She would tell him the night of their wedding. Would he be pleased? She believed so. He had spoken of his desire for an heir. If only the child would not be born with . . No. She blotted that frightening prospect from her mind.
The child would be perfect. And there would be others. She would wait, be patient with Jaufre. Perhaps in time, she could teach him to believe in dreams again, to believe in love. They would have all the time in the world now that Jaufre had dealt with the king.
Melyssan closed her eyes tight. Why had she had to think of the king? Perhaps because she could not quite accept that he was gone from their lives. Deep within her was a conviction that all Jaufre had bought them was a little time. No amount of wealth could erase the hatred she had seen blazing in John's soulless eyes.
Where the king hated, he had a long and ruthless memory. An image of Matilda de Briouse swam into her mind, Matilda and her child, victims of a king's implacable hate, starving to death in that dungeon.
Cupping her hand protectively over the region of her womb, Melyssan snuggled closer to the lean strength coiled in Jaufre's sleeping body. She lay awake for a long time before finally drifting off into a troubled sleep in which John's cruel laughter echoed in her dreams.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The castle bell clanged incessantly, calling upon all the saints in heaven to ease the painful labor of childbirth for the lady Melyssan. Jaufre scowled as he bent over the papers strewn across the table, trying to concentrate on the plans his architect had submitted for improving Winterbourne's fortifications.
Even here in the solar, the peal of the bell resounded through his brain, a constant reminder that Lyssa lay in the chamber above him, straining to bring life to his son. Jaufre closed eyes that burned from lack of sleep, pinching the bridge of his nose as he struggled to block from his mind his last sight of her, her slender body racked with agony, before the midwife had commanded him to leave the room. Commanded him! The earl of Winterbourne. And he had departed meekly, slinking away from a situation where he had no control, a female domain where his orders counted for nothing. He could not decree an end to Melyssan's pain nor sternly reprimand his son to hasten his entry into this world before his mother's strength gave out.
Sighing, he opened his eyes and once more attempted to focus on the plans: a new outer wall beyond where the moat stood now, more flanking towers reinforced with thicker stone at the bottom, the old square contours to be replaced with circular shapes, convex surfaces to better deflect an arrow.
"My lord?" The young page thrust his head inside the door. "The messenger still waits. What shall I—"
"Tell him to go jump in the moat and take that bell with him." Jaufre pushed the papers from him in exasperation, his head throbbing in time with the persistent dong, dong, dong. "Nay, send him in, and command those superstitious fools to stop that ringing before they drive me mad."
"Aye, my lord." The page disappeared, to be replaced by a gray shadow of a man whose tunic and mantle blended so well with the stone wall that Jaufre had to look twice to ascertain anyone was there. The messenger stepped forward, bowing so deeply that his nose nigh touched his knee, his sallow countenance as apprehensive as an ox about to be led to the slaughter.
"Greetings to you, my lord earl, from His Most Royal Majesty, King John of England. A thousand thanks for affording me the hospitality of your magnificent castle. The praises of Winterbourne and its master, the Dark Knight, are heard--
"State your business,” Jaufre said, returning his attention to the architect's plans.
"Oh, aye, my lord." The man fumbled with a short baton attached to his belt. "But bless me, what a charming room this is. Such a painting as I've never seen before. What colors! Your artist most truly has brought King Arthur's court to life."
Jaufre tapped his foot impatiently against the table as he followed the messenger's glance to where Arthur and his knights, Gawaine, Percival, Tristan, and Lancelot, jousted on the wall of the solar, blotting out any traces of what had once been William the Conqueror's advancing army. The earl grimaced for the hundredth time at his own whimsy in permitting such legends to grace the walls of his castle. But it had made Melyssan happy. The scarred conquest mural had been a constant reminder to her of the night she'd been attacked by Father Hubert.
Glowering, Jaufre shifted his gaze back to the messenger. "Did the king send you all the way from London merely to admire my murals?"
