To his relief, she quieted at last, her arms relaxing their hold on him as she nestled her head beneath his chin. She still shuddered from time to time, the movement of her warm breasts penetrating his senses even through the layers of clothing. He became self-conscious of the fact that she was naked beneath the mantle and shifted restlessly on the stool.
"Melyssan, it is time you were abed."
But when he attempted to lay her down upon the feather mattress, she clung to him, fear once more clouding her eyes. “Do not leave me. He will come back if I am alone."
"Nay, little one. He cannot. He is dead." Gently he traced the outline of the bruise Le Gros's brutality had left on her soft cheek.
She grasped his hand and hung on with desperation. "In my dreams. He'll come back for me in my dreams the same as the king always does."
Vaguely he remembered her telling him something about King John desiring her, using that as her reason for posing as his wife. But he hadn't believed her then, would have rejected any excuse she had to offer. Now he began to wonder. She was a skilled mummer indeed if she could feign that great a look of terror.
He found he was not proof against the plea in those misty, sea-shaded eyes. "Very well, I'll stay," he said, stretching out reluctantly on the bed. "You sleep now. I'll allow no nightmares to escape past my guard this night."
She gave him a tremulous smile and settled down beside him. He held his body rigid, aloof, but it was useless. She snuggled close to him like a lost soul in a storm seeking the shelter of a mighty fortress. She begged that he leave the bed curtains open, the candles burning, so that he had no choice but to stare at her face, so young and vulnerable as her swollen lids drifted closed, resting gold-fringed lashes against the blue shadows beneath her eyes. Her pink lips parted, issuing warm, sleep-blurred breaths. Beneath the coverlet, he could feel the soft contours of her body molding against his hip and thigh.
"Sweet Jesu," he muttered as he was assailed by a burning sensation in his groin, the same burning sensation that had driven him to walk the castle walls after he had left her earlier, hoping the frigid night air would douse the fire of his frustrated passion. He had been affected then as he was now by her air of innocence, her childlike trust. When he had dragged her away from the feast, he had been determined to punish her, but her tears had checked his angry lust, tears that reminded him of the little girl who had once thought him Sir Lancelot.
So what was she now—a little girl with a woman's body tempting him with every artless gesture she made? Or a clever schemer using all the wiles known to womankind to pluck at the chords of his compassion, playing him for a greater fool than he'd ever been before?
Was she like Yseult had been that afternoon she'd claimed Godric had raped her, pretending to be distraught? Or was Melyssan truly as she appeared, a maiden whose virginity had been spared, but whose very soul had been violated by the priest's betrayal?
He was not sure, uncertain of anything except that he wanted her, wanted her with a desire more exacting than he had known before, when his passion had been fueled only by anger. Tentatively he touched the pale hollow of her throat, but when she stirred in her sleep, he snatched his hand away in disgust.
He was no better than that stinking whoreson Le Gros. If she had not wept before when he had tossed her down onto the bed, it would have been he who had ravished her and not the drunken priest, the memory of his own touch driving her near to madness, abrading her flesh to be cleansed of him.
After what she had been through, how could he allow images to flit through his mind of her warm, supple body writhing beneath his—and she all the while sleeping beside him with the peace of the angels on her face? It would be best if he left her again.
But when he tried to ease himself back off the bed, a tiny whimper of protest escaped her. Even in the depths of slumber, a furrow knit her brow.
Christ, he'd promised her to stay, promised to fend off all the bad dreams. He pictured her waking after her nightmare phantoms had once more stalked their cruel path through her mind, waking alone in the empty bed, trembling as she had when she'd first believed Le Gros had succeeded in raping her. The devastated look in her eyes had pierced him more keenly than any sword that ever scored his flesh. No, he could not risk leaving her alone again.
Resigning himself to his torment, he settled next to her, his mouth twisting into a wry smile at the irony of his situation. He, who had not endured a woman sleeping in his bed since the death of Yseult, now had to spend the long hours until dawn embracing Melyssan's naked beauty without so much as a kiss for his reward. Forcing his eyes closed, he eventually drifted off into a night of fitful dozing, a night of the sweetest torture he'd ever known.
