Lie Down in Roses

by Heather Graham

  He picked up the new tankard and drained it in one long, long gulp and then grinned at Jon, grateful for the sweeping warmth and the reckless dizziness that he felt. He never drank to excess; yet this day perhaps he would.

  Jon slipped beside him again. “What if she manages to speak?”

  Tristan laughed, a glitter to his eyes. “Oh, but she will not!” He recalled that day when Genevieve had so nearly reached the Sisters of Good Hope. “I will not give her the breath of a chance!”

  There was suddenly riotous laughter from beyond the door and Jon got to his feet, curious. Into the common room he stared,. where a meeting of one of the city’s guild was taking place. A score of men ate and drank and laughed at the antics of a young musician, a boy not twenty, Jon was sure, but talented with the lute and with his tongue.

  Jon stepped out into the room, calling to a burly man at a back bench, with the foam of his ale stuck full to his graying beard.

  “What goes on?” Jon asked, and the man, seeing his dress and appearance and the coat of arms upon the brooch that bound the fine fabric of his mantle, stood quickly to speak to Jon. “Milord, the lad sings a song about women, most bawdy and amusing.”

  And Jon, having imbibed well himself, went forward to the handsome youth. The youth, too, hastened to sobriety to stand and bow at Jon’s appearance, but Jon grinned and took him by the shoulder and bid him come along. Tristan looked up with surprise when Jon appeared with company, and the rough young lad blushed and bowed and said, “Your grace! I know not why I’m here.”

  “Oh, but, young fellow, we need your advice!”

  “We do?” demanded Tristan, grinning at Jon. He stretched his feet out comfortably once again, and picked up his ale. “We do, then. So Jon, go forward! Let’s see what this shrewd minstrel might tell us.”

  “His grace is a powerful man, my friend!” Jon told the boy. “The Duke of Edenby, the Earl of Bedford Heath. And they are not empty titles, for his lands stretch as far as the eye can see—he is a favored, battle-proven knight to His Majesty Henry VII. But he has a problem, too, you know.” Jon paused, pouring the uneasy youth some ale and slipping it into his fingers. The youth drank deeply.

  “A woman?” he asked.

  “Aye, a woman.” Jon agreed.

  “Beautiful?” the youth asked.

  “Like no other,” Jon said.

  “Young and fair?”

  “Young and incredibly fair.”

  “Sweet and gentle?”

  “As sharp as ever the thorns on any rosebush!” Tristan replied this time, laughing. He poured more ale, all the way around, and the boy forgot his lowly position with a sloppy smile and slid down to sit beside them.

  “A rose among thorns!” he proclaimed.

  “A white rose—where the world grows red!” Jon supplied.

  “Ahhh ...” the minstrel murmured.

  “Now, I say—” Jon patted the young minstrel on the back. “I say that he should woo her sweetly. Say gentle words, and bid her be his bride.”

  “She will say nay,” Tristan supplied.

  The boy inclined his head in thought, and looked up smiling pleasantly. “I say, take her, milord! A fine knight, sweeping her atop his steed, racing off into the darkness to make her his own! Thus will she then agree.”

  “Nay,” Jon said gravely. “He’s done that already.”

  “Oh!” the minstrel said perplexed.

  “He thinks to trick her, take her down the aisle on his arm, and when she would say nay, have none of it!”

  “What if she will not walk?”

  “Then he would carry her.”

  “Seems to me, milords, a risky scheme at best! But then I am but a poor lad, and I lack the understanding of this maid.”

  “So do we all,” Tristan laughed.

  The minstrel stood again, walking and pondering. “A rose among thorns, eh? A lady who has well met the great knight’s—sword—yet says aye and nay where she will please, most arrogant! But if one would claim the rose, then one must carefully prune the thorns! Therefore I say try both the plea—and then the force! And consider always this, my lord! That which is most beautiful and best is most often the prickliest to subdue.”

  “Met his sword!” Jon convulsed into laughter. “Why, friend—she carries the seed of the blade!”

  “And still says no!” the minstrel marveled.

