“There is a great deal on my mind since Henry has taken the throne. The country must find peace.”
“Oh, aye. And so must you.”
“A man’s peace comes only in death,” Tristan retorted with a snarl. “We turn ahead—see, where the cottage sits amidst the flock of geese.”
Tristan urged his mount to a canter. Jon sighed and followed suit.
They came to the cottage, the same type structure of mud and thatch and daub that they had ridden to so many times already this morning. The tenant farmer, a graying man and his three great lads, awkward and big like mastiff pups, came rushing out to meet them. He bowed to Tristan again and again, and Tristan’s countenance improved while he spoke, telling the farmer gently that Henry Tudor, Henry VII, now governed from London. Nothing would change, though he, Tristan de la Tere, was now the duke, the overlord, of his lands. Rents would not increase; they would work together for the good of the land and the people.
The farmer seemed awed; the lads likewise. They stared at Tristan, but had little to say. One of the boys found his tongue at last to assure Tristan that their rents would be paid, that their land was good, that they were willing to work hard.
“Richard, Henry, Tom, ’er Pete,” muttered the youngest boy. And he had the cheek to grin at the two mighty knights mounted on their great steeds before him. “Makes little difference to us toiling the fields!”
To Jon’s surprise, Tristan laughed, and the tension seemed to ease away from him. The old farmer gazed at his new lord, and his mistrust, too, seemed to melt away. Jon inhaled and exhaled with a strange relief. Tristan would have never hurt the lad, but Jon was grateful that he was amused by him, and not angered by his words.
But then Tristan sobered suddenly. “Would that Edgar Llewellyn had seen it that way,” he murmured.
A woman poked her head out from the cottage door, then hurried out to greet them. She had an ample bosom and tremendously rosy cheeks. Her hands, Jon saw, appeared old and gnarled, far older than her face, so pretty with its blush, despite her graying hair.
She curtseyed with a further blush to Tristan and Jon, acknowledging Tristan the lord of the lands. She called herself Meg and said that her husband was Seth, and asked if they had been riding long, if they wouldn’t like to wet their throats with her ale, and perhaps warm themselves with her stew.
“I offer so little, yet I offer it with my heart, good sires.”
“Ma’am is a fine cook, milords!” the lad said.
Tristan looked at Jon, whose face betrayed his hunger and interest. “Thank you kindly,” said Tristan, “your offer is cheerfully accepted.” He grinned at Jon, and they dismounted.
“Sire! Trust me with these beauties, I pray thee!” the boy implored Tristan.
“That I do, boy,” Tristan said. “What do they call you?”
“He’s named for the good Saint Matthew, he is,” the woman, Meg, said.
“Matthew, then, take the mounts. I see you are fond of horses.”
“I am.”
Meg blushed an even rosier hue at the new lord’s interest in her offspring. She cleared her throat nervously and apologized for her humble abode. Tristan waved away her awkward words, ducking to enter the little cottage. From his fine magenta cloak and shining leather boots to the hard but beautiful precision of his features, Tristan seemed grander than his surroundings. Nonetheless, he was quite at home, and quick to make the woman easy. Jon was puzzled but pleased because here, at last, Tristan seemed young again. Able to laugh, to sit, to relax, as he had not done since they first came to Edenby.
They were served ale and stew at the rough hewn table before the hearth. The boys remained outside, the farmer stood, and Meg rushed about to serve them, chattering. She spoke about the spring planting, about the people, and then, nervously and accidently, she murmured, “The pity is our dear Lord Edgar, he were so fine a man! Slain in battle, as it were . . .”
Her husband spoke sharply in panic; Meg cleared her throat in horror—and spilled ale upon the table.
Tristan caught her wrist and spoke gently. “A brave man’s death in battle must always be lamented, mistress. And your Lord Edgar was most certainly brave.”
“I beg—” Meg began.
“You need beg nothing. Your words were not ill-taken.”
