Jaufre glanced in Melyssan's direction and beckoned her imperiously to his side, making no further comment upon her tardiness. He could sense the tension in her as she settled into her chair. Was she distressed because of the incident with Jenny? Now that his anger had faded, it was all he could do to suppress a smile, although the roots of his beard still tingled. He could see now the dangers inherent in that little game he had taught his daughter. Oft when the nurse presumed Jenny to be napping, he would slip in, bending over the babe's cradle to play with her. Growling fiercely, he pretended to nip at Jenny's flailing fists. It had amused him greatly when the babe had begun to imitate his growl, latching on to his beard. But by St. George, the child waxed too strong for such sport. When she grew older, she might . . .
When she grew older, he might no longer be alive. Jaufre's thoughts turned involuntarily to the summons he had received from the king. His gaze rested upon Melyssan's honey-brown hair bound up so demurely within a net of pearls. He was seized by a sudden longing to take her out of this crowd of chattering fools. The blue silk he had selected with such care became her well, clinging to the soft swell of her breasts. Motherhood had ripened her, softened her curves, turning a lovely young girl into a most desirable woman. Leaving for France would be so much easier if his need for her were not so strong. No matter how he fought the feeling, he wanted nothing more than to pass the night lost in her gentle embrace, praying the morrow would never come.
When Melyssan risked a peek at Jaufre, she expected to find his face dark with annoyance. She surprised a look in his eyes of such brooding melancholy as shattered the calm demeanor she sought to maintain.
"My lord. What is it?" She pressed his hand under the table, but at that moment four pages entered bearing aloft a huge boar's head upon a silver platter. Jaufre composed his features into a polite mask, withdrawing his hand as the feast began.
Venison, partridges, hares, lampreys, swans, peacocks, dried fruit pudding . . . As the succession of dishes was paraded before the guests in the banquet hall, Melyssan complimented herself that she had done well in planning the feast. Neither lord nor villein would rise from the table complaining of the earl of Winterbourne's parsimony. Although she had little appetite for the quantity of food Jaufre heaped upon her trencher, she gaped in astonishment at the amount Jaufre consumed. He appeared to have little relish for any of the dishes, but he partook heartily of everything, like a man devouring his last meal.
The crowd grew more boisterous as the bowl of hot mulled cider passed from hand to hand. Cries of "Wassail!" were answered with the lusty shout of "Drink hail!" More than one face appeared flushed with conviviality as the guests rose from the table. Jaufre gave the signal for the pages to clear away the trestle benches so that the dancing might begin. The musicians garbed in red cloaks of sendal, paraded in, playing trumpets, sackbutts, cornets, and reed pipes.
As the couples formed a line down the length of the hall, Melyssan slipped off to one side. She saw that she was not the only one seeking to avoid the dance. Roland leaned up against one of the arches, his arms folded across the front of his new golden surcoat trimmed with sable.
He straightened with a courteous bow as Melyssan approached him. "Roland, why do you linger here? I vow you look so handsome tonight, there will be many a maiden with broken heart if you do not join in the dancing."
His lips twitched into the semblance of a smile. "Better a broken heart than a broken ankle. Dancing is the one area where I do not excel. As to my handsomeness, I fear your ladyship is dazzled by the clothing your husband has seen fit to place upon my back."
"The surcoat was a gift from Lord Jaufre?"
"Only one of many. I have been favored beyond belief this Christmas. A surcoat, a sword, iron boots and a coat of double-woven mail ."
Melyssan gave a shaky laugh. "My faith! It would seem he expected you to march off to do battle tomorrow."
"Doubtless he wishes that I would." The young man hunched a shoulder, affecting a careless attitude as if to show it mattered little to him.
She captured one of his hands, taking it gently between her own. "Nay, Roland. My lord is pleased to have you at Winterbourne. He would not give you such costly gifts if he had no pride in you."
Roland's haughty expression wavered, allowing an unaccustomed look of wistfulness to creep into his eyes. "I would be satisfied with much less. Fewer gifts given with more affection and less of a sense of duty."
She opened her mouth to reassure him but found she could not speak. Each rustle of the silk gown whispered to her, reminding her that she felt the same.
