“Nay, my father—my father’s body! I’ll not leave him to the carrion crows!”
So they carried Edgar back into his castle. Genevieve, wet with blood, stood upon the parapets and would see no one. She felt the night air against her cheeks, and she vowed to her dead father’s spirit that she would not surrender.
She vowed to Axel that their love would not have perished in vain.
“De la Tere!” she shouted to the night wind. “Tristan de la Tere! I will bring you down, I swear it!”
But that night, sobs of disbelieving grief belied her proud cry. She could not accept that her father was lost, that she would never call Axel husband, that her world as she had known and loved it could never be again.
Finally exhausted, Genevieve leaned her head against the stone wall and repeated her father’s words.
“Never surrender.”
De la Tere’s forces would do battle against her again, she knew. And she had so few resources remaining! Ah, but some plan would come to her. Something.
Never surrender.
Two
It appeared as if the sun itself flew, blazing, leaping in fiery splendor, high against the sky.
But then the huge stone—rolled in linen and soaked with oil and set to bum—fell, and screams of shrieking agony rose from beyond the stone walls and cliff barriers of Edenby Castle.
Tristan’s cannon thundered and roared. But the stone walls were so thick that the ball had little effect, and soon the hastily constructed catapult loomed into action again. There was pandemonium. Between the fires arising and the gunpowder that blackened the air around them, it was difficult to tell who men were, or whom they followed. It was difficult even to make out their red rose crests, proclaiming the House of Lancaster.
Tristan de la Tere was seated upon his massive warhorse, in helmet and armor, bearing the emblem of the red rose on his mantle. All that could be seen of Tristan’s face were his eyes, which were as dark as the night. His eyes narrowed as he sat there in silence. Not even his well-trained mount stirred.
Then he suddenly swore with an incredulous fury. “God damn them! Haven’t they the sense to surrender? I’d have no more of this senseless bloodshed!”
At his side, Jon, his second in command now, dared to speak. “I’m afraid, Tristan, that they do not honor the Lancaster heir as we do. Nor, does it seem, that the Lord of Edenby is eager to hand over his castle.” Like Tristan, he prayed that the bloodshed would end. Yet it was impossible not to admire a worthy foe, and even—in this particular battle—understand his position.
“Edgar of Edenby must understand that this is war.”
“Umm,” Jon murmured, wincing silently for a moment as a horse went down, slain not by the enemy, but by the faulty firing of a cannon, which set ablaze the area not a hundred yards from where they stood to direct the battle. “You were ordered to take this place as a conquered domain. By a king who does not yet sit upon a throne.”
“But will do so,” Tristan said quietly and grimly. He shrugged. “Jon, I tried everything. Now I have been ordered to give no mercy, but still I will try to do so. Yet if this keeps up, the men will be like lunatics when they go in.” He fell silent for a moment. “I will feel like a madman when I go in myself, yearning to destroy.”
“Looting, rape, and thievery! What a task we are set to!” Jon mused. “I’ve a mind for some fine silver plate myself. And once this ends,” he paused, shrugging with a weary grin, “the pleasure of fine wine, women, and song!”
Tristan grunted out an answer and spun about in his saddle, lifting a gauntleted hand. “Damn the castle! And Edenby’s pride! He had only to swear his loyalty.” He turned back to the scene before him: the fire, blazing high against the wintry blue sky. The ramparts, where men could be seen racing along—awkward in their mail and helmets—and desperate to elude the flames and quench them. The castle sat on a bluff, a wall of sheer stone that rose from the sea at the left and protected the front. They had penetrated the fortress with their catapult, but there was still no hint that Edenby would capitulate.
Tristan grimly contemplated his own men—tired, filthy, and ragged. Blackened by soot, laden down by their shafts and arrows and spears and archers’ armor and swords.
Fury soared in his heart again. By God, Edenby! he thought. Surrender! I have no wish to debase you, yet you give me no choice! I will win, Edenby! I will see that Henry Tudor ascends to his throne.
