Winterbourne (37 page)

"I liked it better when the dragons were imaginary." She caught her lip between her teeth. "You go to tight with King John, but I trust him not. He once swore to see you dead. I would not put it beyond him to—"

The rest of her fear was silenced by a loud blast from a horn. The music stopped, a great roar of laughter erupting from the company. Jaufre linked his arm through Melyssan's, pulling her forward until she could see the cause of the mirth.

Father Christmas, garbed in a red robe open to the chest, cavorted into the center of the hall, a troop of mummers marching behind. The burly figure swooped upon the crowd, stealing kisses from the blushing ladies. As he planted a smacking buss upon her cheek, Melyssan saw that it was Sir Dreyfan, the face beneath his grizzled beard flushed from too much wassailing, a crown of holly tipped over his brow.

He doubled over in an attempted bow for Jaufre, then wove on his feet. Laughing, Arric rushed forward to straighten him.

Dreyfan nearly knocked the squire over as he flung wide his arms. "Gather round, my lords, my ladies. These mummers come for your pleasure to present the wondrous tale of how St. George did battle with that scurvy knave, the Bold Slasher."

Melyssan held back, but Jaufre placed his arm about her shoulder, whispering in her ear, "Nay, Lyssa, we will have time for the sadness of parting later. Forget King John and the war tonight. Enjoy the Christmas play. Let me see you smile."

She tried to comply, but her lips felt numb. Even the mummers, whose antics had delighted her ever since she was a child, took on sinister overtones, their painted masks and fringed tunics appearing garish, threatening, under the wax torchlights.

She watched the buffoonery of the Quack Doctor, unable to join in the chuckles of her guests. Applause broke out when St. George strode onto the scene, preparing to do battle with the evil Turkish knight, Bold Slasher. The mock duel with blunted swords caused Melyssan to shudder. Something in the movements of the tail, thin mummer playing St. George disturbed her, an elusive memory hovering just out of reach. She wondered which of the castle household he was, but she would never know. It was considered bad luck to unmask.

St. George took much the worst of the battle, nearly dropping his weapon. Melyssan saw Jaufre lean forward and heard him comment to Lord Oswin, "If the true St. George had handled his weapon so ineptly, England would still be beset with dragons."

Lord Oswin guffawed, spraying out drops of the wine he had just tasted.

St. George went down, slain by a mighty blow from the Bold Slasher, to the accompaniment of hisses from the crowd. But as the story had gone, year after year, the Quack Doctor bent over the fallen knight, pressing between his lips the magic pill. Up sprang St. George, bowing as the company cheered wildly. The triumph of life over death. Melyssan's hands moved together in wooden clapping. If only it were that easy. What if Jaufre should… She closed her eyes, refusing to let the thought enter her mind.

When she opened them, she saw most of the mummers dancing off to receive their portion of mead. Only St. George lingered, his white hand moving toward his mask.

"Look!" Nelda shrieked. "He's going to show his face."

A hush fell over the gathering as the mummer broke the age-old custom of concealment. Slipping off his mask, he raised his head to stare defiantly at the crowd.

"Whitney!" Melyssan cried. Her exclamation was not very loud, but her brother appeared to have heard it, his green eyes scanning the assembled faces until he found hers.

Still reeling from the shock, she felt Father Andrew take her by the elbow, leading her gently until she stood under the archway with the mistletoe.

"Remember, my lady," he said, "your words to me this morning. Reconciliation, all past grievances forgiven."

Then he stepped back. All eyes turned on her brother as Whitney walked slowly to where she stood. Over a year it had been since she had seen him ride away from Winterbourne, vowing she would be his sister no more. He had not deigned to see her again, angry when she had wed Lord Jaufre, sending her a letter tilled with unforgivable insults against her husband.

Now he looked so much older. There was something in his eyes, a look of resignation, bitter wisdom, the sensitive set of his mouth a little harder than she remembered.

They stared at each other for long moments before Whitney spoke. "I—I have come to see if you can… forgive me, Lyssa."

Her throat constricted too much for her to speak. She flung wide her arms. Whitney swooped her up, lifting her off her feet as he hugged her close. Through the mist of her tears, she saw Father Andrew dabbing at his own eyes.

When Whitney at last released her, she kissed the priest's gaunt cheek. "Thank you, Father. 'Twas the most beautiful Christmas gift I could have received."