"You are the only one who cares about me," he continued in a rush of emotion. He raised her hand to his lips. "I will serve you all the days of my life, Lady Melyssan."
A hand clamped down on Roland's shoulder. Melyssan looked up into Jaufre's stony brown eyes. She wondered how long he had stood listening to them.
"Since you are so eager to serve," he said to Roland, "you may begin by leading Lord Oswin's daughter into the dance."
Roland's nose wrinkled in distaste as he looked at the damsel to whom the earl gestured. The pert blonde gave him a toothy smile, furiously batting her eyelashes.
"Perhaps I will," Roland said grimly. "Any wench who grins like that at a man deserves to have her toes trampled. My lady." Ignoring the earl, Roland swept Melyssan a deep bow before departing.
"The whelp is still full of disrespect," Jaufre said. "But at least he is obedient, which is more than I can say for you, my lady."
Melyssan's eyes widened. "How have I defied you, my lord?"
He slipped his arm about her waist, his lips curving into a half smile that did nothing to lighten the sadness in his eyes. "I told you not to worry. Yet too oft tonight have I seen that lovely face pinched with apprehension."
It is difficult when I fear there is something you are keeping from me."
"Then I shall give it to you now. I fear I have sadly neglected you of late." A light glinted in his eyes, his expression far warmer than any he had worn of late. Her heart began to pound faster.
He pulled her into the shadow of the archway, his mouth claiming hers in rough embrace. The noise of the crowd faded as she responded to his passion, both stirred and frightened by the quality of desperation in his kiss. Suddenly, she knew.
She tipped her head back, her face inches from his own.
"You're going to leave me," she whispered. "The letter—" He nodded, pressing kisses upon her brow, her cheeks. "How soon?"
"We shall have Christmas," he murmured against her ear. "Then, tomorrow.. ."
"Jaufre!" She flung her arms about his neck, burrowing her face into his shoulder.
He held her close, patted her back. "I have already sent for Tristan to return from Ashlar. He will look after you in my absence. You and the child will be safe."
"And what of you?"
He chucked her under the chin, attempting a teasing laugh. "I shall do fine. What, Lyssa? Where has your faith in romance gone? You would have me be Sir Lancelot, yet keep me on a leash at your side, never let me loose to slay the dragons."
“I liked it better when the dragons were imaginary." She caught her lip between her teeth. "You go to fight with King John, but I don’t trust him. He once swore to see you dead. I would not put it beyond him to—"
The rest of her fear was silenced by a loud blast from a horn. The music stopped, a great roar of laughter erupting from the company. Jaufre linked his arm through Melyssan's, pulling her forward until she could see the cause of the mirth.
Father Christmas, garbed in a red robe open to the chest, cavorted into the center of the hall, a troop of mummers marching behind. The burly figure swooped upon the crowd, stealing kisses from the blushing ladies. As he planted a smacking buss upon her cheek, Melyssan saw that it was Sir Dreyfan, the face beneath his grizzled beard flushed from too much wassailing, a crown of holly tipped over his brow.
He doubled over in an attempted bow for Jaufre and then wove on his feet. Lau
ghing, Arric rushed forward to straighten him.
Dreyfan nearly knocked the squire over as he flung wide his arms. "Gather round, my lords, my ladies. These mummers come for your pleasure to present the wondrous tale of how St. George did battle with that scurvy knave, the Bold Slasher."
Melyssan held back, but Jaufre placed his arm about her shoulder, whispering in her ear, "Nay, Lyssa, we will have time for the sadness of parting later. Forget King John and the war tonight. Enjoy the Christmas play. Let me see you smile."
She tried to comply, but her lips felt numb. Even the mummers, whose antics had delighted her ever since she was a child, took on sinister overtones, their painted masks and fringed tunics appearing garish and threatening, under the torch lights.
She watched the buffoonery of the Quack Doctor, unable to join in the chuckles of her guests. Applause broke out when St. George strode onto the scene, preparing to do battle with the evil Turkish knight, Bold Slasher. The mock duel with blunted swords caused Melyssan to shudder. Something in the movements of the tall, thin mummer playing St. George disturbed her, an elusive memory hovering just out of reach. She wondered which of the castle household he was, but she would never know. It was considered bad luck to unmask.
