Winterbourne (40 page)

Canice grimaced, shoving the large flowing sleeves of her kirtle above her elbows before tipping Jenny over backward. The child howled lustily, her plump feet flailing the air. She writhed and spluttered, choking on the medicine, flinging half of it over Canice before the cup was empty. Her cries of outrage did not stop then, nor with her release. Flinging herself facedown into the rushes, she pounded the floor with her tiny fists. Melyssan cast a despairing eye at the nurse.

"Heaven defend us, my lady,” Canice said. "The girl has the strength often demons, and her not quite two. I must go change again, and I am running short of gowns."

With a disgusted shake of her head, Canice quit the room, leaving Melyssan to cope with her daughter's tantrum. Only when Jenny had exhausted her fury did she permit Melyssan to raise her from the floor. Melyssan perched on the edge of her bed, cuddling her small daughter, who hiccupped her remaining sobs into her mother's bosom.

"Jenny, Jenny," she crooned, rocking the child to and fro. " 'Twill never do. You are a lady, my love, and a very little one at that. You were never meant to possess a temper the size of your father's. What shall my lord say to you when he returns?

"And he will return," she whispered fiercely as she buried her face against the dusky tangle of baby-soft curls. "He will." She fought the urge to join Jenny's bout of weeping. It was a temptation she had succumbed to far too often since the news had reached Winterbourne last summer.

She had been hearing mass with the rest of the castle household. The messenger had burst into the chapel just as Father Andrew had raised the Eucharist aloft.

"Lady Melyssan. God forgive me for disturbing you thus," the servant had gasped. "But there has been a terrible battle at Bouvines. I—I fear Lord Jaufre and his son were captured by the French."

Tristan's strong arm saved Melyssan from sinking to the chapel floor, his calm words of reassurance all that sustained her." 'Tis not as dreadful as it sounds, my lady. Jaufre is a nobleman. He will be treated well. Meantime, we must summon the earl's tenants, collect money to meet the ransom Philip will demand."

But September fled, and no ransom demand came. Word reached Winterbourne of a truce with France. The other English captives were released, but not Jaufre. King John sailed home with the armada in October. Whitney and the earl's surviving men-at-arms returned home. Still no Jaufre.

Some said the king had left him a prisoner in France out of spite. Some said the earl had died in captivity. She received several messages from John to that effect, demanding payment of death duties in impossible amounts, threatening to make Jenny his ward, snatch her away from Melyssan. All that saved her daughter was the outbreak of rebellion amongst the northern barons. Led by one Robert Fitzwalter, they named themselves the Army of God and called for a return to the days of the Charter, the restoration of justice to England. Melyssan hoped

Fitzwalter's army might succeed or at least buy her and Jenny enough time until Jaufre returned.

She prayed and waited. Long winter days, nights of cold, black despair, and still no word of Jaufre. Melyssan had huddled alone in the great bed, clutching his pillow in her arms, the terrifying thought creeping unbidden into her mind: This is what it would be like to be a widow, a numbing round of endless hours broken by sharp, painful stabs of remembrance.

"Nay." Melyssan shook aside the gloom-filled memories, hugging her daughter so tightly that Jenny squeaked a protest. "We won't think of those things anymore. Tis spring now, a season, of new hope. The buds are beginning to show on the trees, the lambs will soon be born. And Tristan has taken all the pretty silver we collected and gone searching for my lord."

She wiped away the last traces of moisture from Jenny's round cheeks. "Sir Tristan will bring Father home. Soon. Very soon. So you must be a very, very good girl, my love."

With one of those charming reversals of mood that was so typical of Jenny, the child's lips parted in a sunny smile before puckering up to proffer her mother a kiss.

Melyssan hugged the child again before consigning her to the care of her nurse, instructing Canice to see that the little girl was kept warm and rested, knowing even as she gave them that the orders were impossible to carry out.

Before descending to the great hall, Melyssan had to spend several minutes trying to discover what Jenny had done with her cane. It was a favorite plaything of the child's whenever she could get her hands on it. This time she found it tangled up amongst the bed linens.

