Lie Down in Roses

by Heather Graham

  “Nay, milady, you needn’t fear. When we rode I talked casually to the boy, telling him that perhaps you would ride with me. And he just smiled—you see, my dear, your husband did not care to tell the common rabble that he and his bride were at odds once again!”

  What could she do? There was no help from within the keep walls. Perhaps in the courtyard she could scream and rouse the guard, and they would know that a true traitor was in their midst.

  “I’ll—I’ll come,” she said. “Please, just give my baby to Edwyna and I—”

  “Nay, milady. I will carry the child. And if you do not smile as sweetly as a ray of sunshine to all around you, I will snuff out her odious life in a second’s time.”

  “You bastard! You vile snake, you are spit on the ground—” Edwyna said suddenly, snarling into action. But as she started for Guy, he struck out hard; Edwyna was thrown against the bedpost and fell to the floor in a silent heap.

  Genevieve cried out and rushed to her aunt, kneeling down in anxious fear. Oh, she breathed at least. “Edwyna, dear Edwyna—”

  Genevieve screamed as Guy tugged ruthlessly on her hair.

  “She is alive—leave it at that. Get your cloak. We’re going.”

  Trembling, Genevieve dug out a light summer cloak. She slipped it around her shoulders and gazed down at her aunt’s fallen body again.

  “I can kill her before we leave, Genevieve. Perhaps I should. You won’t doubt me then.”

  “I am coming,” Genevieve said. She marched past him. Outside her door she stopped with a horrified gasp and rushed to the fallen body of Roger de Treyne. Blood carried a trail across his forehead, but, oh, bless the saints! It appeared that he, too, still had breath in his body.

  “Get up!”

  Guy wrenched her to her feet. Katherine started to wail and Guy compressed his lips in a snarl. “I can really make her squeal, Genevieve.”

  She lowered her eyes quickly and let him lead her to the stairs. Katherine still sniffled in his arms, but she sensed her mother’s presence and did not scream. Perhaps she knew that her life depended on quiet.

  In seconds they were out of the hall. From a distant parapet, a guard saluted. Genevieve could hear laughter from the rows of shops within the walls.

  Matthew came to her, and she smiled and told him that she would ride with Sir Guy He smiled in return and said he would quickly bring the horses.

  Oh, Matthew, Matthew! Can none of you see that this is wrong! The sun shone so strongly while they waited! The air seemed so warm with the summer and the sky so blue. Voices dulled to a lazy chant and she could hear them so clearly, as clearly as the terrified beating of her heart. Tristan, I love you, she thought. I love you so much! With all my heart! And yet I was so foolish! Please, please believe that I did not run away with him!

  Edwyna would tell him the truth, she assured herself. Pray to God he would believe it. And he would come for her, oh, surely he would . . .

  But would he reach her? Or would Guy abduct her in truth and take her captive to Ireland’s shores? Or tire of the quest and slay her and Katherine, as he had so many others.

  She almost cried out, feeling his powerful hand on her arm and knowing that he could throttle her baby in a second. And just when she thought that she could not stand any longer Matthew returned with the horses.

  “Milady!” he said, leading the mounts from the stable. He made his hands into a mounting platform for Genevieve and she swung unto the horse he had brought her, a bay mare.

  Guy swung onto his mount easily, even with little Katherine in his arms. Genevieve feared that she would choke, watching him mount his horse with her baby. He could drop her! He could trample her beneath the horse’s hooves . . .

  “We’ll just ride in the forest for awhile,” Guy said pleasantly to Matthew.

  “Aye, Sir Guy!”

  “Run ahead and tell the guard to open the gate, boy,” Guy said, and he tossed Matthew a coin.

  “Aye, sir!” Matthew agreed. He stared at Genevieve with a peculiar smile, then ran ahead. Guy chuckled very softly and Filbert made a snickering sound behind them.

  “Genevieve, my love . . .”

  Guy gave her mare’s rump a smack, and the mare trotted obediently alongside him. In seconds the guards at the main gate waved down to them, and they were quit of Edenby. Once again Guy smacked her horse’s rump, and she cried out as they raced southward along the jagged terrain that rimmed the sea.

