Winterbourne (34 page)

"There now, Your Ladyship will do just fine. Nay, don't try to sit up. You must take things slowly. Didn't I promise the eagle-stone would bring you safely through?" The woman beamed and touched a chain from which dangled a dark, hollow stone the size of a walnut, which she had placed around Melyssan's neck when labor had begun.

"Aye, thank you," Melyssan whispered, although she placed more faith in the tiny gold crucifix she clutched in her right hand. She released it now for the first time in twenty-three hours, feeling the marks the cross had gouged into her skin.

"My—my babe?" she asked, her eyes going fearfully to the shrieking bundle Nelda cuddled in her arms.

"Ah, that one." The midwife chuckled. "Stronger than ye be at the moment. Ye need have no fears for the babe."

Melyssan struggled to a sitting position despite the old woman's protest. She
did
fear—and it was a dreadful fear that had haunted her all the months she had carried the child in her womb.

"Bring the babe to me."

Although she continued to cluck and fuss, the midwife brought the wailing child to the bedside, laying it gently in the crook of Melyssan's arm. All she could see was dark fuzz adorning the top of a tiny head crimson with fury. With trembling fingers, she began to undo the blankets that swaddled the child.

"My lady," the midwife protested, but Melyssan gestured the woman to silence.

The blankets fell away, and Melyssan studied the little form stretched across her stomach. She caught one red, wrinkled foot and cradled it in the palm of her hand. So small, so cold, so perfect. As was the other one, which she next subjected to the same tender examination. And the arms, thin, wiry as any newborn's, also perfect. Perfect as Jaufre's daughter should be.

"There, you see, Your Ladyship?" said the midwife. "You could not wish for a more hearty, more beautiful little daughter."

"No, I could not," Melyssan said, tears trickling down her cheeks. "Father in heaven, I thank thee." She trailed her hands over the pink, down-covered skin, pausing to uncurl and count each diminutive finger and then the toes, before at last she was satisfied and pulled the blanket around the child. Drawing the baby close to her breast, she rocked her, cooing soft words of endearment. For the first time since she had drawn breath, Melyssan's daughter ceased her cries and was silent, enabling the mother to better study the round, velvety cheeks, pink lips drawn up like a bow, a petite snub nose. Unfocused blue eyes stared back at her, eyes amazingly alert and as dark-fringed as those of the man who now paused on the room's threshold.

"Jaufre." She leaned forward, surprised by the hesitation in his manner—he, who usually strode into a room with such confidence. Guiltily, she remembered how hours earlier she had driven him from her side. Then her thought had been all for the pain contracting her womb, how to endure it without going mad, how to brace herself for the next wrenching agony.

"My lord, please come in. Do you not wish to see your child?"

He nodded, crossing the room without seeming to see Nelda and the midwife, who curtsied and discreetly retreated outside. As he approached the bed, his gaze swept past the babe and settled on Melyssan, his fingers caressing the tangled strands of her hair.

"Lyssa. You look so—so almost as if you are of another world. Have you… are you well?"

"Aye, my lord." She caught his hand and pressed a kiss along the leathery texture of his knuckles. "Never in my life have I been more so. Look."

She held up the babe, her heart swelling with pride, barely able to restrain herself from crying aloud,
Look! Look at this astonishingly perfect being that came from my womb
.

As Jaufre slipped the child from her grasp, she bit back her protest, overwhelmed by a surge of fierce protectiveness. But his hands were sure and strong as he steadied the babe's head, his lips parting in a broad, flashing smile.

"By my holidame, didst ever see such a sturdy, bright-eyed fellow? We shall name him Raoul, after my grandfather." Jaufre's rich brown eyes turned to her with a warmth such as she'd never seen before. His voice grew husky with emotion. "I have no words, Lyssa, to tell you how happy you've made me."

Her answering smile froze on her lips. "I am pleased you should say so, my lord. But—but I fear there has been some mistake."

"What mistake? A strong, handsome son, all that a man could ask for."

" Tis a girl, my lord. That—that is your daughter." She watched the light die in his eyes, like a candle's glow extinguished by a sudden breath of wind. He was silent for a long moment and then said, "A—a daughter. You—you are certain of this?"