Meg glanced at her husband; she sighed with relief. She quickly brought a cloth to sop up the ale, then returned to the hearth, to the great black kettle of stew, offering them more. As she dished up the stew she glanced at Tristan uneasily, but then it seemed that her curiosity was stronger than her fear and she asked tentatively, “The Lady Genevieve . . . his lass. She fares well?”
Tristan stiffened, and Jon tensed, worried that Tristan might grow suddenly violent. But nothing happened. Tristan lowered his head over his bowl. “She fares well,” he said simply.
The ease, however, was gone. They finished quickly, and stood to depart. Tristan thanked Meg in mild tones.
When they came out, young Matt was still marveling over the horses. Tristan paused, then told the boy that if he was interested, he must come to the castle and hire on as a groom. Matthew’s face lit up like a bright spring sky.
“I’ll come, milord, I’ll come!”
“Seth, did you hear!” Meg whispered with awe.
“I did,” Seth said, walking over to Tristan, who had just mounted his horse.
“Bless you, milord. For the boy, we bless you.”
Tristan shook his head, startled by the gratitude, thinking it too much. “He’s good with animals. He’ll do his work well.”
Tristan waved a gauntleted hand and nudged his mount into a brisk canter. Laughing, Jon followed suit. Far out into the fields, he caught up with Tristan.
“You uplifted that poor lad! You took him from the fields, from hardship, from—”
“Jon,” Tristan groaned, “they were living in no hardship! They are proud tenant farmers making a good living from the land. Now will you leave me be!”
Jon bowed, mockingly humble. “You’ve stumbled upon the greatest loyalty, Tristan.” He suddenly became serious. “Truly, Tristan. Yesterday, you took that young lass from that poor widow’s place and gave her work as a lady’s maid. Today, the boy—as groom.”
“Any estate must have workers, Jon.”
“Aye, but you’ve done them well.”
“Nay. Think on it, Jon. Old Edgar’s household servants were caught up in the midst of battle. ’Tis not always a good thing, to be close to greatness.”
He broke off suddenly, and they fell silent. The autumn day lost its beauty, for they were both remembering the murders at Bedford Heath.
Tristan had paid dearly for being close to Richard—for insisting, in all honor, on a fair accounting of the disappearance of the Princes.
He had paid with everything, and nothing could ever make up for it, Jon thought. The cool breeze seemed to turn suddenly and violently cold, and Jon shivered. The Lady Genevieve, having struck a blow upon a man already in pain, would not be allowed to forget, either.
“Never mind,” Tristan muttered darkly, spurring his great piebald mount and taking off with speed again. Jon followed him, greatly worried, wondering whether to attempt to speak with Tristan once more or to wait. They had not been here long. Maybe Tristan would learn new temperance as the days passed.
He hoped so: this should be a time for healing. Richard III was dead, Henry had taken the Crown of England. Edenby had been taken, too, and even the Lady of Edenby. All of Tristan’s grievances had been brought to a certain justice. It should have been a time for him to come to know laughter again. Instead it was worse. Even in the times of greatest pain, Tristan had never been so moody and grim.
Tristan reined up as they came upon a cliff that overlooked the walls and the castle from the west. Jon halted beside him.
The walls were slowly being repaired; the metalsmiths were at work again, and farmers sold their crops. Edenby itself was healing. Now, Jon thought, if the new lord could only do so hi
mself . . .
“Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty.”
Forty. It took Genevieve exactly forty paces to walk from the door of her chamber to the wall. How many times had she counted out those steps? How many times could she do so again before she lost her mind completely?
She walked back to the mantel and held her cold hands out to the fire. The chamber was chilly. Outside the sun was shining so that one might be warm, but here, in this stone prison, the warmth of the sun did not penetrate.
Genevieve reached out to grasp the stone, praying that some of its cold and strength would seep into her. She was insane already, she decided, because she was so desperate to see someone—anyone!—that she would even welcome a visit from Tristan.
But he hadn’t been near her in three days. Nor had anyone else, really. Once, early each morning, a different servant had come to clean the room, bring water and food, and then go away. And once, each evening, one of Tristan’s Lancastrians had knocked upon the door to deliver another tray of food. Now, in three full days, she had not had an hour’s worth of company other than her own.
