Winterbourne, Page 2

  Deep sobs racking her, she placed her palms flat against the earth and tried to push herself up. She flinched as something went whirling past her. The freckled page landed in the dirt, wailing and holding his ear.

  "Mannerless whelps," growled a deep voice. "Is this how you treat a lady? And you expect one day that you will become knights? I will see the lot of you cowards whipped. Now be off and out of my sight."

  The boys scattered, even the freckled lad scrambling to his feet and fleeing as if he had just seen the devil. Melyssan felt herself lifted and set upon her feet. The cane was pressed back into her shaking hand. A man's fingertips, rough with calluses, smoothed back her hair and brushed the moisture and dirt from her cheeks.

  When she dared look up, her breath caught in her throat. Bending over her was Sir Lancelot, stepped straight out of her dreams. His hair was blue-black as a starless midnight. Thick-fringed lashes framed a pair of twinkling brown eyes that warmed her like fire.

  "Are you hurt, my lady?" he asked in that rich voice that was like balm to her wounded feelings.

  She shook her head, too stunned by the mere proximity of such a godlike being to make reply. She could only stare at him as he straightened her tunic. His eye fell inevitably upon her foot, the special leather boot disguising little of its strange shape. She began to cry anew, and one tear dropped from her cheek to fall upon his hand.

  "Nay, my lady, you must not weep," he said. "Would you let such pearls as these fall upon the insensible ground?” To her astonishment, he dropped to one knee before her, his smooth-shaven face now at a level with her own.

  "Permit me to make myself known to you, my lady. One Jaufre de Macy, a humble knight who has sighted you from afar and been so moved by your beauty, I am come to seek your favor."

  Her surprise at these words brought her hiccuping sobs to a halt. She peered suspiciously at him. "You are teasing me?"

  "Nay, my lady, and to prove it, I will not rise from this spot until you give me leave."

  She looked into his deep brown eyes but could find not a trace of mockery, only kindness. A rustling movement nearby told her that Beatrice stood watching. When Melyssan glanced at her, she saw that her younger sister was gaping at her with newfound respect.

  Flicking back one long tress over her shoulder, she arched her neck proudly. "You may rise, my lord."

  But still he knelt. "First, I would beg my favor of thee, fair one."

  Graciously she inclined her head. "What is it, my lord?"

  "Some small token that I might carry with me into the tournament today so that my vanquished opponents will come to pay homage to the beauty of my lady . . ?"

  "Melyssan," she whispered, and then, "I could give you my veil." She tugged the head covering free from her gilt circlet and handed the gossamer silk to Sir Jaufre. He rose to his feet and gravely accepted the token.

  "God grant you victory today, Sir Lancelot," she said solemnly.

  Smiling, he carried her small hand to his lips and brushed it with a gentle kiss. Then he chucked her under the chin and strode away to mount his horse.

  Melyssan burrowed her head into the pillow as the memory faded. The little girl was gone, as was the courtly young man who had knelt at her feet and banished her tears. He had never been able to keep his pledge of having the other knights bow down to her. Long before the tournament began, Melyssan had been hustled away by her nurse. Scolded for losing her veil, she was sent to bed supperless, though later her older sister, Enid, had contrived to smuggle some cheese to her. And Jaufre's heart had been captured by Lady Yseult of the fair skin and indigo eyes.

  Melyssan groaned softly and rolled onto her back. Often she had dreamed of how things might have been different, if only she had been older that day, if only Lady Yseult had not been present at the tournament to bewitch Lord Jaufre. If only . . .

  Melyssan glanced down toward her foot and sighed. She played this game of wistful imaginings too often. It took away the sting of truth for a moment but only made facing the facts doubly hard. For the reality was Jaufre had married Yseult, and by the next time she saw him, Yseult was dead. Melyssan's shining young knight had turned into a harsh, bitter man who would not be moved by the tears of a child in distress any more than he would by those of a woman.

  He had ridden north early last summer to pay court to her sister Beatrice, much to the surprise and delight of her parents. It was a matter of wonder that such a great lord, heir to large estates in Normandy and England, earl of Winterbourne in his own right, should seek the daughter of a humble knight to be his second wife.

