Winterbourne (35 page)

"You have undone her swaddling," she pronounced at last in accusing tones.

"Swaddling? Is that what you call it? I more wondered what crime the child was guilty of that she should be made a prisoner at so tender an age."

Melyssan bent down to retrieve the discarded linen bandage, trying to hide her disappointment. When she had first come upon Jaufre holding the child, she had dared hope he was beginning to accept Genevieve just a little. But how could he make jest of something that was important to the babe's well-being?

She laid Jenny in the basket, preparing to rebind her. The babe's face puckered, dark clouds gathering in her eyes as she drew a shivering breath, the preliminary to an ear-splitting howl.

Jaufre reached down and caught Melyssan by the wrist. His brows snapped together in a frown. "Nay, you shall not truss her up like that again."

"But my lord…" She looked from his determined face to her helpless daughter squirming in the basket. "I must. All babes are swaddled. If they were not, their limbs would not grow strong and straight."

"That is nonsense. I absolutely forbid it. I take no pleasure in listening to her scream."

"Pleasure?" Melyssan wrenched her wrist free. "Then I shall take her where you need never be disturbed. But my daughter shall not grow up to be a cripple."

"She will not, if you leave her alone. I warn you now, if I catch anyone binding her up like that again, I will send them packing from this castle."

"Including me?" she whispered, tears pricking at her eyes. But he was already striding away. The bandage fell from her fingers as she sank to the ground beside the basket. She had heard that implacable note in Jaufre's voice before. He meant what he said.

"What shall we do, Genevieve?" she asked, biting down upon her quivering lip. "He will not heed me. Twould seem my fears, my wishes, are unimportant to my lord."

She bent over the basket, gently stroking the babe's petal-soft cheek. Jenny's hands entwined in her hair, tugging on the long nutmeg strands that had lost their luster. She had looked at herself in the mirror only that morning. She was no longer attractive, she told herself, having grown paler, her eyes duller, since her confinement.

"He is weary of me, that is what 'tis. Weary of his honorable marriage." Carefully Melyssan disengaged the babe's fists from her hair, marveling at the child's strength. A strength she was terrified would be lost if Jaufre forbade the swaddling. If Genevieve had been a boy, the earl would never have behaved thus. How could he vent his disappointment upon their innocent daughter?

"Oh, little one. I prayed that if only I was patient, his feelings would change in time. At least he might have learned to love you." A great sob tore free from her throat, her hot tears dropping upon the child's shirt. "But he does not care. He will never care for either one of us."

Chapter 15

THE red-gold beauty of autumn gave way before the first icy breath of winter. December's chilling winds blanketed the ground with a light cover of sparkling snow until Winterbourne's white stone battlements resembled a great palace of ice carved out of the frozen ground.

Melyssan scurried through the great hall, supervising the squires as they decorated for the Christmas Eve feast. The walls were already bedecked with garlands of holly so thick it appeared as if the forest had overrun Winterbourne. She paced the length of the hall, still dissatisfied, calling for the pages to bring forth more ivy, hoping the bright greenery would dispel the sense of foreboding hanging over Winterbourne. It was the season of peace, goodwill toward men, yet only that morning she had seen Jaufre honing the edge of his sword.

She frowned at the chatter of the squires perched above her on their ladders. Roland grumbled to Arric, "What foolishness! I would be better employed practicing with the quintain. Of a certainty, we will be commanded to sail for Normandy any day now."

"Aye," agreed Arric. "How I long to give those Frenchmen a taste of my steel." He executed an imaginary thrust that nearly toppled him from his ladder.

"Hah!" Roland snorted. "You'd best take care you don't swallow so much of
their
steel that you end up drinking your own blood."

"Roland! Arric!" Melyssan said sharply. "Mind what you are doing and cease all this talk of killing. Tis—'tis Christmas, and I will not tolerate it."

"Aye, my lady." Arric sulked, hanging his head.

But Roland clambered down the ladder to prostrate himself on one knee. "My lady, I crave your pardon. I had forgotten you were nearby or never would words have escaped my lips so offensive to a woman's delicate sensibilities."

