“Guy! Stop! Listen to me, and listen well! You can’t do this! It is madness!” She trembled. Henry knew that Tristan was loyal to a fault. Or did he?
Her blood raced hot and cold. She had to stop Guy. Henry loved Tristan, surely! But it was true, too, she thought with a sinking heart, that Henry could be as nervous as a cat when it came to contenders for the throne. He didn’t want mass bloodshed, but when he was forced to it he could be ruthless. If he did believe that Tristan, someone he had trusted so fully, had turned against him, he might be merciless.
“Genevieve, I love you. I have loved you forever. I will love you forever. I have wanted you for a lifetime. And now I will have you. Your father will be avenged, and Axel will be avenged. Your honor will be avenged, and I will love you still, dearest, despite the taint of his touch.”
“Guy!” She stared at him incredulously. She wasn’t sure if he was mad or touchingly endearing. He was so anxious, so concerned, and so pathetic in his desire. “Please, I do not want my honor avenged! You must cease this madness. Listen to me, Guy! You are my friend, my dear, dear friend! I’d not want to see you hurt, ever. But I am sorry that you love me; I cannot love you. Oh, Guy, can’t you see? I am married to him now, and I love him and I wish only—”
“Genevieve! Genevieve!” He shook her, smiling at her ruefully and with a special tenderness that might have been reserved for a misled child. “I know that you are afraid, and I cannot blame you! My poor love! It will come right! I swear it. I will take care of everything.”
“No, Guy—”
He pressed his lips against her, cutting off her words and her breath. She twisted her head, and he did not notice, for he abruptly released her, hurrying toward the door, “Soon, my love, soon!” he vowed.
“Guy—”
The door closed behind him. “Wait!” Genevieve raced after him into the hallway. He was already gone. Behind her the baby started to cry. Genevieve came back into her room and swept Katherine into her arms, crooning to her. She was so nervous herself that the baby kept crying, and she forced herself to try to be calm. At length Katherine slept again, and Genevieve put her down to pace the room in a fever. What could she do? Tell Tristan? But Guy would die, and his death would lie heavy on her heart—and between them—for all the years to come.
Do nothing? Let Guy produce these letters, and trust in Tristan’s allegiance to the King? But what if ... what if Henry were to drag Tristan to the Tower? Tristan would have enemies, as all men of power did. And perhaps those enemies would remind Henry that once upon a time Tristan de la Tere had been a Yorkists through and through.
“Arggh!” With a cry of misery she ceased her pacing and knelt upon the floor, biting hard into her knuckles. It came to her suddenly that Guy had these letters of which he spoke in his possession. Genevieve had seen his lackey hand them to him in the copse. She had seen Guy ride away with them. Back to London? Back to his quarters at Court? If she could search his accommodations, she could steal the documents back—and destroy them. Guy would be powerless to hurt Tristan, and Tristan would never know that his enemy had sought to destroy him.
It was foolhardy, but she was desperate. Her mind made up, Genevieve quickly rose and slipped into the hallway. Breathlessly she scurried down to the servants’ quarters, where Mary was billeted with a number of ladies’ maids. The girl was half-asleep, but at Genevieve’s urging she came back to remain with Katherine.
Genevieve then hurried along the corridors, her heart pounding as she realized that she did not know where to go. Turning and twisting through the maze of corridors, she came upon a guard and asked where the knights might be lodged, Sir Guy in particular. The guard directed her, and she then prayed that Guy would not be in his quarters and that he did not share them with some snoring friend!
She found the room and quickly scanned the hallway before hurrying in.
She closed the door and leaned against it, quickly surveying the space within. All was neat. As yet there was no fire, and it seemed very cold. There were a number of trunks and a cot and a plain writing desk with a single lighted candle upon it, burning out a small flame. Genevieve’s heart quickened anew; Guy would be back any minute.
