Winterbourne (36 page)

"Such a little beauty," gushed Lady Gunnor. "The image of His Lordship."

"Aye, she is," Melyssan said as she studied the dark curl drooping over Jenny's forehead, the same midnight shade as Jaufre's, the large round eyes that had deepened to the earl's rich shade of brown.

Gunnor's plump face grew wistful, and her eyes misted. "And to think that dark night you helped us to escape, my own Tom was just such a babe. Who would ever have thought you and I would meet again under such happy circumstances?"

" Tis wonderful, Gunnor," Melyssan said. "I am so pleased that you could come home to Penhurst at last."

At the sound of male laughter ringing from the hearthside of the hall, Jenny wrenched her body around trying to see, nearly upsetting Melyssan's balance. Faith, but the child was an armful. It required both hands to keep hold of Jenny, which left none for the support of her cane.

Jenny craned her neck, her joyful crow telling Melyssan she had singled out Jaufre's voice even in the room full of men. It was amazing how the babe would perk up when her father was near, although Jaufre never paid her the least attention.

"I understand, little one," Melyssan whispered close to the child's ear." 'Tis the same for me." She often thought she could bear his present indifference better if only she had never known what it was like to be touched by him, feel his kiss burn upon her lips, be enfolded in the demanding strength of his arms. Some nights her longing for him grew so keen, she spent the hours until dawn gripping her arms tight against her body in restraint lest she throw herself at his feet and beg him to love her.

The same desire nigh overwhelmed her as she spotted him now, listening to Lord Oswin expound at length. Jaufre's dark hair brushed against the neckline of his long-sleeved tunic of rose-hued sandal, stretched taut over his broad shoulders. A long-tongued belt of silver hugged his waist, accenting the narrow leanness of his hips, where rested one heavily ringed hand. He stood taller than most of the men, wearing that moody look of detachment she had come to know all too well of late. He watched unsmiling as the pages dragged forth the yule log, a giant section from the trunk of an ash tree, whose end was fitted into the hearth and ignited.

" 'Twill be good luck if they keep it burning throughout the twelve days of Christmas," Gunnor said. "Your Ladyship must then take care the ashes are not thrown out. They have magical properties of fertility."

"I'll wager the earl has magical properties of his own without needing any old ash," said one of the men, setting up a roar of ribald laughter.

Gunnor blustered, "I was speaking of the earth, not my lady."

Not my lady indeed, Melyssan thought, her cheeks burning as her eyes suddenly locked with Jaufre's. How could a woman be fertile when she was so infrequently touched by her husband? Even when Jaufre did reach for her in the darkness, he pulled her close roughly, his lovemaking swift, unwilling, as though he sought to confine a desire that had escaped the bounds of reason. When done, he would quickly draw away to his side of the bed, silent, staring up at the canopy overhead. Was his mind filled with regret, or was she of so little importance that other thoughts immediately crowded her out?

Her speculations ended as she saw Jaufre start to cross the room with slow, measured tread. But he appeared to have great difficulty in escaping the talkative Lord Oswin, who trailed after him.

Melyssan froze, her hands tightening on Jenny as snatches of the baron's words drifted to her above the hubbub of the crowd.

"King John… need to revive the old charter. Danger of… following him to war in France… only way to preserve our… lives."

Were they speaking of the letter that had so absorbed Jaufre earlier that afternoon? The letter whose contents he had refused to divulge? Melyssan tried to fight it, but the same feeling of dread that had been stalking her all day seized her in its chilling grip.

Jaufre shrugged aside whatever Lord Oswin told him with such vehement gestures. He continued forward, planting himself in front of Melyssan.

"My lady,! am pleased you deigned to join us for the feast."

His words mocked her, but the hand that stroked her cheek was gentle. He did not spare Jenny so much as a glance, but the babe was determined not to be ignored. Before Melyssan could prevent it, Jenny lunged forward. Growling like a playful bear cub, she seized two large handfuls of Jaufre's beard. His eyes watering with pain, Jaufre swore, trying to pry open the babe's grasping fingers.

"No, no, Jenny. Naughty," Melyssan said, pulling the child back.

The onlooking guests howled with delight. "By the rood.” Lord Oswin called out, "this soft domestic life has undone the Dark Knight when he can be brought to his knees by a mere babe."

