A drink ... if he could only clear his parched throat with water! But there was no water, nothing to alleviate the thick, swollen feel of his tongue against his mouth. He could only pray that the pain and dizziness would clear if he rested.
He felt a night mist creep around him, and he opened his eyes once more to stare up at the half-moon in the velvet sky. All he need do was think of her. Genevieve of Edenby ... clad in all the silken beauty of her golden tresses, at his knees . . . pleading. Her eyes such a lustre of mauve beauty that he had succumbed to her treachery.
He closed his eyes once again, feeling absurdly serene. Strength seemed even then to pour back into his limbs. He felt as if his heart had found a stronger beat, that he could sleep and wake again.
Because he would have his revenge. Just as surely as the tide would wash the rocks below him, and the sun would rise in the heavens with the morning, he would have his revenge.
* * *
The dawn woke Tristan. He opened his eyes carefully at first, and found that his vision seemed to be fine. He blinked against the rising sun, and then smiled slowly because it was perfect, a golden orb rising out of the pink and gray mists of the cliff.
He sat up carefully. He touched the wound at the base of his skull and winced; it hurt badly to touch. But though he was hungry and wretchedly thirsty and weak, he no longer had the horrible dizzying sensation that had kept him from standing last night. He carefully rose to his feet, and smiled. He could stand.
Tristan surveyed his position carefully. Before him was Edenby and the rear gatehouse. He noted that there was only one wall here—other than that of the cliff itself. And when he turned around there was the sea. No natural harbor here—it was rock-strewn and harsh. There was a small beach, but even that was rimmed by cliffs and caves and natural rock barriers. No large ship would dare sail close to shore—yet a small raft might well brave the obstacles. A small raft . . . or a swimmer.
It was certain that he could not escape through Edenby. He hadn’t the strength to scale the walls, nor the agility to sneak through the place like a shadow. His only chance was the sea, and that was far below him.
But it was time to move, time to take action. His thirst had become desperate; he had never known before that it was possible to crave water so desperately. Reason was with him, though, and he used that reason to drive himself. If he could reach the sea, he could use the current and waves to carry him; he would round the great cliff, and, if God were with him, reach shore near the cove where his men were camped.
He closed his eyes for one brief moment. He had to get down the near-vertical cliff first.
The same moss that had given him a bed for the night grew over the rock, making the cliffside slick. Tristan went down on his hands and grasped for any hold that he could find—rocks and roots and the spidery branches of the tenacious wild ferns that grew here. At the end he lost his hold; a grunt escaped him as he began falling, rolling with increasing speed along the smooth stone. Then he was suddenly pitched into empty air—and hurtled down hard into a small spit of white sand.
For several seconds he lay there, stunned and breathless. Then he began to flex his muscles, and he laughed out loud. He was covered with scratches and bruises, but he had broken no bones. The sand beneath him was clean and soft, and the sound of the waves that came to him was like a potent wine to his blood—giving him hope and faith and renewed determination. A wave crashed, and seawater washed his body in a lazy embrace, cold and invigorating. He stood and rushed out to greet the water, stiffening as its coldness jolted his body. But he didn’t think about it—he just began to swim.
It was not as easy as he had hoped; the tide was like an enemy that longed to dash him against the rock. His arms tired quickly; the icy water made him long to sleep again—to rest—to give up his hold on life and slip beneath the surface to an aquamarine paradise....
Don’t rest, don’t pause, don’t give up ... he repeated to himself over and over. And though each and every one of his muscles ached with burning pain, he kept going.
Each time he was ready to give up, each time the salt so sorely stung his eyes that he was blinded, he thought of Lady Genevieve. The most beautiful, the most treacherous woman he had ever met. If he did not live, she would never be brought to justice. He would force her to pay in some earthly hell for trying to kill him for the casual, degrading, unholy burial that she had given him.
Anger gave him a burst of energy. Stroke, breathe, stroke, breathe. Again and again . . .
