Winterbourne
Jaufre prodded his black stallion forward, making one last effort to reason with the king.
"If Your Majesty does not feel it prudent to confront Prince Louis, then at least let us ride to find the rest of the English army under the earl of Salisbury. He will be joining soon with Otto of Germany and the rest of your allies."
"Nay, we must to Rochelle." The king's eyes fixed upon the road ahead, a glazed look in them. "There we will be safe. We will wait, send messengers. More of my English barons must come."
"No more help is coming." Jaufre resisted the urge to grab the king's bridle and slap some sense into the man. "Your Majesty, my grandfather died, drained his life out, helping you to assemble this coalition against France. Will you now turn your back on your last chance to win what was yours?"
"Curse you to hell, de Macy. I turn my back on nothing. I say we go to La Rochelle. We wait. Any who refuse to obey my commands are as much my enemies as the French." John spurred his tired horse into a run, his stumpy frame seeming to shrink into the saddle as he rode away.
Jaufre held back his own mount, allowing the king's men to gallop around him. So the moment had come. His temporary alliance with the king was at an end. He rode back to his followers and signaled a halt. After giving the order to his knights that they were turning around, he sought out Whitney.
The young man had refused to be carried on a litter and now sat perched, tight-lipped and precarious, on his saddle. Jaufre saw that he was going to have to impart secret instructions to one of the squires to see that the fool got safely home.
"You and your men stay with the king," he told Whitney. "I am taking a small group of my knights and riding to join up with Salisbury."
"But I thought the king's orders were that none of us were to leave him."
"I came here to accomplish one thing, and I cannot go back to England until I have or I am—" He broke off and then added, "You return to Winterbourne. Warn Tristan the king's anger may be directed against me. Tell Lyssa . . ."
Tell Lyssa what? All the things he had never been able to say when he held her in his arms. Did he now think he could consign such a tender message to the care of her hostile brother? Jaufre stripped off his leather gauntlet and removed his seal ring—the same ring he had claimed from Melyssan so long ago.
"Give this to Lyssa," he said hoarsely, thrusting the ring at Whitney. The young man's lips parted in surprise. Jaufre could feel Whitney studying his face, although he knew not how much of his emotions were written there for all to see. "Tell her I want her to have it, keep it safe for me if—when I return."
He pushed the ring into Whitney's hand without giving him a chance to reply. As he was riding away, he heard Whitney call his name. He turned, but Whitney did not, presenting Jaufre with the rigid line of his back. The earl was about to slap down on the reins when Whitney's words came to him like an echo borne on the wind.
"Good fortune attend you, my lord, and—Godspeed."
It was near noon on July 27, 1214. The sun broiled down upon Jaufre's back, scorching through his blue tunic to the links of the chain-mail hauberk beneath. The heat penetrated the final protective layer of his thick-quilted gambeson, bathing his body in sweat. He wiped at the beads of perspiration dotting his beard and stared longingly at the sparkling blue thread that was the river Marque.
But between him and that river, along the grassy slopes, stood the king of France himself. Philip Augustus was mounted upon a white charger amidst a sea of men, a mighty army of foot soldiers brandishing spears, tall warriors restraining their restive steeds, their bright-colored pennons hanging limp, without so much as a breath of air to unfurl them. By dusk, the river's sparkle would be dulled with the red of blood. Even now a column of black smoke stained the bright azure sky as the French burned the only bridge. Philip Augustus was taking no chances on his soldiers fleeing back to Paris. They would stand or die.
And the coalition army? Jaufre glanced around at the odd assortment of men by whose side he would fight. Germans, Flemish, and Dutch; contingents from Boulogne and Brabant; and English like himself led by the king's half brother, William of Salisibury. A shaky network of alliances soon to face the ultimate test.
Roland pressed his horse forward until it brushed against the flanks of Jaufre's black stallion. The earl watched as his son anxiously smoothed out the two-headed swans gracing the front of his golden tunic. The boy stubbornly clung to the heraldic device of Clairemont that had been on the medallion Jaufre had confiscated from him. For the first time, the earl noticed his son's shoulders appeared to have grown broader, the arms longer, more sinewy than he recalled. Roland checked the belt holding his sword as if to assure himself it was still there before raising his eyes to meet his father's.
