Jon thought of all the times his friend had saved him in battle. He sped ahead of his torn and weary men, for he was a valorous knight, and he mustn’t let them see the tears that stung his eyes.
When his friend, his leader, his brother-at-arms had needed him, Jon hadn’t been able to save him.
He pulled his mount to an abrupt halt and stared back at the castle, shaking with rage.
“By God and the saints most holy—I’ll not leave this place without his body!”
The men, even those most painfully injured, fell silent,
“We will stay here!” Tibald cried.
“A thorn in their side—’til we’ve the strength to strike again, and throw them to their knees in the dirt!” roared Matthew.
“For Lord Tristan!” Tibald’s voice rang out.
And the cry went up all around them. They all would gladly die in the effort, but they would have vengeance for the man they had served.
Jon nodded; the party trudged onward to their camp.
And as he rode now, Jon thought with a new fury of the ladies of Edenby—fighting their men’s battles with beauty and treacherous wiles. He would like to see them both stripped and whipped and sport for every one of a hundred men—then left with their fine flesh bared for the buzzards.
It was a hard and bitter death to the gallantry he had been feeling.
* * *
When the noise died down, Genevieve still could not move. Huddled to the floor, she kept her palms pressed over her eyes.
There was a soft sound of footsteps coming up the stairs; they were too light to be man’s, but Genevieve was barely aware of the sound. Even when she heard a soft gasp, she could not look up. But when she heard Edwyna murmur, “Oh, dear God!” she at last looked up.
Edwyna was standing just below Tristan’s body, afraid to walk around it. Genevieve tried to speak; sobs tore at her throat and her voice was shrill.
“He’s dead, Edwyna. He’s dead. I killed him, Edwyna!” And suddenly she was laughing again, and crying.
Edwyna stepped over the prone body and came to her, stooping down, putting her arms around her. The women hugged each other tightly, trying to comfort one another while they both were caught in a new wave of chills and sobs.
“It’s over,” Edwyna said, “it’s over now, it’s over now.”
And then there was the clump of heavier feet upon the stairs. Sir Guy was there, with Tamkin behind him.
Sir Guy came to one knee beside Genevieve. “My lady, you are our heroine!” he told her. “You have prevailed; you brought down their lord, and they died and fled without him. You killed him, you are—”
“No, no, no no!” Genevieve cried. “I am no heroine! Please, please! Just get him out of here!”
Sir Guy nodded at Tamkin. Between them they strained to lift the muscular body of the fallen man, an incredible deadweight now. “My lady,” Tamkin murmured uneasily, with a glance at the body, “what arrangements—”
“Out, out!” Genevieve cried.
And so the men shrugged, and stumbled down the stairs with their burden.
In the great hall those Lancastrians who lived were being dragged down the dank corridor that led to the dungeons far below.
“Where do we take him, Sir Guy?” Tamkin asked.
“To the rear,” Guy said after a moment. “To the seaside; we can bury him quickly there, beneath the rock and sand of the cliff.”
“It will not be a Christian burial—” Tamkin said slowly and unhappily. The body of such a lord should be returned to his men, and given proper leave and interment.
“Nay—he goes to the rocks! You heard Lady Genevieve—she wants him out, now!”
Sir Guy was a knight; Tamkin was a guard, elevated by his lord to position of castle guard. He compressed his lips and held back his thoughts, and he and Sir Guy found a litter. They carried the corpse through the rear bailey, past the charred remains of cottages and craft houses that had been burned in the fighting, to the rear tower and gatehouse. This faced the sea, with the cliff itself forming the main wall.
“Here,” said Sir Guy, panting when they neared the top of the crest that dropped to a small beach below, and the sea.
“Here? But I cannot dig a grave—”
“Cover him with stones,” Sir Guy said. “If the buzzards do not take his eyes, he can, in death, survey his folly!”
Sir Guy dropped his end of the litter and dusted off his hands, as if they were filthy. Tamkin noted with a certain resentment that Sir Guy’s fur-trimmed mantle, hose, and tunic were neatly in place, without a tear or a stain. Where had he been during the fight? Tamkin wondered with rancor. Or was Sir Guy so adept with his sword that he need not sweat to do battle?