"No, my lord." The man dropped the baton, retrieved it and nearly dropped it again. "I beg your lordship's pardon. I realize my arrival is most inopportune, considering the condition of your lady. I trust you will hear good report shortly."
Shortly? It had been yesterday afternoon this nightmare had begun. How long did it take a woman to produce a child? How much longer could Melyssan endure?
Jaufre leaned forward, slamming the palm of his hand on the table. The messenger jumped back a foot.
"Stop dallying with these pleasantries, man. I grow weary of this waiting. Produce your message or go to the devil."
"Aye, my lord." The servant's hands shook as he pulled apart the baton, which was hollow inside. From it he produced a scroll, which he handed to Jaufre with another bow.
"Here is a letter from the king. The king wrote it. I did not. It is not from me, but from the king."
"Cease your babbling.”Jaufre snatched the parchment away and then rose, stalking to the croslet to take better advantage of the light from the early afternoon sun. He could smell the sweet scent of new grass that cropped up in the bailey below him, borne aloft by a gentle summer wind. A season of new life, new hope, that banished all thought of death. Yet how many women died in the summer as well as any other time of year while giving birth? It was as common as for a man to fall in battle.
Jaufre's fingers clenched the missive and for a moment the words before him blurred. Lyssa, so fragile, warm and gentle as summer itself. Damn! Why was there no word yet?
Shaking his head to dispel his forebodings, Jaufre began to read, trying to ignore his growing irritation with the messenger, who hovered nearby, shifting nervously from foot to foot. His annoyance at the servant transformed to anger at the master who had sent him as Jaufre read farther down the page.
Our loyal subject, the most noble Earl of Winterbourne. To our great distress, we are obliged to refuse the Earl's recent request for license to add further fortification to Castle Winterbourne. Lord Jaufre forgets he is amongst friends here in England and therefore has no need to prepare for war against his castle. Rather, he should direct his military thoughts against his true enemy, Philip of France.
We deem Winterbourne adequate to hold against any Welsh uprisings. Beyond that, Lord Jaufre need not fear.
By Grace of God, His Most Sovereign Majesty, John of England.
"Adequate!" Jaufre raised his head to glare at the quaking messenger. "He deems this adequate. Only look here, sirrah."
He seized the messenger by the front of his tunic and dragged him over to the croslet. "Look at the north wall, how weak it sets upon the edge of the old castle mound. It could be mined under in a matter of days. And those old square towers." Jaufre thrust his pointing finger so close that the servant blinked. "How is one even supposed to see the enemy attacking on that side?"
"I don't know, my lord."
"And the old water gateway, with no further outer wall to defend it. Do you think that is safe?"
"Ah it is a most noble-looking castle, my lord."
Jaufre gave him a fierce shake.
"N-no, my lord. Not safe. Ah, St. Michael bless me. Not safe."
"Bah!" Jaufre released him so abruptly the man's spiderlike legs all but collapsed beneath him. Striding over to the table, he swept his hand across it, sending the plans scattering in all directions, scattering even as his dreams for building Winterbourne into the mightiest fortress in England.
He shoved John's letter back at the messenger. "Here. You know what you can do with this."
The servant n
odded bleakly.
Balling his hands into fists, Jaufre stormed toward the door, pausing a moment to look back. "When you return to London, you may tell His Most Sovereign Majesty that—" The earl broke off, his anger momentarily lost in astonishment.
The messenger was tearing off bits of the letter and slowly chewing the parchment with the resignation of a martyr.
"What in the name of St. George are you doing?"
The messenger swallowed, gagged, and then mournfully tore off another piece. “Alas, my lord, this is not the first time I have been required to eat a message I have delivered for the king. Most of the barons demand that I—"
"You fool. I only meant for you to rip it up or burn it. God's teeth!" Throwing up his hands in disgust, Jaufre stalked out of the solar. As he took the curving stairs to the great hall two at a time, he reflected it was as well he had been diverted by the servant's folly. He had been about to make a very imprudent reply to John's message.
