Winterbourne (45 page)

She set Jenny on her feet, giving her a pat. "Mayhap you'd best am along with Canice. Mother has many things to do."

"Me, too. I'm going to go get a sword so I will be ready to help Fahver," she called over her shoulder as the nurse led her away.

"Mistress Genevieve, ladies do not wield swords," Canice scolded.

"This one does." Jenny left the hall staring truculently up at her nurse.

Melyssan followed Father Andrew where he had slipped into the chapel. He knelt before the altar, fingering his rosary. She knew she should leave, ignoring the disapproval she sensed from the priest ever since news had reached them of Jaufre's excommunication. But her nerves were on edge. Outside the castle, the walls were too quiet. The battle had not yet begun. What were they waiting for?

" Tis Sunday, Father," she said, her voice echoing loudly in the small chamber.

"And so?" he whispered.

"I want you to say mass."

He rose to his feet and faced her, his black robes brushing the altar. "You know I cannot do that, milady. Your husband is excommunicate. That places his lands under the interdict as well."

She flushed hotly, "I have been thinking about that. The pope's ailing is unjust. We shall ignore it. Lord Jaufre is master here. I want prayers said for his safe return."

"My first responsibility is to the Holy Church, to God," the priest said sternly. "I cannot pray for a man who offends both."

"Jaufre has offended no one but that tyrant king. He marched to London to try for peace, seeking only to secure the liberties that—"

"He marched as all the others did, to protect their own selfish interests. Do not try to make something noble out of his behavior, Melyssan. 'Twill only break your heart. There is no difference between Lord Jaufre and his barons and that marauding army outside."

"Don't speak of my husband that way. I'll no longer endure it. Too long have I tolerated your silent disapproval. You do not know him. You never have. He will come riding from London to help us."

"Aye, I suppose he will. He will want to save Winterbourne."

Her breath caught in her throat, but she refused to give way to tears, refused to let the old priest dim her image of Jaufre, cast aspersions upon the nobility of his actions. "Mayhap I cannot force you to pray for my husband. But—but I love him. I care naught for what the pope says or you. Nay, even if he should be condemned by God himself, I would follow him to hell."

A shudder tore through the old priest's frame as he bowed his head. "I have seen too much of the pain this man has brought into your life. And now you are driven to blaspheme God himself. Lord Jaufre has poisoned you at last."

She could bear to hear no more and fled from the chapel only to find Jenny romping in the great hall. Somehow she had eluded her nurse. Horror tore through Melyssan when she realized the child held a large dagger, which she now withdrew from its ruby-encrusted sheath.

"Jenny, give me that thing," she gasped, snatching it away.

Jenny's lower lip jutted out. "Give that back. I need it to kill King John."

Melyssan raised the weapon far above the child's grasping fingers. "Nay, 'tis not a plaything. Wherever did you get it?"

"From Fahver's chest. He always let me hold it."

"Did he indeed?" Melyssan's lips set in a taut line. "Well, Mother shall have a long talk with Father when he gets home."

When he gets home… The thought pounded through her brain.
Oh, Jaufre, my love, please come home. Put an end to this nightmare of uncertainty
.

Whitney strode into the great hall, the grim cast of his countenance telling her there was more bad news.

"Have they commenced—the assault?" she asked, ignoring Jenny, who stamped her foot and demanded the return of the dagger.

"They sent a messenger forward to parley. They—they would leave us in peace if their terms were met."

"What terms?" Melyssan asked, her suspicions aroused.

"If we surrender the castle to them, without resisting, the king pledges no one will be harmed. You may retire to the convent at St. Clare."

She studied her brother's uneasy expression. "Whitney, there is something more you are not telling me."

Whitney stared at the floor, not meeting her eyes. "The king wants Jenny."

The dagger clattered to the ground and Jenny dove for it, but Melyssan's arms had already closed around her despite her angry squeals of protest.

"Never!" she cried. "May he rot in hell first."

"He swears he will not hurt her. Lyssa. He wants her for a hostage."

"Aye, a hostage to use against Jaufre. You give the king his answer. Whitney. Have the men commence firing their arrows from the wall."