She pushed away from the door and frantically tried the desk; she could find nothing. She sat back, frustrated, then plunged into the first of the trunks and found nothing but gauntlets and leather jerkins and hose. Again she paused, frustrated and frantic, then plunged into the third trunk, growing reckless. She tossed out breeches and shirts and boots and still came upon nothing. Her fingers raked across the bottom of the trunk and then she knew! Probing and probing and probing, she found the latch to the false bottom and pulled upon it. She fell back as it gave, and then she cried out softly in triumph, reaching for the ribboned and rolled letters.
She stripped away the ribbons and unrolled the parchment to scan the words quickly. A chill swept over her. Dear God, Guy had been right! They were letters to the Earl of Bedford Heath from Yorkist factions, gratefully accepting his aid! Tristan was not that Earl of Bedford Heath—surely it had been his father when Edward was about to go forward to Tewkesberry all those years ago.
But the letters could very possibly bring Tristan to the block now.
There seemed to be some movement in the hall. Genevieve stuffed the letters quickly down her bodice and hastened to right the trunk. She sprang up and ran to the door, cracking it to check the hallway. She slipped out and began a quick walk along the corridor. The candles in their sconces seemed to bum a wavering beat. Her shadow was huge against the wall, and she could hear the staccato beat of her footsteps too loudly.
“Halt!”
At the sudden command she panicked, certain that Guy had returned. If he caught her, he would retrieve the letters. He would perhaps even use that moment to bring them to light.
She started to run.
“Halt! In the name of King!”
It wasn’t Guy; it was just a guard, and the letters were secured safely in her bodice. She breathed deeply, slowing, yet spinning with alarm to realize that the guard had kept running when she had stopped. He slammed against her and she fell, rolling on the hard stone floor. Her head cracked against the wall, and a dizzying pain swept through her.
“Milady—”
Someone was reaching to assist her, demanding to know why she had been running. Genevieve tried to rise, then heard a horrible tearing noise, and realized that the letters were spilling out of her bodice.
And there were suddenly sounds. The hall, so silent before, was alive with movement. Footsteps, many of them, running, coming closer and closer, then stopping all around her.
“What’s this?”
The letters were wrenched away from her. Genevieve blinked, trying to dispel the dizziness of her fall, trying to think.
“How dare you?” she demanded with her best, most imperious tone. “Sirs! Where lies gallantry? I am the Countess of Bedford Heath and Duchess of Edenby and you’ve no right to so accost me! I—”
“My God! Look at this, Anthony! Why, these letters are treason!”
“She is in a conspiracy! The King must see these!”
“Lady of Edenby! She is a Yorkist! She has always been so—she fought Henry when he landed.”
The accusations were coming at her fast and quick and through the haze that spun before her eyes. At least ten of the King’s royal guard stood grouped around her.
“Nay! They are no treason—” she cried. “They—”
“They implicate Lord de la Tere!” someone said.
And then another stepped forward, looking at the letters, staring keenly at Genevieve. Genevieve knew him vaguely. One of the Sir Nevitis—a member of a vast and powerful family, ever anxious for more and more power. They, too, had a connection with the Crown.
“Sir—” she began, but he cut her off crudely, his eyes narrowing with sharp and pleased appraisal.
“Madam, I charge you with ‘high treason’! Take her to the Tower! I shall accost h
is grace de la Tere immediately!”
Sir Nevill turned around. Genevieve felt herself grasped roughly by both arms. She jerked herself free, tears that she would not allow to fall stinging her eyes.
“I shall walk! Do not touch me!”
And she did walk, but her heart was tremulous with terror and her knees would scarcely hold her. The Tower. Prisoners were held in the Tower for years on end; prisoners left the Tower to lay down their heads upon a block.
And Sir Nevill was going after Tristan. With all the letters in his hands. And they would drag Tristan off and ...
Katherine! Was she crying? Did she fuss, had she awakened, did she miss her mother? Did she need her, did she hunger? Oh, God, if not now, in time she would awaken. Katherine! Oh, what would become of her precious and innocent babe if she and Tristan were both taken to the Tower?
