But there was no light, just the mist. And he was running, running. Running so hard that he could hear the pulse of his heart cracking like a cannon, he could feel his sweat drop into his eyes and the pain burgeoning in his thighs. Faster, faster, and he could get nowhere through that mist.
Then suddenly, shockingly, the scene in the nursery sprang before him. Lisette, her head bowed, her hand extended, as if she reached into the cradle to stroke a child.
He knew now even before he touched her that she was dead. She was dead, dead and bloodied. But it was not Lisette he held. It was Genevieve. Golden hair matted with death and blood, mysterious eyes of myriad colors closed forever. He screamed in ragged terror.
“Tristan!”
He awoke, drenched and shaking.
“Tristan!”
It was Jon calling him. Light filtered in from the hallway, and Tristan began to feel his consciousness released from the horror of the dream. He swallowed and blinked and somewhere recognized that it was fast approaching dawn.
“Dear God, what happened—?”
“A dream, Jon,” Tristan said, but he was on his feet, dressing with all haste.
“Wait! What are you about?” Jon dared place a hand on his shoulder at last. His friend’s shouts had reached him half a hallway down; surely more guests would have heard and would be wondering, and Tristan still appeared as wild as an enraged boar.
He clasped his mantle over his shoulder with a brooch and started past Jon.
“Tristan, wait!”
Jon followed in hot pursuit; Tristan spoke to him over his shoulder. “You were right. I want her brought here.”
“Fine. It is a fine idea, but where—”
“I am going to see the King. I go in his service. By God, he will see this done in answer to that!”
“Tristan, it is barely dawn—”
Naturally the guards appeared as soon as Tristan strode toward the King’s door. Naturally—and a bit apologetically—their pikes fell to bar his way, and the Master of the King’s chamber rushed out anxiously. Tristan was not to be deterred, swearing that he had to see the King, he could not await the dawn.
Henry himself appeared then, but smiled when he saw Tristan. They went into his chamber.
Jon noted that Henry seemed to grow more and more amused while Tristan spoke, sitting upon the foot of his bed, watching his liege man with an acute gaze and a secretive smile. Tristan paced and spoke passionately and eloquently of all his service on Henry’s behalf and how in return he desired that Henry see to the safety and welfare of Genevieve Llewellyn; that Henry see that she be brought to his Court to await Tristan’s return, and that the King should see to her guardianship that no ill should befall her, nor should she find herself able to leave his hospitality should she be disposed to try.
Henry stood at last, and there was something sympathetic about his smile; he knew why Tristan was afraid. He lifted a hand nonchalantly.
“It is done.”
“What?”
“It is done. Jon will not ride with you but will return to Edenby for the lady. I’ll see that she is comfortably established here, in your chambers, and provided with whatever she might need. She will be watched at all times. She will be safe, and I assure you she will not leave.”
Tristan did not seem to think that it should have been so easy. He stared at Henry, hesitating.
“Is that all, My Lord of Edenby and Bedford Heath?” the King inquired imperiously.
“Aye,” Tristan murmured, still confused.
“Then, let me get some sleep, milord!”
“Aye. Your Majesty, thank you.”
They left Henry’s chamber. Tristan sighed. “Well you are not to accompany me, Jon. I am glad. I’d have you with her.”
Jon touched Tristan’s shoulder. “She will be here when you return.”
He accompanied Tristan back to his chamber and helped his friend put on the full armor in which he would ride from London at the head of Henry’s troops.
* * *
“The King is coming to see you!”
Genevieve felt a little convulsion of nervousness rip through her. Her fingers fluttered nervously to her throat, and she jumped to her feet, allowing the soft white silk dress she sewed for the infant to float to the floor.
“When?” she asked Edwyna, who stood in her doorway looking as stricken as Genevieve felt.
She willed herself to be calm. Henry meant her no harm, she was certain. But in the six weeks or so that she had been at Court she had not seen him, and for him to make this strange appearance now—not summoning her, but coming to her—seemed very strange indeed.