  “And still says no!”

  “Why, your grace! I’d give the girl the boot of your palm, and have her aye or nay!”

  Jon laughed and picked up his tankard. “To Genevieve, then! May she fall—by fair means or foul!”

  And Tristan picked up his tankard, and the young minstrel did likewise. And soon he was singing uproarious lyrics, and the day seemed to pass with monstrous speed. They had eaten two great legs of lamb and consumed vast quantities of ale and seen that rosy cheeked wench happily seated on the young minstrel’s lap before they took to the darkened streets, arm in arm, still singing.

  Tristan agreed that he would talk to Genevieve first, and if that failed, Edwyna must be called upon to aid them. Surely she would, for she wished Genevieve well—and anyone with any sense would see this as the best for Genevieve.

  “And I dare say that we’ll need her—”

  Jon broke off, frowning, fighting for sobriety. Tristan had gone dead still in the night, staring about the alley they traversed.

  A cat shrieked; there was movement nearby. Rats? They toured the dock area by the thousands. More perhaps.

  Tristan shook his head at Jon, sobering quickly. He indicated that they should walk again. The gates to the palace were still a distance from them, through many dark and narrow winding streets.

  Then Jon heard it. Footsteps that followed their own. Tristan continued talking, but Jon was aware that he was careful to space his words so that they could hear.

  They rounded a corner, and the footsteps suddenly came full force. Jon felt a swoop of air as they were rushed from behind.

  With Tristan he was already turning, his sword unsheathed and raised high. A great, toothless brute in a dirty leather jerkin jumped forward with a knife, while a leaner, more dexterous fellow with a filthy woolen cape tore at Tristan with a battle mace.

  The fight was over almost before it began, Jon and Tristan were so accustomed to wielding their swords. Yet while the two thugs lay bleeding in the alley, Tristan swore and reached down to them, trying to find a pulse of life in one.

  “Thieves and robbers!” Jon complained. “What is this city coming to!”

  Tristan let out an aggravated oath. “They’re dead.”

  “Rather them than us! And scum who would murder for a purse—”

  “I don’t think they were robbers.”

  “Then what?”

  Tristan rose, shaking his head. “I don’t know. But a robber would not choose to accost two armed knights. He would prey upon a weak merchant or scholar or craftsman.”

  “An assassin then? But who would think to set us up upon the streets? Any man we know would issue a challenge!”

  Tristan felt a little chill, remembering Genevieve’s eyes. Would she—seek to have him murdered? She had tried the deed once herself, and had nearly succeeded. Could he believe it of her again?

  She had been whispering with Guy in the chapel. Heatedly. Once before they had planned treachery together. Guy, he knew full well, wished him dead. How could he prove such a thing? Did he want to prove that the beauty who carried his child, who had become his obsession in life, wanted not his heart—but his head upon a platter?

  * * *

  Genevieve started, gazing upward at the sound of the pebble clattering against the glass.

  She moved quickly to her feet, leaving Mr. Claxton’s book on chess lying on the chair by the fire, and rushed over to look out into the small courtyard beyond her room. She could see a shadow there, and for a moment it seemed menacing and she shivered. Then she realized that it was Guy, and a little gasp escaped her.

 
Ducking back into the room, she slipped her cloak around her and hurried out the door to the courtyard. It was dark here, but candles from the open hallway leading to the King’s chamber cast enough light so that one could see without tripping. Genevieve came out, carefully closing the door behind her; yet before she could speak, her open mouth was caught in a quick kiss and she had her back against the door, Guy’s body pressed to hers, his hands on her shoulders—and his eyes upon hers with such open torment that she could not rail against him for all his foolishness.

  “Guy! I am most heartily glad to see you well, but—”

  “Ah, Genevieve! Genevieve! How it pains me to see you so!” He stepped back rudely, as if her belly contained disease instead of an innocent babe. “But it will not be long now, I swear it. You will be with me.”

  Genevieve lowered her eyes. “Guy,” she murmured wearily. “Tristan—”

  “Tristan will be taken care of, milady!” Guy said, laughing curtly. “Ah, Genevieve, you are still so beautiful. I dreamt of you night after night. Thinking, yearning.”