Genevieve stumbled. One of the guards reached with strange courtesy for her arm, but she jerked it back, blinded by her tears. She tried to hold her head high and turn to the man with dignity.
“Could you—” She had to start over; she could find no voice. “Could you find the Lady Edwyna, wife of Sir Jon of Pleasance, and see that she tends to my daughter?”
“Milady!” This guard was of the kinder sort. He bowed most courteously to her, and someone was sent.
Then the corridors seemed to stretch and stretch until they exited by the rear and came to the river Thames. A boatsman was hailed.
Genevieve could hear the constant slap of the water against the boat. She could look up and see a million stars dotting the sky. The moon was out, high and full.
It was better to look up than across the water.
She could hear the oars pound the water. Slowly, surely, rhythmically. She swallowed, and she fought her nausea and her panic, and she tried not to think, not to find reproach; yet the bile rose in her throat and she could not help herself. What else could she have done! She’d had to try to destroy the letters! Else Tristan would have faced the charge of treason anyway, or Guy would have died a bloody death and Tristan might have been charged with murder . . .
Tristan. Where was he now?
* * *
Tristan stared with cold fury across the King’s privy chamber to Sir Nevill. He hadn’t said a word to the charges against him—indeed he had not moved. He remained where he had been when Nevill had burst in upon them, sipping a chalice of the King’s finest Bordeaux, his stance casual before the fire.
“As you can see, Your Majesty—” Nevill continued to Henry, seated at the table before the newly signed charter which would make Edenby a city, “—these letters are awful and horrible proof—”
“That my father and family and I fought for King Edward at the battle of Tewkesberry,” Tristan interrupted disdainfully at last. Eyes boring into Nevill’s, Tristan came from the fire past Henry’s clerks and stood beside the King, pointing down to the letter. “See here, man! The Earl of Warwick is a ten-year-old boy! This is not the penmanship of a ten year old—”
“Rubbish!” Nevill swore. “Letters would be written by his clerics—”
“And this! This which now claims me guilty of treason. If you would care to search the records; Your Majesty, you would know that penmanship to belong to Edward III!”
Henry pushed the letter from him, staring at Nevill. “I don’t need to make reference to past documents; I’ve studied many. This is Edward’s writing. The parchment is old and frayed, and a blind man might well tell that this is no new missive but an old and fading correspondence. Sir Nevill! Where did this come from?”
Nevill appeared both surly and unappeased, but directly questioned by the King he could not back down. “They were on the person of the Duchess of Edenby, Sire.” He bowed toward Tristan. “My Lord de la Tere’s Yorkist wife.”
Tristan stiffened and his blood boiled. Genevieve!
The room swam black in his anger, denial, and bitter admission. Genevieve . . . she had come to Bedford Heath. She had whispered—and he had fallen into sweet seduction, into love. He had fallen as he had fallen before. Into her sensual web. Into the golden allure. In the heat . . . into the fire.
She had betrayed him again—whispering not just passion, but love. Lying with him again and again in ecstasy’s abandon, searing his heart and soul and sense and—making him believe. Seducing him, compelling him, until he could die, drown gladly in the perfume of her sweet scent.
The pain was harsh agony within him, a knife wound that rendered him weak. Yet before Nevill he could not falter. She was his wife. Their war had always been a private one. She was Katherine’s mother ... nay, he could not falter before Nevill!
His features stayed rigid, cold, and ruthless. “Where is my wife?”
“On her way to the Tower.”
“I signed no warrant!” Henry roared.
“Your Majesty! I saw treason—she is a Yorkist!”
Tristan ignored Nevill and turned to Henry. “Your Grace, I would go retrieve what is mine, and deal with it as I see best.”
Henry sighed, watching Tristan.
“Perhaps you judge too harshly,” he said, studying the man.
“Nay,” Tristan said bitterly. “She has betrayed me again. Yet it is my concern. I beg your leave to take her from Court. Our business is done, and I would keep her in my own tower, by your leave.”