Tristan had become Henry’s man himself, fiercely so. He could not forgive Richard. Perhaps Richard had not officially ordered murder, but he had made it clear that he was displeased with Tristan. Murder had ensued: the death of everything Tristan had loved. The King’s displeasure had exacted a penalty that Tristan would never forgive; two years later, the wounds were still deep. The past was like a relentless knife in his heart, an agony that would not fade.
Henry Tudor—son of Owen and heir through his mother’s branch of the family—was a man of stern and uncompromising judgment, but he was also determined to see the terror and bloodshed come to an end. Richard still claimed the throne, but Tristan believed fiercely that it was only a matter of time. The country was rising against his treachery and deceit.
Henry was, for some unfathomable reason, furious with Edgar Llewellyn. A curious fact, since he had known that few of the nobility would join the fight for the Crown this time. Neutrality not only was a wise course, but for many families it was the only way to survive.
But once Edgar had refused shelter to Henry’s men, Henry had ordered the castle taken, Edgar demoralized. Perhaps it was Edgar’s Welsh inheritance, but more likely it was personal between Henry and Edgar.
“I will get Edenby to surrender,” Tristan had assured Henry; but the Lancastrian had laughed bitterly. Edgar had been proclaiming stalwartly for the Yorkists for the past thirty years. “He called me the ‘Mad Bastard’ once,” Henry told Tristan “He has not changed, and he will not surrender—not until every stone is overturned.” Henry frowned darkly. “Go back, Tristan, and crush Edenby.” And Henry had eyed Tristan with the shrewdness that was one of his greatest assets. “Give no quarter. Take Edenby, and Edenby is yours. Don’t forget the heinous cruelties perpetrated on your family by the House of York.”
Tristan had not forgotten. But despite Henry’s words, Tristan knew that the man who would be king did not want endless fields of dead. Henry might bear a personal grudge against Edgar, but he possessed a certain avarice; he would want living subjects, men to till the fields and lords of the manors who were able to pay their taxes.
If Edgar only had honored their first request for food and hospitality! Tristan would never have sought Henry’s advice, never received the severe and irrevocable answer. “Damn them!” Tristan swore again furiously. When they did take the castle, he would not be able, in fairness, to deny his men any sort of plunder. You could not drag knights over a harsh, barren countryside and deny them the spoils of war. He could only pray for a minimum of bloodshed.
“So be it!” he muttered heatedly, and he lifted a hand to Tibald at the brace of a catapult. His hand fell; once again a soaring, flame-gold ball of death took flight.
The anguished screams rose from Edenby, loud and shrill. Smoke filled the air; people raced about, scurrying for cover, shrieking and gasping for water.
Tristan’s eyes narrowed once again as he peered through the smoke and flame. The ramparts were empty now—his archers were assuring that those who dared to remain in sight would not do so for long. But then Tristan saw a lone figure, curiously tall and proud and apparently oblivious to the fire and cacophony. He blinked; the smoke was like a swirling fog, rising and misting. It seemed that the screams grew faint as he stared through the shield of smoke, almost as if he had entered another place and time.
It was a woman who stood there. Decked in white, in some snowy fabric that caught the breeze and floated and surrounded her. Reaching through the smoke-filled gray of the sky, the sunlight touched her long hair, which glittered like gold, curl
ing in golden waves below her knees.
Her hands were on the walls; it seemed that she stared straight down at him. He could not see her face, and yet he sensed that she was not afraid, that she scorned their efforts completely. She stood so defiantly that he was shaken by her appearance.
What was she doing there? Where was her father, her husband, her brother, that they allowed her to stand there so! Defying danger . . .
Poor Lisette had begged for mercy, and found none. This woman stood there, daring death, and no harm came her way. Something simmered and scalded and roiled deep within Tristan’s heart; he wanted to wrench her from that height and shake her and yell until she had some sense of danger.
“Milord Tristan!”
He started, and saw that Tibald was calling to him. “What order?”
“Do we give them another volley then?” Jon queried.
“Nay—we wait,” Tristan said. He stared back to the ramparts; she was gone. “We leave them to ponder on our strength—and we send them another condition of surrender.”