"No swaddling," said one of the women. "No wonder the child acts so wild. Heaven knows what she will be when she is grown."

Tugging his head free, Jaufre glared first at the portly dame who had spoken, then at Melyssan. "Why isn't the child abed? Take her there at once."

"I—I am sorry, my lord," Melyssan stammered. "Please. I only brought her down to see the yule log." Melyssan soothed back the curl from Jenny's brow. The babe's tiny face puckered, looking stunned by her father's angry tone.

"Well, now she has seen it." Jaufre rubbed his chin. "Take her back to her nurse. She has no place at this feast."

"But… aye, my lord." Melyssan curtsied, swallowing any further attempts to reason with her husband. Holding her head up as best she might, she exited from the hall, deeply conscious of the sympathetic glances cast her way from many of the ladies. It helped matters not at all when Jenny set up a loud wail.

Suppressing her own desire to join the child, Melyssan carried her daughter back to the chamber the babe shared with Canice. But when the young woman bustled forward, Melyssan waved her aside. She rocked Jenny herself, crooning snatches of old songs until the babe quieted; then she lowered her into the carved oak cradle draped with a canopy of white sarcenet.

"My poor little one," she murmured, tucking a fur coverlet around Jenny, whose long dark lashes began to droop against the curve of her cheeks. Never had Jaufre shown his dislike for the babe so strongly. Melyssan's shoulders sagged. She knew too well what it was like to grow up in the shadow of a parent's hatred. She would give much to spare Jenny such pain.

By the time she returned to the great hall, the guests were taking their places at the tables. Jaufre was offering Sir Hugh and Lady Gunnor a place above the salt. The earl quirked an eyebrow at the couple, who squirmed guiltily in his presence. "Come, my friends. This time have a place of honor at my board. Unless you prefer sitting amongst the pilgrims?"

"N-nay, my lord, I thank you," Sir Hugh said with a sheepish smile as he led Gunnor to their seats.

Jaufre glanced in Melyssan's direction and beckoned her imperiously to his side, making no further comment upon her tardiness. He could sense the tension in her as she settled into her chair. Was she distressed because of the incident with Jenny?

Now that his anger had faded, it was all he could do to suppress a smile, although the roots of his beard still tingled. He could see now the dangers inherent in that little game he had taught his daughter. Oft when the nurse presumed Jenny to be napping, he would slip in, bending over the babe's cradle to play with her. Growling fiercely, he pretended to nip at Jenny's flailing fists. It had amused him greatly when the babe had begun to imitate his growl, latching on to his beard. But by St. George, the child waxed too strong for such sport. When she grew older, she might…

When she grew older, he might no longer be alive. Jaufre's thoughts turned involuntarily to the summons he had received from the king. His eyes rested upon Melyssan's honey-brown hair bound up so demurely within a net of pearls. He was seized by a sudden longing to take her out of this crowd of chattering fools. The blue silk he had selected with such care became her well, clinging to the soft swell of her breasts. Motherhood had ripened her, softened her curves, turning a lovely young girl into a most desirable woman. Leaving for France would be so much easier if his need for her were not so strong. No matter how he fought the feeling, he wanted nothing more than to pass the night lost in her gentle embrace, praying the morrow would never come.

When Melyssan risked a peek at Jaufre, she half expected to find his face dark with annoyance. She surprised a look in his eyes of such brooding melancholy as shattered the calm demeanor she sought to maintain.

"My lord. What—what is it?" She pressed his hand under the table, but at that moment four pages entered bearing aloft a huge boar's head upon a silver platter. Jaufre composed his features into a polite mask, withdrawing his hand as the feast began.

Venison, partridges, hares, lampreys, swans, peacocks, dried fruit pudding… As the succession of dishes was paraded before the guests in the banquet hall, Melyssan complimented herself that she had done well in planning the feast. Neither lord nor villain would rise from the table complaining of the earl of Winterbourne's parsimony. Although she had little appetite for the quantity of food Jaufre heaped upon her trencher, she gaped in astonishment at the amount Jaufre consumed. He appeared to have little relish for any of the dishes, but he partook heartily of everything… like a man devouring his last meal.