And of course when one had been on the wrong side of a dynastic war, it was always disconcerting to have the all-powerful victor make a sudden appearance.
Her heart then seemed to abruptly catch in her throat with a piercing ray of alarm.
Tristan! Oh, God, he was coming to tell her that Tristan had been killed in Ireland. That her child would come into this world not only illegitimate, but orphaned. Why else would he come to her? She was more prisoner here than guest, with guards at her door day and night. She had been “invited” to various banquets and dinners but had begged his understanding if she declined due to “indisposition”—which she was certain the King understood to mean that she was rather ill at ease appearing in her condition. She had written him a gracious thank-you letter for the cloak; he had returned the social grace. And that had been the extent of things until now. She could only presume it to mean . . .
“Genevieve!”
Concerned, Edwyna gripped her arm and lowered her back to the chair. Genevieve stared up at her aunt, her features exquisite in fear. “Edwyna? Why? Oh, my God, Tristan . . . ?”
Tristan. She missed him, and she was terribly afraid for him. When Jon had told her that he had donned armor to troop off to Ireland she had been appalled, and to her great distress she had spent that swift night before their departure in tears, most curiously praying that a man she had once tried to kill herself might survive an enemy’s blow in a distant land.
It was impossible to hate a man, she had assured herself, when she felt his life inside herself. Winter had brought movement in her womb; the baby was real. Tiny feet kicked against her belly and she touched it tenderly to try to determine just what part of the child was wedged where. She was in love with her child, and therefore could not truly hate its father.
But perhaps, Genevieve had to admit, this was not the whole truth. Was the truth buried in the fears that he lay with an Irish lass even at that moment?
Fear coursed through her again; better that he lay with an Irish lass than dead upon the snow crusted land of Eire . . .
“Genevieve, nay! The King smiles as he comes! Surely, there is nothing wrong with Tristan!”
Genevieve swallowed and nodded, and then realized that she was in no state to greet the King. Her hair was unbound and undressed and she wore a simple gown of blue wool and no jewelry or ornamentation at all. Indeed her feet were bare, for she rested them upon a shaggy ox fur before the fire.
“Edwyna, I can’t—”
It was too late: the King was there, a host of retainers behind him as he knocked lightly upon the door that Edwyna had left ajar, and, seeing them, stepped in. Edwyna immediately fell into a graceful curtsy, and Genevieve, coming to her senses quickly, followed suit awkwardly.
Henry bid them rise, greeting Edwyna politely, then turning his attention to Genevieve, saying not unkindly that he would speak to her alone. Edwyna’s eyes widened and she was quick to bow her way out of the room.
Genevieve did not realize that she stared at Henry for long moments. She could not help remembering the last time they had met face to face—when he had turned her over to Tristan and dismissed her from his mind. She knew that already his reputation was being made throughout London. He was quiet; therefore the people considered him sly; careful, and therefore shrewd; cautious with his pennies; therefore mean. But seeing a curious
kindness to him as he stood before her, regal but not pompous, Genevieve thought about the man beyond the myth. He was still young, he was not an unattractive man; though Genevieve would admit that she had found Richard more handsome. Still she thought that what was said of him on the streets was exactly what he planned should be said; he was not ungenerous, she knew. Edwyna had told her that the ladies had been whispering about the grace with which he had tossed coins to a slim and barefoot orphan dancing in the street for some small reward. His servants liked him well. Nor was he considered licentious; his loyalty to his dynastic marriage with Elizabeth seemed above any reproach. Rumor had it that he did intend to create a strong treasury for England, that he intended to break the kind of power that could lead his nobles to further civil war. He was fond of astrology and the arts and sciences, and Genevieve had never heard that his table lacked for quality or entertainment.
She flushed suddenly, lowering her eyes, realizing how bluntly she had been evaluating him.
“I am interested in your assessment, milady,” Henry said lightly, and Genevieve raised her eyes to his again. He smiled, not at all aggrieved. “Do you see a monster still?”