And suddenly the great rocks to his left disappeared. He blinked furiously against the saltwater that filled his eyes. There was land again—a strip of beach.
He kicked—and his foot touched rock. He tried for a foothold and managed to brace against the sand. The shore . . . the shore was before him! The cove . . . he could see tents and men and horses and cooking fires.
Staggering and floundering to avoid the rocks, he moved forward. At last he cleared the water—and pitched forward, blackness claiming him again in a burst of stars.
But voices tore at his oblivion. Arms tugged at his shoulders, lifting him, clearing him from the gentle lap of the sea.
“Tristan! By God and the Blessed Virgin—it is Lord Tristan!”
He opened his eyes. A man—a man with the red rose of Lancaster—was kneeled anxiously at his side.
Tristan smiled with parched lips.
“Water,” he whispered hoarsely, and closed his eyes again. He could do that now—he had made it.
* * *
By midmorning Genevieve had such a headache that her images of yesterday had begun to blur.
Mary had been at her door early; it seemed that everyone in Edenby awaited her orders to begin the day. Genevieve had found herself at a loss; her father had seldom cared much about the running of his castle. He had often been called to court, and had spent years tenaciously clinging to his property with the continual change of the English monarchy. He had loved to hunt, and had spent numerous hours with friends on debates of philosophy and theology. He had been concerned only with his comfort—and his rents!—as far as the running of Edenby had gone.
Michael had acted as their steward. He had kept everything running smoothly, from the castle itself to the farms beyond. He had collected the rents, he had supervised the grain mill. He had, in short, done everything. And until this morning, Genevieve realized sadly, she had never known it.
When her father had died she had been ready to assume his command. Directing their defenses had been a balm to her soul. She hadn’t had time to worry that she would fail; she had been in such emotional turmoil that she had expected no insurrection and received none.
But now she felt lost. Michael was dead. Her father was dead. Axel was dead, and Sir Guy was leaving soon. Half of Edenby lay in ruins, and danger still lurked beyond the walls.
Mary told Genevieve that Father Thomas and Sir Humphrey awaited her in Edgar’s counting room. Edwyna was still sleeping; Genevieve decided to let her be, and dismissed Mary with the message that she would be down soon.
She dressed in a somber gray velvet that suited her mood, tied her hair into one long braid, and descended the stairs. Sir Humphrey and Father Thomas rose as soon as she entered. From behind her father’s sturdy oak desk, Sir Humphrey cleared his throat; he offered her the chair, wishing her an awkward good-morning.
Genevieve took the chair there and watched Father Thomas a little uneasily. By choice, he had spent the day before in the chapel—on his hands and knees. He had not approved their plan—and had plainly said so—but he had acquiesced when it had been agreed upon by the others. He was a tall, slim man with a keen wit.
A commoner, he had chosen a life in the Church more from vocation than as a means to rise above the menial and hard labor of a tenant farmer. Genevieve had been pleased Father Thomas had come to Edenby; he was not so strict that she spent her life on her knees saying novenas, nor was he so lax that she felt she had no spiritual guidance at all. He was usu
ally like a friend, slightly older, often very wise—and quietly in the background when she needed him. He was a very good-looking man, with tawny hair and dark green eyes, and Genevieve was certain that he kept discreet company with one of the craftsmen’s daughters. He was a man of the Church, yet not entirely supportive of its rules for the clergy. But perhaps that was what she liked about him, Genevieve reflected: he lived by God—and by common sense.
“We’ve the dead to worry about, my lady,” he told her now, wasting no time.
“They must be buried as their families choose,” Genevieve replied. “Tell Jack, the stonemason, to carve their stones. Edenby will pay.”
He nodded, bowing slightly, then asked. “And Michael?”
“Michael,” she murmured softly. “Michael must be interred in the chapel, beside my father whom he served so well.”
