Winterbourne (28 page)

Jaufre de Macy dug his knees into his exhausted mount and rode on, scarcely aware of the turmoil his presence created. Thirty-two days since Melyssan had disappeared. Thirty-two times he'd watched the sun set and plunge him into another night of hell, agonizing over what perils she might be facing, torturing himself over what dire fate had befallen her,

"A woman cannot be standing in the courtyard one moment and just vanish the next as if she were snatched by spirits," he had bellowed at his knights and servants the evening after he'd recovered consciousness and discovered Melyssan missing from Winterbourne.

How was it possible that not one of the dolts had seen her go? How could they just let her slip away? Nay, mocked a harsh voice inside him. How could
you
just let her slip away?

He rubbed at the grit being flung into his eyes and once more was haunted by an image of Melyssan as he'd last seen her, the pain shattering across her delicate features, swirling in the depth of her eyes as she'd turned and fled. So much he needed to tell her. Sweet Christ! Were the last words she was ever to hear from him going to be…

No! Over the next crest was Wydevale Manor. She would be there, safely hidden away in her father's home, no matter what lies Sir William had sent in reply to his urgent inquiries. He'd already spent the morning storming through the sacred cloisters at St. Clare, sending the frightened sisters scurrying before him like a nest of squealing mice until the outraged Mother Abbess had convinced him Melyssan was not amongst them.

Jaufre grimaced, his head still throbbing from the encounter. Why did the old harridan have to whack him with that crucifix in the exact same spot where he'd hit his head before? He reined in his horse and, when the cloud of dust settled, saw the small manor house nestled in the valley below.

He took a gulp from his wine sack to wet his parched throat, allowing his sweating horse to get its second wind, waiting for his entourage to catch up with him. He'd outstripped his knights by some distance, except for Tristan and Roland, who were now the first to reach his side.

The boy rode well, Jaufre admitted grudgingly. Something might be made of him yet if he could resist the urge to fling the insolent whelp back into the dungeons.

Roland took a swig from his leather pouch, wiped his lips, and said, "Well, what now, my lord? Do we terrorize some more nuns?"

Jaufre gave him a dark look that would have quelled anyone else but otherwise ignored the boy as he turned to Tristan. The knight's dirt-streaked face was lined with weariness.

"That's Wydevale." Jaufre gestured toward the distant manor and extended his wine flagon to Tristan.

Tristan nodded grimly. "I trust you mean to exercise more diplomacy down there than you did at the convent."

"A fool's errand," Roland muttered.

Jaufre clenched his jaw. "If her father surrenders Melyssan to me, there will be no trouble. I know she has to be there." When he saw Tristan's skeptical look, he added vehemently, "I should have checked here myself long ago, instead of allowing you to persuade me to waste time placating the king at Nottingham."

"My lord, we had large troops of men out scouring the countryside for your lady. Twould have benefited none of us, least of all Melyssan, if you had been arrested for treason."

"I came perilously near it, anyway."

"I admit you and John did not part on the best of terms, but at least he did allow you to depart."

"A paltry fellow, your English king." Roland sniffed. "Now Philip of France—"

"Roland, do you ever know when to hold your tongue?" Tristan snapped.

Jaufre answered for him. "No, he doesn't. Gets that from his mother. A charming woman, Amicia, but Lord, she could talk a man to death."

Roland's face flushed, and he sat up straight in the saddle. "A pity you never succumbed. For my part I wish the lady Melyssan Godspeed in escaping from you. And I warn you now, if she is at Wydevale, I won't let you harass her. She saved my life, and I consider myself her champion."

Jaufre snorted. "The lady would do better defending herself. She's worth ten of you in a tight."

"Damn you. I am the finest bowman in Normandy, and if I chose, I could—"

"Don't threaten me, boy," Jaufre said, the fine threads of his temper beginning to snap. "I never want to see you with a bow in your hands again. If you want to kill me, learn to use a sword and fight me with honor, not like some cowardly peasant."

"I will. Don't you think I won't!"

Tristan edged his horse in between them. "Enough, both of you! I have had about all I can tolerate of—" He broke off. staring past Jaufre into the valley beyond.

"What is it?" Jaufre whirled his mount around eagerly, half hoping for the sight of a slender maiden, her nutmeg hair curling to her waist, the sunlight glowing on her ivory skin. But all he saw was a long line of people wending their way from the manor house to the meadow. It was as if everyone on the estate had turned out for this procession.