She heard the guests murmuring, some with approval, others still complaining about Whitney's unmasking. Clasping his hand, she gazed fondly at her brother. "Aye, you foolish fellow. Now ill fortune may befall you. Were you so unsure of your welcome within my walls that you crept in disguised?"

"Well…" Whitney hesitated. "Not yours so much as…"

"As mine, mayhap?" rumbled a familiar deep voice.

The joy Melyssan felt over the reunion with her brother fled before Jaufre's unsmiling eyes. She felt the shade of Jaufre's dead brother pass between them. Godric, whose treachery Whitney brought to mind.

Whitney stiffened, but she kept hold of his hand, leading him forward. "My—my lord, will you not welcome my brother?"

Jaufre's arms folded across his chest, his face as expressionless as granite. Then he relented enough to slowly extend his hand.

Whitney made no move to clasp it. "Before you offer me your hand, my lord, you should know that I seek more than a welcome for Christmas. I would undertake to serve with you, acknowledge you as my liege lord."

Jaufre's eyes narrowed with suspicion. " 'Tis well known that your family owes fealty to the baron de Scoville."

"No longer." Whitney's jaw tightened. "The baron died a fortnight ago. The king has taken possession of his lands."

The crowd buzzed with the news. "How can that be?" Sir Dreyfan roared out. "The baron had a son, had he not?"

"A son only nine years of age. The king has taken the boy from his mother. He will act as his guardian."

"And we all know what that means." Lord Oswin’s red mustache bristled with indignation. "Estates bled white so that by his majority, the lad will have little to inherit… if he lives that long."

Whitney's gaze returned to Melyssan. "It also means the king has taken control of the baron's fiefs. He has reapportioned Wydevale Manor to one of his courtiers."

At Melyssan's dismayed gasp, he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. " 'Tis all right, Lyssa. Our parents are safe. They have gone to live with Enid."

Wydevale Manor gone. Taken by the king. Melyssan tried to summon up some feeling of regret for the home of her childhood, but she could not. She remembered few happy days there.

But she grieved for Whitney's sake. All his prospects of inheritance whisked away at a tyrant's pleasure.

The guests muttered angrily, sympathy veering toward Whitney. Jaufre said nothing, his eyes hooded, concealing whatever he thought of the dire tidings.

"The king has no regard for the rules of fealty," one knight shouted. "Whose land is safe, I'd like to know?"

Sir Hugh plucked nervously at the ends of his beard. "Master Whitney could appeal to the courts of law. Mayhap the king misunderstood the circumstances. I am sure His Majesty is just."

"Just?" Lord Oswin sneered. "How just did you think it when you were driven from your castle for a year, simply because some monk from Boarshead decided to defy the king—"

"Swineshead," Lady Gunnor piped up indignantly. "My brother is with the Cistercian order at Swineshead."

Lord Oswin's heavy brows drew together as he scowled at her. "What is the difference? The thrust of the matter is you were unjustly exiled through no fault of your own."

"Nay." Sir Hugh mopped his sweating brow, glancing about as if he expected to find the king's spies lurking beneath the rushes. "Our family had offended the king. But we don't mean to get ourselves exiled to the wilds of Ireland ever again. Neither Gunnor nor I will do or say anything to cause His Majesty displeasure."

Gunnor blushed, looking slightly ashamed of her husband's pronouncement.

"And do all the rest of you feel the same?" Lord Oswin leapt upon one of the stools, commanding the attention of the room. "Will you all bow and scrape yourselves into the ground, trying not to offend the king?"

"Step down, my lord," Jaufre said dryly. "The mummers provided enough entertainment."

"Nay, de Macy." Oswin straightened his tunic, puffing out his chest. "There are things that must be said. How much longer will we endure this tyranny, my friends? England was not always thus. There was a time, in our great-grandfathers' day, when men had liberties, the charter of good King Henry, laws to protect the widowed and orphaned."

"Oh, God's feet!" Jaufre groaned. Whatever had possessed him to mention the Great Charter to a madman like Oswin? During the course of his visit, Oswin had talked of nothing else but the fabled document which he had never seen before. Like a fool, Jaufre had confessed to owning a copy. He had played the good host, permitting the baron to read it, much to his present sorrow. Jaufre elbowed his way through the guests, who were spellbound by Oswin's rhetoric.

"I tell you, my friends, this charter holds the wisdom of the ages. Rights and liberties which would restore England to the glorious days of Henry the First, of Alfred the Great, of—of…"

"Of Camelot?" Melyssan breathed, her eyes shining.