“That is well, Lady Genevieve,” Father Thomas said. Genevieve didn’t like the way that he was looking at her, or his tone. Both seemed disapproving, but even as she gazed at him a little rebelliously, Sir Humphrey began speaking. “The walls must be repaired, yet so many have been lost that the tenants are afraid to take the time from the fields to build. Some may surely be spared, yet who shall work and thus lose his income, and who should not be called? Also there is the matter of the guard. More men must be chosen, yet which families shall you honor?”
There was a quill sitting on the desk. Genevieve picked it up and idly tapped upon a parchment accounting for the rents. “As to the walls, Sir Humphrey, the able-bodied workers must be split in two groups. They shall alter their work each day, and no one shall lose out. I will have Tamkin advise me on who should be called to join the guard. Giles, from the kitchen, must be promoted to Michael’s position, for his knowledge of the castle is great. Sir Humphrey, if you would be so good as to speak with him, I’ll see him here now. And ask Tamkin to see to the division of men so that we waste no time, lest we find ourselves weakened against another attack.”
Sir Humphrey seemed vastly relieved; he bowed to her and went in search of Giles. Genevieve watched his departure, then turned back to Father Thomas, aware that he was staring at her.
“What is it, Father?” she demanded curtly. “I feel your disapproval. How have I offended you?”
He walked toward the mullioned window that looked out upon the inner bailey. The sun was scarcely up, and the pink glow of morning was showing the ruin of the smithy. He turned again.
“My lady, I was distressed that you should use the promise of carnal delight to lure a man to his death, yet I was overwhelmed by the opposition. Now it has come to my attention that you struck the blow yourself, and ordered that a Christian knight should be denied a Christian burial.”
Genevieve felt a flush of annoyance. “Father, I struck down the man who was about to kill Tamkin. It did not please me to do so; it was necessary. Perhaps I was wrong to allow his body to be so callously taken, but I was distressed when I gave the order. Is that all, Father? I will be at Mass; please understand that my prayers for my own shall precede those I would offer for an enemy.”
Father Thomas stiffened. “My child—”
Genevieve tossed the pen onto the desk irritably. “Please, Father! Don’t ‘my child’ me! I am doing the best that I can!”
He smiled then and came to the desk, lifting her chin. “I’m sorry. This has been quite difficult for you, hasn’t it? A father lost, a betrothed slain. Responsibility resting upon shoulders too slim—”
“They are not too slim, Father Thomas,” she said softly.
He smiled again, then moved away. “I was worried, Genevieve. I prayed yesterday that you would not be injured. It was a risky plan. And now I pray that the murder will not live with you because I know your soul. I feel that we were not honorable, and that sits hard with my conscience.”
“What is honorable?” she charged him heatedly. “Were they honorable—attacking Edenby with no provocation?”
Father Thomas sighed. “Your father was given the opportunity to surrender. To live, to maintain his position. All he had to do was capitulate to the demands of the Tudor.”
“Father, it would not have been honorable to betray a vow once made! My father was sworn to Richard—loyalty cannot shift with the wind.”
“Perhaps not—but the Lancastrians did battle fairly—and we did not.”
“There is never anything fair about battle, Father,” Genevieve said stubbornly. “It was not fair to see our buildings burn—with our people inside of them. It was not fair that I should watch my father die. We fight with what weapons we have, Father. There was no remorse among the Lancastrians when my father died; should we regret the death of their leader? Victory is costly—but not so costly as defeat.”
“Well spoken,” Father Thomas murmured. He shrugged. “But I’d have your permission to see that Lord Tristan is brought down and returned to his men for proper interment. A messenger came early this morning requesting his remains.”
Genevieve waved a hand in the air. “Do what you will,” she sighed softly. “Then I’d have you leave me be, for I wish to make a survey of the damage and see what state our defenses are in. And our fields—I’d not have us all starve this winter.”
“We’ve one more matter to discuss, my lady,” Father Thomas said gravely.
“And that is?”
“Your marriage.”