The light prickling along her eyelids was too strong to come from the candles. Melyssan opened her eyes to see the morning sun filtering through the bedchamber window, one of the few embrasures in the castle that was wider than the arrow slits and fitted with a mosaic of stained glass. Without quite knowing what she was reaching out for, her hands trailed across the feather mattress only to find an empty space, where Jaufre should have been.
Hearing a movement by the foot of the bed, Melyssan bolted into a sitting position, clutching the fur coverlet in front of her. But it was only Nelda laying out a fresh chemise and gown.
"Good morrow, my lady." The curly-headed girl gave her a cheerful smile. Then, as if she noticed the way Melyssan's eyes searched the room, she said, "His lordship's gone down this hour and more. He bade me leave you sleep as long as you desired."
"Oh." Melyssan leaned back against her pillow, feeling strangely deserted. Something jabbed against her neck, and she realized she still had her cloak hooked around her shoulders. She remembered how she had worn it to bed last night, the woolen folds keeping her back warm beneath the coverlet while the hard length of Jaufre's body . . . The heat of a blush crept into her cheeks.
Nelda bustled around the room, whistling softly despite the fact that it was a thing Melyssan oft gently reminded her no lady should do. She filled a basin with warm water for her mistress's bath and then stooped to pick up the remains of the tattered chemise from in front of the hearth.
She rolled her eyes at Melyssan and giggled. "My lord must have been very glad indeed to be home again!"
Melyssan compressed her lips into a tight line. "Burn it!"
"My lady? I crave your pardon, but did you say—?"
"I said to burn it!"
"But perhaps I could mend it."
"Toss it into the fire," Melyssan said sharply, her nails digging into the bedclothes. "Now."
Bewilderment etching her pretty face, Nelda turned slowly and obeyed. The flames leaped up to consume the torn linen, transforming it into a blackened rag whose ashes were carried up the chimney by the draft. Only then did Melyssan relax and rise to bathe and dress herself.
Her body was stiff and bore the mark of more than one bruise inflicted by Le Gros's rough hands. Although a part of her was still raw and aching from the experience, recollections of Jaufre's tenderness, the strength of his arms around her, his wordless comfort, overshadowed the other darker memory.
Donning a kirtle of cornflower blue with wide flowing sleeves, and fastening the household keys and a kerchief onto her belt, she started when she saw her staff propped next to the bed.
"Oh, the earl brought that up earlier," Nelda explained. "He said you had forgotten it."
Although Melyssan could manage to walk without the cane, her movements came easier and more graceful with its support. She caressed the smooth wood, touched that Jaufre should have remembered to go back to the solar and find it for her, but her fingers froze around the handle with Nelda's next words.
"He also said I was not to discuss what happened last night with you, but you must hear of it soon, and I shall burst if I can't tell you. What do you think? Someone murdered that fat Norman priest."
“Murdered?" Melyssan said, not wanting to speak of it, yet puzzled by Nelda's version of the
incident, so different from what she to her sorrow knew to be true.
"Aye, skewered his heart with a dagger like a chicken on a spit." Nelda nodded her head, obviously relishing every detail. "That pack of ruffians he brought with him were causing quite a stir about it this morning, but Lord Jaufre already sent them on their way. Made them take Father Hubert's body with them, he did. All the way back to France. Said he didn't want any such carrion rotting in our English ditches. Now who do you suppose would have killed the priest, my lady? One of our people?"
"I have no idea," Melyssan snapped, wanting to put an end to Nelda's stream of excited chatter. "If Lord Jaufre said you were not to discuss the matter, you'd best obey him."
She hastened to quit the chamber lest Nelda see her agitation. So as yet no one knew the shameful truth of what had occurred in the solar. She was grateful, for it would make it easier for her to face the household this morning; but she wondered how long the facts behind Father Hubert's death could remain a secret.