The King nodded, and Tristan strode from the room.
* * *
“Oh, God!” The whisper escaped her because Traitor’s Gate—like the jaws of death—loomed suddenly before her. Genevieve could not control the shivering inside of her.
The constable was waiting the boat’s delivery on a dock damp with moss and slippery with water. Her heart started to thunder, and she thought that she would not be able to stand, that she would faint and fall.
“Halt, ahoy there!”
The command came from behind. Genevieve whirled in the rocking rowboat.
Another boat approached, with Tristan standing tall within it: His mantle flowed behind him. Blessed God, he wore no chains! He held papers in his hand, papers he gave with cool propriety to the constable as his craft drifted to the step and he leapt upon it.
“The lady is not your prisoner, sir, but is to be delivered unto my keeping.”
“The constable scanned the note with the King’s seal upon it and nodded.
“Milady?”
One of the guards reached for Genevieve’s hand to help her from the boat to the step. She looked at her husband. His features were in shadow, but his expression was harsh. And as her foot fell upon the slick step, she felt the heat of his anger, which reached out in the night to sweep over her in waves. He did not touch her but surveyed her coldly.
But he was there to retrieve her! He was not under arrest!
“Madam!” he said hoarsely, through tight-clenched teeth, and bowed his head, indicating the other boat. She tried to step into it and she stumbled. He caught her elbow, and she feared that he would wrench away her arm. Steeling herself against the pain, she bit into her lip to keep silent, and he released her to allow her to sit.
Silence cold and dark fell over them as the boatsman pushed away from the steps, and they left Traitor’s Gate behind. A breeze swept up, and again Genevieve heard the constant lap of the water against the wood of their craft. She wanted to talk; she wanted to throw her arms around Tristan and cry out her fear and her anguish and tell him how desperately grateful she was that he had not suffered.
She opened her mouth, but it was too dry for sound. She looked at him and knew that she faced a stranger. Fear danced through her like the reflection of the stars against the moat and then the Thames.
“Tristan ...” At last she spoke his name as they neared the shore. It came as a croak, dry as brittle leaves. And she got no further. He leaned precariously across the seat to grip her chin in a painful vise.
“Not now, madam. I will hear it all, later!”
She did not attempt to speak again until the hired boat had brought
them to the shore and a wretched long walk had returned them to their room.
Seated on the bed, anxiously rocking Katherine’s cradle, Edwyna jumped to her feet at the sight of them.
“Genevieve!” She hugged her niece, talking frantically. “Genevieve, Tristan! Oh, I was so heartily worried. I—”
Tristan pulled Edwyna from Genevieve, bringing her to the door. “Find Jon,” he told her curtly. “Tell him we go home in the morning. Ask him to go to the King for our papers and to formally request our leave.”
Edwyna nodded miserably. Tristan closed the door.
And Genevieve stared at him in heartache and misery. She could not fathom his fury, and so she gave out a desperate little cry and came hurriedly to him, whispering his name and bringing her trembling fingers to his cheek.
She never touched him. The back of his hand came hard against her cheek, and she was flung carelessly back to the bed by the force of it.
“Nay, madam!” He thundered. “Never again! Never again will I fall for your beauty or your lies, and never again my own desperate desire! I love you—so you whispered, and whispered well, and I—stupid fool, who had already felt the iron of your treachery against my skull, fell into the sweet seduction of your willing arms and supple thighs. Why should you come to Bedford Heath? For love. Bah! You were there seeking some means for my downfall, but you missed your mark on this one, lady! The King is not stupid, and he knew the charge of treason false!”
Aghast and incredulous, Genevieve stared at his steely countenance as he stood over her, untouchable, unreachable—the iron warrior upon the field of battle. Her cheek throbbed from his blow and yet the tears that came to her eyes were not of pain. He thought that she had stolen the documents! That she had searched his records and his books and his home . . . and thought to see him imprisoned.
Lie Down in Roses Page 43