Whitney hesitated, his eyes lingering wistfully on Jenny's flushed face, triumphant as her fingers closed around the end of the dagger.

Melyssan's arms tightened on the child as she studied her brother's expression. She could not help remembering Jaufre’s opinion of her brother.
Weak like Godric… he will betray you one day, Lyssa
.

"No!" she said aloud. She would allow no one to poison her mind against her husband or her brother. "We shall survive. Whitney. Jaufre will be here soon. You and Dreyfan muster the men to defend the walls, and—and do the best you can."

Whitney bit his lip and nodded. He tousled Jenny's curls. "Just remember, Lyssa. I love her as I do you. And I know how much she means to you."

With one final glance back, he strode away to hurl Melyssan's defiance at the king. The siege of Winterbourne had begun.

Chapter 21

The cheers of the crowd dinned in Jaufre's ears as the populace of London surged forward into the street to greet the French soldiers. The Frenchmen nodded and waved, carefully guiding their mounts around the women, who hiked up their skirts and rushed too close to the horses' hooves. Men clapped each other on the back and danced jigs along the cobblestones as if their deliverance were at hand. Although Prince Louis had yet to arrive, the French had marched to London unopposed by King John's army. At last report, it was rumored that John had fled north. To hide in Scotland, said his gleeful detractors.

Jaufre's lips curled in scorn as he and Tristan watched the proceedings from the doorway. Tristan's eyes were grave.

"It seems history would repeat itself. Only this time the conquerors come not from Normandy. The prospect of a French king is a strange one. I am not so sure it agrees with me."

"They have not conquered anything yet." Jaufre turned, preparing to reenter the house. "As to French king, English king, I am sick to death of either. Sometimes I feel as if I would like to retire from the world to a quiet monastery."

A cultured voice spoke up behind him. "Somehow I cannot envision you as a monk, my lord."

Jaufre whirled around to confront a tall young Frenchman who had dismounted. The earl's eyes traveled in disbelief up the lean hips to the broad shoulders until he reached the face. Silver-gray eyes glinted at him, a half smile twisting the thin lips.

Tristan found his voice long before Jaufre was able to speak. "Roland! God's blood, lad, I scarce recognized you." The young man returned Tristan's hearty embrace, but his eyes never left Jaufre.

Tristan drew back, laughing. "Just look at the young long-shanks. You are as tall as your father now, and you quite dwarf me."

"That has never been so difficult to do. How are you, boy?" Jaufre clasped Roland's hand briefly, his gruff voice concealing the mixture of emotions that churned inside of him. "So you've come over to invade my lands?"

"Scarcely that, my lord," Roland said. "Upon finding you amongst the rebels, I assumed you were one of those who had invited the help of King Philip."

"Then you don't know me very well, do you?"

Roland arched one brow. "Mayhap I do not."

"Let us not stand around in the midst of this mob," Tristan said. "Come inside, lad, and tell us what mischief you've been up to over there in Paris."

Roland consigned his horse to the care of a young page and followed Tristan into the house. As Jaufre brought up the rear, he studied the boy's frame. Aye, Tristan was right, the lad had grown. He was a boy no longer. Jaufre also noted that the gold spurs of a knight adorned Roland's boots. The young man appeared to put an extra spring in his step to make them jangle more loudly.

Up in the small chamber where Jaufre and Tristan shared a pallet, the three men settled down to goblets of burgundy wine. Roland showed little inclination to talk about himself but made eager inquiries after the people at Winterbourne, especially Jenny and Melyssan.

"They are all well," Jaufre said, though his brow furrowed. The last messenger he had sent seeking news of Winterbourne had as yet failed to return. He felt the return of his earlier fear that John might attack his castle next. But by all reports, the king was headed for Yorkshire.

After teasing the young man about the fringe of hair sprouting on his upper lip, Tristan glanced from Roland to Jaufre, then abruptly excused himself. When he had left the room, an awkward silence descended.

Jaufre was first to speak. " Tis a most handsome sword you've got strapped to your side. I see Philip has treated you well, Roland."

" Tis Sir Roland now." The young man puffed out his chest, then looked slightly ashamed of his boastful manner. "That is—I am not sure I was worthy of the honor, but the king knighted me 'last Christmas."

