Winterbourne (38 page)

Never had leaving anyone come so hard to him. If he had not persuaded Tristan to remain and take command at Winterbourne… Jaufre could still see the angry dismay on his friend's face when he had issued the order as they'd prepared to mount their horses in the courtyard…

"I did not summon you to follow me to France, Tristan. I want you to remain here at Winterbourne."

"So you have suggested several times before," Tristan said, checking his saddle girth. "Now, as then, I mean to ignore you."

"'It's not a suggestion. It's a command."

Tristan's lips tightened. "Dreyfan is here. He will command the garrison. You have left the defense of Winterbourne to him before." He prepared to vault into the saddle, but Jaufre's hand clamped down on his wrist, gripping the flesh to the bone.

"I was not thinking of Winterbourne, Tristan. I trust no one as I do you. But Lyssa, Jenny… Without you looking after them, I do not think I can leave."

He shrank from the probing stare Tristan turned in his direction. Releasing his friend's wrist, he peered through the early dawn haze at the white stone wall behind which he knew Melyssan slept.

"So now you see." Jaufre scuffed the toe of his boot in the dirt. "I've once more permitted a woman to make half a man of me."

"Nay, my lord. This woman has made you whole again."

Had she? Jaufre wondered. Then why did he feel as if he were being torn asunder?

"My friend, all I ask of you," he said, "is to give me the peace of mind to concentrate upon what I must do in France. If I should fall in battle or be captured—I must know Melyssan and Jenny are in safe hands here at Winterbourne. Safe from the king." And then, setting aside his pride in a way foreign to him, he made his command a plea. "Please."

He knew he had won when Tristan's shoulders slumped.

"Arric!" called the knight. "Summon one of the grooms to unsaddle my horse. I won't be needing him." He turned back to Jaufre and nodded, assuring his friend without words that Melyssan and Jenny would be protected while life remained in him.

Jaufre clasped Tristan roughly in his arms, then vaulted into the saddle, leading his entourage through the gates of Winterbourne without looking back…

Without looking back, as he would be wise to do now, he thought. He braced himself against the roll of the ship, tugging his sable-lined mantle of red Irish cloth closer for protection against the bite of the icy winter wind. But try as he would, his eyes were drawn toward Portsmouth harbor, lost in the fog; the entire English shoreline was shrouded in mist, ethereal, like one of those imaginary lands in the ballads Lyssa sang to Jenny.

He had never before been disturbed by such feelings of melancholy upon leaving a place. Strange, these emotions of pride and sadness that stirred inside of him, as if he were no longer simply the earl of Winterbourne, but belonged to all of England. The distant shores of France, Normandy, and Clairemont seemed more and more alien.

Was this all Melyssan's doing, caused by the knowledge that he left her behind on this misty island world? Without half realizing it, he mumbled aloud the words to an old poem, "Whoever becomes too deeply in love and cannot tear himself away, loses his soul."

"I don't believe that," piped up a voice beside him.

Too late Jaufre realized that his son had come to join him in leaning over the deck rail. "And what is your version of love, halfling?"

Roland's silver eyes took on a dreamy quality as he stared out at the whitecaps on the water. "Why, 'tis an ennobling emotion. A knight is incomplete without it. Love of a lady is what gives a man courage."

Jaufre's mouth curved in a smile. "Ah, the gilded eyes of youth."

"Sometimes they see clearer than those of ancient graybeards."

"Mayhap you are right." Self-consciously Jaufre fingered the ends of his own black beard, then laughed and clapped Roland on the back.

Roland put a hand to his shoulder, his eyes widening. "I—I think that is the first time you ever touched me when you were not seeking to restrain me or box my ears."

Jaufre shrugged. "I seem to be in a strangely mellow humor this morning."

They stood some while in silence, watching the shore recede, until Roland cleared his throat. "I trust you do not mind my company. Whitney is on yon opposite side doubled over the rail. If I had to watch him being sick one more time, I swear I would be tempted to join him."