  Katherine began to scream freely in tears at last, and Genevieve urged her mount purposely closer to Guy’s. Guy, scowling, slowed.

  “Please, Guy, give her to me! I can cry out no longer, I cannot give an alarm, please, give me my daughter—”

  Guy passed the baby to her with a frightening abandon. “Take her! And shut her up! Now!”

  Genevieve held her baby close. Guy dismounted from his horse to loop the reins over the mare’s neck so that he could lead her and so that Genevieve could have no control. Katherine continued to scream despite her mother’s arms.

  “Shut her up!” Guy bellowed.

  “She’s—hungry.”

  “Then feed her!”

  “I cannot feed her before you! We must stop, I need a place—”

  Guy laughed, and the sound raked along her spine like a score of needles.

  “You’d best feed her before me. I’ll not stop until we’re far, far away.”

  “Tristan will come after you.”

  “Tristan will be busy.” He smiled at her so pleasantly then that she instantly knew a whole new rash of unreasoning fear.

  Then he pointed behind them. She had to stare for several seconds before she realized that a billow of smoke was rising into the summer air.

  Genevieve gasped. “The castle! It’s—”

  “Burning. On fire.” He started to laugh again. “I told you, Genevieve, if I cannot have what I want, then no one else may have it.” His tone roughened and he stared at her with a cruel and malicious curl to his lip. “I’d rather destroy it.”

  “You’ve killed them!” she choked out. “All those people, trapped within—”

  “Maybe a few got out. Pray for them, Genevieve. And ride!”

  * * *

  Matthew knew that it was wrong. Lady Genevieve had smiled but she looked as if she would burst into tears at any moment. Aye, Sir Guy had come to Edenby before—with the King’s men, to boot—but it was still wrong. Why, when the lord and lady had come from London, terse as they were with one another, they’d both been gentle with that wee babe. The lady would hardly trust the child to her new husband’s arms—so why allow this knight to take her upon a horse so?

  He didn’t think on it long—thankfully. Certain that something was wrong, he tore into the great hall. And lo and behold, the old knight, Sir Humphrey, lay on the floor, moaning. And from the kitchen there came a noise as to wake the dead.

  And he could smell it. Smoke.

  Matthew raced outside, screaming for help. In seconds guards were rushing about the place. He took the stairs two at a time. He nearly tripped over the man near the landing, but bent to him instead.

  Roger de Treyne came to with a groan.

  “Fire, sir, fire!” Matthew warned. And Roger needed to hear no more. He stumbled to his feet swearing. While Matthew rushed on up the tower stairs, Roger stumbled into the Lady Genevieve’s chamber. The curtains were ablaze, and the bedclothes had caught.

  And the Lady Edwyna lay at the foot of the bed.

  Roger hurried to her. The fire crackled and spread while he bent, dizzy himself, and swept her into his arms. He raced out just before one of the ceiling beams crashed down to the floor with a terrible shower of sparks and deadly force.

  He did not stop until she was outside, moaning and gasping for air. Then she gazed at him, eyes glazed, and her face all smudged.

  “Anne! My daughter. Oh, my God, Roger—”

  “Milady, milady, the wee one’s ’ere!” Matthew cried, leading out little Lady Anne along with Mary
and Meg and a host of the household servants. Anne sniffled and pitched herself into her mother’s arms; Edwyna rocked her, shivering and whispering, “My baby!” over and over again and then she suddenly stared at Roger. “Genevieve! He’s taken Genevieve! We’ve got to summon Tristan and Jon and—”

  “I’ll go now,” Roger said grimly.

  “Nay, wait!” Edwyna cried. “He might not believe you, but he must believe me!”

  Roger stared at her, confused.

  “That she did not go willingly,” Edwyna said softly, and Roger nodded.

  “I’ll get the horses,” Matthew said.

  And Edwyna, finding strength, took command. “Oh, bless us, Sir Humphrey! You are well. See that everyone makes it out. Griswald, account for everyone! See that the fire is stopped. Anne, oh, Annie my love! You take care of Mary, she is crying and scared! Little one, I’ll be back soon.”

