Lie Down in Roses

by Heather Graham

  She touched the stone, and it was cold, and it gave her no answer to the heartache and confusion she felt. She found herself smiling ruefully through her tears and tenderly touching the face carved from marble.

  “You’re going to have a grandchild, though. And it will be his son. And you really might forgive him if you knew him. You might have asked him to your table, father. You’d have been glad to offer him hospitality, for he is fascinating. And what was done to him was horrible and heinous and ...”

  She broke off, knowing that he was dead; he could not release her from any vows. He could not rise up and tell her that he understood, that even Christ had said, “Love thine enemy.”

  She walked farther and came to the second new sepulcher, where Axel lay She thought that the artist had done well in capturing the facial features of her fiance. Even in marble, Axel slept like the scholar, like the gentle thinker, more prone to a fascination with science than to warfare.

  And through her tears she reflected that he might have understood; Axel was always forgiving. Ever so slow to judge others.

  “I miss you, my love!” she whispered, and then she wondered why he had had to die, because she wished so fervently that she could just talk to him.

  “Miss him!”

  The hiss was startling loud behind her ear and Genevieve swung about in confused panic. Grasping the marble tomb behind her she stared into the furious eyes of Sir Guy.

  “Guy! You frightened me—”

  She broke off because his hand slashed out and he struck her full against the cheek. She cried out in amazement, clasping her wounded flesh, yet pausing when she would have struck back in simple fury and self-defense.

  He really hadn’t known what he had done, he was so irate, near delirious—and stabbing into her verbal barbs that were terrible.

  Terrible, in that they dragged up every bit of shame and humiliation she had ever felt, every tug and tear of guilt upon her heart, every pain of horror and loss . . .

  “—by God, Genevieve! Edgar’s daughter, Axel’s betrothed! Lady of Edenby, late and great. Don’t come too near, don’t dust her hem with a spark of love or desire. Proud, Genevieve! The ruler, the duchess—the whore!”

  “Stop it!” she shrieked, slamming her fists against his chest at last, and watching, finally, the crazed look begin to leave his eyes. “Stop it!” she whispered then, looking anxiously to the door and remembering that Tristan’s wrath could be a terrible thing—and that he did not trust her with Guy.

  “Why?” Guy demanded sullenly then, sweeping a stray lock of sandy hair from his eyes and watching her with pained reproach. “Your lover is busy in the counting room.”

  “Guy, damn you! I chose no lover! I fought to the bitter end, I fought with the weapons you chose for me. And when the battle was lost, I was left to pay the price, while you rode from here and became a traitor to your cause—”

  “Nay, I was with the Stanleys! They rode for Henry, and I was caught into it! Richard was doomed; I fought for us, for Edenby, Genevieve! I risked my life before Henry that he might see that I was loyal—that he might give me Edenby. And you.”

  Genevieve stared at him miserably.

  “Guy, I am attainted, and this property given to Tristan. Surely you know that—”

  “And that you pay the price.”

  She didn’t care for his tone, the deep sarcasm in it, and she started to speak but he interrupted her with a gale of laughter.

  “Ah, yes! You pay the price, poor Genevieve! I’ve not seen him beat you! Rather I see his hand reach for yours, and those delicate fingers fit into them trustingly. I do not see him drag you up the stairs. I see your feet tread after his willingly I see your body swell with his child, and I see your bright flashing eyes and your maidenly flush when he touches you. And I’ve seen you—aye, milady, I’ve seen you!—by his side, damp and trembling and disheveled and curled happily into his arms after his sword has thrust inside of you!”

  “Guy! How—”

  “Whore, Genevieve! All of London knows that you’re the Lancastrian’s whore! Tell me, milady, what else would you do next to dishonor your father and Axel and Michael—slain, buried! —by his hand? Marriage, milady? Do you strut and saunter and lay upon him with smiles and sighs, hoping to leave your father’s spirit screaming forever as you become his wife?”

  “I—”

  She hated him but she understood his pain—as he could not hers. And she was ashamed.

