"Oh, little one. I prayed that if only I was patient, his feelings would change in time. At least he might have learned to love you." One of her tears dropping upon the child's shirt. "But he does not care. He will never care for either one of us."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The red-gold beauty of autumn gave way before the first icy breath of winter. December's chilling winds blanketed the ground with a light cover of sparkling snow until Winterbourne's white stone battlements resembled a great palace of ice carved out of the frozen ground.
Melyssan scurried through the great hall, supervising the squires as they decorated for the Christmas Eve feast. The walls were already bedecked with garlands of holly so thick it appeared as if the forest had overrun Winterbourne. She paced the length of the hall, still dissatisfied, calling for the pages to bring forth more ivy, hoping the bright greenery would dispel the sense of foreboding hanging over Winterbourne. It was the season of peace, goodwill toward men, yet only that morning she had seen Jaufre honing the edge of his -sword.
She frowned at the chatter of the squires perched above her on their ladders. Roland grumbled to Arric, "What foolishness! I would be better employed practicing with the quintain. Of a certainty, we will be commanded to sail for Normandy any day now."
"Aye," agreed Arric. "How I long to give those Frenchmen a taste of my steel." He executed an imaginary thrust that nearly toppled him from his ladder.
"Hah!" Roland snorted. "You'd best take care you don't swallow so much of their steel that you end up drinking your own blood."
"Roland! Arric!" Melyssan said sharply. "Mind what you are doing and cease all this talk of killing. It is Christmas, and I will not tolerate it."
"Aye, my lady." Arric sulked, hanging his head.
But Roland clambered down the ladder to prostrate himself on one knee. "My lady, I crave your pardon. I had forgotten you were nearby or never would words have escaped my lips so offensive to a woman's delicate sensibilities."
Despite herself, Melyssan smiled. "You are forgiven, Roland. Do get up. If you truly have more pressing affairs to attend to elsewhere, you may go. I am sure Arric will be pleased to help me hang the mistletoe," she added, forestalling that young man's eager attempt to leap to the ground and follow Roland.
Crestfallen, Arric remounted the ladder. Roland's face split into a triumphant grin before he swept Melyssan a magnificent bow, then raced from the hall as if in fear she would change her mind.
Just as she handed Arric the first boughs of mistletoe, Father Andrew emerged from the chapel and crossed the hall to where she stood. He pursed his lips in disapproval. "I trust you will not bring any of that near the altar, my lady. It would not be fitting. Those pallid berries come from the same kind of tree fashioned into the cross upon which our Lord was crucified."
Melyssan gave the priest an apologetic glance as she stretched to hand Arric another sprig. "I know it is pagan to decorate with mistletoe, Father. But I've been told it symbolizes reconciliation, that all past grievances are forgiven. Would that it might have some effect upon all these foolish men and turn their thoughts from battle."
Attic grimaced down at her as he hammered the mistletoe into place. Father Andrew steadied the ladder, which wobbled underneath the stalwart young squire. The frown lines around the priest's mouth relaxed. "I shall pardon you for observing heathen customs this one time. Who is to say? Your mistletoe may bring you luck this evening and bring about a reconciliation you are not expecting."
Melyssan regarded Father Andrew in surprise. His pale blue eyes twinkled, but he refused to tell her anything more. She was still puzzling over his meaning as she made her way upstairs.
A reconciliation she was not expecting? What could Father Andrew possibly mean? Mentally she reviewed the list of guests who had traveled to spend Christmas at Winterbourne, among them Lord Oswin, a powerful baron with estates near York, Sir Hugh and Lady Gunnor, newly returned from their exile in Ireland after King John had pardoned Gunnor's brother for offending him during the interdict.
She had no need of reconciliation with any of these. She could only think of one person whose estrangement from her must be obvious to the old priest. She had sensed Father Andrew studying her when she and Jaufre would exit from the hall after supper each evening, her arm placed on top of her husband's with stiff formality. The priest along with everyone else at Winterbourne could have no difficulty in guessing how strained her relationship with the earl had become.
