Winterbourne (30 page)

"Nay, let be, sweetheart. His back is broader than yours."

Desperately Melyssan turned to Tristan, stretching out her hand to the knight. "Tristan, I beg you. Stop him."

Although he grasped her hand warmly, Tristan gave her a rueful smile and shook his head. "This lady is right, Melyssan. You must not interfere. Jaufre can bear this far better than see any harm come to you."

Roland crossed his arms over his thin chest, his mouth turned down in a sulky frown. "I say we should fight them all. 'Tis humiliating for a knight to be whipped like a peasant."

Tristan's lips twitched as his eyes traveled to where Jaufre now peeled off his shirt, exposing the bronzed expanse of his hard-muscled chest while many of the women in the crowd squealed and waved their kerchiefs.

"I don't know," he murmured. "This may be one humiliation which will not turn out exactly as the king expects."

Melyssan, however, did not think the king looked as if he were about to be disappointed. John dismounted and, wetting his lips, made his way up the steps to obtain a closer view. The canon elbowed the guards aside, grabbing one of the flails. "Steb aside, you foods. This pleasure will be mide."

Jaufre braced himself against the church door, glancing over his shoulder long enough to smile at the king. "After all. Your Majesty, if such punishment was good enough for your father, I am sure I shall have no complaints."

John's face contorted with rage at the reminder of how Henry II had endured flogging from the monks at Canterbury in penance for the murder of Thomas Becket. "Get on with it!" the king screamed, but the canon needed no urging.

When the first angry red weals marred the smooth surface of Jaufre's back, Melyssan moaned and buried her face in her hands. But she could still hear the merciless crack of the whip against flesh.

Jaufre's voice raised above the sound. " 'Fore God, you call this a whipping? I've taken harsher blows from my grandmother."

The canon's frustrated shriek rent the air, the thwacks of the whip coming louder and faster. Melyssan could not restrain herself from peeking between her fingers, and she bit her lip at the sight of the first trickle of blood making its way down Jaufre's raw back. His head was thrown back, his lips stretched into a tight parody of a smile. She knew he would never indicate his suffering by so much as a gasp. Nay, not even should the whip flay every inch of skin from his bones.

"Jesu, what a man," Enid said with a sigh. "I could find it in my heart to envy you, Lyssa."

"Enid!" reproached her husband.

"Er… that is, if I did not already have you, my dearest Rob."

Melyssan leaned against Tristan, fighting the sick feeling that churned in her stomach. She felt his arm encircle her waist to steady her. At last the canon lowered the whip, sobbing because he did not have the strength to continue.

Although he wavered a little, Jaufre proceeded to don his shirt with studied nonchalance, oblivious to the wild cheering from the crowd. When he swept the king a deep mocking bow, Melyssan could see the blood seeping through the white linen. Then the earl straightened to his full height so that he towered over the king.

"I trust Your Grace is now satisfied?"

Every muscle in John's face quivered with rage. "I'll not be satisfied until I see you dead." He whirled around, shoving his servants out of the way as he ran to fling himself on his horse. Without looking back, he galloped off toward Kingsbury Castle.

Chapter 13

The logs crackled in the hearth of Enid's bedchamber, the blaze lit by the lady herself before vacating the room to accommodate the earl of Winterbourne. Her ungrateful guest kicked an osier screen forward to block the heat. "What does the wench mean to do?" Jaufre grumbled. "Roast
me
for the feast this evening?"

He smothered an oath as Tristan helped him don a satin tunic the rich hue of burgundy. At least, he reflected wryly, the color would disguise any further flow of blood. The satisfaction he had taken in goading the king and that self-righteous canon diminished with each little movement. His raw back felt as cracked as the earth when parched by a blistering sun.

A timid knock sounded at the chamber door. Following his curt command to enter, the wooden portal creaked open. Melyssan paused on the threshold, her fingers nervously stroking the handle of a straw basket filled with herbs as she risked a peek at him through gold-fringed lashes. She was garbed in a fresh kirtle many sizes too large for her, the loose neckline affording him a glimpse of the rising swell of her breast. Instantly he felt a familiar tightening in the region between his thighs. Damn her! His initial flush of gratitude in finding her safe dissolved, leaving in its wake a growing anger that she should appear so innocent and enchanting after the hell she had put him through these past weeks.