She sat back, staring at him in stunned surprise, and feeling a pain she had not allowed herself before sting her eyes with the promise of tears. “Axel barely grows cold in his grave, and you would speak to me so?” she demanded harshly. She remembered him acutely then, young and handsome and gentle, and ever ready to smile; beloved.
“Genevieve, I do not speak so to hurt you,” Father Thomas said quietly. “But you must guard your position. You are a woman alone now, with vast holdings. A tempting fruit for the plucking, and there are many less than noble knights about.”
“No one can force me into marriage, Father. Were I bound and gagged and dragged to an altar, I could not be forced to speak. I am, perhaps, as you say, a woman alone. Yet I shall remain for the time being. Edenby is strong. We will make it stronger.”
Father Thomas still hesitated. “Sir Guy has approached me, as your spiritual advisor—since your father is dead—with a suggestion of a union between you two.”
Again Genevieve was startled. “Sir Guy?”
“Aye.”
He was strangely silent. Genevieve stood, smiling slightly, and moved around the desk. “You’ve an opinion, Father. Give it to me, please. I’ve not the patience for innuendo this morning.”
He raised his brows and shrugged. “There is no reason to disapprove the match. He is young and spirited, of suitable family. But he reaches—for he is landless. I believe you could make a better match that would ally us with the lords of our coast.”
She frowned watching him. He still wasn’t telling her what he was really thinking. “Father, I’m not really surprised by Sir Guy’s approach. He was Axel’s dear friend. He cares for me. And I do care for him. But I cannot think of making any marriage arrangements at this time. I have lost a betrothed and will not dishonor him so.” She paused, then asked curiously, “Do you dislike Guy, Father?”
“Nay, I do not dislike him. I know little of him. But . . .
“What?”
He straightened his shoulders and said, “If you truly wish my opinion, Genevieve, I will give it. It was wrong for that young knight to suggest that a high-born lady offer herself as whore to the enemy. A true knight goes to battle and lays down his own life first.”
Genevieve turned away from him, her interest in the conversation waning. “Oh, I daresay that the idea was rather clever—and he was terribly worried, Father.” Her lower lip trembled slightly. “Had we not lost Michael after so many others . . .” She paused. “Perhaps I will go on pilgrimage soon, Father. And pray for their souls—and my own. For now,” she added brusquely, “I must tend to things here. You will tell Sir Gu
y only the truth—that I cannot speak of marriage now.”
“He will leave soon. You will offer him the stirrup cup?”
“Aye . . . Before Mass?”
“He leaves any moment.”
“To seek aid,” she began to murmur, but broke off as there was a sharp rap at the door. She and Father Thomas gazed at one another, and both shrugged. Father Thomas moved to the door and opened it.
Sir Guy himself was standing there, his handsome face flushed and excited. “Genevieve!” He rushed to the desk, then, as if remembering himself, paused to nod to Father Thomas, “Good-day, Father.”
“Good-day”
“Genevieve, the guards in the northern tower recently spotted a party riding from the north. Riding—with banners flying high. It is a group of the knights displaying Richard’s colors—and the white rose crest of York!”
“Bid them enter—”
“I did!”
She raised a brow slightly at such an assumption of privilege, but he was so excited that he didn’t notice.
“They’ve come for men!”
“For men!” she cried with dismay.
“Aye. The troops are amassing. Henry Tudor has an invasion force ready to meet the King, and Richard is calling upon his loyalists. They say his troops will so far outnumber those of the invaders that the Tudor will not stand a chance!”
Genevieve stared blankly down at the parchment. So it was coming at last—the true battle for the Crown. With God’s help, Henry Tudor would be defeated.
She should be glad. But she had hoped right now for the King’s aid—not to have to help his cause.
She sighed. “Sir Humphrey is too old to go. Tamkin I cannot spare. Take ten of the guard, and see that they serve with their own horses and that we provide the armor. Also if any of the village youths wish to go as foot soldiers, they have my blessing—if they have that of their parents.” And what shall I do? she wondered a little bitterly. Already we struggle . . .
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