  Matthew had the horses; Roger was ready for her. With Matthew’s help she swung into the saddle.

  * * *

  It was no good. He could drink until the stars ceased to shine at night, and it would still be no good. He could smile at buxom tavern wenches and try to tell himself that the merry promises in their eyes could heal his burning flesh, but it could never be true. He could laugh and joke and tease and swig ale until the end of time, and it would not still the longing in his heart. Only one wench could heal him, with her love like balm, like scented oil and potent wine.

  Go to her! He told himself. The cry was in his heart and in his soul: Go to her, take all her sweet beauty into your arms.

  He slammed his tankard down suddenly. Jon, morose beside him, looked up quickly.

  “Tristan—”

  Tristan stood and threw coins upon the table. “Let’s go home,” he said softly. And Jon gazed down from his eyes, relieved. He didn’t know what had brought about the change in Tristan, he was simply glad of it.

  He rose, too, and called out a thank you to the saucy wench who had served them—disappointed now to see that her quest for the sport of a noble lord seemed lost. And lost it was. His mind made up, Tristan was heading for the door.

  But they did not reach it before it was suddenly burst inward.

  “Edwyna!”

  At the sight of his wife’s smudged face, Jon scrambled desperately forward, heedless of the tankards and trenchers that fell in his wake. “Edwyna, my God! Roger! What is the meaning of this?”

  “What in God’s name happened?” Tristan demanded tersely from behind him.

  Edwyna spoke quickly and gravely.

  “Sir Guy. He has taken Genevieve and Katherine. He set fire to the hall, but that does not matter now, Tristan.” She watched his expression. “Damn you, Tristan! This was no plan, no conspiracy! Guy stole your papers, and Genevieve tried to steal them back so that you would not kill Guy or go to the Tower. Oh, and worse, much worse. He is mad, Tristan, he must be—and he has been! Genevieve’s father did not die from a battle wound—Guy killed him, as he killed Axel, so that he could have Genevieve. And he has her now, Tristan, and—” She broke off with a little sob. “—and the baby! And some of them are out, but he knows this territory. Tristan, you have to find her. He’ll hurt her. She’ll fight him—you know how she fights!—and he’ll kill her or the baby! And she cannot ride as he’ll make her, she’ll lose the new one—”

  “When?” Tristan thundered out. “Who is he with? How many men?”

  “Not an hour. One man. Filbert, he called him—”

  Tristan swore in a loud raging cry. “Filbert! The man was a servant at Bedford. My God, I will kill him! If he touches her, if he harms her or Katherine—”

  He did not finish the thought. He was out the door with a savage stride, and indeed fury and anguish laced his eyes so that they burned with the sure and primitive fury of hell’s fire. In seconds he was up on his enormous piebald.

  Roger and Jon exchanged glances and raced after him, mounting their horses in bold, desperate leaps.

  But they could not keep up with Pie, for he raced with the wind, and his master’s great heartbeats sounded along with his hoofbeats.

  A cry could be heard on the air. A battle cry, hoarse and chilling and terrible, and far older than any war created by Kings of Lancaster or of York.

  Twenty-six

  Genevieve wished that they would not ride so close to the sea; the path that they followed moved terrifyingly through dense foliage which would suddenly break—and they would be high above the water on the ragged cliffs. This was her country, she tried to tell herself. She knew this land as well as Guy did. But it helped little. She still rode in continual agitation, terrified that her mare would lose her footing and that she and the animal and Katherine would fall down the steep rock to knives of death below. For herself she was so weary she did not know if she might not welcome the quick grasp into oblivion, but for Katherine . . .

  Indeed as night came and Guy continued to force his hurried scramble northward, her despair and exhaustion were such that only thoughts of Katherine, sleeping sweetly in her arms and unaware of their rigors in that tender nest, kept her going and clinging to life.

  Filbert rode behind them. Guy dropped back suddenly, and Genevieve bit her lip, wishing he would not, as they were high upon a cliff and the trail was narrow. He smiled in the growing darkness, and she knew that he was amused by her fear. She did not speak to him but stared at him through narrowed, watchful eyes.

