Winterbourne (15 page)

Tristan wiped the back of one hand against his sweat-begrimed forehead, set beneath a steel cap. "The punishment is excessive. Teasing her, forcing her to keep up this pretense!"

"What harm has it done? Have I laid so much as a hand upon her?"

"I know not. Have you?" Tristan shot him a penetrating glance.

"No, I have not," Jaufre said, careful to keep the note of regret out of his voice.

"At least not yet. But I've seen the way you look at her, tense as a catapult that's wound too tight."

"Who appointed you her guardian?" Jaufre snapped, striding away from Tristan. Melyssan had limped too close to the spot where her brother was taking quite a drubbing from the beefy young squire he was matched against. Instinctively Jaufre moved in that direction, but Sir Dreyfan was already guiding her back to a safe distance.

Tristan followed hard on Jaufre's heels. "I only think you should send her away before you do something you might be sorry for. She is the sweetest, most gentle—"

"Peace!" Jaufre said, his eyes locking with Tristan's. "I can see she has quite won your heart. Mayhap if you're not too lovesick, you will return to your task of training my squires. At the moment, your charges look more as if they are having a game of hot cockles than any serious sword exercise." With the tip of his sword, he indicated where one dark-haired lad, having lost his footing on the frost-slick ground, now proceeded to tackle his opponent.

"Oh, aye, my lord. By your command, my lord."

Tristan swept Jaufre a mocking bow. Snatching up his shield, he strode onto the field and thwacked the young wrestler on the buttocks with the flat of his sword. "Arric!" he bellowed to his page. "Bring up the horses. We'll start the runs against the quintain."

Jaufre sheathed his sword, glaring at his friend's retreating back. Plague take Tristan, haranguing him about the girl at such a time. As if he didn't have enough on his mind. Every time he glanced up, there was another messenger clamoring for admittance at the infernal gates.

Messengers from Philip of France reaffirming his offer to return Clairemont if Jaufre would help make war on John of England. Messengers from John of England demanding that Jaufre renew his oath of allegiance to him. He had freely pardoned the earl for the death of Hubert Le Vis. As he reminded Jaufre in his letters, both the Church and France were England's enemies, so Jaufre had done his king a service by killing the Norman priest. Despite this expression of gratitude, John assessed exorbitant death duties against the earl for his inheritance of the comte's English manors and his castle in the north, Ashlar. Grudgingly, Jaufre paid, monies that would have been better spent improving the fortifications at Winterbourne.

John's latest complaint was the continued absence from court of Jaufre and his lovely new bride. He had strongly begun to hint that if the earl and his countess did not present themselves soon, the king would be obliged to heed those many voices whispering against the Dark Knight, whispering that Ashlar and Winterbourne would be better placed in the hands of some more loyal baron.

On top of these worries, Jaufre didn't need Tristan pricking his conscience over Melyssan. After all, he was protecting the girl from John, wasn't he, at the risk of drawing the king's wrath down upon his own head? It was Jaufre who suffered most from his mad decision to keep her, putting constant temptation in his path when he had resolved to maintain an honorable distance from her.

No easy task. Even now as he gazed at her, the sunlight burnished gold in the silken nutmeg hair flowing loose about her shoulders. The breeze occasionally tugged the cloak from her closed fingers and flapped it back to allow glimpses of her supple figure, reminding him all too well of the velvet body beneath, creamy skin as translucent as pearls.

He felt the blood rush to his loins and ran one finger inside the neckline of his chain mail hauberk, which suddenly struck him as being rather warm, despite the chill in the air nipping him with the promise of an early winter.

Well, he'd desired women before and survived. He would never become besotted again as he'd done with Yseult. No, not even over this lass with the wistful sea-shaded eyes who so disturbed his senses.

He did have to accord Melyssan a certain grudging respect. How many ladies would have accepted his dictums without dissolving into tears, to be wife and yet no wife, her fate uncertain for as long as he commanded? She bore it all so patiently, devoting herself to the many tasks required of the lady of Winterbourne, seeing to everyone's needs before her own.

It was typical of her that she would stand out here in the cold to keep an anxious eye on that nettling brother of hers while Whitney joined in the practice according to Jaufre's orders. If the youth persisted in remaining at Winterbourne, clinging to his sister's skirts, Jaufre thought, then, by God, he'd be treated no differently from the other squires and learn to play a man's part.