Despite herself, Melyssan smiled. "You are forgiven, Roland. Do get up. If you truly have more pressing affairs to attend to elsewhere, you may go. I am sure Arric will be pleased to help me hang the mistletoe," she added, forestalling that young man's eager attempt to leap to the ground and follow Roland.

Crestfallen, Arric remounted the ladder. Roland's face split into a triumphant grin before he swept Melyssan a magnificent bow, then raced from the hall as if in fear she would change her mind.

Just as she handed Arric the first boughs of mistletoe, Father Andrew emerged from the chapel. He crossed the hall to where she stood, pursing his lips in disapproval. "I trust you will not bring any of that near the altar, my lady. 'Twould not be fitting. Those pallid berries come from the same kind of tree fashioned into the cross upon which our Lord was crucified."

Melyssan gave the priest an apologetic glance as she stretched to hand Arric another sprig. "I know 'tis pagan to decorate with mistletoe, Father. But I've been told it symbolizes reconciliation, that all past grievances are forgiven. Would that it might have some effect upon all these foolish men and turn their thoughts from battle."

Arric grimaced down at her as he hammered the mistletoe into place. Father Andrew steadied the ladder, which wobbled underneath the stalwart young squire. The frown lines around the priest's mouth relaxed. "Well, I shall pardon you for observing heathen customs this one time. Who is to say? Your mistletoe may bring you luck this evening, may bring about a reconciliation you are not expecting."

Melyssan regarded Father Andrew in surprise. His pale blue eyes twinkled, but he refused to tell her anything more. She was still puzzling over his meaning as she made her way upstairs.

A reconciliation she was not expecting
. What could Father Andrew possibly mean? Mentally she reviewed the list of guests who had traveled to spend Christmas at Winterbourne… Lord Oswin, a powerful baron with estates near York… Sir Hugh and Lady Gunnor, newly returned from their exile in Ireland after King John had pardoned Gunnor's brother for offending him during the interdict…

She had no need of reconciliation with any of these. She could only think of one person whose estrangement from her must be obvious to the old priest. Oft she had sensed Father Andrew studying her when she and Jaufre would exit from the hall after supper each evening, her arm placed on top of her husband's with stiff formality. The priest along with everyone else at Winterbourne could have no difficulty in guessing how strained had become her relationship with the earl.

Like all the men, Jaufre was caught up in preparations for the impending war with France, as though nothing else were important to him. She had made a mistake once, blurting out that she prayed each day the cowardly king would change his mind, cancel the invasion. She could not bear to risk losing Jaufre in battle, not even for him to fulfill his oath regarding Clairemont. Then she had wept. Although Jaufre had comforted her, she realized she had closed one more door between them. He retreated behind a wall of silence, keeping whatever he knew of the king's plans to himself.

Ah, if only she and Jaufre could heal the breach between them. If he could forgive her for presenting him with a worthless daughter, she could pardon him for giving her honor when she wanted love. Then they could stand under the mistletoe, exchanging the kiss of peace, a kiss that might deepen into something warmer.

Sighing at the thought, she stepped inside her bedchamber. She was surprised to find Nelda and Jenny's nurse, Canice, peeking at something spread across the bed. When they saw Melyssan, the two women straightened, giggling.

Before she had a chance to question them, she was startled by a rustling sound. She jumped back as something shot toward her. Jenny crawled forward, seizing the hem of Melyssan's gown, her pixyish face beaming beneath her linen coif.

"Ah, by St. Genevieve," Canice wailed. "The child has crept out of her basket again." She bustled forward to swoop up the babe, but Jenny already nestled in her mother's arms, endeavoring to chew upon the gold chain Melyssan wore around her neck.

Melyssan chuckled. "I think you must give over trying to keep Jenny confined to the basket.'" She regarded her daughter with pride. Was there any other child who at the age of six months could scoot across the floor at such an alarming rate of speed? Despite the earl's unheard-of command that the babe should not be swaddled, Jenny's limbs grew apace, chubby and strong.

"I am sorry, my lady," said Canice. "I try to watch her, truly I do. But whoever heard of a babe performing such feats!"

"Just keep her up off the rushes until she can walk." Melyssan hugged the child before carrying her over to the bed. She nearly laid the babe down upon the shimmering folds of the most lovely gown of blue samite she'd ever beheld.