St. George took much the worst of the battle, nearly dropping his weapon. Melyssan saw Jaufre lean forward and heard him comment to Lord Oswin, "If the true St. George had handled his weapon so ineptly, England would still be beset with dragons."
Lord Oswin guffawed, spraying out drops of the wine he had just tasted.
St. George went down, slain by a mighty blow from the Bold Slasher, to the accompaniment of hisses from the crowd. But as the story had gone, year after year, the Quack Doctor bent over the fallen knight, pressing between his lips the magic pill. Up sprang St. George, bowing as the company cheered wildly. The triumph of life over death. Melyssan's hands moved together in wooden clapping. If only it were that easy. What if Jaufre should--- She closed her eyes, refusing to let the thought enter her mind.
When she opened them, she saw most of the mummers dancing off to receive their portion of mead. Only St. George lingered, his white hand moving toward his mask.
"Look!" Nelda shrieked. "He's going to show his face."
A hush fell over the gathering as the mummer broke the age-old custom of concealment. Slipping off his mask, he raised his head to stare defiantly at the crowd.
"Whitney!" Melyssan cried. Her exclamation was not very loud, but her brother appeared to have heard it, his green eyes scanning the assembled faces until he found hers.
Still reeling from the shock, she felt Father Andrew take her by the elbow, leading her gently until she stood under the archway with the mistletoe.
"Remember, my lady," he said, "your words to me this morning about reconciliation, all past grievances forgiven."
Then he stepped back. All eyes turned toward her brother as Whitney walked slowly to where she stood. Over a year it had been since she had seen him ride away from Winterbourne, vowing she would be his sister no more. He had not deigned to see her again, angry when she had wed Lord Jaufre, sending her a letter filled with unforgivable insults against her husband.
Now he looked so much older. There was something in his eyes, a look of resignation and bitter wisdom, the sensitive set of his mouth a little harder than she remembered.
They stared at each other for long moments before Whitney spoke. "I have come to see if you can forgive me, Lyssa."
Her throat constricted too much for her to speak. She flung wide her arms. Whitney lifted her off her feet as he hugged her close. Through the mist of her tears, she saw Father Andrew dabbing at his own eyes.
When Whitney at last released her, she kissed the priest's gaunt cheek. "Thank you, Father. It was the most wonderful Christmas gift I could have received."
She heard the guests murmuring, some with approval, others complaining about Whitney's unmasking. Clasping his hand, she gazed fondly at her brother. "Aye, you foolish fellow. Now ill fortune may befall you. Were you so unsure of your welcome within my walls that you crept in disguised?"
"Well . . ." Whitney hesitated. "Not yours so much as . . ."
"As mine, perhaps?" rumbled a familiar deep voice.
The joy Melyssan felt over the reunion with her brother fled before Jaufre's unsmiling eyes. Whitney stiffened, but she kept hold of his hand, leading him forward."My lord, will you not welcome my brother?"
Jaufre's arms folded across his chest, his face as expressionless as granite. He finally relented enough to extend his hand.
Whitney made no move to clasp it. "Before you offer me your hand, my lord, you should know that I seek more than a welcome for Christmas. I would undertake to serve with you, acknowledge you as my liege lord."
Jaufre's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "It is well known that your family owes fealty to the baron de Scoville."
"No longer." Whitney's jaw tightened. "The baron died a fortnight ago. The king has taken possession of his lands."
The crowd buzzed with the news. "How can that be?" Sir Dreyfan roared out. "The baron had a son, had he not?"
"A son only nine years of age. The king has taken the boy from his mother. He will act as his guardian."
"And we all know what that means." Lord Oswin bristled with indignation. "Estates bled white so that by his majority, the lad will have little to inherit, if he lives that long."
Whitney's gaze returned to Melyssan. "It also means the king has taken control of the baron's fiefs. He has reapportioned Wydevale Manor to one of his courtiers."
At Melyssan's dismayed gasp, he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "It is all right, Lyssa. Our parents are safe. They have gone to live with Enid."