  “Excuse me, she said coolly, holding her head high. ”I would pass by.”

  She started past him; he caught her hand and pulled her back; and when she would have screamed and railed into him, she saw the mist of tears held back in his eyes, and she could not hate him for the words he had said so cruelly to her.

  “Guy—”

  “Genevieve, forgive me!” He fell to his knees, holding her hand, pressing his cheek to it. “Genevieve, I love you. I have loved you forever. I cannot bear this.”

  “Guy, please!” She came to her knees before him, seeking out his eyes. “Guy, please! You musn’t. You musn’t love me, and you musn’t grieve for me. He—”

  “He has to die,” Guy said thickly.

  “Nay, Guy! Don’t be so foolish!” Genevieve cried with alarm. “Guy, were he to die Henry woutd—”

  “I serve Henry, too!”

  Genevieve shook her head impatiently. “Tristan has served Henry long and well, and they are close. Were Tristan dead Henry would but give this property to another.”

  “To me!” Guy proclaimed, and Genevieve shivered because there was suddenly a cunning and sly look about him.

  “Guy, I don’t—”

  “Genevieve, Genevieve! Never have I played the fool. Don’t fear, I shall rescue you soon, I swear it! And Edenby. I can be crafty and quick. Be patient, love, be patient, and wait for me.”

  “Guy, please, this is madness! Don’t, please don’t do anything! Edenby prospers and the people do well, and I cannot do anything else to endanger others again. Guy you musn’t—”

  His hand jerked hers suddenly, and she thought quickly enough to cease speaking. He stood, jerking her along with him, and suddenly he was touching her no longer and she was very afraid to turn and see why.

  But she could hear the footsteps. A measured stride against the aisle stone, relentlessly bearing down upon them.

  She was afraid to turn, but at last she had no choice. Guy stared over her head, silent and still and deathly white.

  She spun, at last.

  Tristan stood there, tall and regal in his heavy mantle of crimson, held at the shoulder with a brooch of the new fashion, an emblem of the white rose entwined with the red. His head was bare, his hands were upon his hips, and his expression was so dark and so severe that Genevieve trembled despite herself. She wondered desperately what he had heard of the words between them, if anything.

  And she wondered if he was thinking that she had plotted and planned this rendezvous.

  He smiled suddenly, bowing to the two of them. A smile that was deathly and frightening, that did not begin to touch the black pitch anger in his eyes.

  He bowed. “Milady. Sir Guy.”

  “Tristan.”

  Why had she spoken? He had asked her nothing yet, and her voice seemed laden with guilt.

  That cutting smile of his deepened and he nodded toward her, then gazed past her at Guy. He walked forward and touched her, and surely felt that she did not just tremble but shook like a loose leaf in a winter’s storm.

  “Your cheek is red, milady.”

  Never had she heard such a threat, such rage, kept under such taut control in his voice.

  “I—fell,” she lied quickly. “ ’Twas Christmas, and I was anxious to visit my father’s grave. I slipped trying to kiss his marble cheek.”

  Tristan stepped past her, viewing the statue, slipping off his gauntlets as he looked at Guy with a high arched brow. “Is that what happened, Sir Guy?”

  He took a moment to answer, wa
tching Tristan carefully, then keeping his voice level.

  “Aye, milord. I came to help milady, nothing more, when I saw her fallen.”

  Tristan nodded then to each of them, smiling again, with a coldness that made Genevieve shiver afresh. Ah, if looks could kill, she would be fallen now, writhing in the agony of that blow!

  He drew his touch idly over the marble and went on to the relief of Axel’s handsome features. He touched the marble there with easy fingers and gazed at Genevieve again.

  “A handsome young man. It is a pity that he had to die,” he said coolly.

  “Aye,” she replied equally coolly. She would not tremble before Tristan, before her father’s tomb!

  She dared to step forward beside him and very tenderly place her fingers against the marble lips. And tears once again stung her eyes. “He had no stomach for the fight,” she said honestly. “He believed that those wishing the war should be allowed to murder one another—and that we should just wait to see the outcome, as most of England was doing! But . . . he would support my father, for he was his liege lord, and Axel was very loyal. And courageous.”

