. For the moment, my dear and thorny white rose, you supply the most incredible fascination.”
It was ridiculous and yet she felt a thrill of joy at his words. Because this is my room, only, she promised herself. But when he lowered himself over her, taking her lips in a gentle kiss, she threaded her fingers into his hair, and that kiss deepened and deepened until it seized them both into the fire of longing. And when he raised his head at last she felt light and nearly like a maid with her suitor, much more aware of the empathy she felt than of the hatred. And when he manipulated her to her side to remove her gown, she felt the steady heat and caress of his fingers, and spoke softly.
“Tristan?”
“Umm.”
“I ... was frightened in the forest. I lied. I’d have died a thousand times over if I’d been taken like—like this—by some hideous creature.”
His reply was a whisper against her earlobe, warm and moist, and causing her to come alive. Her clothing seemed to melt away from her. And she did not hide. She flushed and she lowered her lashes, but not so far that she lost her view of him as he disrobed. And then her eyes did close because, before God, no matter how indecent the thought might be, she was glad that he was so muscled and so toned, so sleek and bronze and healthy as he came toward her. Nature was perhaps God’s truth—she could not deny her wonder with the strength of his shoulders, the taut, flat muscles of his abdomen, the ...
She flushed again with the thought but the thought continued, as it must, for his hunger for her was strong and evident, and oh, God, she thought that magnificent, too. Pulsing, throbbing, hard . . .
“Tristan.”
“Aye.”
“I am ... sorry.”
He tensed, and she was indeed sorry that she had spoken. He knew of what she spoke, that which had happened long before, and mention of the past had been foolish.
“Don’t speak of it.” The tone was harsh and he was still, and to her astonishment, she stretched out a hand to him.
“Tristan.”
His fingers entwined with hers and he was beside her, atop her, whispering, “You are not, then, so distressed to be here tonight?”
“Nay, milord, I am not distressed to be here.”
She touched him that night. Laid her hands hesitantly against his chest, fascinated by the coarse feel of the hair. Dared to run her fingers teasingly over his flesh, to place her palms against his face and know his features. He already knew her so well, yet seemed to know her more intimately each time.
This was their world. A place where they could go where nothing else mattered. Passion ... Genevieve remembered distantly that Edwyna had warned it was dangerous. That it could bring the gravest pain ...
But it was the greatest wonder. The writhing and the striving, and the feeling of driven, shimmering heat that rose and rose and burst upon her with such splendor. Such sweet splendor.
She knew that she cried out, that she should have been embarrassed, that no lady knew such wanton sensations. Yet how could one fight them, and how could she care, when he was with her, so a part of her, inside of her.
And ever magnificent still.
And so pleased with her. Gentle, tender, holding her against him. So close that she was able to touch his cheek again, look into his eyes and whisper, “I—I was not displeased by your summons this evening.”
He smiled. He leaned upon an elbow and found the tie in her hair and with patience began to unravel the braid, spreading her hair out on the sheets. His hands gloried in it, he laid his face against it, and his lips fell against the flesh at her throat and tasted the salt of their first union. She shivered and moaned as his caress of teeth and tongue and lips moved to her breast, and traced ever downward, and again, with shock, she felt the astounding spread of fire, from the intimacy of that kiss a cascade of ardor; she protested it to no avail, for he held her to his whim until she would have died for him, and found herself incoherently whispering just those words . . . wrapping him with her then in near frenzy. A wanton thing, wild, and in those moments, incredibly free. How could this thing, so splendid, grow ever more so, each time . . .
She slept, in exhaustion, where she lay with him. In her own bed, in her own room, in his arms.
* * *
Genevieve was wedged deeply into the covers. She was more warm and comfortable than she could ever remember being.
She was aware of some movement, yet knew that she need not be disturbed as yet. Still in twilight sleep, she heard the door open, and knew that Roger de Treyne was there, speaking to Tristan. She knew that Tristan still lay abed, and that his hand rested lightly upon her rump, and that it was embarrassing to be here, like this, and to be seen . . . like this no matter the mound of coverings that sheltered her.
But in her twilight sleep she knew that there was nothing to be done about the matter—all knew her role in this new Tudor reign, and she was simply still too tired to fight it.
But when Roger had gone, Tristan quickly leapt from the bed, and Genevieve began to attempt to open her eyes. She heard him mutter out, “God’s teeth!” as there came another rap upon the door, very hesitant. Genevieve turned in time to see him stumble quickly into his clothing and approach the door to swing it open.
This time it was Jon. Genevieve did not hear the words spoken between them, but Tristan followed him out of the room, and Genevieve remembered that this was Jon’s wedding day, that he and Edwyna were to be married.