Jaufre detected no fear in his son's eyes, only a certain reluctance. "The other nobles seem not so keen for this battle, my lord. I think if the mercenary Hugh of Bove had not shamed them, we would all have fled again as John Softs—I mean, King John—did a month ago.”
Jaufre hesitated a moment, then said, "I will not lie to you, boy. They have reason to be afraid. This will be different from sieging a castle. Many more will die."
Roland squinted into the sun as he studied the lines of men, most of them silent, waiting for the signal that would begin the fray. "I think I have never seen such a large host. There must be—what think you—some twenty, twenty-five thousand? And the weapons! What are those ugly things the Germans carry?"
Jaufre followed his pointing finger to the troops of stalwart men flocked in the center of the coalition line, gathered under the insignia of the dragon and eagle.
"Those are halberds fitted with hooks. The infantry use them to drag the knights from their horses."
"A most unchivalrous sort of weapon, surely."
"Forget your notions of chivalry, boy. They will not apply today. There is something savage about a melee like this. All codes of honor and courtesy get set aside in favor of survival. Nobles, even kings will be fair sport."
Roland's eyes turned anxiously toward the middle of the French line, where could be discerned the royal banner with the golden fleur-de-lis. Philip's white charger was now hemmed in by a bodyguard of French chevaliers.
"By God, at least they have a king of courage." Roland sighed. He passed his tongue over his lips before risking a quick glance at Jaufre. "My lord, you have been generous to me, and though I never said so, I am grateful. I will serve you as best as I am able, but I would be less than honest if I did not tell you." He looked wistfully across the field at the French army with Philip Augustus in their midst. "My heart is not in this.”
Jaufre, too, stared at the French army. He thought of England, of the white towers of Winterbourne set against the backdrop of the craggy Welsh hills, of Jenny with her dusky curls, of Melyssan with her soft smile and gentle touch. He weighed all that against Clairemont, a pile of rocks about which he no longer gave a damn.
"Forgive me, Grandfather," he murmured. "But neither is my heart in this. Neither is mine."
At that instant a shout arose from the right flank as the French army made their move, a cavalry assault against the Flemish light horse. Jaufre's squire handed him his kettle helmet, which he donned. He then took up his heart-shaped shield. The earl's standard-bearer rode forward, shaking out the folds of Jaufre's blue banner with its gold falcon crest. Unsheathing his sword and waving it aloft, the earl plunged himself and his men into a blinding world of dust and naked steel.
As from a great distance, he heard the thunder of hooves and braced himself for the shock of the first blow struck upon his shield. Through the narrow slit of his visor, he saw a helmet pointed like the beak of a large metal bird. His sword sliced down, clubbing his adversary from off his horse. After that his opponents came and went in sprays of dirt from the parched ground, one faceless mask of armor succeeding another.
The sun climbed higher in the sky, beating down upon the top of his helm until it became an effort of will to draw breath.
He pulled back from the melee to blink the grit from his eyes, trying to make some sense of the way the battle was going, but was swept toward the center of the hollow. The German footmen rushed forward like a solid battering ram, smashing their way through the French infantry. For a moment the line held; then it scattered, leaving a clear path to the tall man on the white horse. The next instant one of the Germans had hooked the French monarch and dragged him out of the saddle. Even above the din of shrieking horses and shouting men, Jaufre heard the cry.
"No!"
Roland's horse plunged forward, his shield deflecting the pike before it pierced Philip's back. To his horror, Jaufre watched as the French men-at-arms closed around his son, reforming to protect their fallen king. As Jaufre struggled toward Roland, three French chevaliers beat him back. He cried out as a sword blade skimmed the side of his calf. Hammering a blow that dented his opponent's helmet, Jaufre sent the middle knight reeling to the ground. The other two were knocked aside as a blood-smeared horse plunged against their mounts and collapsed. The animal's legs pawed the air, and the creature emitted a death cry before the long neck sank down, the head falling still. Jaufre stared down at the sapphire-studded caparison he had presented his son at Christmas. With a savage cry, he flung himself at the nearest enemy, dealing death on all sides.