Like all the men, Jaufre was caught up in preparations for the impending war with France, as though nothing else were important to him. She had made a mistake once, blurting out that she prayed each day the cowardly king would change his mind, cancel the invasion. She could not bear to risk losing Jaufre in battle, not even for him to fulfill his oath regarding Clairemont. Although Jaufre had comforted her, she realized she had closed one more door between them. He retreated behind a wall of silence, keeping whatever he knew of the king's plans to himself.
If only she and Jaufre could heal the breach between them. If he could forgive her for presenting him with a worthless daughter, she could pardon him for giving her honor when she wanted love. Then they could stand under the mistletoe, exchanging the kiss of peace, a kiss that might deepen into something warmer.
Sighing at the thought, she stepped inside her bedchamber. She was surprised to find Nelda and Jenny's nurse, Canice, peeking at something spread across the bed. When they saw Melyssan, the two women straightened, giggling.
Before she had a chance to question them, she was startled by a rustling sound. She jumped back as something shot toward her. Jenny crawled forward, seizing the hem of Melyssan's gown, her pixie-like face beaming beneath her linen coif.
"Ah, by St. Genevieve," Canice wailed. "The child has crept out of her basket again." She bustled forward to swoop up the babe, but Jenny already nestled in her mother's arms, endeavoring to chew upon the gold chain Melyssan wore around her neck.
Melyssan chuckled. "I think you must give over trying to keep Jenny confined to the basket." She regarded her daughter with pride. Was there any other child who at the age of six months could scoot across the floor at such an alarming rate of speed? Despite the earl's unheard-of command that the babe should not be swaddled, Jenny's limbs grew apace, chubby and strong.
"I am sorry, my lady," said Canice. "I try to watch her, truly I do. But who ever heard of a babe performing such feats!"
"Just keep her up off the rushes until she can walk." Melyssan hugged the child before carrying her over to the bed. She nearly laid the babe down upon the shimmering folds of the most lovely gown of blue samite she'd ever seen.
"Where did this come from?” she asked.
"Oh, my lady, Lord Jaufre left it here for you," Nelda said. "We have been dying, waiting for you to come and find it."
Stunned, Melyssan handed Jenny to Canice. She raised the gown, touching the silk to her cheek. The long train cascaded to the floor, sparkling as the firelight glinted upon the threads of gold woven through the dark blue silk. Jenny clapped her hands, letting out a coo of delight.
Nelda sighed. "What a beautiful gown! I would sell my soul for such a one. I only pray that when I marry, my husband will prove as generous."
"Aye," Melyssan agreed. "I must go and thank my lord at once."
As she hurried from the room, clutching the silken lengths in front of her, her pulses raced with a new hope. It was the first sign of favor Jaufre had shown her since Jenny's birth. Did it mean he was no longer as displeased with her?
She found the earl alone in the solar, seated in his carved armchair. Shyly, she stepped forward until she faced him across the oaken table.
"My lord, the gown! How shall I thank you? It is lovely, far too elegant for me. You should not have. I know you have been trying to save every penny for rebuilding Winterbourne."
"As long as the king remains obdurate, it doesn’t matter." Jaufre frowned, barely looking up from the letter he was reading. "I w
ould not have you attend the Christmas feast looking like a beggar. It is a man's duty to provide well for his wife."
She lowered the gown, her pleasure in the gift fleeing before his words. His duty? She could almost see him marking the entry in his accounts. Christmas gifts. Forty-three knights: one linen cloak, saddle, and blue tunic each. Wife: one gown with matching belt. The shining folds of gold-shot fabric lost some of their luster.
"Well, I thank you, all the same," she said quietly.
He did not notice when she backed away from him, preparing to slip out of the room. His attention was all for the letter, his face somber. Then the parchment turned in his hands, and she saw the heavy royal seal. She shivered. It was as if she could feel the icy fingers of John Plantagenet once more creeping into their lives.
"Is it more news of the war?" she asked, not wanting to know, yet unable to stop herself.