Her steps faltered when she reached the circular stair that descended to the solar. She dreaded passing through that room, but there was no other way down to the great hall. Fortifying herself with a deep breath, she planted one foot after the other, forcing herself onward although her heart pounded as if she expected to find Father Hubert bent over the mural to begin her terrible ordeal all over again.
But when she reached the room, she found that the sun had swept away all the sinister shadows like cobwebs whisked before a broom. Even the rushes had been changed, concealing any trace of blood that might linger on the wooden floor. The only reminders that anything out of the ordinary had taken place were the scarred faces of the soldiers on the Conquest painting and a few drops of hardened wax on the table.
Although the room was back in order, she had to force herself to relax, only to jump again with fright when she heard the rustle of straw behind her. She whirled around, eyes dilating as she drew up her staff in a defensive posture.
"Melyssan." Father Andrew's mild features regarded her with surprise. "I missed you this morning when you did not come for prayers. Are you ill, my child? You look so pale."
"No. No, nothing is wrong." She lowered her staff and backed away to stare unseeing out the crosier, anything to avoid looking at him. Father Andrew's spare frame was so different from that of Le Gros, but the black wool was the same, the same kind of cloth that had scraped against her bare skin last night. She bit down hard on her trembling lip.
The old priest was silent for a moment, and then he asked, "You have heard, then, about the death of Father Hubert?" She nodded.
"A terrible thing. He was not a man I admired, but still it was a terrible thing. I have been waiting all morning, half supposing Lord Jaufre would approach me for absolution, for it must have been he who did the killing."
Melyssan ran her fingers along the narrow opening, feeling loose stone crumble away. Outside she could hear the wind howling, see it tugging at the maids' skirts as they crossed the yard. "Why do you assume that?" she asked at last.
"Because of what happened at the banquet yesterday and simply the nature of the earl. He's a dark, vengeful man."
It disturbed her to hear Father Andrew, whose opinion she respected, pronounce such harsh judgment upon Jaufre. Facing the priest, she said. "If Lord Jaufre killed Father Hubert, I am sure he had good reason."
Father Andrew pursed his lips. "No, a petty matter, so I understand. Father Hubert was caught pilfering, and I have heard that Lord Jaufre is an unforgiving man who values his silver above life itself."
"Then you have heard wrong," she blurted out. "Because Lord Jaufre fought for his life and mine. Father Hubert tried to kill my lord after Jaufre caught him trying to rape me." Her voice trailed off to a whisper.
She heard Father Andrew sharply draw in his breath. "My poor child." He reached one thin, blue-veined hand out to cover hers.
She jerked away. "I don't ask for your pity, only that you should not condemn Lord Jaufre."
"You should not worry about him. He must make his own peace. My concern now is for the pain I see on your face. Come down to the chapel and pray with me, Melyssan."
"I don't feel much like praying," she said, not wanting to be alone in the chapel with Father Andrew, staring at his frock, which reminded her so much of that other hated one. She raised her chin to stare into the priest's pale blue eyes, hardening herself against the compassion and gentle understanding she saw reflected there.
"The chapel will be a lonely place if you cease your morning visits. So few come there anymore." He fetched a wistful sigh, which carried her mind back to the days she had first known Father Andrew.
He had come to be the chaplain at Wydevale just as the pope pronounced the interdict upon England. She remembered hearing him in the chapel every morning at the time mass would have been said. He knelt at the altar before the shrouded crucifix, weeping softly like a man whose entire reason for living had been swept away. It was then she had begun the practice of praying with him each day, praying that King John would capitulate or the pope would relent and lift the terrible ban that men were beginning to take for granted, remove the curse from the English church before her people forgot there was a God.
The memory raised feelings of guilt at having refused his request. Doggedly she scuffed her toe in the rushes and said, "What does it matter if I visit the chapel or not? If the Church can ordain men like Hubert Le Vis, we didn't need any interdict to make sure we all go to the devil."
She was surprised when, instead of being offended, a slight smile touched Father Andrew's lips.