“I leave you to it,” Sir Guy said, and turned to head back to the rear gatehouse.
Tamkin looked down at the man who had almost slain him, and he shivered. Such a knight deserved more respect than this dismissive burial and the callow comments of a Sir Guy. But there would be much to do in Edenby. Walls and parapets to repair—in case the Lancastrians planned to try again. There would be new wounded to tend to, the hall to clear . . .
Tamkin hastily arranged stones over and around the body. It still wasn’t right; a great lord fallen was still a great lord—even if he were the enemy.
Tamkin was no clergyman, nor did he often do more than daydream and mumble responses at Mass. But as the sky grew dark above him, he fell to his knees and muttered out a prayer for the soul of the lord who had been betrayed.
They had won today; they had been victorious. But Tamkin didn’t feel triumphant; he just felt a little sick.
They had not defended their lady; their lady had defended them, and she had not appeared triumphant at all. It was a poor sort of victory, founded on deceit instead of honor.
Tamkin muttered out another prayer and very tiredly retraced his steps to the castle.
Six
That night Genevieve lay in the semidarkness, alone and safe in her own bed—but afraid to close her eyes. When she closed her eyes, she saw him, dark and burning and furious at her betrayal. She saw him fall again—and she saw the state of the hall once more when she had first descended the stairs. So many of her own guard strewn about the floor, intermingled with the invaders in death as they had never been in life.
She heard again the grief, saw the tears of mothers and children and young girls who found a husband or father slain, a lover lost forever.
There had been no reproach, no whispered words of condemnation from the people. Yet what could they really care who wore the Crown? Except for the minor lords and knights of the surrounding manors, these people lived out their lives on the land, and from the land. By ancient custom, banding together in hardship and in labor, paying their rents, surviving. They seldom journeyed to the next county, much less to London. After what had already passed, she owed them peace—not victory.
But how could she have handed over her father’s holding—all that he had died for—without a fight? In all the days of siege there had been ample bloodshed and agony; she had not blanched, nor shrunk from the wounded. She had buried her own dead and lamented with the others. But today something had been different, something that weighed heavily on her soul.
She was haunted, afraid to close her eyes. She was cold; despite the fire in the hearth, and the warm fur bedspread pulled tightly to her chin, she shivered. By God, she could not forget his eyes, the smouldering, horrible fury in them.
She had killed him. Oh, God! She could not forget him!
Genevieve started suddenly at a rap at her door, where was Tamkin? He should have been sleeping outside of her door. There was always a guard at her door now when she slept, and two massive wolfhounds.
“Genevieve!” It was her aunt’s voice.
Glad of the company, Genevieve sprang from her bed and raced barefoot to the door, throwing it open. Edwyna stood there in a long nightgown, clutching a woolen blanket around her shoulders, her eyes huge in the fl
ickering firelight.
Genevieve noted that Tamkin was curled on the floor, sound asleep—the hounds were curled beside him.
“Come in!” she told Edwyna, and pulled her into the room.
“I couldn’t sleep—”
“Neither could I—”
“We’ve won, and I’m more frightened than ever!”
Soothing Edwyna was always good for Genevieve. It forced her to get a grip on her own emotions.
“It’s all right, Edwyna—we really did win.”
Edwyna ignored the bed and walked over to the mantel to stare into the fire. “Did we?” she murmured, and then shivered. “He’ll come back.”
Wild rampaging chills seized Genevieve, coursing along her spine like the tip of a blade. She didn’t have to close her eyes to see Tristan then—her mind filled with him, blurring the truth of her vision. She saw the fury in his eyes, heard the reverberating power of his rage. But surely . . . surely, Edwyna did not believe he could come back from the dead.
“Edwyna!” she murmured, approaching her aunt and lightly placing a hand on her shoulder, hoping she had not become completely unhinged. “He—can’t come back. He’s dead. I—killed him. They took him out—and buried him somewhere. Edwyna—there are no ghosts. Men cannot rise from the grave to extract vengeance.”