"Spare me the details." Jaufre grimaced. He had never believed Whitney would have come this far. He had flung out the invitation to follow him as a challenge and had expected to be refused. But the man had come, and to his great aggravation,

Jaufre felt responsible for him. Melyssan was apt not to forgive him if he allowed something to happen to her weak-willed brother.

Roland shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed into the distance at the other billowing masts of the English armada. "My lord, since you are disposed to be
mellow
, mayhap I might ask you a question."

"You might, although I cannot promise I will be able to answer it."

"What think you of this army the king has assembled?"

Jaufre frowned. Very few nobles besides himself had responded to the king's muster. Most of the troops consisted of low-born soldiers, mercenaries, and freemen. But what were such without knights and great lords to lead them?

"We are many in number," he hedged.

"Enough to win? Think you that we shall win?" Roland's brow wrinkled in anxiety.

Win? thought Jaufre. That indeed was the question of a youth about to face his first battle. How did one begin to explain to this fresh-faced lad that there was no such thing as winning where war was concerned? A castle might be taken one day and lost the next week. Men died or were maimed for life, and the most that could be wished for was to survive and hang on to what was rightfully yours in the greedy press of grasping men. Jaufre blinked at his own cynicism. At one time he had lived for the excitement of battle, thought there was no more noble and fitting occupation for a knight. Just as Roland did now. Jaufre de Macy, earl of Winterbourne, knight of the realm, had not yet seen thirty-five years… but Lord, how old this son of his was making him feel.

"When the time comes," he said, "you will fight and do the best you can. Beyond that…" He sighed. "Beyond that, who knows what the outcome will be?"

In the early days of the campaign, the outcome was better than Jaufre dared expect. King John showed a cunningness and determination that the ear! had never seen in him before. The army made a series of swift, daring raids, deceptive changes that kept the French king in confusion as to where the English would strike next. The strongholds began to fall, Mervant and Milecu, which covered the seaport of La Rochelle, Vouvant in La Marche, and the garrison at Nantes, until their entry in Angers was unopposed. The barons of Poitou rushed to John's side, swelling the English army with their numbers, but Jaufre trusted them no more than he did this new spurt of energy in the king. Poitou was not Normandy, and that was where Clairemont lay.

Jaufre waxed impatient when the king lingered overlong at the siege of Roches Aux Moines, an isolated enemy fortress whose conquest would do naught to augment the English position. It was already June. He had spent five months in this foreign land and marched nowhere near his objective in coming. Back at Winterbourne, Jenny would have marked off the first year of her life. Was she walking now? He pictured Melyssan's delight when their daughter took her first toddling steps, and he longed to be present to see it. Perhaps she would finally pardon him for opposing her over the swaddling.

Lyssa. The thought of her brought that familiar ache in his heart that was like a sickness with him these days. Other men found solace in the peasant wenches from the local villages, but even that release was denied him. He was like a man dying of thirst, surrounded by water but whose life depended upon a rare sweet elixir, which prevented him from sipping at any other well.

They had been a fortnight outside the walls of Roches Aux Moines. Jaufre stood watching the catapults shelling the walls with huge rocks at infrequent intervals. The tall siege towers covered with hides stood idly to one side, awaiting men to clamber inside and be wheeled toward the castle when it would please the king to make serious assault.

The earl was swinging his sword in vigorous arcs through the air, chafing at the torpor that seemed to have settled over the army, when he heard someone call his name.

"My lord Earl!" Arric called as he raced to Jaufre's side. He half collapsed, panting, "We took… Sir Whitney to your tent. He's taken… an arrow in the… shoulder."

"An arrow!" Jaufre shoved his weapon back into its sheath. "Now how in the devil did he manage that? There is so little fighting going on here, one could take a nap under the walls and come away unmolested."

Arric hunched up his shoulders and spread wide his hands. With a curt gesture, Jaufre indicated for the squire to precede him, taking refuge in exasperation to hide his concern. If Whitney were badly injured, should die, how would he ever face Melyssan or bear witnessing her grief?

The earl followed Arric back to his tent, clenching his teeth when they passed by the large silken apartments that housed the king. The sound of feminine laughter drifted toward him. In his complacency, John had had the queen and royal children brought to join him along with the coffers containing the royal jewels and treasure.