"What—what—where… ?" she stammered.

"Oh, my lady, Lord Jaufre left it here for you," Nelda said. "We have been dying, waiting for you to come and find it."

Stunned, Melyssan handed Jenny to Canice. With trembling fingers she raised the gown, touching the silk to her cheek. The long train cascaded to the floor, sparkling as the firelight glinted upon the threads of gold woven through the dark blue silk. Jenny clapped her hands, letting out an "ooooo" of delight.

Nelda sighed. "What a beautiful gown! I would sell my soul for such a one. I only pray that when I marry, my husband will prove as generous."

"A-aye," Melyssan agreed. "I must go and thank my lord at once."

As she hurried from the room, clutching the silken lengths in front of her, her pulse raced with a new hope she could not deny. It was the first sign of favor Jaufre had shown her since Jenny's birth. Did it mean he was no longer as displeased with her?

She found the earl alone in the solar, seated in his carved armchair. Shyly, she stepped forward until she faced him across the oaken table.

"My lord, the gown! How shall I thank you? Tis lovely, far too elegant for me. You should not have. I know you have been trying to save every penny for rebuilding Winterbourne."

"As long as the king remains obdurate, it matters naught." Jaufre frowned, scarcely looking up from the letter he was reading. "I would not have you attend the Christmas feast looking like a beggar. Tis a man's duty to provide well for his wife."

She lowered the gown, her pleasure in the gift fleeing before the cutting edge of his words. His duty? Aye, she could almost see him marking the entry in his accounts.
Christmas gifts. Forty-three knights: one linen cloak, saddle, and blue tunic each. Wife: one gown with matching belt
. The shining folds of gold-shot fabric suddenly lost some of their luster.

"Well, I thank you, all the same," she whispered.

He did not notice when she backed away from him, preparing to slip out of the room. His attention was all for the letter, his face pale, somber. Then the parchment turned in his hands, and she saw it. The heavy royal seal. She shivered. It was as if she could feel the icy fingers of John Plantagenet once more creeping into their lives.

"Is it—is it more news of the war?" she asked, not wanting to know, yet unable to stop herself.

He glanced up as if surprised to find her still there. "Nothing that need concern you, Lyssa. Do not worry. Leave these matters to me."

"But I only wondered—"

"Tend to the feast, my lady," he said harshly. "And you will have enough to occupy your thoughts."

She nodded, white-lipped, and left the room. As he watched her go, Jaufre cursed himself for his cowardice.
Naught to concern you
. What a liar he was. He crumpled the letter in his fist, the letter commanding him to be in London before the New Year. The king's armada was being readied to set sail.

Why had he not told Melyssan the truth? He had never feared a woman's tears before. He had seen Yseult put on some impassioned displays of weeping, such as would have melted the most hard-hearted warrior. She had only made Jaufre feel uncomfortable. Ah, but Melyssan! He could scarce endure the way her tears trickled down one by one as though her heart were breaking by inches, her pain becoming his own.

It was all the more difficult since he had no more desire to leave her than she a wish to have him go. The thought popped unbidden into his head. Who would be harmed if the oath to retake Clairemont remained unfulfilled? Raoul de Macy was dead.

No! Jaufre rubbed his palm across his forehead. What was he—a knight of honor or some cravenly fat merchant seeking to find ways of remaining by his fire? Damn Melyssan for her beauty, which thus tempted him to break his word.

He would go, follow the king to Normandy, fight… mayhap die. He would tell Melyssan… but not yet. At least they might enjoy this, possibly their last Christmas together. Jaufre turned to the hearth, consigning the king's letter to the flames.

Perhaps Jenny was not the longed-for heir, the future earl of Winterbourne, but Melyssan's head arched with pride as she carried her daughter into the great hall. She determined to be happy, at peace upon this blessed eve of the Christ child's birth, put from her mind all thoughts of war, King John… and Jaufre's coldness.

The large chamber rumbled with the merriment of the earl's tenants, assembled to offer their yearly gifts of bread, hens, and ale, all the while smacking their lips in anticipation of the Christmas dinner to come. The good folk fell back respectfully as Melyssan passed among them, the women curtsying and cooing over Jenny, who regarded them with a complacent smile as if such homage were her due.