  Dame Alice turned the manor house inside out preparing for Lord Jaufre's coming. It was with the greatest reluctance that she made Melyssan's presence known to him at all. Shyly, Melyssan stepped forward to greet him. Eight years had not dimmed her remembrance of him, but she saw no trace of recognition on the earl's countenance.

  His face had grown lean and hard, the lower portion covered with a trim black beard. Lines etched deep into his forehead and around the eyes. Those merry brown eyes that once had warmed her were now as cold and empty as a hearth where the fire has died.

  Lord Jaufre spent most of his visit with her father, arranging the details of the marriage contract. Melyssan thought him almost unaware of her existence, although at times she caught him staring at her, his expression unreadable. Few words passed between them until the evening she and Beatrice lingered overlong in the garden.

  The warm June twilight was heady with the fragrance of roses just beginning to blossom, mingled with the scent of rosemary, sage and sweet fennel. Melyssan sank onto a wooden bench, weary from trying to reconcile Beatrice to her forthcoming marriage with Lord Jaufre. In truth, her heart was not in the task.

  "I won't marry him, Lyssa. He's old, nearly thirty-five, and I hate dark men," Bea stormed. "Enid chose her own husband. Why shouldn't I?"

  Melyssan sighed. "Our sister was a very wealthy widow. Providing she did not offend the king, she was free to marry again as she pleased. It is different for you. I am sure that in time—"

  "No! He's a horrid, cold-hearted man. I loathe him. He had Lady Yseult hanged. I want to marry Aubrey." Bea sniffed. "You don't understand what it is like to be in love, Lyssa. Someone like you could never understand." Her sister ran out of the garden before she could say another word.

  Perhaps Bea is right, Melyssan thought as she stood up, placing her staff directly in front of her. She leaned on it with both hands, stretching the stiffness out of her limbs. Perhaps I don't understand. I know nothing of love, nor am I likely ever to find out.

  The time was rapidly approaching when she would be expected to join the order of sisters at St. Clare's. She should have entered the convent long ago, but surprisingly, her mother had found one excuse after another to detain her at home. Melyssan had not objected. She was troubled to find she did not view the prospect of dedicating her life to God with the joy expected of her. How could she take such vows when her peace was constantly troubled by strange longings to which she could not put a name?

  Footsteps behind her put an end to her disturbing reverie, but before she could turn around, she heard Jaufre's deep voice disconcertingly close behind her.

  "Ah, there you are, my betrothed. I find you alone at last."

  Melyssan opened her mouth to correct his error, but his arms encircled her from behind, his hands cupping her breasts. She gasped as she felt the heat of his fingers even through the layers of her kirtle and chemise. Starting from the sensitive area behind her ear, his lips caressed a path to the base of her neck.

  The words she had been about to utter died in her throat, and her cane clattered to the ground as she brought her own hands up to cover his. She felt peculiarly weak, unable to pry his fingers away and instead she pressed him more tightly against her. Her mind whirled from the warm sensation of his mouth gliding along her flesh. She turned slightly in his arms until she faced him. Melyssan felt him start as he recognized her, but still he did not let go. Hi
s lips parted and he drew nearer, ever nearer. She opened her eyes wide, measuring the depth of his gaze.

  Then he jerked back, releasing her so suddenly she staggered. He had to grip her by the elbow to prevent her from falling.

  "I'm sorry," he said gruffly. "The veil concealed your hair. I thought you were Beatrice."

  Melyssan did not reply. She knew she should be covered with confusion, furious at him for making such a stupid error. Yet she was incapable of remonstrating. She felt most unlike her usual calm self, as if Jaufre's touch had awakened her from a dream, stirring feelings she had not known she possessed. Never had she felt so alive.

  "I . . . I am not Beatrice," she said foolishly. She had never envied her beautiful younger sister, but at that moment she thought she would have given her soul to have changed places with her.

