Lie Down in Roses

by Heather Graham

  “I can’t. She will need to be held—”

  “And I can hold her very well, thank you, madam. Now go to sleep. You promised to obey me.”

  “I did not.”

  “Oh, but you did. Under duress, but the vow was made. Close your eyes and sleep.”

  Her eyes closed. She resisted the urge to draw the soft form of her daughter back to her side, and allowed the babe to go to her father. With a long yawn, she gave up the battle to remain awake.

  * * *

  Genevieve was to be the guest of the bishop for a fortnight—no one seemed to think she had recovered enough to move.

  She quickly felt well enough herself, though she could admit to a weakness when she remained up and about too long. And in the days that followed she grew ever more attached to her daughter, ever more in love. Tristan was ceaselessly polite to her. On the second morning he brought her a gold and emerald locket on a velvet chain, a lying-in present, a husband’s appreciation for a newborn child. Genevieve loved the locket. He had promised her they would have a miniature done of little Katherine, and she could wear it by her heart. He had kissed her on the forehead.

  She longed for him to kiss her on the lips but he withdrew quickly, and the distance between them seemed to grow with the days that passed.

  He could not be with her always; he was working on the charter to be granted by the King to make Edenby a city, and so he returned to the bishop’s only by night. He did not sleep with her. She knew that it would be some weeks ere she healed well enough to behave as his bride, but she ached for his touch. The simple intimacy of being beside him, curling against him, feeling the casual and tender stroke of his hands. Battling now and then in verbal warfare perhaps, but touching . . .

  Holding her baby by the window, delighting in her one afternoon, Genevieve felt the most horrible burst of panic. Had she become his wife—only to lose him completely? Things were going well, that she knew. He spoke of his business with the charter and of the afternoons he had spent with other knights on a practice field.

  He also told her that he intended to finish some business at Court, return to Bedford Heath to settle last-minute things before leaving Thomas to manage his homeland, and then—once Katherine was two months old—they would travel back to Edenby. It sometimes surprised Genevieve that Tristan should be so much more attached to her home than his own, yet it was undeniably so. But then of course Lisette had died at Bedford Heath.

  Genevieve looked forward to his visit daily. The bishop was a wonderful host; he was a grave man, pious in one way, worldly in another. Genevieve apologized for hitting him; he apologized for forcing the issue, yet told her that he was not wrong—and didn’t she know it now? Was she not glad of the marriage for her beautiful little daughter’s sake?

  To that Genevieve could only flush and lower her head. She was glad, oh, aye! She’d die for this tiny life that trusted her so completely and claimed her heart.

  But somehow she had lost Tristan. She was his wife. But now not only did he not love her, he did not even want her! Not to tease, not to claim, not to fight with passion, not to hold with triumph and laughter.

  He was merely her husband—handsome, cool, ever-polite; the stranger who came with the darkness of night, held his child with love and laughter—and then spoke to her cordially of his schedule! She could not understand, and it hurt terribly. Oh, she had fought the ceremony! But no amount of fighting on her part had ever deterred him before. He’d always claimed what was his, when he wanted it.

  She wondered if he blamed her for the early birth, for risking the babe, yet she dared not ask him. They had shared anger and hatred, tenderness and laughter. Whatever their emotions in the past, they had been filled with passion. But now there was a void, curiously created by the birth of the daughter they both so adored.

  Henry and Elizabeth took time to come to the christening, and the King presented Genevieve with a grant of land for the baby. She was surprised and grateful. She did not reproach the King for forcing her into marriage—for Henry had probably known her heart better than she. “Katherine ...” In a quiet minute alone, he whispered the name to her. “Not after another lady of such name? That beauteous ancestress of mine who came to be John of Gaunt’s bride—after many years and children born between them?”

  Genevieve smiled. “I have always loved her story, Your Majesty. It is a bitter-sweet romance.”

  “This Katherine shall have her pick of noble swains,” the King promised her, and she kissed his ring; and then Tristan was there, and the King winked, and she was glad that they shared a secret.