"I—I—"

"A stupid question. Of course you are certain." Quickly he handed the babe back to her, withdrawing but a step from the bedside, although his expression put miles between them.

Melyssan snuggled the baby closer against her, feeling the wriggle of her limbs beneath the blanket. She gave a nervous laugh. "A restless child, your daughter. I don't believe Raoul will suit her. What would you have her called?"

"I had not thought." He shrugged. " 'Tis of no great import. You decide."

Melyssan bit down on her lower lip. "She—she is perfect, Jaufre. Even both her feet…"

"I am sure she is. You do not need to show me."

She stayed the hand that had begun tugging on the blanket. "And I—I am sure next time we will produce a son just as beautiful." Her luminous green eyes raised to his, pleading.

Much as he loathed himself, he could not give her the reassurance she sought. Damn, he had wanted, needed, a son so badly. Waves of disappointment washed over him. Lyssa looked so pale, the radiant aura that had surrounded her now shattered. He had no desire to see her put through such an ordeal again anytime soon. But the war in France loomed imminent, drawing closer than ever. For the first time in his life, he experienced a stab of fear that he might die in battle, die without leaving a son behind to bear his name.

Nay, there was no way he could respond to the plea he saw in Melyssan's eyes, begging him to accept this girl in lieu of the son for which he had longed.

"I will leave you now," he said. "I shall send a messenger to bear the—the glad tidings to your family."

Her reply was all but muffled as she buried her face against the babe's blanket. " 'Twill be of small interest to them. My mother will not care, and Whitney has never forgiven me."

"Enid will want to know you are well. She was most concerned even from the day she first told me you were with child. While she treated the wounds on my back, she treated me to a lecture on how frail…" His voice trailed off as he realized from the stricken look on her face that he'd made a mistake.

"You—you knew?" she cried. "You knew I carried your child when you married me?"

"Of course I knew." He looked away, unable to cope with her tear-filled eyes. "You were being obstinate, so I pretended not to. Damn it, what difference does it make now? Let us not rake through those old ashes again." He retreated to the door. "You must excuse me. I slept but little last night. I am completely exhausted."

Before she could say anything more, she found she was alone with her daughter.
He
was exhausted. Weariness tugged her down like the undertow lurking beneath foam-flecked waves. The flow of strength that her joy in the babe had produced vanished as Jaufre's words pounded through her brain.

He knew. He knew. But what difference did it make? Only all the difference in the world. Melyssan was scarce aware when the midwife came to take the babe from her arms, easing her back down upon the pillow. She was too caught up in her misery over Jaufre's revelation.

He had known about the child. Known about it and had done the honorable thing, marrying her and hoping she'd give him a son. But she had failed him. She rolled over onto her side, clenching her fists into the pillows. Now all she had given him was a lifetime to regret.

In the ensuing months, Jaufre found no escape from the child's wails or Melyssan's tragic, dark-rimmed eyes. She had become but a wan shadow of herself, forever flitting from him like a will-o'-the-wisp, she and this new daughter of hers forming a magic circle in which he had no part. He knew he had stirred to life all her old doubts as to his reason for marrying her, yet he could not find the words to reassure her.

Preparations for the war increased each day, pulling him closer to a time of decision. He felt as if he approached a peak in his life, where honor and success might be his or lost forever in the tides of battle. Feelings of doubt beset him, feelings he could share with no one. In some strange way, his marriage to Melyssan had weakened him, made him more vulnerable than he cared to admit. He wanted nothing more than to remain at Winterbourne, by day riding over his lands, by evening lying with his head upon Lyssa's knee, her gentle hands stroking his brow while their children romped before the fire.

The prospect of battle did not thrill him as it had in the days men had first acclaimed him the Dark Knight. Never had he so much to lose. Lyssa and the child they had christened Genevieve were both so fragile. If he died in France, whose strong arm would defend them? The king and his greedy courtiers would descend upon Winterbourne like a pack of ravenous wolves.

The babe's screams acted as a constant reproach to him. One afternoon in early autumn he returned to the castle hot, sweating from a day's exercise of his sword arm, only to hear once more the seemingly perpetual wails coming from the part of the castle garden near the large apple tree. Gritting his teeth, he strode in that direction, heedless of the half-rotted fruit that crunched beneath his boots.