  "A ridiculous mistake on my part. I most humbly beg my lady's pardon." Lord Jaufre bent to retrieve her staff. As he straightened and placed it in her hands, it was a strange playing out of an earlier scene. A sad half smile crossed Jaufre's face, and a trace of warmth crept into his brown eyes, tempered with an expression of deep hidden pain that had not been there before. What had Yseult and the world done to her Lancelot in those eight years since he had carried her veil to the tournament?

  "Do not distress yourself," she said, lightly touching his hand. "I understand."

  He drew back immediately, as if her fingertips had seared him. A cold mask settled over his features.

  "How good of you to be so understanding, my lady," he replied. "But you should take care. Such generous understanding might be misconstrued as an invitation for more `errors.' "

  He made a mocking bow and left her feeling hurt by his cynical dismissal and embarrassed by her own eager response to his embrace.

  The memory of it still brought a heated blush to her cheeks even now as she pressed herself against the linen sheets, sheets where Jaufre had once lain. Whitney was right: she must get away from Winterbourne. Even worse than the nightmare, Jaufre had begun to haunt her waking moments as well. It was becoming more and more difficult to lose herself in the old daydreams, where the young Jaufre humbly knelt at her feet, pledging his devotion. More and more she saw him standing very close to her, his eyes hard, dangerous, his hands caressing her.

  Melyssan crossed her arms over her breasts, shifting restlessly. The springs of interlaced ropes creaked as sleep eluded her. She tried to close her eyes, ready now to banish all thought and will herself back into the oblivion of a deep, dreamless slumber.

  But she was disturbed by the sound of the heavy oak door to her chamber scraping against the rushes. A low voice whispered her name. "Lady Melyssan? My lady?"

  Her eyes opened at once, and she could detect a soft glow of light through a slit in the bed curtains. Cautiously she parted them and peeked out without revealing herself.

  An eerie figure robed in black stood just inside the doorway. The tallow candle gripped in his hand illuminated his long melancholy face.

  "Father Andrew?" Melyssan called softly in astonishment.

  Her brother's thin chaplain held a finger to his lips and motioned toward the sleeping Nelda. Then he beckoned Melyssan to join him and glided out of the room.

  Mystified, and more than a little alarmed, Melyssan scrambled into her chemise and woolen gown. Slipping her feet into a pair of soft leather pattens, she groped for her cane and then inched cautiously past Nelda. She stepped out into the adjoining oriel, pulling the heavy door closed behind her.

  The wall torch had long ago burned itself out, and the only light came from the priest's candlestick.

  "Forgive me for disturbing your rest, my lady," he whispered. "But it is a matter of some importance and secrecy."

  "What is it?" Melyssan asked. "Has something happened to Whitney?"

  "No, my lady. Your brother knows nothing of this. The stranger that just arrived asked only for you."

  A chill of foreboding crept up her spine. What sort of stranger would risk travel by night and then seek her out in such a clandestine manner?

  "I don't think . . ." she began, shrinking back.

  "I was told to give you this." The priest held out a small scrap of linen. With unsteady fingers, she accepted it. He moved the candle closer so that she could examine the cloth. Tiny threads of gold and green embroidered a square of pristine white, stitches that she had set there herself long ago, a gift to a bride on her wedding day.

  "Where is the lady that gave you this?" she demanded.

  "Below in the cellars.”

  "Take me to her at once."

  On the ground-level floor of the donjon, the flambeau still burned, periodically sending out small showers of sparks. The dank cold air enfolded Melyssan, causing her to regret she had not taken the time to go back for her mantle. But the strangeness of her visitor's arrival and the urgency in the priest's voice drew her on.

  They approached that part of the castle where the very edge of the river flowed past the massive iron portcullis of the west gateway. She could hear water lapping against the stone. Winterbourne had been built to control passage along the river and to take advantage of it as a source of transportation. Supplies could thus be floated directly inside the donjon itself.

  One of the guards caught sight of Melyssan and came forward blustering. "Beg pardon, my lady. But I never would have let them in. It was that priest there insisting. Who but the devil's servants, says I, dare take to the road at night? I says--"

  "Thank you, Master Galvan," Melyssan interrupted him. "You may return to your post."

  He continued his protestations, but she stepped around him. She could see two adults and a tiny child huddled near the great casks where the wine was stored. When the guard was out of hearing range, Melyssan took the small end of candle from Father Andrew.