There was noise from the courtyard, far below. With pathetic eagerness Genevieve raced to the archers’ slit.
Her soft silk skirt rustled as she climbed upon the chair. As she looked out she stiffened. The noise was that of Jon and Tristan returning from somewhere. Tristan was riding that mammoth piebald stallion of his. There were shouts at their arrival; a groom came running out to take the horses as the two bareheaded men dismounted, their mantles sweeping around them in the soft of the autumn breeze.
Genevieve started to step backward, almost forgetting that she stood upon a chair—for Tristan was staring up at her windows. He couldn’t see her, she knew. The slit was too narrow. But she could see the dark expression, the brooding emotion of his face.
It was frightening. Her hand flew to her throat, for she saw that he had not forgotten her. Nor had he softened in the least.
She shook her head slightly. Against her will, she recognized that he was probably the most striking man she had ever seen—the tallest, the strongest, the most handsome and intriguing of face and feature. He was the very picture of the noble. He might have been a hero of legend, a dashing young prince sent to rescue a princess.
“Nay, he is the dragon!” she breathed out. For if he was the most striking man she had ever seen, he was equally the most ruthless.
“Jon! Tis-tan!”
Genevieve started at the sound of the childish voice. It was Anne!
Anne! Oh, Annie, go back, Genevieve thought, as her little cousin came running out the door, braided plaits flying behind her. Jon caught her up in his arms, laughing, and to Genevieve’s amazement, she saw that Anne said something to Tristan, and that Tristan laughed, and then took Anne from Jon to set her upon his shoulders, where she could pat the great piebald horse on his smooth nose. Anne laughed with delight, perfectly happy to be perched upon Tristan’s broad shoulders.
“Oooh, Annie! Even you’re a traitor!” Genevieve murmured, then she caught herself. She should be glad: Anne was living like a little lady, as she had been before.
Genevieve stepped down from her chair, suddenly cold again.
But what happened when it was all over? When Jon tired of Edwyna, when Tristan grew bored of his vengeance. When they were all thrown from “his” property?
She spun around, hearing the bolt lift on her door. Her heart began to pound ferociously, then she realized that it could not be Tristan. He was probably still in the courtyard and not even he could have come into the keep and up the steps so quickly.
There was a tapping.
Tristan did not tap. He entered when he so chose.
“Come in,” she said.
A young girl came in. A young girl with huge brown eyes like velvet, an enormous bosom, and full, swaying hips to match. She stared at Genevieve dreamily, then, as if suddenly remembering her manners, she dropped a little curtsy.
“Milady. I’m Tess. I’m to be your maid. I’m to clean the room and bring what you might require.”
“Tess. How . . . nice.”
The girl seemed to think so. Genevieve did not. Where was Mary? Dear Mary, she missed her so keenly! This girl . . .
Genevieve wished that she had something to do. A piece of tapestry, a book to read. Something to pretend that she had an interest in!
She had nothing. She moved over to the fire, and merely sat before it as Tess walked about the room, straightening this, folding that—and sighing continually.
Curious at last, Genevieve turned around. Tess was at her bed, smoothing the covers with a rapturous look on her pretty face.
She seemed to feel Genevieve’s gaze, and she looked at her, smiling. A slightly sly smile—as if she were indeed glad to be a lady’s maid, but aware, too, of the curious position of her lady.
“This ...” she murmured, “this is where he lies!”
“What?” Genevieve said.
“The Lord Tristan. His head rests . . . here. His body . . . stretches out so. Shoulders, chest, legs . . .”
Genevieve felt a wracking pain thunder against her temple. She forced herself to smile. Oh, God. This was all that she needed—absolutely all that she needed to truly go over the brink. This sweet slut of a farm girl to come mooning about her chamber over Tristan de la Tere! Where had she come from!
From Tristan . . .
Was that where he had been these days? Leaving her in peace, and finding better occupation elsewhere?