"Come in, madam," he called, "but leave your basket of devil's herbs outside. Your solicitude comes a trifle late. The lady Enid, who knows
her
duties well, has already been to tend my wounds."

"Oh." Melyssan raised her chin, the shy smile that had graced her lips disappearing. "'If Your Lordship has no need of me, then I shan't stay."

She made a stiff curtsy and began to retreat, but Tristan hastened forward to seize her by the hand, drawing her into the room. "Nay, lady. Come sit you down and heed not Jaufre's churlishness. Surely you know his disposition well enough by now to take no offense." Directing an admonishing glance at Jaufre, he coaxed her into taking a seat upon a tapestry-covered stool by the hearth.

Jaufre gritted his teeth. By God, the wench had nearly gotten herself killed, to say nothing of himself and his men. It galled him no end that not only Tristan, but all his knights, every last one of them, were ever ready to champion her against him. Jaufre folded his arms across his chest but rapidly undid them when the gesture scraped the linen shirt over his lacerated flesh.

Tristan looked from Jaufre to Melyssan and then back again. Jaufre deliberately averted his gaze to the high windows cut into the thick limestone walls. What was Tristan waiting for? Did the fool think he meant to swoop Melyssan up and cover her with kisses for running off from him, driving him to the brink of madness? If so, he'd best think again.

The silence stretched between them until Melyssan broke it, saying in a tight little voice, "I am pleased to hear that my sister has—has taken such good care of you."

"Aye, right good care," Jaufre said dryly, remembering Enid's scathing tongue and dire threats of what she would do to him if he did not cherish her little sister. "Lady Enid has inherited the family touch for healing. She cleansed my flesh with wondrous tenderness. I have not known such gentleness since you skewered those splinters from my thigh."

As Melyssan flushed, Jaufre felt a twinge of remorse. What the devil was he trying to do? Goad her into running away from him again? His conscience smote him as he recalled the words that had sent her fleeing from his castle in the first place.

"Enough about me. I would have your account of why you left my protection in such a foolhardy manner. Surely not because of one stupid remark that I made."

"Aye, lady," Tristan said. "If everyone left each time the earl said something stupid, he'd be dwelling in an empty castle."

"And I'd be well rid of some of you!" With great effort, Jaufre lowered his voice. "I never meant to sound ungrateful that day. You did save my life, and I offer you my thanks. The leg scarce troubles me any longer."

She said nothing, only stared past him at the small adjoining chamber where Lady Enid's gowns hung on their pegs. Her green eyes held at once a greater expression of despair and determination than he had ever seen there before. He studied her figure, swallowed up in the voluminous folds of the kirtle, but could detect no sign of what Lady Enid had blurted out in her anger. Melyssan carried his babe within her womb. His babe and Lyssa's. The thought still filled him with wonder. How like Lyssa to say nothing, preparing to bear the shame alone. But there would be no shame attached to this child. He would see to that.

Becoming aware of his scrutiny, Melyssan drew her sheen of honey-brown hair forward to conceal her expression. She seemed to shrink into herself until Jaufre was assailed by a rush of tender protectiveness. He longed to gather her into his arms and murmur into her ear that he would take care of her. They would forget all that had passed. If only she would promise never to leave him again.

But it was Tristan who placed a hand upon her shoulder. "Pray accept my lord's gratitude, Melyssan. God knows it well-nigh choked him to death to express it."

Jaufre felt the heat suffuse his cheeks as he snapped at Tristan, "Have you nothing to attend to elsewhere?"

Melyssan clutched at Tristan's sleeve. "No! Pray do not go, Sir Tristan. 'Tis not fitting I should be alone with Lord Jaufre. I—I have brought my family enough dishonor."

"I shall stay for as long as you command, my lady."

"By the blood of Christ, madam," Jaufre thundered, "what am I supposed to be? Some sort of brigand? I made it plain to everyone that I intend to marry you."

She set her mouth into a grim line, shaking her head. Jaufre took a step in her direction, incensed when Tristan moved between them as if Melyssan stood in need of protection from him. He shoved Tristan aside, demanding of her, "What the devil do you mean, 'no'?"

"I mean you—you do not have to marry me."

"I'll be damned if I don't!"

"Very likely," Tristan said.