His fists clenched again at the king's refusal to allow him to fortify his castle. Obviously John did not want the earl of Winterbourne sheltered behind the walls of a mighty fortress, sheltered beyond his own grasping talons. An uneasy truce had existed between himself and the king ever since his marriage to Melyssan. As preparations moved forward each day for the long-awaited invasion into France, he and John were bound together by a common goal. Sometimes Jaufre dared believe they might succeed in conquering Normandy. It was close to one year since his grandfather had died, and he had not yet kept his pledge. Although he grudged the waste of men and money that would go into the French campaign, he would at least free himself of his promise when the old comte's banner flew over Clairemont again. But when that time came, what would become of his unholy alliance with the king? How could he insure that Melyssan and their child would remain safe from the tyrant's uncertain temper?
As he entered the dais end of the great hall, the servants were yet clearing away the remains of the midday meal. Most of the food on his trencher remained untouched. It was impossible to eat while Melyssan's chair at his side remained empty. Jaufre halted on the last step. How could it take so damnably long for such a small thing as a babe to be born? Something had to be wrong. Despite himself, he half turned to go back up the stairs. Damn it. There had to be something he could do. Yet he remembered how earlier he had lingered by Melyssan's bedside and reached for her hand.
"Don't touch me," she had said through clenched teeth. For one dumbfounded moment, he thought she had cursed him under her breath as her hands came up to clutch her abdomen. Then she had snapped at him to move back and cease smothering her.
"Well, I'll be hanged if I smother her anymore," Jaufre muttered, reluctantly returning to his original course through the great hall. As he passed by, he overheard one of the servants whisper to his fellow, "Look, here comes the earl to commence his pacing around the great hall again."
Jaufre glowered at the fellow. Instead of withering under his stare, the impudent creature grinned. "God bless yer lordship. It is only the first that's so worrisome. By the next time yer lady is in the straw, ye'll be off a-hunting somewhere."
Jaufre stepped toward the man. He was seriously considering wringing his scrawny old neck when he was startled by a loud crash from the other end of the hall. Whirling, he saw that two of his young squires had come to blows, sending an iron candelabrum toppling over. If the wax tapers had been lit, the fools would have set the rushes afire. Several of the maidservants scattered away, squealing as the two young men hugged each other like ferocious bears, hurtling to the floor in a tangle of legs and flailing fists.
Jaufre hurried across the hall, mumbling imprecations under his breath. Most heartily did he regret having sent Tristan to replace the aged seneschal whose recent death had left Ashlar in a state of confusion. Because of Melyssan's impending confinement, the earl had hesitated to travel north himself. But without Tristan's sobering presence, his squires were more apt to indulge in unruly confrontations such as this one.
"Hold, both of you, and get to your feet!" Jaufre bellowed, but the young men were too far gone in their anger to heed him. They broke apart, struggling to find room to deliver their blows as fists whooshed through the air. One of the combatants was Roland, but that came as no surprise. When a fight broke out, one was always Roland. At least the boy had not gone for his sword this time.
Jaufre lunged forward, grabbing the closest belligerent, the young squire, Arric. As he yanked him back, the priest burst out of the chapel and rushed to intercept Roland.
It was by Melyssan's request Father Andrew had returned as chaplain at Winterbourne. Jaufre conceded that the man, though aged, carried a certain quiet authority. The priest subdued the furious Roland without doing more than laying a hand on his shoulder and staring hard into his eyes. It took Jaufre a moment longer to bring Arric to his senses. The young man came close to gouging the earl with his elbow before he realized who had seized him. Only when he felt the tension slacken from Arric's shoulders did Jaufre release his grip on the boy.
"What is this, my sons?" asked Father Andrew, his low voice carrying even in the vast cavern that was the great hall. "You behave like peasant lads outside the very door of God's temple, forgetting the respect you owe your Creator and the earl. To treat his great hall as if it were a stableyard—"
"Thank you, Father, but I can preach my own sermons," Jaufre said, staring from Arric's blackened eye to the flushed face of his son. "Would one of you care to favor me with an explanation of this outrage?”
