"I think he knew, Lyssa," Whitney had said at the time. "Somehow he knew he was not coming back." Angrily she had denied it, and her brother had said no more.
But now he surprised her by caressing her hand, an earnest look in his eyes. "Do not worry, Lyssa. My lord will return to claim that ring. I do not doubt he will come back to you, if there is any earthly way."
She gave him a grateful smile. As he turned to walk away, he emitted a brief laugh and looked back over his shoulder. "Mind you, I do not believe I will ever be able to like the man. But it helps somewhat knowing that he loves you."
Knowing that he loved her? How could Whitney profess to know such a thing when she did not even know it herself? She thought of the last time Jaufre had held her in his arms, the night before he'd left for France. His mask of indifference had melted before the blazing heat of his desire. The memory of that passionate loving had been all that warmed her over the past year. She'd begun to hope that perhaps when Jaufre returned . . .
She closed her eyes, murmuring a brief prayer. "Nay, dear Lord. He does not have to say he loves me. Only send him safely home."
The sun was at its zenith when the riders approached Winterbourne. Melyssan heard the guards on the walls heralding their arrival as they prepared to open the gates. Surely it was too soon for her brother and the patrol to be returning. She caught her breath in apprehension, fearful that it might be soldiers of the king, come to seize her daughter.
"Look lively there," Master Galvan bellowed to the other men. "Raise that portcullis. And someone go tell her ladyship Sir Tristan is returning."
Tristan! Her heart's pace increased to a wild hammering as she hurried to the courtyard, dread and hope warring within her breast. What news would he have of her husband? Why had the knight returned without Jaufre?
Pushing past the gathered servants, she made her way to the front of the line, watching as the great iron gate creaked upward. Her mind flew back to another day, so long ago, when she had stood waiting in the bailey, her hands shaking with trepidation, as Jaufre's great black warhorse galloped into the courtyard.
Wild cheering from the men on the walls snapped Melyssan back to the present. "My lord! My lord! Lord Jaufre's come home."
The horses stormed through the gate, became a thundering tangle of haunches and striking hooves as Melyssan's vision blurred. She stumbled forward, looking frantically for the familiar black destrier; but there was none. She saw Tristan dismount, followed by a knight who slid off the back of a sleek brown gelding. Blinking away the mist of her tears, she recognized the dark beard, the broad set of his shoulders.
"Jaufre!"
With a strangled cry, she flung herself against his dust-covered tunic. His arms closed around her, his lips crushing hers in a kiss that consumed her, so hard it was almost painful. Warmth sparked along her veins like a fire new kindled in an empty hearth, reality blending with the dreams of him that had tormented her through months of anxious waiting.
All too soon he eased her away from him, stepping back. She raised her eyes, her hungry gaze devouring his beloved features. His face was paler, leaner than she remembered, and strands of silver threaded here and there through his shaggy mane of midnight black.
What most disturbed her were his eyes. The rich brown pools that had once teemed with anger, pride, passion were so empty.
Trembling, she reached up to touch his face, her fingers grazing the rough beard. "My lord, you are not a dream? You are truly here?"
"Aye, my lady. I have come home." His voice sounded distant, inexpressibly weary.
Tristan, who had hung back discreetly, now stepped forward. "I do not wonder you should doubt his existence, my lady. From the look of him, you will think I have brought you a ghost. Why not give his beard a good tug and see how real he is?"
She waited, hoping Jaufre's lips would quirk into a smile as he flung a retort to Tristan's teasing. But the earl stared past them at the great white tower of the donjon as though the knight had not even spoken.
Sir Dreyfan rushed up and attempted a bow, but the doughty knight could not contain himself. He seized the unresponsive Jaufre in a bear hug, shouting his exuberance. "Hah! Welcome home, my lord. I told my lady you'd find some way to outwit those French poltroons."
Jaufre jerked himself free of the old knight's embrace. "Tristan bought my freedom with the ransom money. That is how I came to be freed, not through any cleverness of my own."