Edwyna was looking at her as if she were the one to have finally snapped from the events of the day.
“Dead—he’s not dead at all!”
“Tristan is dead!” Genevieve almost shouted. “I did it myself, I saw it—oh, merciful heaven, it’s true!”
Edwyna actually smiled a little. “I didn’t mean Lord Tristan—I meant the other. His second in command. Jon of Pleasance.”
“Oh,” Genevieve murmured. Warmth seeped through her again. She sank into one of the chairs—then remembered that it was where he had been sitting and rose again. But Edwyna’s smile had lightened her heart a bit. They had fought an enemy and won—and it was true: Tristan was not going to come from the dead to wreak vengeance.
“The man with the decent smile?” she queried.
Edwyna nodded. “But that smile was gone when he discovered himself trapped.”
“Did he escape?” Genevieve asked.
Edwyna nodded.
“I—I think I’m glad,” said Genevieve. “He appeared young and well-mannered and—”
“Until the end,” Edwyna said a little bitterly. And then she flew into Genevieve’s arms again. “Genevieve! Will it never end? I’m so afraid all over again! They will come back! They will slay us all and raze the castle to the ground for what was done!”
“Edwyna!” Genevieve said, trying to calm her. “You mustn’t worry. Our masons will start at first light to repair the fortifications! The smiths will be busy forging new weapons and armor. And Sir Guy is going to leave with a few men to find the King and his forces, and see if our army cannot be replenished. We sent so many men to fight with the King. Sir Guy will apply for cannon and gunpowder and our men will be invincible again!”
“I wish that I believed that,” Edwyna said mournfully.
“Believe it, for it will be true,” Genevieve promised solemnly.
“Ah, Genevieve! What is it? You are so much younger than I—and so much stronger!”
I’m not stronger, Genevieve thought. I’m a true coward who is delighted to see you because I’m afraid to close my eyes! I keep remembering his touch, the fire . . . his eyes . . . his death!
“We need to get some sleep,” was her only response.
“I don’t want to be alone,” Edwyna murmured, grimacing. “And I can’t even crawl in with Anne because Mary has already done so.”
Genevieve smiled weakly. “Well crawl in with me, then. This night will pass, and the horrors of today will begin to fade. You’ll see.”
They crawled into Genevieve’s bed together and huddled close to one another like children. Genevieve shivered, thinking of what might have happened had Tristan not been killed. And at last she began to reason and assure herself that the day had been a victory. The enemy would have vanquished her; she had vanquished the enemy instead.
Still it was almost dawn before she slept.
* * *
There was darkness—a great, endless pit of swirling darkness. A pit so dark that there wasn’t any pain; there wasn’t anything at all but darkness.
He could not see himself, but he could feel himself traversing that darkness. It seemed he walked for hours and hours and hours before the darkness began to lift—and then it was gray. Like the very worst fogs upon the moors and swampland. The gray came at him soaring and curling, enfolding him.
And then in the gray he began to see shapes. Bodies, fallen all around him. He paused and touched a shoulder to turn over the body. It was one of his men, a young squire from Northumbria, a man who had yet to achieve knighthood. He was dead.
And as Tristan stared at him he saw that the man had no eyes, that the carrion had feasted upon them. A scream seemed to come from the gaping mouth; the blank eye sockets riveted upon him, accusing him, sending a soaring pain to his head so that he staggered back, clutching his temples.
And then he tripped—over another body. His own scream rose to his throat when he saw that it was Lisette’s. Her chestnut hair was matted and tangled about her. Her throat was black and blue; her flesh was gray. There was blood crusted to her skirts ...
But her eyes, too, were gone. Black empty pools of reproach fell on him, touched him, tore into his soul. And then she moved, as if she handed him something; it was another corpse—a small corpse, so small that it could rest in his hand, and he saw that it was the child who had never lived . . .
Again he felt the soaring, stabbing, debilitating pain in his head, and he clutched his temples and started to scream . . .
And dirt fell into his mouth.