  “Guy, please,” she murmured nervously. She glanced up at the open hallway, praying that no one would choose to walk by. She was furious with Tristan for neglecting her, but she did not want him to hear that she had been talking with Guy again. And, before God, she did not want him to catch them together again!

  “You needn’t worry, Genevieve,” Guy said bitterly. “Your lover plays in a tavern. He will not be back.”

  “Until late?”

  Guy smiled. “He will not be back. Oh, Genevieve!” He touched her stomach and she felt like jumping back, though she didn’t understand how a friend could make her feel so. “Pray that it is a girl, Genevieve. The King would be more likely give a father’s holdings to a bastard girl. A son though could be frightening.”

  “Guy, what are you talking about?”

  He shook his head, then laughed. “Although, God knows, the rutting stud might have left a dozen little bastards in Ireland.”

  She felt herself stiffen, as a steel blade of jealousy pierced her. She told herself that she was insane to be here—and she felt like bursting into tears. She could have sworn that Tristan wanted this child alive and healthy. That he wanted her. Or would want her again. He gave her so much of himself.

  Yet he had never pretended theirs was an affair to last forever. He might well have bedded a dozen little Irish whores, and he would consider it his right and his business to do whatever he chose. She was merely a trophy of war. She had come with the castle—just like the furnishings and tapestries. But oh, God, how had she been so stupid after all the tragedy in her life to allow him to claim her heart?

  “Guy—”

  “Nay, love, don’t look at me like that! I’ll not hurt your babe, so mine must inherit. A boy . . . we can give to the Church! Your son will rise high!”

  “Guy! Please, you are making no sense!”

  He touched her cheek, and again he spoke raggedly. “He would have married you, do you know that? I’ve spies among the King’s closest servants. The King admires you. He was forcing de la Tere’s hand. If he did not marry you, Henry would have taken Edenby from him. Perhaps a threat only . . . but I couldn’t take the chance.”

  “What?”

  “The King demanded that Tristan marry you. Henry is even placing a dowry with you, greater than Edenby. Tristan will own as much land as the highest nobility. Henry planned on being very careful. Don’t give your nobles power unless you know damned well they’ve reason to be completely loyal.”

  She was shaking; she felt that she would fall. But when she opened her mouth to speak again, she gasped, falling silent instead. She heard something behind her. In her room. And no one entered there—not even the King!—without warning. Except for Tristan.

  “Guy! Please! Get out of here. It’s Tristan!”

  Guy grinned smugly. “Nay, it is not!”

  “Genevieve!” The call came from inside, a deep, demanding baritone. Guy started violently.

  “I told you!” Genevieve hissed. “Go, please! Oh, for God’s sake, Guy—he will kill you!”

  He turned and fled across the courtyard, leaping up on one of the trellises to reach the arched hallway overhead. The door behind Genevieve moved; she gasped, leaning her weight against it, until she was certain that Guy was gone.

  Tristan came out, shrouded in shadow—reeking of ale. She could not see his face in that shadow; she could only pray that he had not seen Guy.

  “What are you doing out here?” he demanded.

  “Nothing.”

  “It’s freezing out here.”

  “I—was looking at the moon.”

  “There is no moon.”

  “Oh ...” She remembered Guy’s words to her then, and she felt an aching torment begin to swell within her. “What business is it of yours!” she cried out, ready to sail past him, but he caught her and wrenched her against him, slipping one arm about her waist to hold her tight and using his free hand to stroke the mound of her stomach.

  “It is completely my business, my love.”

  “You’re drunk!”

  “Only a bit.”

  “You’re breathing on me.”

  “Ah, yes. You would prefer that I do not breathe.”

  “Tristan, damn you, let me go! You said you did not wish to inflict yourself on me last night—go wherever you were then, I pray you!”

  “Nay, lady, last night was a curious exception. I am home. And it is cold—you will come in now.”