He grabbed his horse's bridle as though preparing to lead the animal to the stables himself.
"Get one of those lazy squires up here," Dreyfan bellowed. He craned his neck, appearing to seek someone among the ranks of men who had ridden in with Jaufre. "Where is that young fool Arric?"
The earl's jaw hardened. "Arric did not return with me."
Dreyfan's face fell. "Ah, it is a pity. He was a saucy young pup, but had the makings of a good knight for all that." His head bent in sorrow, he took charge of Jaufre's horse, leading the animal away.
Melyssan reached for Jaufre's hand, but he stiffened. "I am sorry, my lord," she said. "We heard no news of the boy. We all assumed Arric must have shared your captivity." She swallowed, remembering the lad's eager face that Christmas he had hung the mistletoe for her, boasting to Roland of the number of Frenchmen he would kill.
Roland! She had been so overwhelmed by Jaufre's arrival, she had forgotten to look for the young man. A quick glance told her he had not ridden into the courtyard. Although Tristan's eyes warned her not to trouble Jaufre with further questions, she could not forbear asking:
"And your son, my lord?"
"Roland remained in Paris," Jaufre said, his words coming slow and strained. "From what I heard, he has become quite a favorite at the French court. He saved the life of their king at Bouvines. The boy always admired Philip Augustus above any other man, so I suppose Roland is at last content."
"I shall miss him," Melyssan murmured, remembering the solemn look on the young man's face when he had sworn to be her champion forever.
Jaufre shrugged, his mouth set in a bitter line.
"Well!" Tristan clapped his hands together with false heartiness. "Let us not stand here in the yard all day. My lady, I trust, despite the Lenten fast, you can offer a starving man some morsel to eat."
"Aye." As they walked toward the donjon, she linked her arm through Jaufre's. Although he did not shake her off, his arm remained limp, offering her no encouragement. His gait, once so long and striding she had been hard put to keep pace with him, was now halting, hesitant.
The servants assembled to greet Jaufre fell back. Even they seemed to sense the changes in the earl, and their bright smiles of welcome vanished.
To cover Jaufre's unnerving silence, Melyssan began to chatter. "All has been well here at Winterbourne. The spring crops are sowed, the oats, beans, barley. And you cannot begin to imagine how happy we all are to be able to hear mass again. I had my churching in February at the Feast of Purification of the Virgin. Of course, since Jenny will be two this summer, it was a trifle late, but better late than never."
She paused, hoping he would make some inquiry after their daughter, but instead he froze outside the covered stairway leading inside the donjon. His face wore not the anticipation of a man about to see his home after a year's absence, but the bleak look of a prisoner being led to a narrow cell.
"I have no appetite. I believe I will walk down to the mews to see how my falcons have fared." He turned, waving her aside when she would have accompanied him. His falcons! And he had not even asked to see Jenny.
Melyssan bit her lip, watching until he was out of sight. She saw that Tristan had done the same, a troubled expression on his face.
"Tristan, what ails him? He is like a stranger. What dreadful things did they do to him in France? You do not think he was tortured?"
"No, my lady," Tristan said gently. "But you must understand. Because of losing the battle and being captured, his pride has suffered a terrible blow. And despite how muc
h he complained about it, I believe he is sick at heart that he did not retake Clairemont as he promised his grandfather."
He slipped an arm around her comfortingly. "Be patient with him, Melyssan. Time will restore to you the Jaufre you once knew. You must perforce wait a little longer."
"But I have waited so long already. Since I was nine years old!"
She fled inside the donjon, leaving Tristan with his brow knotted in a frown, puzzled over her parting words.
During the ensuing days, Melyssan felt as though Jaufre had not returned to Winterbourne. It was his ghost that slunk along the curving stairs, a silent shadow that shrank from the company of other men. He spent many hours pacing the castle walls until Melyssan thought he must collapse from exhaustion.