He glanced up as if surprised to find her still there. "Nothing that need concern you, Lyssa. Do not worry. Leave these matters to me.”
"But I only wondered—"
"Tend to the feast, my lady," he said harshly. "And you will have enough to occupy your thoughts."
She nodded, white-lipped, and left the room. As he watched her go, Jaufre cursed himself for his cowardice. Nothing that need concern you. What a liar he was. He crumpled the letter in his fist, the message commanding him to be in London before the New Year. The king's armada was being readied to set sail.
Why had he not told Melyssan the truth? He had never feared a woman's tears before. He had seen Yseult put on some impassioned displays of weeping, such as would have melted the most hard-hearted warrior. She had only made Jaufre feel uncomfortable. Ah, but Melyssan! He could not endure the way her tears trickled down one by one as though her heart were breaking by inches, her pain becoming his own.
It was all the more difficult since he had no more desired to leave her than she wished to have him go. The thought popped unbidden into his head. Who would be harmed if the oath to retake Clairemont remained unfulfilled? Raoul de Macy was dead.
No! Jaufre rubbed his palm across his forehead. What was he—a knight of honor or some cravenly fat merchant seeking to find ways of remaining by his fire? He would go, follow the king to Normandy, fight and perhaps die. He would have to tell Melyssan, but not yet. At least they might enjoy this, possibly their last Christmas together. Jaufre turned to the hearth, consigning the king's letter to the flames.
Perhaps Jenny was not the longed-for heir, but Melyssan's head arched with pride as she carried her daughter into the great hall. She determined to be happy, at peace upon this blessed eve of the Christ child's birth, put from her mind all thoughts of war, King John and Jaufre's coldness.
The large chamber rumbled with the merriment of the earl's tenants, assembled to offer their yearly gifts of bread, hens, and ale, all the while smacking their lips in anticipation of the Christmas dinner to come. The good folk fell back respectfully as Melyssan passed among them, the women curtsying and cooing over Jenny, who regarded them with a complacent smile as if such homage were her due.
"Such a little beauty," gushed Lady Gunnor. "The image of His Lordship."
"Aye, she is," Melyssan said as she studied the dark curl drooping over Jenny's forehead, the same midnight shade as Jaufre's, the large round eyes that had deepened to the earl's rich shade of brown.
Gunnor's plump face grew wistful, and her eyes misted. "And to think that dark night you helped us to escape, my own Tom was just such a babe. Who would ever have thought you and I would meet again under such happy circumstances?"
"It is wonderful, Gunnor," Melyssan said. "I am so pleased that you could come home to Penhurst at last."
At the sound of male laughter ringing from the hearthside of the hall, Jenny wrenched her body around trying to see, nearly upsetting Melyssan's balance. Faith, but the child was an armful. It required both hands to keep hold of Jenny, which left none for the support of her cane.
Jenny craned her neck, her joyful crow telling Melyssan she had singled out Jaufre's voice even in the room full of men. It was amazing how the babe would perk up when her father was near, although Jaufre never paid her the least attention.
"I understand, little one," Melyssan whispered close to the child's ear. "It is the same for me." She often thought she could bear his present indifference better if only she had never known what it was like to be touched by him, feel his kiss burn upon her lips, be enfolded in the demanding strength of his arms. Some nights her longing for him grew so keen, she spent the hours until dawn gripping her arms tight against her body in restraint lest she throw herself at his feet and beg him to love her.
The same desire nigh overwhelmed her as she spotted Jaufre now, listening to Lord Oswin expound at length. Jaufre's dark hair brushed against the neckline, his long-sleeved tunic of rose-hued sendal, stretched taut over his broad shoulders. A long-tongued belt of silver hugged his waist, accenting the leanness of his hips, where he rested one heavily ringed hand.
He stood taller than most of the men, wearing that moody look of detachment she had come to know all too well of late. He watched unsmiling as the pages dragged forth the yule log, a giant section from the trunk of an ash tree, whose end was fitted into the hearth and ignited.
"It will be good luck if they keep it burning throughout the twelve days of Christmas," Gunnor said. "Your ladyship must then take care the ashes are not thrown out. They have magical properties of fertility."