The sun trailed lower across the sky, and the fighting grew fiercer still. Jaufre's black stallion jerked, screaming as the quarrel from a crossbow penetrated its eye. The horse reared violently, flinging Jaufre from its back before bolting into the crowd. The earl's body slammed into dry earth now slick with blood. He felt as if his lungs were crushed as the air whooshed out of him. His men-at-arms gathered around him, buying him time to recover and get to his feet.
The press was so great, Jaufre could scarce find room to swing his sword. Arric fought his way forward, bringing the earl a fresh horse. When he remounted, he realized their ranks were thinning. The Flemish had fled early in the battle. Now his horse stumbled over remnants of the dragon and eagle standard as the Germans and men of Brabant deserted the field.
The sun was setting, and few but the English fought on. The earl of Salisbury galloped up to Jaufre, his voice cracking as he shouted, "The day is lost, de Macy. Save yourself while there is still time."
Jaufre's reply died on his lips. Salisbury fell, his head bludgeoned by a heavy club. Whirling his horse around, Jaufre tried to round up what remained of his men-at-arms and signal retreat. As he thundered through the hollow, his weary arm still laying about him, a bloodstained patch of gold caught his eye. A badge of two swans streaked with red writhed along on the ground. Roland. His son was still alive.
Jaufre dug in his knees, preparing to lunge forward. An infantryman leapt in his path, stabbing his spear into Jaufre's sword arm. Cursing, the earl dropped his weapon, losing control of his horse. For the second time that day, he tumbled to the hard ground, his helmet flying loose from his shoulders.
Groaning, he rolled over. Arric raced to bring him another sword, but the young man was ridden down from behind. An axe sliced through the air, cleaving his skull in twain.
Jaufre averted his gaze, and began crawling toward his son. Pain-glazed eyes regarded him through the visor slits. Jaufre eased the helmet from Roland's head.
"What are you doing?" the boy gasped. "Could still get away. Save yourself."
"Think you I would leave my son as carrion for these vultures? Be quiet. Save your strength." He hooked his good arm under Roland's shoulders, attempting to drag the boy to his feet. But when he raised his head, he found himself staring straight into the steel tip of a sword's blade.
Night had fallen. They were prisoners of the French.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Melyssan passed the cup of horehound and honey to her daughter's clamped lips. "Come, Jenny. Open up and take one tiny sip for Mother. It will make your throat feel ever so much better."
Large brown eyes flashed in the small round face before Genevieve screamed out the one word she could pronounce to perfection. "Nay!" Her chubby hand shot out and dashed the cup from Melyssan's hand.
"Genevieve!" Melyssan took a deep breath to curtail her exasperation and retrieved the cup from where it had rolled under the stool by the hearthside. As she refilled it, she called out to Jenny's nurse, "You shall have to hold her down again, Canice, while I force her to drink it."
Canice grimaced, shoving the large flowing sleeves of her kirtle above her elbow before tipping Jenny over backward. The child howled lustily, her plump feet flailing the air. She writhed and spluttered, choking on the medicine, flinging half of it over Canice before the cup was empty. Her cries of outrage did not stop then or with her release. Flinging herself facedown into the rushes, she pounded the floor with her tiny fists. Melyssan cast a despairing eye at the nurse.
"Heaven defend us, my lady," Canice said. "The girl has the strength of ten demons, and her not quite two. I must go change again, and I am running short of gowns."
With a disgusted shake of her head, Canice quit the room, leaving Melyssan to cope with her daughter's tantrum. Only when Jenny had exhausted her fury did she permit Melyssan to raise her from the floor. Melyssan perched on the edge of her bed, cuddling her small daughter, who hiccuped her remaining sobs into her mother's bosom.
"Jenny, Jenny," she crooned, rocking the child to and fro. "It will never do. You are a lady, my love, and a very little one at that. You were never meant to possess a temper the size of your father's. What shall my lord say to you when he returns?
