Winterbourne (7 page)

Obviously Beatrice had retrieved it, saving it until a time when she could put it to good use. Using his seal, she had somehow convinced King John of her claim to be his wife and installed herself at Winterbourne.

All summer. Jaufre's hands clenched. The conniving wench had had nigh an entire summer to wring whatever she could out of his estates. She probably had some lover waiting in the background, and perhaps they planned to murder him when he returned, or simply flee together. Yseult and Godric's tale played out all over again.

Except this time, he was no infatuated young fool. And no matter what hole Beatrice chose to hide in, even if it was within the sacred confines of the convent, he would find her and haul her out by the scruff of her neck.

"And then, my lady wife," he whispered fiercely, "you will regret you ever slipped on my ring and planned your 'wedding day'—regret the day you were ever born."

Chapter 3

Chickens squawked, scattering out from beneath the hooves of the dun-colored palfrey that galloped into the courtyard at Winterbourne. The young rider garbed in the de Macy livery of blue tunic and gold hose waved his cap in acknowledgment of the greetings from soldiers manning the walls.

"Halloo, young Arric," Sir Dreyfan called down to the page. "What distance away is Lord Jaufre?"

"Not more than a league, sir," Arric piped up, squinting against the rays of the late afternoon sun. "The master sent me on ahead to tell you he brings a guest with him from France. He bids you make all ready for their comfort."'

"I will inform his lady."

His lady
. The words caused Melyssan to draw back from the crosslet through which she had watched the messenger's arrival. She pressed her cool hands against cheeks gone pale. The dreaded day had arrived at last. Lord Jaufre was coming home. Intermixed with her fear was a strange fluttery sense of anticipation.

Her fingers closed over the handle of her cane, and she made her way slowly across the solar, avoiding the only pieces of furniture contained within the private withdrawing room: a heavy oak trestle table and a high-backed chair. Along one wall was a mural depicting a scene from the Norman invasion of 1066. Melyssan trailed her hand over one of the soldiers standing on shore awaiting the onslaught of the conqueror's army.

"Did your knees knock together, little Saxon," she whispered, "as badly as mine want to do?"

Someone seized her arm, and she spun around to confront

Whitney, his face as pale as her own. "Melyssan, here you are. What are you doing?"

"I suppose I am going down to prepare for the arrival of my lord and his guest. The chambers in the north tower will want new rushes, and then there must be food."

"Are you planning to bake the meats for your own funeral? We must flee from here. There's still time."

"But I can't leave Sir Hugh and Lady Gunnor."

"Then bring them with us, for Christ's sake."

"No," Melyssan said, pulling away from him. " 'Tis not safe for them. They must wait until tonight when Sir Hugh's cousin comes with the boat."

"That is what you told me when they arrived two days ago, and so far no cousin has ever showed. We can all escape right now through the water gateway below the castle. There is a supply boat that—"

"We would never get that far in the daylight before we were overtaken. And Lady Gunnor's children! If there were a struggle, they might be harmed."

"What about the harm to us if we stay?" Perspiration beaded Whitney's brow. "I'm not arguing anymore. I will take you out of here even if I have to carry you."

He took a step toward her, but she backed off and held her staff before her as if to ward him away.

"For the love of God, Lyssa, please," Whitney begged. "What am I to do if the Dark Knight should draw his sword upon me? You know I cannot…"

Stark terror crept into his soft green eyes, the same terror Melyssan had seen on her gentle brother's face a hundred times before when threatened with the clash of arms. She reached out to touch his cheek.

"Oh, Whitney, you go. By yourself, you could get away."

"But I cannot leave you."

"I—I will be all right. At the most, Lord Jaufre will imprison me. And you could ride home to Wydevale for help."

Whitney seized on the suggestion with pathetic eagerness. "Yes, I could, couldn't I? I could get Father to intervene with Lord Jaufre."

"I will be safe until then." She gave him an overbright smile, hoping to hide her disbelief in her own words. "But you must hurry."

They both became aware of a clamor of voices and a scurrying of feet at the bottom of the stairway leading to the solar. Knights, men-at-arms, servants, all scrambled to the courtyard to shout a welcome to their returning lord.