“Genevieve!”
She blinked at the soft whisper of her name. Edwyna stood hesitantly in the doorway.
“Where is Tristan?” she asked, taking a nervous step into the room.
“I don’t know.”
“He’s—not here?”
“No.”
Edwyna sailed quickly into the room, and she was flushed and totally beautiful and young as she perched at the foot of the bed.
“Did you ask him?” she demanded anxiously of her niece. “Did you ask him if you could come to the wedding?”
Genevieve shook her head. “Not yet, but . . .” She paused, biting her lip. Edwyna was so eager! Genevieve thought of Tristan sleeping beside her when he had sworn once that he would not, and of those strange moments during the night when they had both
made the oddest confessions. For the bitter enemies that they were, they had come curiously close to friendship.
“Edwyna . . .” She could not help but smile and hug her pillow and say like a conspirator, “Oh, Edwyna! I think that I shall be there!”
“Oh, I told you, Genevieve! You must only give a bit to have your way with a man! Cajole and act sweet rather than hostile! You did wonderfully!”
Edwyna leapt to her feet and raced for the door, while Genevieve pondered her words. But then her aunt stopped abruptly, and Genevieve stared at her startled—then knew why.
Tristan was in the doorway, leaning back against the frame in a quite leisurely fashion, arms crossed over his chest, one foot casually angled over another. He swept a bow to Edwyna, who colored in horror—and then raced past him as he indicated that she might.
Genevieve swallowed sickly at the hard twist of his smile as he approached her and stopped before the dais.
“Were you about to ask me something?”
She didn’t reply, but sat stiffly hugging the pillow to her breast, heartily glad of the wrap of covering about her.
“Ask!” he commanded sharply. “Why the silence? It is your aunt’s wedding day, and most surely you wish to attend.”
“Aye!”
“Aye, most surely!” he laughed, and she did not like the sound of it. “Most surely! So you would slyly barter favor. Not, milady, that I am so adverse to barter! But one is usually aware of the price and the payment well in advance!”
“I don’t know what—”
“You know exactly what! ‘Tristan!’ ” he mimicked, “ ‘I am ... sorry. I am not distressed to be here.’ And a touch as soft as the words! Well, Genevieve Llewellyn, I shall remember in the future that you always come with a price, and take care to know it ere I enjoy the fruits of your sweetness!”
“What!” She felt tears welling within her, behind her eyes, and she was furious for them. “Oh, you fool! I did not—”
“Spare me, my love. You may attend the ceremony.”
He turned and strode from the room, the door thundering in his wake.
* * *
Edwyna was married in the chapel where she had been baptized, and for the curious mixture of guests and the circumstances of the wedding it was beautiful still. Listening to the vows given, Genevieve knew in her heart that Edwyna would live far happier than she might have had the Tudor King never come to power, for Edgar would have made her another “advantageous” match, and she would have meekly married whatever man her brother had chosen, no matter what her heart.
There was a feast and there was dancing, and Tristan, who had not been near Genevieve since that morning, took her then into his arms to move to the tune of the harp and the lute. Took her hard, with arms that were ruthless, so that the harmony of their movement became nothing but mockery.
“The marriage is over, milady. Was the sacrifice of honor worth the price?”
Genevieve inhaled sharply, nearly tripping as she missed a beat of the music.
“What honor have you left me!” she exclaimed.
“I see, milady. I created the harlot, I should accept her terms?”
“Nay, milord, you are simply a fool—”
“I played one well.”
“Nay—”
“You attended your wedding. I wonder, what new favor can I devise to draw you into your giving state?”
“What favor do you need? You take what you want!”
“Ah, lady, you are wrong! No man can take what you ‘gave’ last night! What can I promise now? A return to your room, perhaps. Greater freedoms to be earned? I confess, this barter does appeal to me! Let’s set our prices, and our payments!”
Genevieve curiously felt as if she had never been hurt as she had at that moment, wounded, ridiculed—and dishonored. She jerked from his hold, heedless of his anger or of any around them.
“You know nothing!” she choked out to him. “Take and give!” she mimicked furiously. “Well, sir, you should know that certain things cannot be sold or bartered either, that they come from—”
She broke off. The word was “heart,” and it was not a word to be used with him, for he had none.
“Go to the devil, Tristan de la Tere!” she swore fervently. “Go to the devil, sir, and I shall go to my tower, where I will stay with the greatest pleasure!”
She spun about and ran for the stairs.
“Genevieve!”
She did not heed him. She raced up the steps to the landing, then on to the curving stairway, and up each of those steps, too. She needed no warder, no jailer then, for her heart thumped with agony, and she slammed her door closed, cast her weight against it, and sank down before it.