Her bed remained as empty as when he had been a prisoner in France. It was worse now, having him close enough to touch yet seeing no answering spark of desire in his eyes. She oft stepped out of her way, stumbled, just to brush up against him. He never seemed to see her, any more than he did Jenny. Although the child was never forthcoming with those unfamiliar to her, she had conceived a positive fascination for the tall, quiet stranger who was her father. She toddled after him at every available opportunity.
Storm clouds hovered over Winterbourne the Sunday after Jaufre's arrival. The rumble of thunder and gray sheets of rain did little to raise Melyssan's depressed spirits. She arranged a special mass to be said in the chapel, celebrating the earl's safe return. But Jaufre startled everyone by refusing to attend.
"I fear, after all those years of the interdict, I have little stomach for this sort of ceremony," he said. "The rest of you may go pray and bless yourselves, just as you wish."
"But my lord," Father Andrew faltered. "Do I understand you to say that you never mean to attend mass?"
"Aye, you've a keen understanding, Father."
The priest regarded Jaufre sternly. "You cannot have thought this matter through, my lord. Regardless of your personal feelings, you must be aware that you set the tone for the rest of the household. Your knights look to you for spiritual example."
"I provide an example for no man," Jaufre said. "Let them find their own road to hell."
He retreated to the solar, as oblivious to Father Andrew's shocked disapproval as he was to Melyssan's beseeching look.
She feared the storm would not keep him from his endless tread along the battlements, but later that afternoon, when she adjourned to the solar, she found him there, staring out the croslet at the drenching rain. Tristan and Whitney sat playing checkers at the trestle table. But from the remote expression on Jaufre's face, he might well have been alone.
Melyssan gathered up her needlework, pulling her stool as near to Jaufre as she dared without disturbing him. Her stitching lay idle in her lap while she stole glances at Jaufre's silent profile. She noticed that Tristan and Whitney did the same. Every few minutes, Jaufre would take a restless turn about the room as if the walls constricted him.
The tension grew so heavy even the snap of the logs on the fire resounded through the quiet room like cracks of lightning. Tristan cleared his throat. "I heard that whilst on patrol, you met some of Sir Hugh's men out hunting yesterday," he said to Whitney.
"Aye." Whitney shoved one of his red pieces forward. "They had some black tidings to pass along. The king . . ." He paused to look at Melyssan. "Perhaps I should tell you later."
"Do not hold back on my account," she said. "I do not believe there is anything more the king could do which would shock me."
She gazed up at her husband, wondering if in his present frame of mind he would be distressed by more tales of the king. John was a subject Jaufre had avoided since his return. But he continued to stare out the window, his face expressionless.
Oh, my love, she longed to call to him. You are no longer in a French prison. Forget those terrible days, and the lost war. Come back to me, Jaufre. Come back.
Whitney jumped one of Tristan's checkers, then, as though unable to keep still, went on with his story. "Sir Hugh's huntsman said the king hanged three knights from Bristol last week. No warning, no trial, no reason! Except perhaps the king coveted the wife of one."
Melyssan shuddered. "Poor woman."
"Such tales are so commonplace these days," said Tristan. "I think the king's temper has grown worse since his failure in France."
"We would not have to be at the mercy of the king's temper if we had the Great Charter." Whitney nearly knocked the checkerboard to the floor in his vehemence. "They say Fitzwalter's army means to march on London soon. I loathe fighting, but by God, I wish I were with them. If it ever pleased my lord to join the rebellion, I would follow him willingly."
"Well, it does not please my lord." Jaufre's deep voice caused Melyssan to jump. He spun around, looking like a man who had just been startled awake. "I have no intention of being involved in a skirmish which is none of my affair."
"None of your affair?" Whitney croaked. "People robbed of their lands, wrongfully slain, even women and children such as Matilda de Briouse and her son—"
"These people are nothing to me. I shall consider myself fortunate to protect what is my own from the king. Others must do the same."
Tristan's mouth opened as if to speak and then closed it. But Melyssan could no longer remain silent. "My lord, I thought as a knight, you are pledged to defend the weak and helpless.” She faltered, her eyes flicking to the mural, where Sir Lancelot charged, his lance aimed at a black-armored knight. "Not everyone is as strong, as invincible, as you are, Jaufre."