  “Take heart, love. We’re stopping soon.”

  She did not reply.

  “Up ahead. There is a group of caves that run deep and long. One could be lost among them for days.”

  She knew where she was. As children, they had called the caves the devil’s pits, and she knew that they ran deep and forever along the sea. Rebels had come here in days gone by; the Celts had run from the Romans to hole up here, and the Angles had run from the Saxons, and the Saxons from Normans and Jutes.

  She lowered her head suddenly. He had meant to scare her, yet he had given some small hope. She knew the caves—he had forgotten that she was a Llewellyn, child of this rugged place even more than he. With just the smallest head start, she might escape him.

  She had to keep believing—or else go mad. As it was, she had spent the day in tormented prayer. If only she could know that God had spared Edwyna and Anne and the others from the fire. But things must have gone badly or Tristan would now be in pursuit of her. Oh, God, most surely, he would come! If not for her, then for Katherine . . .

  Guy moved ahead; to her relief they took a sharp turn inland, away from that dangerous precipice. They came to a clearing before the first of the gaping caves, and Guy dismounted, pulling her mare forward into the cave. Filbert followed, lighting a torch, then using that torch to set ablaze a stack of kindling—obviously prepared at an earlier date for this occasion. Guy had planned and waited carefully, she realized sickly. He had waited for Tristan to leave Edenby before he had burst in upon her.

  Guy stared at Genevieve. He did not glance at Filbert as he spoke. “Guard the entrance here. And do not disturb me.”

  Silently Filbert slunk out of the cave. Watching Genevieve, Guy grinned. “What do you think of my love nest, milady?”

  “You’re are grievously ill, Guy.”

  “Nay, I am feeling exquisitely healthy. And virile. You will discover just how sweetly so.”

  He reached for her, and without jarring Katherine, Genevieve could not fight his hold. She landed on her feet with the baby clutched to her, and his arms around her waist. For a moment faintness overwhelmed her. This seemed the final horror. If he touched her, she would willingly throw herself from the cliffs; she simply could take no more.

  Then she thought, like one drowning, that she must fight—else she would give way to the cold clamp of the water. She jerked away from him.

  “Get your hands off of me!”

  He laughed, but released her. He was not ready yet to prove his point. “Genevieve, you are so arrogant! It charms me, it fasc
inates me! And—it will change.”

  He stepped away from her, pulling things from his leather saddlebags. He had packed, she realized with disbelief, as if they were lovers on a picnic. He had a skin of wine and loaves of bread and large wads of cheese, which he laid out on a cloth before the fire.

  Then he sat by it, and waved an arm for Genevieve to join him. She did not, but stood, cradling her child, staring at him.

  “Get rid of the brat, Genevieve, and sit beside me.”

  She told him in most certain terms what he should do to himself. With a grim smile, Guy retorted that he did intend to do just what she suggested—but that she would be involved.

  “Such language, milady! Do you whisper such things to your Lancastrian knight in the heat of passion? Did he teach you those words and when to use them to increase the thrust of his blade?” She stared at him coolly, her face and stance so scornful that he started to his feet. He laughed when she backed away.

  “Now, Genevieve. While she still sleeps and sets up no noise. Take the blanket there and set her to sleep. For if she cries when I do not wish to be disturbed, I will see that she is silenced.”

  Genevieve swung away from him before he could see the tears of horror, fear, and revulsion in her eyes. She dragged the blanket from the leather satchel he had indicated, and took Katherine as far from him as she could, settling her into a little niche in the rock where the cave stretched farther into the maze of gaps and holes and darkness.

  She stared into that darkness and thought that perhaps this was her chance; she could snatch Katherine to her breast again and run. But if he caught her, she knew beyond a doubt that he would kill Katherine then and there, and make her watch.

  A better chance would come, she thought. She had seen that he carried a dirk strapped about his ankle. If she could but lull him along for a few minutes, she could slip that dirk from the strap and she would not hesitate to shove it into his gut.