  "Thank you, Father. I will tend to matters from here."

  The priest nodded. "When you need me, I will be in the chapel praying for them.”

  So he already knew what was amiss, Melyssan thought as she watched his quiet retreat. Well, it was time someone told her.

  As she approached the strangers whose hoods and caps hid their faces from her sight, one of them ran forward, clutching a bundle in her arms.

  "Oh, my lady!" cried a female voice familiar to Melyssan. She flung back her hood, revealing a young face more kindly than beautiful, with a round, receding chin, broad, flat nose, and normally placid gray eyes now widened with fear.

  "Gunnor," Melyssan exclaimed. "So it is you." She had not seen Dame Alice's former lady-in-waiting since Gunnor's wedding day.

  The other figure now stepped forward, leading the child by the hand. Beneath the grime and his broad-brimmed straw hat, Melyssan recognized Gunnor's husband.

  "Sir Hugh," she murmured. The bundle stirred in Gunnor's arms. "And these are your little ones?" Melyssan asked, considerably bemused by their ragged appearance.

  Lady Gunnor clutched at her sleeve, her reply lost in a bout of weeping. Sir Hugh swallowed, his huge Adam's apple bobbing up and down his long, scrawny neck. "We regret this intrusion, my lady. We were obliged to flee from my estate at Penhurst and Winterbourne was the closest castle. We knew not where else to go."

  "Aye, the king's men are everywhere," Gunnor managed to choke out.

  At the mention of the king, Melyssan froze. "King John?" she asked in a whisper.

  Sir Hugh's scraggly beard stood on end as he attempted a feeble smile. "Gunnor exaggerates a little. The pursuit is not so bad as all that. If we could only get to Ireland, I have cousins there."

  Melyssan's head spun with mingled dread and confusion. But she noticed the child, a small boy of about three, shivering, and bit back the host of questions crowding upon her tongue.

  "Let me take you up to the solar, and I will have a fire lit," she said.

  Gunnor's eyes rolled fearfully. "Can you trust your people here? If we should be betrayed—" Her voice broke again.

  "Is the king trying to arrest you?" Me
lyssan asked. "What does he say you have done?"

  “It is nothing that we have done. But my brother, Adelard . . . my holy brother has undone us all." Gunnor buried her face against her baby's blanket, leaving Sir Hugh to take up the explanation.

  "Adelard has run mad," he said. "He joined the order of Cistercian monks at Swineshead. The king offered to secure his election as abbot, and what must the fellow do but denounce John before the whole court. He said that since John is excommunicate, he can appoint no one. Adelard even refused to speak directly to the king for fear of contamination."

  Melyssan closed her eyes, picturing the scene in her mind.

  She could not help but admire the monk's courage. She well knew what it took to defend one's honor in the face of a king. The old sensation of panic crept over her, feelings of being pressed on all sides, by the king's hot, leering gaze, by the accusation in Dame Alice's eye as she berated her daughter for inciting the king's lust, by her father's indifference, and most of all by Whitney's white-faced fear as John had complimented him on his handsome eyes—all the while prodding the poker into the fire.

  “After Adelard fled to safety in Scotland, the king accused me.” Sir Hugh's voice snapped Melyssan back to the present. "The king accused all of us of treason, of conspiring to smuggle Stephen Langton into England against his wishes. He demanded our children as hostages to insure our good behavior. We refused." The knight concluded his story with a helpless wave of his hand. "And, well, here we are."

  Gunnor raised her head and regarded Melyssan piteously. "Dare you shelter us for a day until we can gather up our strength to continue our journey to Ireland?"

  "Of course I will help," Melyssan said. "How could you even doubt it?"

  Gunnor shifted the baby nervously to her other arm. "It is well known your husband is the king's man. He might not like it if he returns to find you helping accused traitors escape."

  "I am sure Jaufre," Melyssan began, and then stopped. She was sure of nothing where Jaufre was concerned. "In any event, it matters naught," she continued. "Lord Jaufre . .er, my husband is across the Channel traveling somewhere in Saxony."