"Sweet holy Mother," Roland said, blessing himself. "They are preparing to bury someone in the ditch."

Jaufre's eyes locked with Tristan's. The moisture that welled in his friend's eyes revealed the knight's apprehension as clearly as the whispered prayer that reached Jaufre's ears.

"Peace, gentle lady."

"No!" The denial tore from Jaufre's throat as he spurred his courser and charged down the hill. The horse cleared the small stone fence and galloped across the newly plowed field. Astonished, frightened faces flashed before Jaufre's eyes as he flung himself out of the saddle. The leg that still pained from the arrow wound nearly buckled from beneath him, but he caught his balance and leapt at the dumbstruck servants bearing the corpse. They dropped the body and scattered, one of them shrieking, "Father! 'Tis the devil, just as young Tom tried to warn us."

A woman screamed, "Saints preserve us! He's come for poor Sir Swithbert's soul."

Sir Swithbert! Jaufre stared down at the huge bulk draped in the winding sheet. Far too large to be…A tremor of relief shot through the earl's body, and his hands shook. He raked them back through his sweat-soaked hair. Dear God. What was the matter with him? He was behaving like a madman.

Damn it. He needed Melyssan, needed her right now. He would shake her until her teeth chattered for giving him such a fright, and then crush her in his aims, demanding her forgiveness, and never let her go until she vowed to be his wife. And then, by St. George, he would never lose her again even if he had to chain her to his side.

Sir William's mild features gradually came into focus. The elderly knight bowed deeply as he greeted Jaufre in flustered tones. "M-my lord. What an unexpected honor! How did you hear of the death of my uncle?"

But Sir William was thrust aside by his son. Whitney's face blanched with rage as he snatched up a pitchfork from one of the hay mows and brandished it at Jaufre.

"My family has borne enough of your insults, de Macy. Get out of here. Now!"

"Aye, so I will, boy. When I have your sister with me." Oblivious to the three sharp prongs leveled at his chest, Jaufre stepped closer. "Where have you hidden her?"

"Clear off, I said," Whitney cried shrilly as he retreated a step, ignoring his father's command that he drop the pitchfork. "Melyssan is not here."

"Then I shall go look for her back at the house," Jaufre said. He turned on his heel and limped toward the manor house as Tristan and the rest of his entourage came riding into the pasture.

"Jaufre, beware!"

Tristan's cry rang out just as Jaufre's own instincts warned him to whirl in time to meet Whitney's stumbling charge. He dodged but was saved more by Whitney himself as the young man deflected his aim at the last second. The pitchfork clattered to the ground as Jaufre dived for Whitney, pinning him beneath his weight.

"Curse you to hell," Whitney said as his thin arms flailed uselessly against the earl's powerful grip. "Haven't you done enough to her? 'Tis your doing that the king has taken her."

"What!" In his shock, Jaufre loosened his hold, but Whitney made no attempt to escape. "What the devil are you talking about?"

Whitney's mouth compressed into a stubborn line as he glared up at Jaufre with those green eyes that reminded him all too painfully of Melyssan, that half-sullen, half-frightened look that reminded him all too damn much of Godric.

"Tell me, you fool, or I swear I'll…" Jaufre lifted one knee and ground it into Whitney's stomach while his hand cracked repeatedly against the young man's face.

"M-my lord!" Sir William said. "I most strongly protest this—"

"Stop it, Jaufre," he heard Tristan hiss in his ear. The next instant, Tristan and one of Sir William's men were dragging him off Whitney while Roland scornfully flung the pitchfork out of reach.

"Let me go. I'll kill him if he doesn't tell me…"

"For God's sake," Tristan said as he hung on to Jaufre, "my lord, it's her brother."

Jaufre wrenched himself free as Whitney staggered to his feet. "Aye, her
brother
." Jaufre spat out the word with loathing. "Well, it seems her brother has betrayed Melyssan to the king."

"Not my betrayal. Yours," Whitney said through swollen lips.

At that moment, Father Andrew pushed his way to Whitney's side, dabbing at his bleeding mouth with a square of linen. Jaufre moved toward Whitney, ignoring the cautioning hand Tristan placed on his arm. "I want some answers, boy. And I want them now. What has the king done with Melyssan?"