Suddenly, flying down from the ramparts, came a fluid stream of burning arrows. Screams rose again—this time from Tristan’s men as they fell to the ground, beat at the flames, bled, and died. “Hold your shields!” Tristan commanded, his voice rising like thunder above the din about him. He did not move his position, but raised his shield—embossed with an intertwined hawk and tiger—high against the death rain. His men, in turn, did not panic, but raised their own shields, and those larger, wooden ones twined together for the siege so that they might drag away the wounded. The rain of arrows at last ceased. Furious, with his lips compressed grimly, Tristan spoke to Tibald. “They seek battle, and they shall receive battle! Another volley!”
Tibald nodded to the warrior with the fire taper; the flame was lit—and a burning ball sprang high to the heavens once again. Tristan did not hear the screams from beyond the wall. He was too busy commanding his own men to pull back the wounded. Even his great mount was prancing at the upheaval around them now; horses were down, and their agonized and eerie cries tore at the smoke-filled air.
At last Tristan looked back at the castle. Flames rose high, and smoke filled the sky. But no banner was raised to offer surrender.
Tristan ordered that they pull back to the tents. The same bluff that shielded the castle had offered them a buffered camp in easy reach.
As litters were dragged along behind them with the giant catapult, Tristan rode grim-faced. When they reached camp and Tristan dismounted, not even Jon sought to talk to him. Tristan, who wore no beard, had harsh features to start with: a high forehead with winged, mocking brows, a long nose, cheekbones that rose high and stern, and a jawline that appeared sculpted of rock. His rich abundance of sable dark hair touched the collar of his tunic and fell almost to his brows in front, but was usually swept aside. His flesh was bronzed from many days spent outdoors. Although he had once smiled easily, Tristan rarely bore the look of amusement that had been so charming. For the last two years his wide mouth had been compressed with a severity that could cause the stoutest man to quake. His eyes were changeable and deep; they could rage with fire and threaten like the pits of hell. He could, by his mere presence, accomplish more with a word than many a man with a sword.
He rose high above other men, trim but with broad muscled shoulders that had been hardened by heavy practice with the weapons of war. He was a young man, not yet thirty, but the older barons never thought to question his command. He was always first beneath the fire; it seemed he could deny death.
He has become so hard, Jon thought, watching his friend.
Jon followed Tristan into his tent, and stood behind while he stripped away his helmet and mail, and washed his face furiously in cool water. “Call for Alaric,” Tristan ordered shortly, and Jon moved to obey the summons.
Moments later the scribe, Alaric, was there. He was an old man, but one who had served Tristan’s father faithfully. Tristan clasped his hands behind his back and paced the room. Alaric looked at Tristan calmly, awaiting the biting speech that would follow. Tristan’s anger was evident in his carriage, in the smoldering flame of his eyes. His voice was calm, he was not shouting—and was therefore at his most dangerous stage.
“Tell them,” Tristan said at last, pausing, “tell them no quarter. That we shall ram the gates tomorrow, and that they should pray for God to have mercy, for I—Tristan de la Tere, Earl and Lord in the service of Henry Tudor—shall have none.”
He paused again. He closed his eyes, and he could see his men, burning, shrieking, dying in agony in the streak of arrows. His was the stronger force; he would win.
Tristan opened his eyes and looked at the scribe. “That is it, Alaric. See that it is brought to the gates under the proper banner. And see that it is understood. No mercy.”
Alaric nodded, bobbed, and left the tent. Tristan then turned calmly to Jon. “Is there a meal that can be sent? I believe we’ve still a cache of Bordeaux. See to it, will you, Jon—and ask Tibald that I be given a report on the wounded.”
Not long after, they sat down to their meal. Tristan described the assault they would make in the morning. “Before dawn, or just as the dawn arises,” he said. And then he frowned, for Alaric burst in upon them. “There was a reply to your message, milord. An urgent summons that you meet with the lord of the castle, this evening, alone, at a point that is too distant from the castle to be in range. A certain place upon the bluff.”
“Don’t do it, Tristan!” Jon declared warily. “ ’Tis surely a trick, and nothing more.”
“The request came out in the ‘name of Christ’s mercy.’ ”
Tristan hesitated, drinking his cherished Bordeaux thoughtfully. “Nay, I will go prepared for a trick. Solemn oath will be taken on both sides that there will be no interference.”