  Still his features were in shadow. She tried to wrench from him, then knew she would never succeed. She felt slightly ill. She ached to have him hold her with tenderness, not restraint. She had waited for him, wanted him for three long months.

  And then she thought of Guy’s words . . .

  “In, milady!”

  She rasped out a protest but she was off her feet and back inside and he was closing the courtyard door most firmly. Ignoring him, Genevieve walked over to the fire. Hmmph! And damn him, he had been drinking all day ...

  “I’ve something to say to you,” he told her from a distance. She turned slightly, noted the sharp and wary fire in his dark eyes, and felt a sizzle of longing race through her. Oh, how she wanted him! His lips on hers, his hands stroking her. All the tender feminine softness of her own body against the sinewed maleness of his ...

  It seemed so long since she had really seen him. She just wanted to touch him, even if he were a roving cad. She looked back to the fire, hardening herself as a spark of pride and defiance came to the fore. Let him talk! Oh, the scheming blackguard! So the King was fond of her now . . .

  “I have thought long and hard. For the good of Edenby and the future of our child, I will marry you.”

  “Oh, will you?” She was able to spin around, laughing.

  “Three weeks from today. The bans will be cried. And I must make a trip to Bedford Heath.”

  “Oh. I thought, milord, that you would never marry?”

  His mouth tightened and for a moment he did not reply. “Genevieve, you are very nearly delivered of an illicit child.”

  Her temper soared. If she’d had something to throw, she would have thrown it.

  “Ah, milord! I hear that Ireland is nearly repopulated with Englishmen since your stay there! Run back to the enchanting green forests of Erin with your wedding proposals!”

  “Genevieve—”

  “Nay!” She stomped a foot against the floor, aching and near tears. “I’ll not marry you! You killed my father, you stole my land! And one day, milord, I will have freedom—for my child and myself!”

  “Genevieve—”

  “You lying, rutting stud—rogue! I’ll not marry you, I promise you that! The King commanded this, you fool! I will gloat most happily while he strips you of power!”

  He did not show any anger. He arched a brow pleasantly—and started toward her. She felt his warmth long before he touched her, swept his powerful arms around her. She felt dizzy, so keenly
aware of him that it took her a long time to find the strength to push away. Yet she could not escape, only stare into eyes darker than any midnight and totally determined.

  “Milady, you will marry me three weeks hence.”

  “Say what you will, milord. The wedding vows will not leave my mouth!”

  “We shall see, won’t we?”

  “I tell you, I will not do it!”

  “You may tell me whatever you please!”

  For the longest time they held there, eyes at war, tension crackling heatedly between them.

  And then Tristan hiccoughed, releasing her, swaying slightly, and gripping the mantel.

  “Oh! You drunken, wenching lout!” she cried, tears of fury and hurt forming in her eyes. Here he was demanding marriage, while she was caged in a room like a heavy brood mare and he was out drinking and philandering all day. She’d not have it; he wouldn’t touch her, oh, she swore it!

  “Wenching?” he inquired politely, and then he started to laugh, and indeed, though he could hold his ale remarkably well, it was quite apparent that he was—drunk! He reached for her again and she let out a squeal and ducked to escape him, but she was hardly light on her feet and his hands found a hold upon her shoulders. The fabric of her robe came away in his grip, and she was left to trip and struggle with her gown. Laughing, he found his way to her, disentangling her by disrobing her; she found his eyes, heatedly, again.

  “Nay, I’ll not entertain you after you’ve spent the days drinking and whoring and—Tristan!”

  She was in his arms, furious—comfortable. And he was staring down at her most cryptically, smiling warily. She banged a fist against his chest, but it just fell there and she lowered her eyes. “Tristan,” she choked, and her words were but a breath, “I—cannot. I don’t believe that I’ve many weeks left and ...”

  “Shush, Genevieve. I simply wish to sleep, and hold you and the babe.”

  He laid her tenderly down and doused the candles. She heard him strip and thought bitterly that she hated him, oh, she really did, for all that he’d done and for—making her so miserably jealous and hurt and indignant . . . and in love.