  But not even that night did Tristan stay with her.

  On the morning of her fifteenth day in the bishop’s manor, Genevieve woke to hear gurgling noises. She looked across the room to the window where Tristan, clad only in hose, tight breeches, and boots, leaned against the wall. Katherine, naked as birth, lay against his chest, batting against the muscled breadth of it with a tiny fist, and catching the crisp dark hair there between her fingers. Tristan, his handsome head bent to his daughter, was telling her about her fine future.

  “You’ll ride in a fine coach with four dappled mares, my love! Gilded it will be, in the finest gold. And the noblest lads in the land will come to your door, but you’ll send them all out on their heels, my beauty! You’ll wear soft velvets and softer silks, and diamonds in your hair . . .”

  He broke off, suddenly aware of Genevieve’s scrutiny. For a long moment their eyes caught and held across the distance, and Genevieve longed to speak, longed to reach her arms out and beg him to come to her, to hold her.

  But there was a rap at the door then. Balancing Katherine with exemplary grace, he rose to his feet and called out, “Enter!”

  Glancing at Genevieve, he was cool and distant again. “Katherine did see fit to gurgle upon her dress and my shirt! Here’s help, now.”

  Katie came in, bearing a gown and swaddling for Katherine and Tristan’s cleaned shirt. It was blue velvet, and when he slipped it over his head and adjusted his scabbard around it Genevieve could think only that the color and style of the elegant Court garment lent itself beautifully to the bronze of his skin and the clean lines of his trim, muscular form.

  Pained, she looked away from him, reaching to Katie for the baby, and laughing when Katherine immediately nuzzled against her. Katie promised her a meal in a matter of minutes, and then she would arrange milady’s things for travel.

  Katie left, and Genevieve silently watched Tristan while Katherine continued to whimper.

  “She’s hungry,” Tristan reminded Genevieve sharply.

  “We are going back to Court?”

  He seemed to hesitate. “You are going back to Court. Jon and Thomas will be there should you need anything. I’m going to Bedford Heath. Genevieve, have a care. The babe.” She swept Katherine to her, turning her back on her husband to nurse the babe. She felt so very far from him.

  “I would rather go home,” she said.

  “Not yet. You are not fit for the journey.”

  “I am very well, thank you.”

  “When I return, we will go home.”

  She fought the overwhelming sensation to burst into tears. What was wrong? What created the awful, aching void? Was it true that he had taken a dozen women in Ireland? Had he lost all desire for the one he chose to marry?

  There was something of the old Tristan about him; he came around the bed—not willing to allow her to turn her back. He sat on the bed and stroked his daughter’s hair. “I’m leaving in a few minutes, Genevieve.”

  “Oh, aye. And you’ll leave me with Henry, you’ll leave me with Jon, you’ll leave me with Thomas.”

  “And what, milady, does that mean?”

  She could not look at him; and she did not like the idea of his having the privilege to watch his daughter nurse. She pulled the covers up around the babe’s face. She felt his sudden wrath, when what she sought was understanding. He caught her wrist and drew her eyes to his.
/>   “You’ll smother her!”

  “I’ll not!”

  “If you’re not fit for such a task—”

  “Go on, go about your business. I will see to mine.”

  He stood angrily. “Edwyna will be with you, then.” He held his anger in check, nodding to her briefly and curtly, pausing to kiss his daughter’s head, but not the mother’s. He strode toward the door. Genevieve choked back a little sob to stop him with a demand that sounded far more shrill than she had intended.

  “Why am I always left to your watchdogs! Never trusted, never—brought along . . .”

  She was never sure whether he heard the last, or nay. He spun quickly to answer her before she could finish.

  “Because, milady, you cannot be trusted, as we all know well.”

  “I have your child!”

  “Aye, and I wish to keep her!”

  “I’d not take her from you!”

  “I shall see that you do not.”

  “You married me!”