“Aye—that has been promised by the Yorkists.”
“And ’tis no better than the promise of dogs!” Jon spat out.
Tristan clanked his goblet to the table. “God’s whit! But I’ve lost enough men! I will meet with this lord, and the surrender will be upon my terms, I swear it!”
Not an hour later, he was again mounted. He wore no helmet or mail, nor did he carry his sword. But he did have his knife in a sheath at his calf, ready to be drawn.
Jon accompanied Tristan to the bluff. Once there, he dismounted and gazed up at the maze of rock. He knew the appointed cove; he had been there when they had first started the siege.
“Go carefully, Tristan,” Jon warned.
“I always move carefully,” Tristan replied. He turned to the rock, and planted his boots against it to climb to the first plateau. Tossing his mantle over his shoulder, he continued along the harsh trail of boulders, a taper of fire high in his hand.
He approved the meeting place. No one could hide upon the windswept rock—the cove afforded the only privacy. Yet he moved cautiously, for he would never trust these Yorkists.
“Edenby!” He shouted when he reached the appointed cove. “Show yourself!”
There was a sound behind him and he turned, ever at the ready to draw his knife and strike. But he paused, startled. There was no man there—just the woman he had seen upon the ramparts. She was in white again, or was it the same white—somehow untouched by the smoke? Beneath the glow of the moon, her hair still seemed to hold sunlight. It was a rich and golden color, vivid and deep, and it framed a face that was finely sculpted, pale and rose, beautiful and young. The eyes that beheld him were silver with the moon, and as proudly defiant as her stance. She, too, held a taper; its blaze touched her eyes and set the sheen of pure gold to her hair.
Suddenly he found himself furious at her appearance—more furious still that she had stood like a fool upon the ramparts while the arrows flew, “Who are you?” he demanded harshly. “I came to meet the lord of the castle—not a girl.”
She seemed to stiffen, then rich lashes fell over her eyes, and a disdainful smile curled the corners of her lips.
&nbs
p; “The lord of the castle is quite dead, and has been since he was murdered on the fourth day of battle.”
Tristan found a crevice in which to stash his torch. He walked slowly around her, hands on his hips. “So,” he said at last, “the lord of the castle is dead. Where then, is his son, his brother, his cousin, or the man to take his place?”
There was such a calm about her that he longed to slap her, yet refrained. “I, sir, am the ‘lord’ of the castle.”
“Then it is you who has caused these further days of needless and futile suffering and death!” Tristan spat out to her.
“I?” She raised a honey-colored brow. “Nay, sir, I did not set out to attack, to divest others of their home, to rape and pillage and murder. I have sought only to keep what is mine.”
“I sought no pillage, no rape, no murder,” Tristan muttered, “but my God, lady, now it shall be.”
Her lashes lowered, and her head dipped just slightly. “Then there is no chance that I—might seek honorable surrender now?”
“You are late in asking, lady,” Tristan said bitterly. “And there is nothing for me to gain. You seek to call my men animals—that is what you have made them.”
She raised her head. “I asked you, milord, if there was no hope of mercy?” Her voice was soft, like velvet, drifting along his spine. He heard in it a plea, and more. Something that twisted inside of him, something that made him ache . . . burn . . .
Desire.
It was sudden, startling, stark, and painful. Love had died and been buried with Lisette and their child. But in the two years that had passed since then, Tristan had discovered that love and need were not the same. He had wanted many women since; he had easily had what he wanted. But this desire was unlike anything he had known.
It was like a fire burning, filling him. She was exquisite. Her hair . . . he could imagine it entangled about him, against him like silk. Skeins of gold. She was so fair. Her eyes were the most unusual color and shape he had ever seen. She had a strange power; she made a man want her with a shattering, reckless hunger; she made him burn, and throb, and long to take her on any level. She made him ache to forget all else, to reach for her, to strip her finery from her, and know right there, right then, upon the dirt and the rock, what mystery lay within her eyes, what passion shimmered there.
Lie Down in Roses Page 4