“Your Majesty, I never saw a monster,” Genevieve murmured.
“Did you not?” He came forward slightly, appearing nonchalant. Genevieve was certain that he studied her accommodations carefully; she did not know if he was satisfied with what he surveyed or not.
“Truly, I did not,” Genevieve protested. She lifted her hands helplessly. “Sire, I can only say again that I but followed a sworn loyalty.”
“And now?”
She shook her head, confused. “And now?”
“Do you plot rebellion?”
The thought of her plotting anything, heavy with child and forever in her rooms or in the courtyard just beyond, seemed so funny that she had to laugh despite herself. She quickly caught the sound, though, bringing a hand to her mouth with horror.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he murmured, idly gazing about again. “I appreciate quick reaction; it tends to tell the truth. But tell me, then, are you happy?”
“Happy?” This time she caught herself quickly, guarding any reaction to his words. “I—I do not know what you mean.”
The King found the chair opposing that where she had been sitting and slid into it, indicating that she, too, should sit. Genevieve did so nervously.
“Happy, milady. It means feeling well about one’s life rather than thinking ill of it.”
Genevieve flushed uneasily. “I cannot say that I am really happy.”
“You would just as soon leave England?”
She hesitated. “I suppose I would. In honesty, Your Majesty. You must understand, I realize fully that you are the King. My vow was to Richard; once he was dead, I meant to truly swear my loyalty to you. But . . .” She shrugged, smiling ruefully. “Well you are the King and you attainted my property and gave it to Tristan. I cannot get it back. Therefore I cannot be truly happy.”
“You hate him so much still?”
The question surprised her and she answered it even more carefully.
“Is one not supposed to despise the victor—when one has lost everything?”
“Milady, I asked the question,” Henry reminded her, with just an edge of warning to his tone. He leaned forward. “I asked you, Genevieve, if you still so despise Tristan de la Tere.”
She could feel a wash of color flooding over her, and despite the command in his eyes she lowered her own and answered vaguely, “Our relationship is obvious, I believe.”
“Your relationship was obvious before it began, girl.” He spoke softly and she found herself raising her eyes to his once again. Curiously she thought that he did not feel any rancor toward her, and she wondered why he had been so bitterly determined that her father and Edenby cede to him when he had first come ashore from Brittany.
He smiled, sensing her thoughts. “Your father was a Welshman very strongly against me. It aggravated me sorely, and the battle was not certain you know . . .” He lifted a hand idly; that, Genevieve knew, would be that, in way of explanation. He stood suddenly, walking toward the window, turning back. “You have taken care not to appear in public. Are you so dismayed by the child? What are your intentions?”
“I—I don’t have ‘intentions,’ Sire.”
“Are you horrified?”
“No.” She answered simply.
“Dismayed at a—bastard?”
She watched him, suddenly composed and poised and not about to be cornered, “Sire, bastards have been known to go far in life.”
He laughed, enjoying the answer. “Ah, yes! You refer to my bastard Beaufort ancestor. Well, aye, but then the Beauforts did not remain bastards. John of Gaunt married his Swineford mistress and so all was eventually well. Have you not wondered if Tristan would not eventually marry you?”
Genevieve rose, too. “Nay, Your Majesty, I have not. For I will never marry him. I cannot marry him.”
“Cannot?” The King’s brows rose high. “You cannot marry the man whose child you are about to bear?”
“The man brought about my father’s death, Your Majesty. And he has readily proven that he can take almost anything from me. But my love and loyalty will remain mine, to give when I choose.”
He watched her for a moment, then quickly lowered his eyes, and strangely she thought that he smiled with some secret amusement.
“Tell me, milady, do you give them to me?”
“Your Majesty?”
“Love and loyalty, my Lady of Edenby. Are you a loyal subject, madam?”
“Aye, Your Majesty. You are the King.”
“But you would escape to Brittany if you could?”
“I would consider such a move—honorable.”
“I am fond of the Duke of Brittany, you know. He was to be my keeper; he was always my friend.”