Wydevale Manor gone. Taken by the king. Melyssan tried to summon up some feeling of regret for the home of her childhood, but she could not. She remembered few happy days there. But she grieved for Whitney's sake. All his prospects of inheritance whisked away at a tyrant's pleasure.
The guests muttered angrily, sympathy veering toward Whitney. Jaufre said nothing, his eyes hooded, concealing whatever he thought of the dire tidings.
"The king has no regard for the rules of fealty," one knight shouted. "Whose land is safe, I'd like to know?"
Sir Hugh plucked nervously at the ends of his beard. "Master Whitney could appeal to the courts of law. Perhaps the king misunderstood the circumstances. I am sure His Majesty is just."
"Just?" Lord Oswin sneered. "How just did you think it when you were driven from your castle for a year, simply because some monk from Boarshead decided to defy the king?"
"Swineshead," Lady Gunnor piped up indignantly. "My brother is with the Cistercian order at Swineshead."
Lord Oswin's heavy brows drew together as he scowled at her. "What is the difference? The point is you were unjustly exiled through no fault of your own."
"Nay." Sir Hugh mopped his sweating brow, glancing about as if he expected to find the king's spies lurking beneath the rushes. "Our family had offended the king. But we don't mean to get ourselves exiled to the wilds of Ireland ever again. Neither Gunnor nor I will do or say anything to cause His Majesty displeasure."
Gunnor blushed, looking slightly ashamed of her husband's pronouncement.
"And do all the rest of you feel the same?" Lord Oswin leapt upon one of the stools, commanding the attention of the room. "Will you all bow and scrape yourselves into the ground, trying not to offend the king?"
"Step down, my lord," Jaufre said dryly. "The mummers provided enough entertainment."
"Nay, de Macy." Oswin straightened his tunic, puffing out his chest. "There are things that must be said. How much longer will we endure this tyranny, my friends? England was not always thus. There was a time, in our great-grandfathers' day, when men had liberties through the charter of good King Henry, laws to protect-the widowed and orphaned."
"Oh, God's feetl" Jaufre groaned. Whatever had possessed him to mention the Great Charter to a madman like Oswin? During t
he course of his visit, Oswin had talked of nothing else but the fabled document which he had never seen before. Like a fool, Jaufre had confessed to owning a copy. He had-played the good host, permitting the baron to read it, much to his present sorrow. Jaufre elbowed his way through the guests, who were spellbound by Oswin's rhetoric.
"I tell you, my friends, this charter holds the wisdom of the ages. Rights and liberties which would restore England to the glorious days of Henry the First, of Alfred the Great, of—of . . ."
"Of Camelot?" Melyssan breathed, her eyes shining.
Jaufre glared at her as he pulled Lord Oswin from the stool. "My lord, you have had too much wine. Be calm, lest you do yourself grave harm."
"What harm, sir? I am trying to help you and all these good folk. There is a movement afoot, even now, to bring back that charter, force King John to renew those pledges, insure our rights."
"There is only one way for a man to have rights in this world," Jaufre said, aware that Melyssan regarded him intently. "By this." He fingered the purse attached to his belt. "Or this." He unsheathed his sword.
He watched Melyssan's eyes cloud with disappointment, and a flush of anger surged up his neck. Would the woman never give over her notion that he was some sort of knight-errant, a champion who could right the wrongs of the world?
"The sword of the Dark Knight is well respected," Oswin said. "If you would but pledge it to the cause of the charter."
"My sword is already pledged to another cause. Tomorrow, I leave to join the king's army in London."
Silence descended over the hall at Jaufre's announcement. Lord Oswin scowled. "So you are determined to participate in that folly, the king's pathetic attempt to retake Normany, waste your money and men serving this tyrant?”
"That is correct." Jaufre slid his sword back into its sheath. "And I would take it as the greatest of courtesies if you would cease inciting my tenants to rebellion."
He turned a mocking eye upon Melyssan's brother. "Now, Whitney, are you still so eager to enter my service?"
Whitney paled. He swallowed hard, but when he replied his voice was steady. "Aye, my lord, I will follow wherever you command."