  He paused, inhaling sharply, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Aye, milady. I married you. But you did not wish to marry me. I have documents that claim us man and wife, yet they are really nothing more than paper—are they? Paper that brought about extreme duress . . . and near tragedy,” he added bitterly, his eyes lowering. But they quickly blazed into hers again. “I have to go, Genevieve. Jon is your friend, as is Thomas. See them as guards and keepers if you so choose. I leave you at Henry’s Court, for I know that you are safe there, and cared for. Good-day, milady wife. Stay well, and I will return with all haste. Though I do feel I am the most detested of your—keepers.”

  He bowed to her, while she stared at him in stricken confusion. He opened the door, stepped out, and was gone.

  Genevieve set the baby tenderly aside and raced after him. She reached the door barefoot and shivering, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  Katherine set up a reproachful and outraged cry from the bed.

  “Oh, Katherine!” Genevieve whispered, and, with tears stinging her eyes, she gave up the pursuit of her departed husband.

  She walked back to the bed and scooped the baby into her arms, urging Katherine’s trembling little mouth back to her breast.

  The baby ceased to cry with a satisfied little gasp.

  But Genevieve started up. She bit her lip to calm her sobs, and silent tears of confusion and loss streaked down her cheeks.

  Twenty-three

  “Thomas, if you’ll not take me, I swear that I’ll find a way to go myself!”

  Genevieve wasn’t sure that she sounded imperious but she meant to be as persuasive as possible. Jon had managed to evade her and give her vague promises, and so tonight she had determined to accost Thomas.

  It hadn’t been difficult, she thought dryly. She’d had only to look in the hall to find him. It seemed that when she was not with Jon and Edwyna, Thomas hounded her footsteps. And when Thomas was nowhere to be seen, she could count on her aunt and Jon to be lurking somewhere near.

  Katherine was soundly sleeping, in a cradle given graciously to Genevieve by Elizabeth of York. Thomas was in a mellow mood—created by warm mulled wine that Genevieve had carefully tended over the fire herself. She needed to strike now and not be deterred.

  Thomas cast her an uneasy, skeptical gaze, idly shuffling a boot over the stone before the hearth. He finished his wine and nervously set the cup down upon the mantel, lacing his fingers behind his back.

  Genevieve looked as determined as she had been when she had held out against Tristan’s cannons at the siege of Edenby.

  She was like a mythical warrioress, thought Thomas, with that hair flowing behind her like a golden banner and flashing eyes that defied description. She was everything that a man could desire in a woman—soft and yet fierce. Determined and alive with spirit, yet so feminine that one was instantly touched. The little Lady Katherine was barely five weeks old, yet already her mother was as trim as a sylph and as seductive in appearance as she was in the lilting tones of her voice.

  What was it that drove Tristan so hard he could not see the bounty that was his? Why, still, did the dark moods drive him, why did he need to cause her this suffering? Thomas reminded himself that she had once tried to kill Tristan—but he had slain many an admirable man himself in warfare. If that had been the root of the problem, Tristan should have forgiven her by now. The most curious thing was that Tristan loved her—of this, Thomas was certain.

  “Thomas!” She was quite close to tears, to desperation, he thought. “I know that I am watched day and night, but I have escaped such situations before. Please, please, Thomas! He has been gone nearly three weeks.”

  Thomas grinned ruefully. “And he will be gone again, milady. He inherited an earldom; he was created the Duke of Edenby by our new King, and he is His Majesty’s subject. You deceive yourself cruelly if you think he will never again be called to do battle against some pretender.”

  Genevieve walked over to stare down into the cradle. “I know that he will be called. But why, Thomas, did he have to go back to Bedford Heath again? You manage the estates as his steward, and you do miraculously well.”

  Thomas shrugged unhappily. He couldn’t avoid her stare.

  “Come on, Thomas, please! You owe me, sir! You were part and parcel of dragging me off to marry him!”

  He groaned softly. “Genevieve, he went back because even some of his most trusted men, guards who are educated and level in their thinking, are growing convinced that his manor is haunted.”

  “Haunted!”

  “Yes, well . . .” Thomas lifted his hands uncomfortably. “It was the scene of tremendous bloodshed and ...”

