Winterbourne (52 page)

The great nave was empty except for one tall knight at the back of the church, who knelt on the cold stone floor, his head bowed. He looked like some devout crusader returned from the holy lands, a gold cross affixed around his neck, his mighty sword laid before him like a sacrificial offering.

He raised his head to the stained-glass window beyond her. She gasped. Surely it could not be…

"Jaufre?"

The whisper was so soft he scarce heard it above the drone of the chanting monks. Yet it startled him all the same as his eyes came to rest upon the woman standing in the pool of colored light cast by the stained-glass window. The candles on the altar behind her cast a glow around her waving honey-brown hair, half-hidden by the sheen of the gossamer, half-circle veil falling over her delicate shoulders. The pale oval of her face was lost in the shadows, but the slender white hands before her rested lightly on the rounded surface of a cane.

Jaufre blinked at the golden vision, but it did not disappear. He rose slowly to his feet and walked toward it. After what he had seen, it was no longer in him to doubt the presence of another miracle. He moved within touching distance of the shimmering image, spellbound by the shining green eyes, the rose-petal lips trembling with eagerness, the pink flush entering into cheeks sparkling with drops of crystal.

"Jaufre. Oh, my love."

When the vision tried to hurl herself against his chest, he held her back. Too many times had he invited these dreams into his arms only to have them disappear, leaving behind such desolation as would drive him mad. Let him be content to gaze upon this one until she fled as all the others had done before her.

But his hands grasped her shoulders, flesh that was solid, warm even beneath the layers of silk. His fingers grazed the satin texture of her neck, and he felt the pulse beat, strong, steady, alive… alive.

As Melyssan stared at the dazed expression on Jaufre's face, her heart constricted with fear. Father Andrew had warned her he had passed through a grave ordeal. She coaxed back a disorderly lock of raven hair from his brow. "Do not look at me thus, my lord. I am no spirit, I assure you. I am alive, and your daughter as well.'' Straining upward, she gently brushed his lips with a kiss.

It was as if she had released him from a spell. His entire body shook as he sank to his knees before her.

"Lyssa." His arms encircled her. He buried his face against her waist, great sobs racking his frame. "Lyssa…"

"I'm here, love. I'm here." She held his head close against her, her own tears flowing as she pressed her lips into the midnight strands of hair, her hands gently stroking the nape of his neck. She held him thus for a long time until he quieted, her heart too full to speak. She closed her eyes, reveling in the almost painful joy of having him restored to her.

At last she whispered, "My lord, please rise."

"Nay, I cannot."

She tried to see his face. "Jaufre, what is it? Are—are you ill?"

"Nay." His arms fell to his sides as he drew away from her, tipping his head back, the liquid depths of his rich brown eyes shining with a light she had never seen in them before. No, whispered a voice inside her. She had seen him look thus, such a very long time ago. A tournament on a summer's day.

"I cannot rise, my lady, until you have given me some token of your favor."

"I—I could give you my veil, Sir Knight."

Jaufre's lips curved into a semblance of his old smile. "Only a veil, my lady?
I
do not think I could any longer be satisfied with just that."

Melyssan felt her pulse skip a beat. "Then what would you ask of me?"

"Your heart, my lady. I will take nothing less."

She took his hand and placed it over the region between her breasts. "It is yours, my lord. It always has been."

He stood, his strong arms drawing her close within their protective circle, his lips pausing inches from her own.

"As I swear that my heart belongs to you, my beautiful Lyssa. Until the day of my death. Aye, the day of my death and beyond."

Then he sealed the vow with all the reverent passion of his kiss.

The light of dawn had not yet filtered through the closed shutters of the small room in the hostelry when Melyssan awoke in her husband's arms. Nearly a week had passed since she had been reunited with Jaufre in the church. But sometimes she could still not believe he was truly restored to her.

She nestled her head against the warmth of his chest, lightly touching the dark curling hairs, breathing quietly so as not to awaken him. Her face glowed with the memory of the passion they had shared the night before, a mating of their bodies without constraint, each giving freely to the other with no shadows lingering between them, the joining of their flesh as joyous and complete as the union of their hearts.

How deeply he slept, Melyssan thought, feeling the even rise and fall of her husband's chest beneath her hand. She pressed a small kiss against the rough satin of his beard. Peaceful as a babe. Her lips curved into a half smile, half pout. Jaufre seemed to have grown younger, the lines carved by painful memory well-nigh smoothed away until she vowed she would soon feel positively ancient beside him.

Yawning, she stretched out her feet and recoiled in fright when they encountered a solid lump at the end of the bed. Sitting up quickly, she clutched the sheets across her naked breasts. Down below her, something burrowed onto the pallet. She risked a timid touch and encountered a smooth round bottom, a bunched-up shirt, a curly head.

Jenny! Sometime in the night, the child must have slipped away from the kindly woman Melyssan had found to look after her daughter. It was as if, having found her father again, Jenny could scarce bear to let him out of her sight. Sighing, Melyssan tucked a blanket around the form of her sleeping daughter. Would they ever find a nurse capable of keeping pace with the child or, when she had grown, a husband able to tame her indomitable spirit?

Taking care not to wake either Jaufre or the little girl, Melyssan eased herself out of bed. Judging by the pale light seeping through the wooden slats, it must be almost sunrise. She was just drawing the chemise over her head when she was startled by the loud clamor of church bells. She had become accustomed to the deep peal, as it often sounded, marking off the portions of the monks' day. But this clanging was different, ceaseless, urgent.

Jaufre bolted upright in the bed, his expression disoriented at having been awakened so abruptly. He scrambled out of bed, pulling on drawers and tunic. By this time Jenny had wakened and whimpered, rubbing her eyes.

"Fahver. Are more bad soldiers coming?"

"Nay, sweetheart," Jaufre said. He lifted Jenny into his arms, giving her an affectionate hug. "There is naught for you to fear."

But even as he spoke, shouts erupted from the inner courtyard, rising above the thunder of hooves.

"Jaufre?" Melyssan faltered.

Depositing a quick kiss upon her brow, he pushed the shutter open. He slipped his aim about her waist, drawing her closer as the three of them stared out the window.

In the pale light, they could make out the white-robed forms of the monks scurrying from their cells. The pealing of the bells stopped, then a trumpet sounded. Silence descended upon the courtyard, then a loud voice proclaimed, "The king is dead!"

Another moment of silence passed before someone took up the cry. "The king is dead. Long live King Henry!"

"Long live the king!"

Melyssan's hand closed over Jaufre's at her side. Dead. So the nightmare, indeed, had ended. Their greatest enemy, King John, was dead. She glanced up at her husband to see how he received the news.

There was no exultation or even satisfaction in his face. He was not looking toward the court but out past the monastery walls, lo the distant horizon. The sky tinted gold and rose as the sun topped the trees.

"We can leave this place now, Lyssa. We can go home again—to Winterbourne."

"But Winterbourne isn't there, Fahver," Jenny protested. "The bad men broke it."

"Then we'll build it again, little one. Stronger than before."

He smiled at the child, but his gaze traveled past her to rest upon Melyssan.

"See, Lyssa, how the sun rises over the hills. Is it not beautiful?"

She stared up into the dark-fringed mahogany eyes, shining softly with the light of dreams.

"Aye, my lord. Beautiful."

She rested her head against his shoulder, feeling Jenny's small hand touch her cheek as it curled around Jaufre's neck. Together they watched the dawn of a new day heralding the reign of a new king. New beginnings for their love, for their life together, for England…

 
The End