"I'll wager the earl has magical properties of his own without needing any old ash," said one of the men, setting up a roar of ribald laughter.
Gunnor blustered, "I was speaking of the earth, not my lady."
Not my lady indeed, Melyssan thought, her cheeks burning as her eyes locked with Jaufre's. How could a woman be fertile when she was so infrequently touched by her husband?
Even when Jaufre did reach for her in the darkness, he pulled her close roughly, his lovemaking swift, unwilling, as though he sought to confine a desire that had escaped the bounds of reason. When done, he would quickly draw away to his side of the bed, silent, staring up at the canopy overhead. Was his mind filled with regret, or was she of so little importance that other thoughts immediately crowded her out?
Her speculations ended as she saw Jaufre cross the room with slow, measured tread. But he appeared to have great difficulty in escaping the talkative Lord Oswin, who trailed after him.
Melyssan froze, her hands tightening on Jenny as snatches of the baron's words drifted to her above the hubbub of the crowd. "King John . . . need to revive the old charter.. . danger of following him to war in France . . . only way to preserve our lives."
Were they speaking of the letter that had so absorbed Jaufre earlier that afternoon? The letter whose contents he had refused to divulge? Melyssan tried to fight it, but the same feeling of dread that had been stalking her all day seized her in its chilling grip.
Jaufre shrugged aside whatever Lord Oswin told him with such vehement gestures. He continued forward, planting himself in front of Melyssan.
"My lady, I am pleased you deigned to join us for the feast."
His words mocked her, but the hand that stroked her cheek was gentle. He did not spare Jenny so much as a glance, but the babe was determined not to be ignored. Before Melyssan could prevent it, Jenny lunged forward. Growling like a playful bear cub, she seized two large handfuls of Jaufre's beard. His eyes watering with pain, Jaufre swore, trying to pry open the babe's grasping fingers.
"No, no, Jenny. Naughty," Melyssan said, pulling the child back.
The guests howled with delight. "By the rood," Lord Oswin called out, "this soft domestic life has undone the Dark Knight when he can be brought to his knees by a mere babe."
"No swaddling," said one of the women. "No wonder the child acts so wild. Heaven knows what she will be when she is grown."
Tugging his head free, Jaufre glared first at the portly dame who had spoken, then at Melyssan. "Why isn't the
child abed? Take her there at once."
"I am sorry, my lord," Melyssan said. "Please. I only brought her down to see the yule log." Melyssan soothed back the curl from Jenny's brow. The babe's tiny face puckered, looking stunned by her father's angry tones.
"Well, now she has seen it." Jaufre rubbed his chin. "Take her back to her nurse. She has no place at this feast."
"Aye, my lord." Melyssan curtsied, swallowing any further attempts to reason with her husband. Holding her head up as best she might, she exited from the hall, deeply conscious of the sympathetic glances cast her way from many of the ladies. It helped matters not at all when Jenny set up a loud wail.
Suppressing her own desire to join the child, Melyssan carried her daughter back to the chamber the babe shared with Canice. But when the young woman bustled forward, Melyssan waved her aside. She rocked Jenny herself, crooning snatches of old songs until the babe quieted; then she lowered her into the carved oak cradle draped with a canopy of white sarcenet.
"My poor little one," she murmured, tucking a fur coverlet around Jenny, whose long dark lashes drooped against the curve of her cheeks. Never had Jaufre shown his dislike for the babe so strongly. Melyssan's shoulders sagged. She knew too well what it was like to grow up in the shadow of a parent's hatred. She would have given much to spare Jenny such pain.
By the time she returned to the great hall, the guests were taking their places at the tables. Jaufre was offering Sir Hugh and Lady Gunnor a place above the salt. The earl quirked one eyebrow at the couple. "Come, my friends. This time have a place of honor at my board. Unless you prefer sitting amongst the pilgrims?"
"Nay, my lord, I thank you," Sir Hugh said with a sheepish smile as he led Gunnor to their seats.