He followed the direction of her gaze, and Melyssan saw a flash of anger return to the eyes.
"Invincible?" He gave a mirthless laugh. "Aye, so invincible I rode to Paris chained to an ox cart like one of those pathetic bears dragged from town to town, performing for the rabble."
Melyssan felt the color drain from her cheeks. "Oh, Jaufre. I am so sorry. I—I never imagined . . ."
"What did you think? That I pranced along the streets like some sort of conqueror? Nay, my dear, defeated knights are treated like the cattle they are."
When she rose, stepping toward him, he held up one hand to ward her off. "Stay where you are. I do not need your pity." He shifted his gaze to glare at Tristan and Whitney. "Any more than I need to hear this endless blathering about that charter. Christ's blood! The talk has been of nothing else since I set foot on English soil. I don't intend to risk my life, or imprisonment, for a worthless scrap of paper."
He strode out of the solar, slamming the door behind him.
Melyssan turned slowly, her eyes locking with Tristan's. The knight lowered his head, no longer able to give her the reassurance she sought.
She tried to stifle the surge of disappointment that welled inside her. Jaufre was home and safe. She should be grateful. What more did she expect? She had always known that her husband had abandoned the ideals of his youth.
But she sensed he had abandoned other things as well. Somewhere at Bouvines or in the dungeon in Paris, he had left behind the aura of strength and confidence that had once emanated from him. His confidence had enveloped her like a warm mantle, making her safe and secure. Jaufre was home, but she still felt afraid.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The rains passed. By the next afternoon the sun broke through, the clouds, burning away all traces of the storm. Jaufre watched as the servants erected a silk tent behind the apple tree in the garden. They dragged a large tub inside, carting buckets of water to fill the wooden vessel. Then he dismissed the servants, refusing all help with disrobing for his bath.
Alone, he removed his boots, mud-caked from a morning of tromping across the fields to settle a dispute between two of his tenants over a parcel of land. He stripped off his sword belt and sweat-stained surcoat. It was unusually warm for this early in spring. Breathing in the scent of the apple blossoms, he lifted his eyes to the tiny white petals fluttering from the tree. Above him loomed the great donjon, the sun glinting off the white arcading the maso
ns had sculpted with such care nigh sixty years ago. Winterbourne was as ever unchanged. Why did it seem so foreign to him?
Perhaps because he had changed. He no longer felt worthy to be the master of these lands, not worthy to be the grandson of Comte Raoul de Macy of Clairemont. He had failed to keep his oath, returned home beaten. A knight who had lost his shield, his sword, his horse and his honor. He had crept back into England, a year of his life wasted languishing in a French fortress.
He could not complain he had been ill-treated while a prisoner. The food had been adequate, his cot comfortable, the chamber large enough to walk about. But his sleep had been tormented with dreams of Lyssa with her honey-brown hair and green eyes. Longing for her became an unbearable ache, his desire a fiery torture worse than if they had racked his body over live coals.
And now that he was back, he could hardly bear for her to look at him. Had he seen disappointment lurking in her eyes at having her husband return skulking back home like some vagabond? She, who had always cherished such a shining vision of him, Sir Lancelot.
Jaufre snorted. She must learn sooner or later he was nothing but an ordinary man. There was no way he could live up to the chivalric fantasies she harbored. He even doubted his strength to hold what was his, defend his wife and daughter from a tyrant's madness. What would King John do when he discovered the earl who had defied him in France was still very much alive and back in England? Perhaps he should send Lyssa and Jenny away and hide them.
He shucked off his tunic and shirt until he stood clad only in his woolen breeches. Trailing his fingers through the chill water, he shuddered. How much would it take to cleanse himself of the shame of his failure?
A movement outside the tent caught his eye. He whistled low, half expecting it to be one of the greyhounds. A pair of dark curls appeared at the tent opening, followed by wide brown eyes that peered at him.