Below-stairs the household hummed with activity preparing for the feast at Easter. All the sacrifices of Lent would be set behind them, and Jaufre’s tenants would expect a well-laden table in exchange for their gifts of eggs. In truth, Melyssan had no heart for the holiday rejoicing, but she was determined nothing should seem any different while Jaufre was away. She would have no one, not even the lowliest menial at Winterbourne. believing he was dead.

She passed her brother in the great hall. He was munching on a roll, readying himself to ride out with the men-at-arms on the morning's patrol over the earl's lands. By Tristan's orders, they had increased their vigilance because of the growing unrest that had engulfed the country since King John's failure in France.

"Good morrow, sister," Whitney said. "Have you emerged victorious in your latest skirmish with my niece?"

Melyssan wrinkled her brow in dismay. "Surely her screams could not be heard all the way down here."

"Nay, but you bear the scars of battle." He pointed to a spattering of honey across the bodice of her gown.

Sighing, she dabbed at the stains with her kerchief, pushing aside Jaufre's ring, which hung from a chain about her neck. Jaufre's ring. She paused, allowing its weight to brush against her hand. Wherever she turned, she was haunted with memories of her long-absent husband. How many times had she made Whitney rehearse the tale of how Jaufre had sent the ring to her, how he had looked, what he had said…

"I think he knew, Lyssa," Whitney had said at the time. "Somehow he knew he was not coming back." Angrily she had denied it, and her brother had said no more.

But now he surprised her by caressing her hand, an earnest look in his green eyes. "Do not worry, Lyssa. My lord will return to claim that ring. I do not doubt he will come back to you, if there is any earthly way."

She gave him a grateful smile. As he turned to walk away, he emitted a brief laugh and looked back over his shoulder. "Mind you, I do not believe I will ever be able to like the man. But it helps somewhat knowing that he loves you."

Knowing that he loved her? How could Whitney profess to know such a thing when she did not even know it herself? She thought of the last time Jaufre had held her in his arms, the night before he'd left for France. His mask of indifference had melted before the blazing heat of his desire. The memory of that passionate loving had been all that warmed her over the past year. She'd begun to hope that perhaps when Jaufre returned…

She closed her eyes, murmuring a brief prayer. "No, dear Lord. He does not have to say he loves me. Only send him safely home."

The sun was at its zenith when the riders approached Winterbourne. Melyssan heard the guards on the walls heralding their arrival as they prepared to open the gates. Surely it was too soon for her brother and the patrol to be returning. She caught her breath in apprehension, fearful that it might be soldiers of the king, come to seize her daughter.

"Look lively there," Master Galvan bellowed to the other men. "Raise that portcullis. And someone go tell Her Ladyship Sir Tristan is returning."

Tristan! Her heart's pace increased to a wild hammering as she hurried to the courtyard, dread and hope warring within her breast. What news would he have of her husband? Why had the knight returned without Jaufre? It was a question she scarce dared ask.

Pushing past the gathered servants, she made her way to the front of the line, watching as the great iron gate creaked upward. Her mind flew back to another day, so long ago, when she had stood waiting in the bailey, her hands shaking with trepidation, as Jaufre's great black warhorse galloped into the courtyard…

Wild cheering from the men on the walls snapped Melyssan back to the present. "My lord! My lord! Lord Jaufre's come home."

The horses stormed through the gate, became a thundering tangle of haunches and striking hooves as Melyssan's vision blurred. She stumbled forward, looking frantically for the familiar black destrier; but there was none. She saw Tristan dismount, followed by a knight who slid off the back of a sleek brown gelding. Blinking away the mist of her tears, she recognized the dark beard, the broad set of shoulders.

"Jaufre!"

With a strangled cry, she flung herself against his dust-covered tunic. His arms closed around her, his lips crushing hers in a kiss that consumed her, so hard it was almost painful. Warmth sparked along her veins like a fire new kindled in an empty hearth, reality blending with the dreams of him that had tormented her through months of anxious waiting.

All too soon he eased her away from him, stepping back. She raised her eyes, her hungry gaze devouring his beloved features. His face was paler, leaner than she remembered, and strands of silver threaded here and there through his shaggy mane of midnight black.

What most disturbed her were his eyes. The rich brown pools that had once teemed with anger, pride, passion… were empty, drained.