"And he will return," she whispered fiercely as she buried her face against the dusky tangle of baby-soft curls. "He will." She fought the urge to join Jenny's bout of weeping. It was a temptation she had succumbed to far too often since the news had reached last summer.
She had been hearing mass with the rest of the castle household. The messenger had burst into the chapel just as Father Andrew had raised the Eucharist aloft.
"Lady Melyssan. God forgive me for disturbing you thus," the servant had gasped. "But there has been a terrible battle at Bouvines. I fear Lord Jaufre and his son were captured by the French.
Tristan's strong arm saved Melyssan from sinking to the chapel floor, his calm words of reassurance all that sustained her. "It is not as dreadful as it sounds, my lady. Jaufre is a noble-man. He will be treated well. Meantime, we must summon the earl's tenants, collect money to meet the ransom Philip will demand."
But September fled, and no ransom demand came. Word reached Winterbourne of a truce with France. The other English captives were released, but not Jaufre. King John sailed home with the armada in October. Whitney and the earl's surviving men-at-arms returned home. Still no Jaufre.
Some said the king had left him a prisoner in France out of spite. Some said the earl had died in captivity. She received several messages from John to that effect, demanding payment of death duties in impossible amounts, threatening to make Jenny his ward, snatch her away from Melyssan. All that saved her daughter was the outbreak of rebellion amongst the northern barons. Led by one Robert Fitzwalter, they named themselves the Army of God and called for a return to the days of the Charter, the restoration of justice to England. Melyssan hoped Fitzwalter's army might succeed or at least buy her and Jenny enough time until Jaufre returned.
She prayed and waited. Long winter days, nights of cold, black despair, and still no word of Jaufre. Melyssan had huddled alone in the great bed, clutching his pillow in her arms, the terrifying thought creeping unbidden into her mind: This is what it would be like to be a widow, a numbing round of endless hours broken by sharp, painful stabs of remembrance.
"Nay." Melyssan shook aside the gloom-filled memories, hugging her daughter so tightly that Jenny squeaked a protest. "We won't think of those things anymore. It is spring now, a season of new hope. The buds are beginning to show on the trees, the lambs will soon be born. And Tristan has taken all the pretty silver we collected and gone searching for my lord."
She wiped away th
e last traces of moisture from Jenny's round cheeks. "Sir Tristan will bring Father home very soon. So you must be a good girl, my love."
With one of those charming reversals of mood that was so typical of Jenny, the child's lips parted in a sunny smile before puckering up to proffer her mother a kiss.
Melyssan hugged the child again before consigning her to the care of her nurse, instructing Canice to see that the little girl was kept warm and rested, knowing even as she gave them that the orders were impossible to carry out.
Before descending to the great hall, Melyssan had to spend several minutes trying to discover what Jenny had done with her cane. It was a favorite plaything of the child's whenever she could get her hands on it. This time she found it tangled up amongst the bed linens.
Below, the household hummed with activity preparing for the feast at Easter. All the sacrifices of Lent would be set behind them, and Jaufre's tenants would expect a well-laden table in exchange for their gifts of eggs. Melyssan had no heart for the holiday rejoicing, but she was determined nothing should seem any different while Jaufre was away. She would have no one, not even the lowliest menial at Winterbourne, believing he was dead.
She passed her brother in the great hall. He was munching on a roll, readying himself to ride out with the men-at-arms on the morning's patrol over the earl's lands. By Tristan's orders, they had increased their vigilance because of the growing unrest that had engulfed the country since King John's failure in France.
"Good morrow, sister," Whitney said. "Have you emerged victorious in your latest skirmish with my niece?"
Melyssan wrinkled her brow in dismay. "Surely her screams could not be heard all the way down here."
"Nay, but you bear the scars of battle." He pointed to a spattering of honey across the bodice of her gown.
She dabbed at the stains with her kerchief, pushing aside Jaufre's ring, which hung from a chain about her neck. She paused, allowing its weight to brush against her hand. Wherever she turned, she was haunted with memories of her long-absent husband. How many times had she made Whitney rehearse the tale of how Jaufre had sent the ring to her, how he had looked, what he had said..