She didn’t realize that she had curled her fingers into fists until she felt her nails digging into her palms. Somehow she kept on smiling.
“Tess, I believe the room is fine now.”
“Oh, but I am to serve you—”
“I want my privacy, Tess.”
Unhappily, the girl drew her work-roughened hands from the sheets and turned to depart. “I’d have thought,” Tess muttered beneath her breath, “that she’d have been glad of me!”
The door closed with a little bang. Genevieve felt the most absurd temptation to throw something at it. A meal, untouched, awaited her on the dressing table. She approached it with vengeance, thinking to take the tray and hurl it across the room. But she paused, her hand in the air, and noted the full bottle of Bordeaux upon it. Wine to ease the spirit.
She ignored the food, poured wine, and drank quickly. Ah, it went down so easily! Again she poured, and again she drank, and the edges of pain blurred.
She walked and walked and walked . . . swearing, vowing that she would get away. If she were just careful, patient. If she could just wait until their guard was down. There were places to go, surely, things that could he done. There was a convent just beyond the mountain pass. If she could reach the sisters there, she would find sanctuary, and not even the King would dare to defy that sanctuary.
Eventually, she promised herself, she could get to France—or Brittany, where her uncle lived. She would do it! She had to.
Exhaustion overtook her. Exhaustion—and the half bottle of Bordeaux she had managed to consume. She fell first to her knees before the hearth, and then stretched out, laying her hot cheek against her arm. Why, oh, why did she feel this tempest inside of her? She despised him, and what he felt for her was even darker, more intense. She didn’t want him touching her. She could swear up and down that she did not want him to touch her again, but . . .
When he did, he was magic.
It was shameful!
It was the heat she had known from the first, the rippling sweet liquid that filled her body, that spilled from it. As if an alchemist had found them, and created for them a simmering fire that smoked and burned and erupted.
“I’ve got to get out!” she whispered aloud to herself, feeling more desperate than she had ever felt before.
* * *
Tristan did not come to dinner.
Jon, Edwyna, Tibald, and Father Thomas were all at the long banqueting table. It might have been a strange gathering, Jon thought with
humor, except that the priest did not seem to condemn him too keenly, and he wondered suddenly, with a little beat of his heart, if that shrewd man knew what was on his mind.
He was in love with Edwyna. With the softness in her eyes. God—had anything on earth ever been so blue? He was in love with her whispers, with her smile when she opened her arms wide to embrace him at night. She was a little older than he, and a widow. And a damned Yorkist at that.
But he was in love with her. And Father Thomas seemed to know it, so all was cordial at the table. There was light conversation, there was laughter, there was ease.
But of course Tristan was not at the table. And Father Thomas’ eyes, as well as Edwyna’s, often strayed to the closed door of the counting room, where they all knew that Tristan worked.
Father Thomas, Jon decided, was no coward, for he had never shrunk from letting Tristan know that he considered his treatment of his prisoner much less than Christian. Tristan had let him know that if he could not abide the situation, then he must desert his flock and find his living elsewhere. Father Thomas had merely closed his mouth, and now contained his opinion—and condemned with his eyes.
When the meal ended Father Thomas said that he must see to the care of a newborn child, for the mother was not faring well. Edwyna smiled beautifully at him and murmured that she was going to kiss Anne good-night. Tibald had to go out and see to the castle guard and the prisoners.
Jon sat and drank his ale. He stared at the door to the counting room and hesitated, then stood. God’s blood! He’d known Tristan all his life. Surely that counted for something! And he could not bear his friend’s agony.
He strode quickly to the door and knocked upon it. Tristan bade him enter with a grunt, and Jon came in.
Tristan did not look up. He frowned over a ledger, yet Jon wondered if he were really reading it.
Tristan looked up at last, dark brows arched in a question. Jon smiled a little sheepishly and slid into the chair before the desk. “You didn’t come to the table,” he said.
“I have been studying these. See here—” Tristan shoved the book toward Jon. “There are farms a day’s ride from here that belong to Edenby.”
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