Trembling, she reached up to touch his face, her fingers grazing the rough beard. "My lord, you—you are not a dream? You are truly here?"

"Aye, my lady. I have come home." His voice sounded distant, inexpressibly weary.

Tristan, who had hung back discreetly, now stepped forward. "I do not wonder you should doubt his existence, my lady. From the look of him, you will think I have brought you a ghost. Why not give his beard a good tug and see how real he is?"

She waited, hoping Jaufre's lips would quirk into a smile as he flung a retort to Tristan's teasing. But the earl stared past them at the great white tower of the donjon as though the knight had not even spoken.

Sir Dreyfan rushed up and attempted a bow, but the doughty knight could not contain himself. He seized the unresponsive Jaufre in a bear hug, shouting his exuberance. "Hah! Welcome home, my lord. I told my lady you'd find some way to outwit those French poltroons."

Jaufre jerked himself free of the old knight's embrace. "Tristan bought my freedom with the ransom money. That is how I came to be freed, not through any cleverness of my own."

He grabbed his horse's bridle as though preparing to lead the animal to the stables himself.

"Get one of those lazy squires up here," Dreyfan bellowed. He craned his neck, appearing to seek someone among the ranks of men who had ridden in with Jaufre. "Where is that young fool Arric?"

The earl's jaw hardened. "Arric is… he did not return with me."

Dreyfan's face fell. "Ah, 'tis a pity. He was a saucy young pup, but had the makings of a good knight for all that." His head bent in sorrow, he took charge of Jaufre's horse, leading the animal away.

Melyssan reached for Jaufre's hand, but he stiffened. "I am sorry, my lord," she said. "We heard no news of the boy. We all assumed Arric must have shared your captivity." She swallowed, remembering the lad's eager face that Christmas he had hung the mistletoe for her, boasting to Roland of the number of Frenchmen he would kill.

Roland! She had been so overwhelmed by Jaufre's arrival, she had forgotten to look for the young man. A quick glance told her he had not ridden into the courtyard. Although Tristan's eyes warned her not to trouble Jaufre with further questions, she could not forbear asking:

"And your son, my lord?"

"Roland remained in Paris," Jaufre said, his words coming slow, strained. "From what I heard, he has become quite a favorite at the French court. He saved the life of their king at Bouvines. The boy always admired Philip Augustus above any other man, so I suppose Roland is at last content."

"I shall miss him," Melyssan whispered, remembering the solemn look on the young man's face when he had sworn to be her champion forever.

Jaufre shrugged, his mouth set in a bitter line.

"Well!" Tristan clapped his hands together with false heartiness. "Let us not stand here in the yard all day. My lady, I trust, despite the Lenten fast, you can offer a starving man some morsel to eat."

"A-aye," she stammered.

As they walked toward the donjon, she linked her arm through Jaufre's. Although he did not shake her off, his arm remained limp, offering her no encouragement. His gait, once so long and striding she had been hard put to keep pace with him, was now halting, hesitant.

The servants assembled to greet Jaufre fell back. Even they seemed to sense the changes in the earl, and their bright smiles of welcome vanished.

To cover Jaufre's unnerving silence, Melyssan began to chatter. "All has been well here at Winterbourne. The spring crops are sowed, the oats, beans, barley. And you cannot begin to imagine how happy we all are to be able to hear mass again. I had my churching in February at the Feast of Purification of the Virgin. Of course, since Jenny will be two this summer, 'twas a trifle late, but—but better late than never."

She paused, hoping he would make some inquiry after their daughter, but instead he froze outside the covered stairway leading inside the donjon. His face wore not the anticipation of a man about to see his home after a year's absence, but the bleak look of a prisoner being led to a narrow cell.

"I have no appetite. I believe I will—will walk down to the mews to see how my falcons have fared." He turned, waving her aside when she would have accompanied him. His falcons! And he had not even asked to see Jenny.

Melyssan bit her lip, watching until he was out of sight. She saw that Tristan had done the same, a troubled expression on his face.

"Tristan, what ails him? He—he is like a stranger. What dreadful things did they do to him in France?" Her voice shook. "You do not think he was tortured?"