The earl kicked his toe against what remained of the brown grass made brittle by the coating of white frost. Melyssan had not spared him so much as a glance this morning. Her concern was all for her milksop brother as he mounted a roan destrier, preparing to take his turn riding at the wooden dummy the pages attached to the crosspiece at the other end of the courtyard.

Jaufre could not remember any woman ever showing such anxiety on his behalf. Oh, aye, Yseult had cried her pretty blue eyes out the day he told her he was riding to relieve the siege at Gaillard, but by then she and Godric must already have been arranging their tryst in Jaufre's own bed.

And when caught, how his fair-skinned Yseult had wept again, swearing it was all Godric's doing and none of her own. Like a fool, he'd believed her and given her another chance—another chance to kill him. Jaufre stroked the tip of the scar at his throat.

Melyssan clasped her hand to her mouth as Whitney careened clumsily toward the quintain. Was this show of dismay but a performance to attract attention to herself? He wished he could decide.

Mayhap Tristan was right. Mayhap she was just as innocent and unselfish as Jaufre himself had once imagined her to be. He wanted to accord her the benefit of the doubt, but he knew women and their cunning deceits all too well. And there was still the unresolved matter of those pilgrims…

Having organized the quintain practice, Tristan returned to stand beside him. "There," he said. "I hope you are at least satisfied with the horsemanship of our lads."

"Tolerable." Jaufre was loath to admit he had been staring at Melyssan and not the riders.

"Tolerable! There's not one out there whose skill in the saddle would put you to shame. Except," Tristan amended, "I do wish I could teach young Whitney to keep his weight more forward in the saddle when he charges."

They watched Whitney make a thundering run at the quintain, only to drop his lance. He yanked on the reins and veered aside barely in time to avoid crashing into the crosspiece.

"You might begin by telling him that as far as we know," Jaufre drawled, "no one has ever been killed by a wooden dummy."

The earl crossed his arms over his chest in disgust as the young man rode back to try again. But the page Arric swiped someone's horse and galloped in ahead of Whitney despite the hoots of the men. The boy hit the dummy square between the eyes with the tip of his lance.

" 'Tis time that lad was made a squire." Jaufre nodded his approval to the excited boy who whooped and shook his fist in the air.

Whitney now steeled himself to begin his second run. The young man approached the quintain more cautiously this time, slowing to a sedate trot at the end. He missed the head, catching his lance on the edge of the dummy's shield, which sent the wooden man veering around to thump Whitney on the back, nearly unhorsing him.

It vexed Jaufre to note how Melyssan applauded the feeble performance, waving her kerchief by way of encouragement. "For the love of St. George," he growled. "My grandmother could have done better."

Although Tristan smiled, he said, "Be not so impatient with Whitney. He tries."

"He is a weakling. Soft-hearted and soft-headed. He reminds me too much of—" Jaufre sucked in his breath as the painful realization caught him unaware.

"Of who?"

"Godric!" Jaufre grabbed up his helmet and plunked the heavy kettle-shaped piece of steel over his head. His vision was now restricted to a narrow slit, so he did not see Tristan's reaction to his comparison. " 'Tis time I put some heart into those lads," he growled.

He marched out onto the field, his shield and sword held aloft by outstretched arms, issuing a challenge. The squires recognized the invitation and forgot the quintain. Horses were consigned to the care of pages amidst joyous war cries while the young men scrambled for their swords, shields, and helmets.

With a little shiver, Melyssan realized Jaufre meant to take them all on—some half-dozen stalwart men, not including her own brother, who reluctantly eased his helmet over disordered brown locks.

She had taken great care to keep her eyes averted from the earl this morning, although she was very much aware of his presence as he stood idly watching the squires. Now she decided she might be pardoned for staring, since the earl had made himself the center of attention.

The sun glinted off the helmet that concealed his features, the gold plumes of his crest ruffled by the breeze. The squires were mostly strapping fellows in their late teens, but next to Jaufre's tall, hard-muscled physique, they dwindled in significance. The earl's royal-blue tunic bore his falcon emblem emblazoned across his broad chest. Slits in the garment's sides revealed the taut cords of his powerful thighs, which moved with catlike grace as he tensed, waiting for his squires to marshal their attack.