Genevieve's young wet nurse sat dozing on a bench while the child rested in a basket settled at her feet. Dozing! How could the wench possibly sleep with the babe howling like a greyhound with a burr caught in its haunches? The creature must be half-deaf. Jaufre bent over and shook the girl roughly by the shoulder. Her eyes widened in terror as she was startled out of her slumber.

"Awaken, mistress. Is it your intent to starve the brattling? Put her to the breast and quiet this ungodly noise."

The girl leapt to her feet and crossed her arms protectively over her ample bosom. "I—I pray you, my lord. I but fed the child a half hour since. She could not be hungry."

 "Then get her fresh garb. She must be wet."

 "Oh, no, my lord. She is well cared for, I promise you."

 "Then what the devil is amiss? Why is she forever shrieking?"

The girl made a helpless gesture, a blank expression crossing her simple face. "Why, babes cry, my lord. 'Tis all they can do. I have oft suspected that mayhap they have little demons that torment them, demons so small—"

"Demons!" Jaufre took a menacing step closer until the terrified girl retreated behind the apple tree. "Get you from my sight, you hen-witted fool. If I set eyes on you again, I will show you demons."

The girl's face crumpled. Covering her face with her hands, she fled from the garden. Jaufre's satisfaction in seeing her go was soon dissipated by a wave of panic when he realized he was now alone with a howling infant.

How did one deal with such a small, unreasoning bundle? He risked one peek into the basket and said with all the sternness he could muster, "How now, mistress Genevieve! Cease this unseemly racket. Such behavior will not be tolerated."

Feeling the fool, he glanced around guiltily, dreading he might have been overheard, but the rest of the household seemed to be avoiding this part of the garden where his daughter shrieked. His words had not the least effect on Genevieve. If anything, her howls continued with renewed vigor. Jaufre twitched aside the blanket, unable to suppress a twinge of amusement. He detected no sign of distress in the child. Rather, her round face puckered in an expression of anger, more ferocious than he'd seen on many a redoubtable warrior.

Jaufre clucked his tongue. "I am relieved you have no words as yet, my daughter. I fear what you would say might prove most unladylike. What vexes you so?"

He studied the small body, noting for the first time the swaddling that crisscrossed over her frame and prevented neither arm nor leg from moving so much as an inch.

"By St. George, now I see what ails you, little one." He frowned and scooped the babe out of the basket. "I should curse them myself if they had bound me up like a suckling piglet."

Sitting down upon the bench, he laid the babe across his lap and unwound the bandage until Genevieve was garbed in naught but her tiny shirt and tailclout. Almost immediately upon being freed, her howls stopped and she took a great shuddering breath of relief.

To the earl's delight, she waved her arms through the air and administered several vigorous kicks to his stomach. "What, my lady? Is this how you would repay your rescuer?'"

She responded to his voice with a gurgle, and her eyes focused on his face. The tiny lips uptilted in a winsome smile. He caught one of the swinging fists, dwarfing it with his own. The delicate pink fingers curled around his thumb with a grasp not easily broken.

"You are strong for a wench, my lady Genevieve. Genevieve. 'Tis a mouthful of a name for a wee thing like you. Mayhap I shall call you Jenny. What think you of that?"

Jenny cooed, and Jaufre could have sworn she understood. He placed one hand behind her neck and was beginning to lift her back into the basket when he was startled by Melyssan calling his name.

"Jaufre! What are you doing?" She appeared at the entry of the garden, astonishment reflected in her green eyes. He flushed bright red, fearing she might have overheard the nonsense he had been crooning to the child. He thrust Jenny into her arms.

"I was but doing the work that wet nurse you hired seems incapable of," he said, annoyed by the defensive edge he heard creeping into his voice. "I am weary of hearing the child scream from cock's crow to dusk."

Melyssan examined Jenny as if she sought for marks upon her body. He placed his hands upon his hips and glared, hurt and anger warring inside of him. How dare she behave as if she believed he would do some hurt to a helpless infant, let alone his own daughter!