Jaufre glared at her as he pulled Lord Oswin from the stool. "My lord, you have had too much wine. Be calm, lest you do yourself grave harm."

"What harm, sir? I am trying to help you and all these good folk. There is a movement afoot, even now, to bring back that charter, force King John to renew those pledges, insure our rights."

"There are only two ways for a man to have rights in this world," Jaufre said, aware that Melyssan regarded him intently. "By this." He fingered the purse attached to his belt. "Or this." He unsheathed his sword.

He watched Melyssan's eyes cloud with disappointment, and a flush of anger surged up his neck. Would the woman never give over her notion that he was some sort of knight-errant, a champion who could right the wrongs of the world?

"The sword of the Dark Knight is well respected," Oswin said. "If you would but pledge it to the cause of the charter."

"My sword is already pledged to another cause," Jaufre snarled. "In two days' time, I leave to join the king's army in London."

Silence descended over the hall at Jaufre's announcement. Lord Oswin scowled. "So you are determined to participate in that folly, the king's pathetic attempt to retake Normandy, waste your money and men serving this tyrant—"

"That is correct." Jaufre slid his sword back into its sheath.

"And I would take it as the greatest of courtesies if you would cease inciting my tenants to rebellion."

He turned a mocking eye upon Melyssan's brother. "Now, Whitney, are you still so eager to enter my service?"

Whitney paled. He swallowed hard, but when he replied his voice was steady. "Aye, my lord. I will follow wheresoever you command."

Jaufre's gaze swept over his assembled knights and squires. "And the rest of you?"

"Aye, my lord," chorused the masculine voices, not enthusiastic but firm. Lord Oswin stroked his mustache, shaking his head.

To Melyssan, it seemed as if Jaufre's announcement cast a pall over the rest of the evening. She rubbed her arms, shivering. It was as if the dread phantom she could feel lurking in the shadows now stepped into the open, doffing his shrouded hood to reveal the death's-head grin of war.

If only Jaufre had not dismissed Lord Oswin's words so lightly. That men should no longer have to walk in fear of the king's cruelty, suffer the sting of injustice! It was such a noble cause, one for which she would be proud to see her husband arm himself. Her young Sir Jaufre might have done so, she reflected sadly. But the earl of Winterbourne would ride cynically by the side of a monarch he despised, fight for lands he cared nothing about, to keep an oath all but he had forgotten.

The subdued guests gathered about the hearth, passing the ale and chestnuts, listening to Father Andrew tell legends of long ago. A holy beauty illuminated the age-lined face as he recounted how the beasts of the field bowed down in homage at the exact hour of the Christ child's birth.

But Melyssan's mind was consumed with other tales she had heard, bleak prophecies of death. She stared at the bearded faces around the hearth; their eyes were soft with a childlike wonder at the priest's tales, but the firelight bathed their faces in a red glow, the angry color of blood and battle.

Behind them, their shadows flickered on Winterbourne's dark walls, looming like black armed specters, waiting to claim the souls of the unwary. Melyssan's breath caught in her throat as one of the shadows bobbed down, appearing headless. Her old nurse had oft told her the superstition that on Christmas Eve, a headless shadow foretold of death in the coming year.

She tried to still her nervous qualms, telling herself the phenomenon had been caused by one of the men bending over. It was folly to tremble over such gloomy legends. Yet she could not forbear studying the faces, trying to ascertain who had cast that eerie shadow. Only three men occupied that side of the hall. Whitney. Roland, and… Jaufre.

Chapter 16

The pale sun pierced the gray sky and sparkled on the choppy waves of the Channel just enough to dye it that strange shade of blue green. Just enough to remind Jaufre de Macy of her eyes as he leaned against the rail of the great single-masted ship bearing him away from England. Just enough. It did not take much to send his thoughts spinning back to Melyssan.

He remembered the last time he'd held her in his arms, how her golden-brown head had nestled against his naked shoulder. She'd slept at last, her face pale and streaked with the tracks of her tears after he had made love to her. Made love in silence because his heart had been too heavy for words. He'd been too much of a coward to bid her final farewell, so he'd eased her away from him and slipped out of their bed in the shadowy hours of dawn. She'd looked so small, fragile, lying alone on the large mattress, her knees curling in toward her stomach as she shivered when deprived of his warmth. He'd tucked the furs around her, brushing a kiss across her brow.