For long, long moments he lay there, completely dazed, remembering the dream—and wondering what grime filled his mouth and what cover shielded his eyes from sight.
His head . . . the pain in it was excruciating.
He tried to move; the earth seemed to shuffle and crumble around him, and he heard great, horrible rasping sounds, gasps . . .
And then he froze, chilled by the realization that he had been buried alive. The gasping was his breath in this tomb, where rock covered him and sand and dirt filled his mouth.
Anger gripped him in such great, shocking waves that he trembled, and the black fury caused the pain in his head to explode. Everything grew black again, and he knew he had to calm himself. He could not get enough air. He swallowed, forcing himself to breathe very slowly. Carefully, he warned himself, he must move very carefully . . .
It did not seem that he could move, at first. His arms were useless, his muscles were as weak as butter. He strained with the slim energy he could summon, and at last his fingers moved, ever so slightly. He began to sweat, fearful that he would panic again, and smother. He judged that this hasty grave was not a deep one—just a few layers of stone. He kept moving his fingers, slowly, slowly against rock. He knew that they bled. Earth and stone loosened; at last he felt cool air on one hand, and he cautiously began to free the other.
This was harder than anything he had ever done. Over and over his strength failed him; he tightened his jaw and strove again.
His other hand fought free of the grave. Lord! He was not deep! It was his weakened state that made such an effort of moving pebbles and earth. He removed dirt and stones from his head, and breathed in cool air.
He strained to sit up; he gave all his concentration to the effort, and at last, he managed to force his torso upward. But the pain in his head was fierce, and again he returned to a world of darkness.
Even in that darkness, he knew that he was alive; and in moments the darkness faded again. He opened his eyes to the night around him, slowly ascertaining that he was upon a huge clifftop. He coughed, suddenly, raggedly—air filled his lungs. He wheezed, he breathed deeply, and then he could sme
ll the sea. Far away he could hear waves lashing the rocks and sand below him.
He closed his eyes again, and inhaled deeply of the sweet night air, pure and cleansed by the sea. The pain in his head subsided to a steady throb. He willed vitality to his limbs once again, and sat up.
He flexed his arms. There was a moon tonight, not bright, not full, but he felt that his eyes would not have managed to open in brilliant sunlight. Finding a large boulder in easy reach, he set his hand upon it and willed himself to stand. But once he had staggered to his feet, gray danced before him—he fell. He sat, forcing himself to patience. He had to wait until the spinning gray ceased to blur his vision.
And as he waited he remembered, with a keen clarity that sent his temper soaring once again. The treachery of her devious, treacherous, whorespun betrayal. He’d been drugged. He had known she was a liar. Her act had been sweetly staged, faultlessly performed.
And he was angrier still because he had known, and had fallen prey to her spell in those moments. Genevieve of Edenby . . . falling to her knees, pleading . . . promising, spinning her web of seduction, finally begging in earnest so that his heart was torn by her beauty and humility—so that she might set him up for an assassin’s blow. And when that had failed, she had tried to slay him herself.
He was shaking in the moonlight, so close had death come to him.
“I will stand!” he swore suddenly, furiously to the night. “I will stand and I will live . . .” He continued to grate out, groping for the boulder once again and straining against it. “... if only for one purpose—to strip that daughter of hell of everything that she possesses . . . her castle, her lands, her honor—and every stitch of her pride!”
The swearing—weak and gasping as it was—seemed to help. Panting out the vow, he came slowly to his feet. Eventually he swallowed hard, let go of the boulder, and stood on his own.
And when he stood he could see Edenby Castle below the rise of this very rock.
His eyes began to blur. He swayed—and realized that he was about to lose consciousness again. He grabbed the boulder, leaned against it, and quickly surveyed his immediate surroundings. There was a mossy plain, sheltered by brush and an overhang not more than a stone’s throw away. Staggering, blinking furiously, he tried to reach it. His legs began to wobble fiercely; he fell to his knees and crawled the rest of the way, then sighed deeply and lay down, closing his eyes and fighting nausea and the horrible drunken mists that clouded his vision even when his eyes were closed.
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