  “Aye, as the rest of Edenby,” Tristan said flatly, ignoring her speech and turning back to Guy. “Henry must be grateful, Guy, that you turned your courage and your prowess to his side.”

  Guy did not reply. Tristan’s fingers suddenly snaked around Genevieve’s wrists.

  “We are leaving now, milady.”

  “Now!”

  “Aye, milady.” He inclined his head slightly toward her, and she still felt the fury in his voice such as she felt it in his touch.

  “Tess packed for me. And winter’s light fades quickly; we will want some daylight. Guy, you are ready to ride, I presume?”

  Guy nodded stiffly. Tristan started out, his boots sharp on the stone aisle, his grip still iron about Genevieve’s wrists.

  The party was assembled in the courtyard. Edwyna stood with Griswald and several other servants and the boy Matthew, ready to hand up the stirrup cup to the lord of the castle and his group.

  Tristan did not release his hold of Genevieve until they were outside in the courtyard. Guy followed slowly behind her, and she did not dare turn around.

  Lord Gifford found her and said courteously that he would be anxious to see her again. Thomas Tidewell, Tristan’s friend, gave her a brotherly hug and thanked her for her hospitality. She could only smile weakly in return. She knew that Tristan would deny that even the hospitality had been hers.

  Edwyna stood there, sorry that they should go so soon. Tristan muttered darkly even to Edwyna, saying that the weather was worsening, they needed the good hours upon the road. And then he leaped upon Pie, and the great animal pranced toward Genevieve; Tristan stared down at her from that great height, straight and one with the horse, his eyes still a condemnation that burned through her. She swallowed uneasily and returned his stare. He bowed to her, courteously, coolly.

  “Milady, you are at liberty no longer.” He looked over her head and she turned and saw that he nodded to Tibald, who waited with arms crossed.

  And her heart seemed to sink. She would not be allowed outdoors again. Tibald had his orders. He would sleep before her door now, she knew, perhaps changing places now and again with young Roger de Treyne.

  She swung around to stare at Tristan again, moistening her dry lips to attempt to speak.

  “Tristan, I did not—”

  He bent down low to her, whispering sharply.

  “Milady, take care. If I ever catch you so with him again, I will lay a whip against your flesh myself with the greatest pleasure. And I will kill him. I swear it. So be warned.”

  He straightened, shouted and lifted a hand, and the party of men and horses went thundering out the gates of Edenby.

  Twenty

  Tristan spent the entire journey into London trying to stay in the company of Lord Gifford—and away from Guy.

  His anger was such that he lay awake at night, rigid with heat and fury, yearning to rise and drag the man from his sleep and tear into him with his bare fists.

  He hadn’t heard, what had been said between Guy and Genevieve; but he had seen them together. And he knew, in his soul, in his blood, that Guy was plotting against him. In all sanity, however, he couldn’t act—not until he had some proof against the man. If he tore into Guy out of sheer jealousy, he would beyond a doubt weaken his own case with the King. He had to steel himself to patience, to wait until Guy should show his hand. But the waiting was torture.

  Jon and Thomas were both with him, though, and that was good, for their cautionary words often kept him in restraint. Jon was quick to remind Tristan that although Guy might be guilty of something, it was still possible that Genevieve was innocent.

  Sometimes Jon’s plea in her defense irritated Tristan—he could have sworn she had been hiding something from him when she had spoken to him in the chapel. She might well have been nervous to see him there no matter what, but he could sense a lie in her, and she had been defending Guy. Why? Had Guy really been Axel’s good friend? Or was that a lie, too? It seemed possible to Tristan. He could not forget Guy’s eyes upon Genevieve that night so long ago, when he had first come into Edenby Castle. He had expected a trick then, partially because he could not believe that a man so in love would allow his lady to welcome the victor to her bed.