Genevieve held silent. The King continued to watch her for a moment, then he asked about her comfort and she assured him that she was fine. Then she knew that he intended to take his leave, and she could not let him do so without asking as to Tristan’s welfare, though she longed to feign indifference.
“Your Majesty? May I ask ... have you heard how things go in Ireland?”
“They went very well, for the time. Eventually troops will rise, and I will battle again on England’s shores. The lords currently in question have been subdued.”
Her heart quickened; the baby, as if listening, too, gave a tremendous kick.
“Then . . . Tristan will be returning . . . soon?”
“Returning soon?” Henry inquired politely in repetition. “Milady, he returned last night. Good-day, then, Genevieve.”
She could not reply; she was grateful that the King seemed to expect none. He strode from her room and the door closed, and she was so stunned that she sank into her chair without knowing that she had near fallen.
And then it seemed that a fuse, set to burn slowly, had come suddenly to the powder; her temper erupted like a volcano against the jagged pain that enshrouded her.
He had returned to London, he had come here . . . He was here, somewhere . . . right here! He had ordered her dragged up from Edenby and she was here at his command; and he had come back after all these months and he had not bothered to come to see her!
“What happened? What did he say?”
Genevieve was only vaguely aware that Edwyna had come back, that she was anxiously questioning her. She waved a hand in the air and then at last looked directly at Edwyna.
“Tristan is back. Did you know?”
Edwyna appeared quite honestly startled. “Nay!”
“But he would have seen Jon, surely—”
“I swear, Genevieve, Jon said nothing to me.”
“That doesn’t mean that he hasn’t seen him,” Genevieve said bitterly. Then she knew that she was about to cry, and so she bounded to her feet in anger instead. “That vile, plundering, scurvy son of horse manure! Oh! Why didn’t they manage to slay him i
n Ireland!”
“Genevieve!” Edwyna said, shocked. Then she backed away because Genevieve was so very upset, pacing in a fury, swearing, ranting, pounding her fists against the mantel. There were tears hovering, though, and Edwyna was suddenly afraid.
“Genevieve, please!” She caught her niece’s shoulders and forced her over to the bed, to sit at its foot. Genevieve fought her, trailing out a passionate string of oaths once again.
“Nay, nay! Genevieve, the babe! ’Tis not due for another two months! Would you risk his life?”
At last Genevieve grew calm. Edwyna spoke softly.
“Genevieve, please, I know that you do not want to hurt the child.”
“It would be his fault!”
“It would hurt you bitterly all the same.”
She seemed quiet at last. Edwyna got her to lie down, and she drew the covers over Genevieve’s bare feet and distended belly.
* * *
Edwyna did not have much trouble locating Tristan; in fact had she not been with Genevieve all morning, she would have known that he was back. In the great hallways of the palace the men were talking about his brilliant tactical maneuvering against the recalcitrant Irish lords; the women were whispering about his manly appearance, with his armor and without. Edwyna but followed the titterers out to the gardens. Despite the cold March day there was a gathering about a silent fountain; a minstrel was playing his lute, and creating bawdy lyrics and a merry tune as he went along. The countess of Hereford and a few other ladies were sitting upon a bench and laughing, and a number of men were drinking from a deep pot of steaming mead set out for their comfort.
Fools! They should all freeze in the cold, Edwyna thought indignantly, and she was further irritated to see that Jon, smiling that charming smile of his, was seated beside Tristan. The countess—the widowed and very active Countess—was behind the two men, too close, with way too much bosom exposed for the weather.
Edwyna paused, then smiling demurely herself, sidled through a cheery group to reach her husband and Tristan. They were singing along with the minstrel, raising their cups, but Edwyna was gratified that though her husband kept singing, he also most gladly reached out an arm for her. She slipped into the slim space allowed her between Jon and Tristan. She accepted a kiss and a sip of the mead from her husband—but then turned her eyes on Tristan, who was still singing in his rich baritone, laughing, eyes dancing, and not averse to the wanton touch of the beautiful Countess behind him.
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