Father Andrew shot him a glance full of reproach, the priest's aged blue eyes probing him in such a way as made him squirm inwardly with discomfort. "My lord, there is naught you can do for the lady now but pray."

"Pray! You'd best begin to pray if you don't tell me where she is, and quick."

"She is a prisoner at Kingsbury Castle," Father Andrew replied with calm dignity. "Where she awaits punishment for your sins."

"My sister Enid sent us a messenger with the news. The king knows you never married her." Whitney's voice was choked with bitterness. "Lyssa is charged with being a whore, an adulteress."

Jaufre's hands slowly unclenched as he remembered the terror that had clouded Melyssan's face every time she spoke of the king. She had first come to Winterbourne seeking shelter from a tyrant. Instead of protecting the lady, he had reviled her for it, forced her to remain his prisoner, robbed her of her innocence, and in the end driven her back to the cruelty she had tried to escape. Was the king even now venting some of the wrath he felt for Jaufre upon that gentle and vulnerable creature?

The earl shuddered. He knew full well how vicious John could be. By God, Lyssa had already suffered too much for what was none of her doing. Well, no more. No more!

His gaze raked the assembled company of men, all of whom had fallen silent. Then Roland's voice piped up. "Well, are we all going to stand here and do nothing to save her? God's teeth!"

"Nay, boy, we'll save her," Jaufre replied, already fingering the hilt of his sword.

Sir William spread his hands wide. "My lord, what is to be done? One dares not go against the king."

"It may not be that hopeless," Tristan said. "But we must proceed with caution, that's certain. Jaufre, I believe the first thing you should do is ride to Kingsbury and request an audience…" But he was speaking to a cloud of dust. Jaufre had already leapt onto his horse and was racing out of the yard.

Melyssan swayed as the ox cart rumbled through the rocky streets of Kingsbury Plain, indifferent to the ruts that slammed her body against the wooden sides. She was equally insensible of the ropes abrading her wrists and the biting wind that knifed through her thin sackcloth gown. 'Twas as if it were someone else's pain and not her own, as if her soul had already begun its flight to peace during the long week of her imprisonment and only awaited final release.

She had heard the whispers of her gaolers. "Never survive it," they had said. "Too frail. Too weak." She prayed they were right. She was not afraid of death. She would have welcomed it, if only she might have seen Jaufre's face one last time… if only it were not for the child she sensed sheltered so deeply within her womb. But, she tried to tell herself, the babe would be better off never to draw breath in this world. It might be born crippled as she had been, experience all the bitterness she had seen reflected in young Roland's face, the pain of belonging nowhere. Jaufre de Macy wanted no more bastards…

The timber-frame shops and stone-clad houses blurred before her eyes. Ahead loomed the spire of the church and the cloisters of the priory beyond. She became conscious that the market square was thronged with a sea of faces. Some poor man writhed and vomited in the stocks while a foul-smelling meat was burned under his nose.

"Let that teach you to sell bad pork, master butcher." A voice gleefully called out, "Hey, here comes more promising sport."

A chorus of shouts assailed Melyssan's ears as the ox cart jolted to a halt. "Cast-off whore!" "One-legged bitch." It took a moment for her numbed mind to realize the invectives were directed at her. She winced as a rotten apple smacked against her cheek but steadfastly kept her eyes ahead of her, refusing to look at her tormentors.

"Shameless bitch. We'll see how proud ye be when the canon finishes wit' ye. Ye'll not look so saintly then," taunted the voices.

"Aw, hold your tongues, you scum," a deep bass boomed out. "Don't ye know she be our good lady Enid's sister?" The rumblings against Melyssan grew quieter except for one plump dame who squeezed her way up to the cart.

"Ha, my beauty. Where is your lover now? They never tarry long when the sport is all over and done with, do they?"

Melyssan stared down into the toothless face grinning at her.

"He's probably off tossing another wench on his pikestaff while ye take the drubbing."

The hag's jeering remark seared through Melyssan's protective haze like a torturer's fire fork, branding her with visions of Jaufre even now embracing some other beauty in the bed they once had shared. Her lips moved, wanting to deny the woman's mocking words, but no sound came. How often had she foolishly hoped he would come searching for her, riding to her rescue? But he had not even cared enough to discover whether she was safe or no. Doubtless he was relieved that she was out of his life with so little cost to himself.