"I am sorry," he said. "Don't think that I mock you with my smile. It is only your remark reminds me of words I once said myself. It was the morning I found the bishop I served abed with two stout peasant wenches. I was a very young priest then and the trouble was I mistook the man for God. When I discovered he was not, I defrocked myself and went storming out of the cathedral."
Although Father Andrew chuckled, Melyssan thought she could still see the traces of his youthful pain tighten the lines on his face. Watching the sunlight from the croslet glint down upon his silver-gray hair, she tried to picture him as such an angry young man.
"And why did you go back?" she asked.
"A strange thing happened. You will hardly believe it. I took myself off to an inn and was ruining my stomach with large amounts of very bad ale. A man came and sat down to join me, a plain honest fellow, a hayward by way of occupation. Like any sad drunk I found myself pouring out my whole wretched tale."
"And then what?" she prompted impatiently when he paused.
"Well, Will Hayward was not impressed by my sorrows. 'Saints be praised, Father,' he says. 'Now hasn't ye ever heard tell of the twelve apostles?' I assured him rather haughtily that I had. 'Then ye know all about that Judas. He was a downright bad 'un, but it didn't make the good Lord lose his faith in the other eleven. Ye can't let one knave ruin yer trust in all men. Now ye hightail it back to that cathedral and get about the work God planned for ye, lest I send ye on yer way with the toe of me boot.' "
Melyssan shared in his laughter at the conclusion of the story and felt some of the depression that had settled over her heart lifting.
"I've taken up enough of your time with my long¬winded tales. I'm sure you have many more important things to attend to." He excused himself and headed for the door.
After a moment's hesitation, she called after him. "Wait, Father." He glanced back at her, his bushy gray brows lifted in inquiry.
She swallowed hard. "If you like, I will come and bear you company while you pray."
He smiled. "I would like that very much." He waited until she crossed the room to offer her his arm. "I fear I will need a great deal of help this morning. I want you to stop me from praying for Hubert Le Vis."
"Stop you?" she faltered.
"Yes." A strange glint sparkled in the pale blue eyes. "Stop me from praying to the good Lord that he roast Hubert's fat buttocks over t
he hottest flames in hell."
The falconer extended his arm, holding out the large, charcoal-winged peregrine for Lord Jaufre's inspection. The hawk remained still except for occasionally tilting a head concealed by a small hood.
"We acquired this beauty whilst you were gone, my lord. Good Irish stock. We almost have him trained to the point we can unseal the eyes."
Lord Jaufre made a vague reply, his gaze more on the towering stone donjon than the bird. Where was Melyssan? Had she awakened yet? It seemed like hours since he had stolen from her bed, pausing only long enough to tuck the covers up around her, her face, pale with sleep and the shock of what had happened last night.
"Perhaps today Your Lordship would care to walk around with the bird, get him used to perching upon your wrist."
"What?" Jaufre asked, the sharp note in his voice startling the hawk. A woman had just emerged from the covered stairway—and yes, when the wind whipped back her mantle, he could see she walked with a cane.
The falconer stroked the peregrine's ruffled feathers. "I said, my lord, perhaps you would like to begin to get this beauty accustomed to the sound of your voice, the feel of your touch."
"Yes, I sometimes think that I would," Jaufre murmured, never taking his eyes from Melyssan's distant figure until she disappeared around the corner of the donjon. Then he realized with a start that the falconer was offering him the hawk. "No. Unhood him and place him back in the mews. I will look at him again tomorrow."
He strode away in pursuit of Melyssan. She had not gone far, having paused by the washing trough near the kitchen. She bent over, trying to see her reflection in the water as she restored the strands of hair escaping from the net at the back of her head. As Jaufre came up behind her, he saw her efforts were futile, since the wind kept rippling the surface of the water.
He cleared his throat to announce his presence, but the way her shoulders tensed revealed she was already aware of him. "'It would be easier if you consulted your mirror."
She continued to stare down into the trough, trailing her fingers through the part of the water where the image of his own face wavered. "Perhaps it would, but I have not got a mirror."