"Lyssa!" Whitney said in an agonized whisper. He caught her up in his arms and planted a kiss on her cheek. Then he turned and was gone, leaving Melyssan with a strange sinking feeling.

She was tally alone now—alone to face Jaufre's fury. Outside the narrow window, she heard a guard up on the parapet walk cry, "I can just make out the horses. They're coming over the crest of the hill."

Squaring her shoulders, she descended to the great hall and then down the covered stair leading to the bailey. She could scarcely see over the throng of heads to the main gate. The doughty figure of an elderly knight elbowed his way through the milling crowd of grooms, chambermaids, and clerks.

Sir Dreyfan's deep voice boomed, "My lady. What do ye back here? The earl will wonder what has become of ye." His smile beaming through his thick, grizzled beard, he offered her his arm with a grand flourish. She could not look at him as she accepted it. The gruff old knight had been so protective of her, so courteous since that long-ago summer day she had first arrived at Winterbourne. How his broad, honest face would harden with contempt when Lord Jaufre exposed her lies!

With an almost boyish spring in his step, he led her forward. Kitchen wenches, stableboys, soldiers, her ladies-in-waiting, all fell back, their faces shining with a joy and excitement she wished she could share. Sir Dreyfan escorted her to the very front of the assembled household and a few steps beyond, so that she stood out, a solitary figure, the first one Jaufre would see when he came through the gate.

Oh, Jaufre, she thought. Could it be true, all those things Beatrice said about you? "He hanged his wife, Lyssa." Bea's voice echoed in Melyssan's head. "No one even knew what Yseult had done to displease him. He just hanged her."

The clear high notes of a trumpet sounded, followed by a thundering of horses' hooves. The guards standing up on the castle walls began to cheer. Melyssan closed her eyes tight, wishing desperately she was a little girl again and it was young Sir Jaufre outside the ramparts, only come to claim her veil. She felt a light touch on her shoulder as someone stepped into place beside her. Her eyes fluttered open, and she choked back a glad outcry.

Whitney. Fear still etched his features, but now it was mingled with shame as he hung his head. Blinking away her tears, she squeezed his hand, and he looked up to give her a rueful smile. Together they turned, hearing the creak of the pulleys as the iron portcullis slowly inched its way upward.

On the other side, the restive horses of Jaufre's knights shifted and brushed against one another, pawing the ground as if they, too, were eager to return to Winterbourne. Tristan barked a command to the excited pages to keep better hold of the bridles on the baggage mules and then snapped at the squire, Ross, to have a care what he was about: in another minute he would be dropping the earl's banner into the dirt. Maneuvering his way to Jaufre's side, Tristan stole a glance at the earl's stony profile and reflected he had never seen Jaufre so grim when returning to Winterbourne. Father Hubert didn't help matters with his constant needling about the bold hussy passing herself off as Jaufre's wife.

Le Gros
swilled a large mouthful of wine from his leather flask. Wiping a spray of red droplets from his lips, he said, "Well, my lord. At least the bitch didn't turn away any more of your people. Good thing. You might not have been able to get back inside your own castle."

Jaufre said nothing, but Tristan noticed the slight tic at the corner of his mouth. The knight wished to heaven the stupid priest had some notion of when to hold his tongue. Jaufre was most dangerous when he went quiet like that, his eyes as hard as slate.

Tristan heartily regretted that Father Hubert had not been left on the other side of the Channel. He put little credence in Lady Finette's explanation that the priest had ecclesiastical affairs to conduct, but broaching the subject to Jaufre had been useless. The earl didn't care if the devil rode with him so long as he got back to Winterbourne to punish the woman pretending to be his lady. But
Le Gros's
presence worried Tristan. There was always a dagger or a sword strapped where the priest's rosary beads should have been, and the pack of servants who accompanied him looked more fit for hanging than praying.

Tristan had tried to caution Jaufre before they set out. " 'Tis rumored that
Le Gros
is not above pilfering from his host. It would not surprise me if Finette has not foisted this fellow on to you out of spite, hoping he will cause you some mischief. Everyone at Winterbourne knows you house your silver in the cupboard behind the mural. If
Le Gros
were to have opportunity…"

"If it worries you so, hide the money in the chapel," Jaufre quipped. "That is one place you will never find the good father."