"I can't bear any more of his posturing, my lord," Arric burst out "Even if he is your son. He is a traitor. He—"
"A traitor? Simply because I speak the truth?" Roland wiped a trickle of blood from his chin, regarding Arric with scorn.
"Truth? You lying poltroon! Forever bleating about that knave across the Channel."
"That knave is a great king. You wouldn't catch Philip Augustus crawling on his belly to the pope like your paltry John Softsword—"
Father Andrew sternly intervened. "You forget King-John's recent obeisance will put an end to our terrible interdict.”
"Your pardon, Father. But for King John to give his crown to the pope! Make England a mere vassel of Rome! Pah, what a weakling! In France, it would not be tolerated."
"If you love the French so much," Arric snarled, "go back over there, you Norman bastard."
"Enough." Jaufre gave Roland a sharp cuff on the ear when the young man took a purposeful step in Arric's direction. His son's eyes flashed silver lightning, his fingers flying to the sword at his belt. But Father Andrew's hand shot out to quickly cover the boy's.
"Have both of you forgotten your original intentions? You had come to pray with me in the chapel for the safe delivery of our lady Melyssan through her ordeal of childbirth."
"They'd best pray for their own safe delivery if I catch them at such mad sport again," Jaufre said. "I'll not have my knights or my squires fighting amongst themselves."
"I will speak to them of their duties," Father Andrew said gently. "But for now, perhaps your lordship would care to accompany us to the chapel."
"Prayers are your province." Jaufre folded his arms across his chest. "That is what I pay you for unless you care to say a mass instead," he mocked. "Nay, I forgot. The interdict has not officially been lifted. Your holy master the pope still haggles with the king over what fines John will pay for his insolence in defying Rome. Of course, such monetary considerations are of far more importance to the Church than what few miserable souls may be lost in the meantime."
The priest bowed his head, refusing to be baited, but not before Jaufre noted the tightening of the lips, the spark of anger in the pale blue eyes. Aye, he thought, you loathe me as much I despise you, sir priest. You would have seen Lyssa a nun, dead, anything sooner than become my wife.
Aloud he said, "Arric, since you have time for such idleness as prayers, you may spend the rest of the day mucking out the stables. Roland will join you after we
have had some private speech."
With that he turned on his heel and stalked away, without waiting to see his commands obeyed. Roland shuffled along behind him, but Jaufre did not turn around to face the young man until they were alone in the solar. He seated himself in the highbacked chair while Roland stood stiffly before him, his shoulders squared as if he balanced a block of wood there and dared anyone to knock it off. His resemblance to the old comte was so great, Jaufre found it painful to look upon him. Those silver-gray eyes seemed a reproach to him, a reminder of the promise he had made to Raoul de Macy and not kept.
The earl suppressed an urge to run his hand through his hair. By no gesture or look must he show the sensation of weariness and defeat that came over him when he regarded this son of his. The boy had trained hard over the past months. He had seen to that, keeping his son under his own eye instead of sending him off to study the skills of a knight while serving another lord, as was the custom. Roland had learned quickly. He rode, fought with a sword, and handled the lance with more dexterity than many men who had already won their spurs. But he had not outgrown the reckless lack of self-discipline and the boastful hauteur that brewed trouble wherever he chanced to be.
"Well, boy," Jaufre said at last. "I thought I made it plain I would tolerate no more of you stirring trouble amongst my household."
Roland tipped his head back, a gesture that accented the pugnacious set of his chin. "Take your squires to task, my lord. They are equally to blame. I cannot so much as breathe a word about my old home in France without one of them ready to set upon me."
"Of course with no encouragement whatsoever from you. Do not think to cozen me, boy. I hear how your tongue runs apace, bragging of the superior prowess of French knights over the English, singing praise of Philip Augustus."
"It is fitting for a man to speak well of his liege lord."