Tristan watched her go, and paused—and then started after her.
But before he could reach the first landing, he was halted. The wedding party was halted. There was a new guest in the hallway—a messenger from the King.
Curiously Tristan came to the man, who bowed low before him.
“Your grace, King Henry sends me to summon you hastily to his Court.”
“What brings this haste?”
“Insurrection, Sire! Sly plots afoot, and the King has need of you.”
Tristan paused, his eyes straying up the stairway, then his entire countenance hardening.
“I’ll ride with you,” he told the messenger. “Now.”
He paused only long enough to leave Edenby in the hands of the newly married Jon. And then he rode out for London.
Sixteen
There was no indication of trouble when Tristan reached Henry’s Court in London.
Indeed all seemed to be going exceptionally well. In the halls of Westminster there was all manner of activity.
Harpists, trumpeters, pipers, and lutists sat about, occasionally testing their instruments, awaiting their audiences with the King. Sir Robert Gentry, an old acquaintance of Tristan’s, greeted him from an open solar with one of his prime hunting hawks upon his arm, anxious to give the bird to Henry—it was well known that he enjoyed the hunt.
If anything, the Court seemed quiet and in no great fear of revolt.
One of Henry’s clerics—face smudged with the ink he used to keep his records—came to tell Tristan that the King was aware of his presence and most anxious to see him alone when the time became appropriate. The man went away, mumbling as he read over his records, “To the lute player, two shillings; for the Portuguese falcons, one pound . . .”
“Interesting place, eh?” Robert said.
“Court remains much the same,” Tristan said simply. Sir Robert shrugged with a grin.
“It does, but it doesn’t. Already Henry is placing a very high import on the red rose and the white—romanticizing the past thirty years. I listened while he spoke with a horde of scribes and clerics. I tell you, Tristan, he is a clever man. He will hold that throne of his. Richard is barely cold in his grave, and already he has changed from a handsome, frail young man to a hunch-backed horror. At the same time, it seems, our new King will pay for a fine tomb for his predecessor.” Robert shrugged. “They talk of a new age; our King is a conservative. A clever one.”
Tristan nodded idly at Robert’s words, as a strange pall settled over him. Looking past a young dancing maid with a tambourine and a fellow holding the leash of a bear cub he saw a man he had not expected to encounter again. He stared long, determined to be certain that he was right. His heart beat fast, and a roar began in his ears, thundering like water. His hand fell to his sword, and he was startled by Sir Robert’s touch on his arm.
“Tristan, we stand in the hall amongst a melee of minstrels and dancers, and you look like the Black Death! Sir, take care!”
Tristan gave himself a little shake and stared at Robert. He clenched and unclenched his fingers and inhaled sharply to ease the tension inside of him. He nodded across the hall.
“That man. I knew him in the final days before Bosworth. His name is Sir Guy and he was attached to the old Lord of Edenby
. I fought against him. What is he doing here?”
Sir Robert turned. “That young fellow—there? Why, yes, he is Sir Guy Tallyger, recently of Edenby. Aye—he was a Yorkist. But he attached himself to the Stanleys, or so I hear, at the battle. He proved himself a brilliant fighter, slaying men to the right and left of him, defying death. The King is quite taken with him.”
“What?” Tristan swore in disbelief.
“I know only,” Robert whispered for Tristan’s ear alone, “that King Henry claims him a hero, and one should take care with the King—for were you he, de la Tere, you would surely tread warily—you would consider men either for you or against you. And if Henry claims Sir Guy loyal, then that he must be!”
“Loyal!” he came out with a growl. “That man was part and parcel of a pact of treachery. I’d thought him dead—killed perhaps at Richard’s side—not Henry’s.”
“Tristan!”
Tristan turned quickly, knowing the voice. Henry Tudor had left his solar behind to come into the hallway. Women dropped low in curtsies as he passed; men bowed—the hall went still.
“Tristan, you arrived in good time,” said the King, throwing an arm around his old friend. “Come, we must talk alone.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Henry led Tristan back to the solar. The King closed the door himself before any of his entourage could follow.
“God’s blood!” Henry swore then: “Already!” He threw his hands up before him, then clasped them behind his back and began to pace. “In the north, and in Ireland! I am no fool, Tristan. And I will have various Plantagenet offspring to deal with, I know it! But the claimants themselves, they will wait. They will need a few years to gather their forces about them!” He strode to his desk and slammed a fist against a paper there. “Sir Hubert Giles of Norwich! My spies have warned me that he is gathering a force—to ride on London. Sir Hubert—no one! He would put Warbeck on the throne! He is a stupid fool—”
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