And that had been all the satisfaction Tristan got from warning Jaufre. He would have to keep an eye on
Le Gros
himself, Tristan thought, and then returned his attention to the business at hand as the great spiked bars were raised high enough at last to clear the entranceway to the castle.

Jaufre dug his heels into his stallion's glossy black sides and surged forward over the drawbridge, the pleasure he had anticipated from returning home vanished completely. Instead of this frustrated anger, his heart should have swelled with pride at the sight of his castle's gleaming white square towers and conical roofs set against the backdrop of the rolling Welsh hills. The fortress was his own, purchased by years of hard campaigning, winning prizes in tournaments, ransoming captured knights. Where was she, the scheming witch who had dared plunder Winterbourne in his absence?

As he traveled through the gate, he raised two ringers and nodded, perfunctorily acknowledging the salute of his castle guard. He wondered what sly laughter would spread amongst them when they discovered the truth about his so-called wife. Perhaps they knew already if Beatrice had taken flight.

But no. Standing next to Sir Dreyfan in a place of honor was a lady. Jaufre's heart filled with a kind of savage joy. So the wench had been too feeble-witted to run when she had the chance. Perhaps she hoped to throw herself upon his mercy. She would soon learn there was a reason for his byname.

As he cantered farther into the courtyard, the woman shifted position, and then he saw what her skirts had concealed. She leaned upon a staff.

Jaufre reined in sharply, nearly wheeling his horse around and spooking Tristan's skittish mount. But the Dark Knight was only vaguely aware of his friend's struggles to calm his animal.

No! No, it couldn't be.
She
could not possibly have anything to do with this deceit. Not—not Melyssan. He slapped the reins down, moving forward until he halted only a few paces away. There was no question of it now. It was Melyssan, her slender figure garbed in an unadorned kirtle of forest green, her brown hair bound demurely in a linen fillet with a stiff barbette passing from ear to ear under her chin. Her only ornament was a braided gold chain worn around her neck, and from the end of it dangled
his ring
.

Jaufre bit his lips tightly together to keep from roaring aloud. It was as if he could feel Yseult's dagger twisting through his flesh all over again. Damn Melyssan. Damn her to hell. The only woman he had brought himself to trust, to respect, since Yseult, and she proved a greater liar than all of them.

He swallowed hard, the extent of his rage and disappointment astonishing him. Tossing his reins down to a waiting page, Jaufre flung himself out of the saddle. He covered the ground between himself and Melyssan in three furious strides.

Sir Dreyfan clapped him on the back in boisterous greeting, then tried to express his sorrow at the tidings of the old comte's death.

"Later," Jaufre hissed, never taking his eyes from Melyssan. He planted himself in front of her, glad that she kept her head bent toward the ground. He didn't want to see those large round eyes that would remind him of the innocent little maid who had once thought him Sir Launcelot. Where had she gone? The way of all women, grown up to be a calculating, greedy bitch.

Then she did look up, and it infuriated him further to see no change in her serenely beautiful face, no trace of guilt. Sorrow, perhaps, and fear reflected from those luminous green eyes, but that was all. Soft pink lips trembled and then parted.

"W-welcome home, my lord Jaufre," she whispered.

Plague take her! What right did she have to stand there looking like a wistful young angel when her heart was so full of treachery? Jaufre drew back his hand, wanting to strike away that false expression, force her to glare at him with hatred, show herself for what she truly was.

Melyssan flinched and then steadied herself to accept the blow. But Jaufre lowered his hand, an icy calm encrusting his heart. No, he wouldn't make it that easy for her. He would dole her punishment out with poison-sweet slowness, racking her with uncertainty as to what he meant to do next. So the lady liked to play pretend, did she? Then he would join her in the game. Instead of flaying her body, he would flay her nerves, until she collapsed quivering at his feet. And then for his final vengeance… By the time this night ended, she would be ready to crawl the length and breadth of England, begging people to believe that she was not his wife.

Melyssan watched the emotions on Jaufre's face shift and change like sands on a shore raked by the tides of an angry sea. Sternness had given way to shocked recognition, to be replaced by the crimson flush of rage. But none of those expressions was as alarming as the devilish light that now danced in his night-dark eyes. The slow smile that spread across his face sent a chill up her spine.