Other than shooting a withering look at the knight, Jaufre ignored his friend, directing his tirade at Melyssan, who flinched at every word. "First my leg and now my back. Damnation, woman. What next? You are the most costly mistress I have ever had. Only this afternoon I have had to part with a large portion of my estates in the north, to say nothing of five hundred pieces of silver. Silver that I'd saved to improve the fortifications at Winterbourne, make that castle something to be proud of."

"But—but 'tis already beautiful," she faltered.

"Like Camelot?" He sneered. "Well, I don't want a castle fashioned of legends and dreams. My hope was that one day Winterbourne would rival the Château Gailliard in strength, that I might rebuild—"

He clenched his fists with frustration. "But what does it matter now? The money is gone. Gone to bribe the king after you brought his wrath down upon both of us. 'Twould be far cheaper to wed you. Then at least I might have some control—"

"You bribed the king?" she asked, her green eyes opening wide.

"Why else do you think he rode out to London without demanding my head?"

"I—I knew you had talked to him when we all returned to the castle, but I thought… I thought you had persuaded him to believe in your innocence, to pardon you."

"I persuaded him with the color of my money. I bought his goodwill, Lyssa."

"He is a horrid, vindictive man! 'Tis not possible to buy his goodwill."

Jaufre gave a short bark of laughter. " 'Tis possible to buy anything, my lady."

"Not anything," she said, struggling to her feet, her eyes brimming with tears. "I am sorry that I should have been the cause of so much trouble for you, my lord. I have no way to repay you. All I can do is refrain from making matters worse. I vow by all that is holy you shall not be suffered to take me as your wife."

With that, she turned and stumbled from the room.

"Suffered!" Jaufre attempted to follow her, only to find his way blocked by Tristan.

"'Leave be, Jaufre. You've done enough damage for the present." He rolled his eyes heavenward. "Never did I hear the like before. '
Twould be far cheaper to wed you
. Is this what you tracked her over half of England to tell her? Oh, Lord, what charm! How could a woman resist such tender wooing?"

"I never asked you to stay and listen, much less favor me with your opinion." Jaufre whirled on his heel and stalked back to the bedside to finish dressing. He wound his gold belt around him, cinching it tight and gasping when it settled against one particularly deep gash just above his waist. It was worse when he added the weight of his sword. When had his weapon gotten to be so damned heavy?

Squirming under Tristan's condemning frown, he continued, "At least now you should be satisfied. 'Twas you who insisted I plight my troth with Melyssan. What more do you want from me?"

"I want to know why all this blustering. Would it have cost you so much to let the girl see how much you've yearned after her, how much you need her, how much you—"

"I've said I'll wed her," Jaufre cut in, an odd sensation of panic rising in his chest. "Surely that is enough. Like any wench, Melyssan is merely being contrary. I will speak to her mother. Everything will be settled."

"All but the most important thing." Tristan sighed. "And I dared to hope that Melyssan had banished Yseult's ghost. I see she is very much with us still."

He walked away but paused in the doorway. "Melyssan is stronger than you realize. She has her own notions of honor and will never accept your manner of
settling things
. I very much fear you are going to lose her again."

Jaufre opened his mouth to retort, but before he could say anything Tristan was gone. The earl ran his finger beneath the belt to ease the chafing, ending by ripping it off and flinging the whole thing, sword and all, onto the bed.

Damn it, why did Tristan have to speak of Yseult? She had naught to do with Melyssan—unless one considered how ironic it was that he had been able to pour out his feelings for Yseult. He cringed at the memory of the poetry he had written, the love songs he had composed and sung in her honor, the roses strewn at the feet of his would-be murderess.

And yet for Melyssan, whom he needed in a way he never had any other woman, needed in a way that terrified him to think of, the words never came. The gentle things he wished to say weighed heavy upon his tongue until he could not speak, the music fated to remain locked in his heart, never to find expression.

He frowned. What did he expect? He was no longer an infatuated youth who believed in some dreamlike ideal the troubadours called love. He would only make a fool of himself if he behaved as if he were. He desired Melyssan, and she was carrying his child. Possibly a son. Jaufre's chest swelled with pride. A son to inherit his title, his lands at Winterbourne, and Ashlar. And Clairemont, his conscience prodded.