The crowd grew more boisterous as the bowl of hot mulled cider passed from hand to hand. Cries of "Wassail!" were answered with the lusty shout of "Drink hale!" More than one face appeared flushed with conviviality as the guests rose from the table. Jaufre gave the signal for the pages to clear away the trestle benches so that the dancing might begin. In paraded the musicians garbed in red cloaks of sandal, playing trumpets, sackbuts, cornets, and reed pipes.

As the couples formed a line down the length of the hall, Melyssan slipped off to one side. She saw that she was not the only one seeking to avoid the dance. Roland leaned up against one of the arches, his arms folded across the front of his new golden surcoat trimmed with sable.

He straightened up with a courteous bow as Melyssan approached him. "Roland, why do you linger here? I vow you look so handsome tonight, there will be many a maiden with broken heart if you do not join in the dancing."

His lips twitched into the semblance of a smile. "Better a broken heart than a broken ankle. Dancing is the one area where I do not excel. As to my handsomeness, I fear Your Ladyship is dazzled by the clothing your husband has seen fit to place upon my back."

"The surcoat was a gift from Lord Jaufre?"

"Only one of many. I have been favored beyond belief this Christmas. A surcoat, a sword, iron boots, a coat of double-woven mail…"

Melyssan gave a shaky laugh. "My faith! 'Twould seem he expected you to march off to do battle tomorrow."

"Doubtless he wishes that I would." The young man hunched a shoulder, affecting a careless attitude as if to show it mattered naught to him.

She captured one of his hands, taking it gently between her own. "Nay, Roland. My lord is pleased to have you at Winterbourne. He would not give you such costly gifts if he had no pride in you."

Roland's haughty expression wavered, allowing an unaccustomed look of wistfulness to creep into his eyes. "I—I would be satisfied with much less. Fewer gifts given with more affection other than a sense of duty."

She opened her mouth to reassure him but found she could not speak. Each rustle of the silk gown whispered to her, reminding her that she felt the same.

"You are the only one who cares about me," he continued in a rush of emotion. He raised her hand to his lips. "I will serve you all the days of my life, Lady Melyssan."

A hand clamped down on Roland's shoulder. Melyssan looked up into Jaufre's stony brown eyes. She wondered how long he had stood listening to them.

"Since you are so eager to serve," he said to Roland, "you may begin by leading Lord Oswin's daughter into the dance."

Roland's nose wrinkled in distaste as he looked at the damsel to whom the earl gestured. The pert blonde gave him a toothy smile, furiously batting her eyelashes.

"Well, mayhap I will," Roland said grimly. "Any wench who grins like that at a man deserves to have her toes trampled… My lady." Ignoring the earl, Roland swept Melyssan a deep bow before departing.

"The whelp is still full of disrespect," Jaufre said. "But at least he is obedient, which is more than I can say for you, my lady."

Melyssan's eyes widened. "How have I defied you, my lord?"

He slipped his arm about her waist, his lips twitching into a half smile, a smile that did nothing to lighten the sadness in his eyes. "I told you not to worry. Yet too oft tonight have I seen that lovely face pinched with apprehension."

" Tis difficult," she said in a small voice, "when I fear there is something you are keeping from me."

"Then I shall give it to you now. I fear I have sadly neglected you of late." A light glinted in his eyes, his expression far warmer than any he had worn of late. Her heart began to pound faster.

He pulled her into the shadow of the archway, his mouth claiming hers in rough embrace. The noise of the crowd faded as she responded to his passion, both stirred and frightened by the quality of desperation in his kiss. Suddenly, she knew.

She tipped her head back, her face inches from his own. "You're going to leave me," she whispered. "The letter—"

He nodded, pressing kisses upon her brow, her cheeks.

"How—how soon"

"We shall have Christmas," he murmured against her ear. "Then, the day after…"

"Jaufre!" She flung her arms about his neck, burrowing her face into his shoulder.

He held her close, patted her back. "I have already sent for Tristan to return from Ashlar. He will look after Winterbourne in my absence. You and the child will be safe."

She drew away from him, wiping at the wetness on her cheeks. "And what of you?"

He chucked her under the chin, attempting a teasing laugh. "I shall do fine. What, Lyssa? Where has your faith in romance gone? You would have me be Sir Launcelot, yet keep me on a leash at your side, never let me loose to slay the dragons."