"Surely 'tis no contest," Melyssan breathed. "He cannot possibly hold off all of them."

Sir Dreyfan, who stood next to her, chuckled. "Wait and see, my lady."

The bolder of the squires closed in for the attack. Jaufre wheeled, preventing any of them from coming at his flank, his sword slashing with a speed and accuracy that left Melyssan dizzy trying to follow its movement. In short order, one squire was crawling across the field to retrieve the weapon knocked from his grasp and two more retreated, nursing bruised ribs.

Sir Dreyfan's peppery beard bristled with pride. "There has never yet been a warrior to equal my lord, save perhaps William Le Marshal and the great Lion's Heart himself."

"Oh?" Melyssan said, feigning indifference although her heart had begun to pound unaccountably faster. For once she was fascinated by a sport whose violence she normally abhorred. The tireless strength in Jaufre's arms astonished her as he repelled yet two more attackers. In spite of herself, she remembered how effortlessly he had swooped her off her feet the night he'd carried her from the great hall, how he'd soothed her to sleep, her naked breasts and thighs absorbing the heat of his virile male body even through the layers of his wool shirt and tunic.

Melyssan quickly ducked her head lest Sir Dreyfan see the blush coursing into her cheeks from such remembrance. Where had Jaufre slept since then? She had no idea and dared not ask. As she had lain fighting wakefulness night after night in his bed, the old magic of dreaming of her young Launcelot did not work anymore. Instead she'd tossed and turned, envisioning the earl as he was now, lean, hard, with dangerous glints in his dark eyes. Then she felt ashamed, almost as if she betrayed a memory she'd long held sacred.

Why should she torment herself over a man who had forgotten her very existence? All too well had Jaufre kept his promise of not forcing his attentions upon her. She'd lived in dread for days that he would confront her, demanding to know more about Sir Hugh and Lady Gunnor; but even that seemed to have been dismissed from his mind as having little importance. Although he still kept her trapped at Winterbourne like a sparrow beating its wings against the bars of a cage, he treated her with an offhand courtesy as though he took her presence for granted, like any other officer of his household staff. Watching him as he now fought his way across the field, Melyssan reflected that he could probably trip over her and keep right on going.

Jaufre grunted as the largest of his squires caught him in the ribs, but he recovered and sent the brawny youth stumbling over backward with a well-placed blow to the thigh. Although the sweat streamed down his cheeks, making the helmet as stuffy as a bake oven, he was enjoying the exercise, ridding himself of his sexual and political frustrations with the same strokes. He caught a flash of Melyssan through his eye slit and was annoyed to see her staring down at the ground.

Raising his weapon aloft, he looked for fresh opponents, but he had crossed swords with all the men save one. Whitney hung back, his sword held halfheartedly in the ready position as if he hoped to escape unnoticed—the exact same tactic Godric had always used whenever there was a melee. Jaufre clenched his teeth and charged at Whitney, delivering a hard
thunk
! against his shield that sent the young man staggering.

To the earl's annoyance, Whitney scarce made use of his sword at all, relying mostly on the shield to deflect Jaufre's blows. The Dark Knight crashed his weapon down again and again, determined to rouse some aggressive response from the weak-kneed man before him.

"Fight, damn you!" Jaufre roared, but Whitney seemed to have given up. He cowered back, almost losing his grip on the shield.

Hearing such a clatter, Melyssan stole a glance and found Jaufre bearing down hard upon her brother. Whitney's shield was not doing him much service, allowing Jaufre to rain a volley of direct hits upon his helmet.

Stifling her cry, she tried to hurry to his rescue, but Sir Dreyfan caught her by the arm. "Please, my lady. Ye must remember to stay back."

"But he's slaying my brother." She struggled against the old knight's large, restraining hands.

"Nay, lass, 'tis all in sport. His Lordship is only using blunted weapons."

Only blunted weapons. Sir Dreyfan might well have said the Dark Knight was only using a cudgel the way his heavy sword clattered down upon Whitney's head. After one particularly savage buffet, her brother dropped both sword and shield and sank to his knees, pitching forward onto his belly. Sir Dreyfan released Melyssan, and she hobbled across the field, half falling, half sobbing, in her haste to reach Whitney.