"You saved his life. 'Twas the least he could do." Jaufre looked away, his spine stiffening as the words came out with great difficulty. " Twould seem I also am in your debt. I doubt that Philip would have released me so soon, even after Tristan paid the ransom, if you had not pleaded on my behalf."

Roland shrugged. "You would never have been captured if you had not tried to come back for me." He looked Jaufre directly in the eye. "Why did you?"

"I see you have not outgrown your habit of asking stupid questions," Jaufre said gruffly.

Roland's face split into a broad grin, which wavered after a moment. "There is one more honor the king would bestow upon me—which I am loath to tell you about." Roland drew in a deep breath. "He knew I was your son, but he—he did not quite understand the circumstances of my birth. He offered me Clairemont."

Clairemont. The name of that place had become the bane of Jaufre's existence. He could scarce bear hearing it. "Congratulations,
Sir
Roland," he said dryly. "A handsome estate for a man of your years."

Roland Mushed a bright red. "Do you think I would keep it? I accepted the lands only to return them to you. To do otherwise would be the same as stealing. Especially now. Now that Prince Louis will become the king of England, it will be possible for you to be the lord of Clairemont without dividing your loyalties."

"I have no desire to be the lord of Clairemont. I never had, except for that damned oath." Jaufre's eyes bored into Roland as if seeing him for the first time. The young man fidgeted uncomfortably beneath the intensity of his gaze. "The solution to the problem has been under my nose all the time, and I too blind to see it."

He strode to the chests containing his clothing, tossing garments aside until he found the silver swan medallion. Next he snatched up his grandfather's sword and began tugging the Clairemont seal ring off his ringer. He thrust all three in Roland's startled face. "Here. Take them."

"B-but, my lord! I do not understand. Tis the seal ring of—of the comte of Clairemont."

"Good. You recognize your own crest. You will make a most wise and sagacious comte." Impatiently, he seized Roland's finger and shoved the ring into place. "Don't lose this."

"But—but…"

Feeling almost light-headed as the burden he had carried since the night of his grandfather's death dropped from his shoulders, Jaufre yanked Roland's own sword from his sheath and flung it across the room. He began to slide his grandfather's sword into its place, but Roland's hand closed over his wrist.

"Nay, you cannot mean this, my lord. What of your oath?"

"My oath is fulfilled. All I ever promised my grandfather was that someday one of his blood would again be the lord of Clairemont."

"But I am a bastard!"

"You are Sir Roland or Roland Fitzmacy. But whatever you choose to call yourself, you are the great-grandson of Raoul de Macy, the son of Jaufre, earl of Winterbourne. Never forget that, boy."

"I never have yet, my lord," Roland whispered, his eyes misting. He released Jaufre's arm, permitting him to gird the sword to his side.

"Take care of it, boy. This sword has knighted the back of every de Macy male within my memory."

He started to throw the medallion over Roland's head, then stopped. "Nay, if you will pardon me, monsieur le Comte. This did belong to me, and I will keep it this time." Jaufre's lips tugged into a half smile as he placed the medallion about his own neck.

Now, Grandfather, he thought as he watched his son reverently examining the sword at his side, your wishes have been filled. May you rest in peace, and I at last may do the same.

Aloud he said, "Do not look the sword over too closely. It is not quite as bright and shining as your gift from the king."

" Tis magnificent," Roland breathed, drawing the weapon forth to study it. "it bears the scars of many battles. I believe you said that you—you were knighted by this sword."

"Aye, boy. A lifetime ago."

Roland regarded him shyly. "I know I have already been through the ceremony with the king of France. But I was wondering if you—if you could… Nay, you would think it ridiculous." His words trailed off as he hung his head in embarrassment.

Jaufre swallowed the sudden constriction in his throat. "Give me the sword," he said. "Kneel down."

The heavy weight passed back into Jaufre's hands as Roland bent his knee, placing himself upon the floor before the earl. The young man dashed his hand quickly across his eyes before gazing up at Jaufre. His youthful face shone with such solemn purpose, such dreams of chivalry and valor yet untried, that Jaufre had to look away for a moment before he could proceed. The sword trembled slightly as he gripped the hilt between his hands and raised it above Roland's head.