  Arriving in London did not much help Tristan’s mood. From the time he stepped foot into Henry Tudor’s chamber he realized fully that conspiracy and treachery would threaten the realm for years to come. Henry was cool but quite ready to point out things well afoot. Elizabeth’s mother, the dowager queen and still Duchess of York, was already planning for her daughter’s reign. Henry was not ready to act against her, but he knew that in her court she was entertaining a Yorkist faction, among them Francis, Viscount Lovell, one of Richard’s closest friends, and John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln, whom Richard might well have considered his heir after his own young son had died in 1484.

  Not the least of it was the pretender, Lambert Simnel, the son of an Oxford carpenter, set up by some source to act as the ten-year-old Earl of Warwick—son of the duke and Clarence, decendant of Edward III’s son Lionel.

  Henry knew damn well that Simnel was an impostor—he was holding the real Earl of Warwick in the Tower and could produce him at any time. But the trouble being stirred seemed endless. There would be a rebellion in the future, Henry was convinced. For this reason Henry had summoned Tristan. Henry knew it would take time for rebels to really gather a force against him, but there was a group of Irish lords meeting outside of Dublin, and Henry believed that he could forestall a true invasion and rebellion if that rabble could be broken.

  The Yorkist kings had given Ireland home rule for some time; the Irish were naturally interested in the welfare of the Yorkist cause. However the powerful lords had yet to rise, and Henry wanted to buy some time.

  Tristan didn’t want to go to Ireland. His mood was so wretched that night that Jon suggested that he might want to ask the King to send back to Edenby for Genevieve. “She could be here upon your return. With Edwyna,” he added wistfully. “And Tristan, since Guy will be going to war with you again . . .”

  Tristan turned a furious red. “I do not want her here!” he shouted and strode out, amazed by his own vehemence and the truth of the feeling. He found the street and freedom from all company and a cool breeze to calm him. He walked, realizing that it was true, that he was furious with her, that he was, in his heart, certain that she was plotting against him.

  Sitting upon a step at last he groaned and pressed his hands against his face, and he knew that there was more broiling inside of him. It was one thing to want her, to crave her—she had captured his senses. That addiction was something he could understand. He could even tolerate the tenderness for her that he sometimes felt. He could enjoy the laughter that they shared.

  But her pregnancy was advancing, and though he was anxious for a healthy child, he could not forget the nightm
are, and he could not fight the pain. This was how Lisette had been, when last he had held her living form. This was the time when they had dreamed and planned. He could remember holding her so, speaking of names. His name, his father’s name, her father’s name, a saint’s name . . . She’d promised him a boy and he’d told her that a girl with her beauty would be fine. They’d been shy together and bold together; they’d wanted the babe with such tender yearning.

  Genevieve had never claimed to want his baby. She saw it only as a creation of invasion and violence . . . even carrying it, she was determined to escape, to betray him. He tried to think sanely of the factions that warred within him now. He wanted her here. He missed her fire and her warmth. Yet he hated her with almost as fierce a passion.

  He sighed and rose, and headed back.

  From the banqueting hall he could hear music. There would be music. Music and dancing and entertainment. It was perhaps his last night here. And God alone knew, the Irish could kill him ere he could begin to subdue them. No one had ever accused the Irish of being weak!

  But he could not return to the hall. He walked quickly, with long strides away from the sounds of revelry. He might as well make an early night of it; he would need to ride hard in the morning.

  Once in bed, he soon slipped into a deep slumber. And then the nightmare began. Going back, going far back, through mist and memory. He was riding again, laughing again; and Jon and Thomas were woefully merry and deep into their cups and that steady gray kept descending upon them. It should have been night, but it was not—it was smoke, and the acrid and painful . . .

  It was a dream and therefore the smoke followed him like a mist, swirling around his feet, distorting pictures, taking him from one place to another. He saw the farm, trampled and razed, and the old man and then the farm wife . . . slain.

  Then he was at his castle. The beautiful manor, so meticulously planned for comfort. Where wide windows, not arrow slits, let in the bright light of day.