  “Please, Thomas?”

  “I’m not at all sure—”

  “Did he tell you that you could not bring me?”

  “Nay—no one thought you would demand to go!” Thomas reproached her. “And truly, Genevieve, how can you? What of Katherine? Do you intend to leave her with a nursemaid? She is so tiny still?”

  Genevieve breathed in and out sharply. “I can leave her with Edwyna and Mary. Mary says she knows the perfect young wet nurse, a carpenter’s daughter who has milk aplenty to feed her own and mine.”

  Genevieve’s return to their spacious chamber at Court had been improved by some curious surprises; Mary had come to serve her, summoned by Tristan. Even more touching had been the appearance of Sir Humphrey, who had told her that he had met with Tristan in Henry’s chambers at Tristan’s request and that he had been pardoned and forgiven. But these things did not quell her urge to go to Tristan and risk his anger. If she were to be his wife, she would not be cast aside!

  Thomas watched her for a moment and sighed. Which would be better—explaining to Tristan that she had eluded him and ridden alone? Or explaining to Tristan that he lacked the strength of will to fight her?

  Maybe she should come to Bedford Heath. It might be good for both of them.

  He threw his hands up in the air.

  “All right.”

  “Oh, Thomas, really?”

  Her smile was dazzling. She raced across the room, threw her arms around him, and planted a kiss on his cheek. Thomas smiled, taking her hands in his and thinking, my God, if she looks at Tristan so, it is no wonder that he is so deeply in love.

  “We leave right after sunup. You’ll ride in a coach.”

  “Thank you, Thomas!”

  * * *

  In the end Jon and Edwyna decided to accompany them. Jon thought the whole scheme a grave mistake but would not let them go without him. Genevieve brought Mary along to help with Katherine, and they set out in something of a party atmosphere, the women inside the coach and the men riding ahead. It wasn’t a leased vehicle, Genevieve discovered, but her husband’s, with the single coat of arms of Bedford Heath blazoned on the doors. Jon explained that since the holdings were so close to London, the family maintained a coach in the City.

  It was a beautiful, comfortable conveyance, and for the
start of the trip Genevieve, Edwyna, Mary, and the baby were able to make something of an outing of it. It was spring, and the land was beautiful. As they left the bustle of London behind they saw farmers at work in their fields sowing seeds. Wildflowers covered the heaths and meadows, and the air was alive with butterflies and bees.

  For a time Jon rode in the coach, his horse tethered to the rear, and for a time Thomas joined them likewise. They stopped for lunch at an inn, where the cream and the bread were fresh and the trout had been caught in the stream just moments before their arrival.

  Back on the road sitting tensely beside Genevieve, Thomas said, “Here begin the outlands of Bedford Heath, milady.”

  Night began to fall, and suddenly the holiday mood was gone. Nervously Genevieve held Katherine to her chest, crooning softly to her. Night came swiftly. She could see little of the land but she could tell that it was vast. And as they rode they came upon more and more buildings. Farm cottages, where cooking fires sent warmth and light into the night. A cluster of homes and shops. The great stone walls of several manors rose in the distance, beautiful and dazzling with light at the windows, created not with the harsh gray slate and stone of Edenby, but with artistic brick and mortar.

  Thomas cleared his throat suddenly and pointed across a vast drive and courtyard. “Tristan’s house,” he murmured. “He didn’t stand to inherit, you know. His brother would have received the title and the bulk of the land. He had this place built about five years after the Battle of Tewkesberry.”

  The coach pulled up at last before a graceful staircase leading to massive, carved doors. Thomas leapt from the coach and adjusted the footstep and helped Genevieve alight. While the others followed, Genevieve stepped back and stared upward at the large, graceful building. It was not quite castle, not quite manor, but a beautiful combination of both.

  Then she frowned suddenly, for through paned windows on the second floor she could see a shadow moving about. She shook her head slightly, wondering why a shadow should disturb her. There were surely people within the manor, any number of them. Tristan should be within.