Jaufre's lip curled scornfully. He did not envy Queen Isabella if the army were ever obliged to flee. He had no doubts as to what the king would seek to save first.

When he reached his tent, he shoved Arric aside and stepped impatiently under the canvas. Whitney lay white-faced upon a straw pallet stained with blood. But he was not so weakened that he did not glare at Jaufre. "The arrow has been removed. There is naught for you to trouble yourself with, my lord."

"I'll judge that for myself." Jaufre knelt down beside him, reaching for the bandaged arm.

Whitney attempted to resist, then lapsed back against the straw, closing his eyes. He winced as Jaufre peeled back the blood-soaked linen.

"The wound looks clean enough," said the earl. "I think the only danger would be if some of the links of your mail got driven deep into the flesh and mortified."

Whitney started to shrug, then gasped. Taking several deep breaths, he replied curtly, "Good. Now you will be able to send my sister another message.
A miracle. Your nettling brother has not yet managed to get himself killed
."

Jaufre flushed and stood up. It would seem his clerk had a loose tongue about what was dictated to him in the form of letters. The man would learn to be more discreet or have his tongue ripped out. "I do not mean to send word to your sister again until I am in possession of Clairemont."

"We'll all be dead long before that," Whitney muttered.

"Mayhap some of us. How did you—"

"How did I come to be shot when there is scarce any fighting going on?" His eyes blazed with the intensity of a man who has kept feelings locked inside himself for too long and now intends to let them loose. "I went past the catapults and got too close to the castle walls. I was so sick of the endless jests of your men about how I am forever in the vanguard of any action."

"So you got yourself wounded." Jaufre placed his hands on his hips, making no attempt to mask the contempt he felt. "What is that supposed to prove?"

"Nothing." Tears coursed a path down Whitney's dirt-streaked cheeks; impatiently, he dashed them aside with the back of his hand. "I am weary of trying to prove anything. I am a coward. My knees shake and my palms sweat every time I take the field. I confess it freely. Now you may all go and make merry at my expense."

"You think you're the first man ever to feel that way? Only a fool or an idiot knows no fear when facing the prospect of death."

"So which are you, my lord?"

"Neither. Simply because I don't parade my fear for all the world to see doesn't mean I am any more courageous than you are. You've done well enough on this campaign, better than I—I've had no complaints to make of your behavior—until now."

He had no way of knowing if his words had any effect on Whitney, for the young man turned his face aside. After regarding him for some little while in silence, Jaufre strode out of the tent. Faith, why should he be annoyed with Whitney? The man's foolishly gallant gesture in flinging himself to the front of the line was no more futile than this entire campaign was turning out to be, no more futile than the oath he had made his grandfather.

Once outside the tent, however, Jaufre noticed a change in the camp. Men-at-arms no longer idled on the grass but had begun sharpening their weapons, their stances alert.

"My lord," Arric said, his eyes shining with excitement, "they are saying a scout has returned with great news. Prince Louis and a large French army approach from Chinon, assembling to do battle."

Jaufre's lips set into a grim line as his hand stroked the sheath of his sword. Battle! Some decisive action might be forced upon the king at last. One way or another, they would see an end to this business. He hastened his steps toward the king's tent, where the other leaders of the army gathered around John in heated debate.

The barons from Poitou clustered together nervously. Their leader, Amery of Thouars, shouted at the king, "This is more than we bargained for, I assure you. Besieging and defending castles is one thing, but a pitched battle in an open field! We are noblemen, not a pack of demented mercenaries."

The king slumped down in his chair, his eyes as dark and sulky as a thwarted child's. "Bah, you have heard our scout's report. This is the chance we have been waiting for, to strike directly at Philip Augustus—through the person of his son. We are equal in strength to this French army. We can destroy them."

"You
were
equal," said Amery, beckoning to the other Poite-vins. "Now if you fight, you will do so without us."

He stalked away, followed by the other barons.

John leapt to his feet. "Cowards! Traitors! You pledged me new oaths of loyalty. Return at once or I will slay you all."