It was a sennight after their quarrel in the garden that the messenger arrived. A nobleman from court, Nelda whispered in Melyssan's ear, so scented with lavender and bedecked with gemstones he more resembled a lady's jewel chest than a man.
Her heart pounding with dread, Melyssan slipped down the stairs to the great hall, pausing in the shadows to listen. The short, blond courtier stood facing Jaufre, who slouched in his high-backed chair, propping one foot on the trestle table, his expression inscrutable as he listened.
“The number of rebels grows each day. His Majesty was pleased to hear of your safe return, but of course, his first concern is for the security of his realm. It is not unusual for the king to request hostages in these instances. Already he has many from the noblest families in England."
Hostages? Melyssan gripped the top of her cane.
The man continued, nervously rubbing his hands. "She would be well cared for. The king swears no harm would ever come to her."
Melyssan's hand flew to her throat. She looked to Jaufre for his reaction. He cocked one skeptical eyebrow at the nobleman.
"And she would receive many privileges as the daughter of such an eminent lord as yourself. It would actually be of benefit to her to be raised at court."
Daughter! Dear God, they were speaking of Jenny. Melyssan stifled her urge to cry out and, beg Jaufre to get rid of this stranger who had come to steal away their child.
But all the earl said was "Aye, it is well known how John treats those placed in his care."
How could Jaufre sit there so calmly and bandy words with this knave? He could not be considering this vile proposal.
She clenched her fists. No one was going to take her child. They would have to kill her first. She whirled around, falling and cracking her knee against the worn stonework of the stairs. Ignoring the shooting pain, she scrambled to her feet again.
She burst into Jenny's chamber, startling Canice, who was smoothing the child's shirt over her head. Melyssan snatched Jenny away from the astonished nurse, carrying the little girl to her own bedchamber.
"Nay," Jenny said, her brow puckering into a frown as she fought against being held so tightly. When she could not procure a release, she began to cry.
"Hush, love, hush," Melyssan said as they reached the safety of her room. Safe? Where was safe? Where could she hide her daughter to protect her from the king? Jenny kicked, trying to get away.
"Nay, sweetheart, don't. Mother must hide you. There is a bad man who is coming to take you away."
She was not sure how much Jenny understood, or if her own panic communicated itself to the child, but Jenny began to howl with fright.
The door to the room swung open. Jaufre's tall frame loomed across the threshold. He stared at the child clasped in her arms, his eyes cold. Melyssan backed away, her hand tangled in Jenny's curling hair, pressing the child to her breast.
"So it was you on the stairs," he said. "You heard what we spoke of?"
"Aye, I did. But I tell you no one, not God himself, could persuade me to surrender my child to that monster."
He stepped closer, his breath coming out in a furious hiss. "Damn you! You think I would? 'Fore God, Lyssa, is that what you think of me?"
She winced at the raw pain that crossed his face. "I am sorry, my lord. But when I heard that man, I was so afraid."
"Put the child down, Lyssa," he said more gently. "No one is going to take her. You are frightening her half to death."
Reluctantly, she set Jenny on her feet. Her heart ached when she saw how the little girl ran from her, seeking the shelter of her father's arms.
He scooped her up and deposited a kiss upon the tip of her nose. "There now, little one. Don't cry. There is no bad man. Father has already sent him away."
"He'll be back with soldiers," Melyssan whispered. "You cannot refuse the king and go unpunished. Matilda de Briouse-" Her voice choked off at the horrible memory.
"I will deal with the king," he said as Jenny curled her arms around his neck, burying her face against his shoulder.
A sharp pang of envy pierced Melyssan. She wished that she, too, was still capable of finding strength in Jaufre's arms. "How will you deal with him?" she cried. "How? What will you give him this time?"
"That is not your concern, madam." He turned and strode out of the room. She heard the sound of heavy boots trampling up the steps.
"Jaufre, I heard the news." Tristan's breathless voice carried to her. "You are going to London. This time you shall not leave me behind."
It took little time for the earl to ready himself to leave. Melyssan lingered outside their bedchamber as he packed, leaning against the cool stone of the oriel. So soon he was going away again. She felt too drained for tears. Was he taking with him the large silver chest? Jaufre, who believed money could buy anything. Perhaps he was right.
When he emerged from the chamber he paused, staring at her so hard she wondered if he were trying to memorize her face. He said, "I hate to leave you thus alone with no proper person to command the garrison. Dreyfan grows old.”
She thrust out her chin. "You forget, my brother is here." Jaufre said nothing, the wry twist of his mouth expressing what he felt on that score.
"In any case, you will not be gone long. I would imagine it will not take much time to see the king and buy his goodwill." The words all but stuck in her throat.
"Aye." He lowered his gaze. "Fare you well, then, my lady."
She thought he meant to brush past her without touching when he whirled about and caught her up in his arms. With a muffled sob, she melted in his embrace, her lips clinging to his, until he had to thrust her away. His eyes gleamed strangely as he brushed the hair back from her brow.
"Lyssa, I love you." He kissed her fiercely one last time and was gone.
She thought of following him down to the courtyard, but her knees felt so weak. She staggered back into the bedchamber and closed the door, his parting words echoing in her ears. Her dazed senses tried to absorb the meaning of them.
She had waited so long. Why should he fling those words at her now? She almost did not believe she had heard them. As she made her way to the bed, she stumbled over a trunk. Jaufre's small chest. Had he meant to take it with him and forgot? She thought of hastening after him, but it was only the trunk of his manuscripts. He had no need of those on his journey to placate the king.
The lid was half-open. She bent down to close it, but a piece of parchment blocked the hinge. She threw the chest open to rearrange the contents. Something about the manuscript on top caught her eye. It was not illuminated as the others were. The yellow parchment crinkled, proclaiming its great age, as if it were likely to crumple apart in her hands.
Her heart thudded as she focused on one of the words: This is the Charter of Henry I by means of which the barons sought their liberties.
Was this what Jaufre had studied so intently for the past week? The paper nearly dropped from her grasp. As she clutched at the document something that had been rolled inside fell to the floor. She bent to retrieve it.
A child's garment. Her own linen sleeve! Melyssan's eyes misted over with a mixture of fear and pride. Jaufre was not going to placate the king this time. He rode to join the rebellion.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The local villagers called the meadow Runnymeade. Its verdant pastures stretched down to be lapped by the waters of the Thames, halfway between the king's mighty fortress at Windsor and the rebel stronghold now based in London. Jaufre stared across the expanse of greenery at the distant billowing silk. The canopy formed the king's tents set beneath the brilliant azure of the June sky.
"Your sword, m'lord." His squire handed him the length of gleaming steel. Jaufre slid the weapon into its sheath as Lord Oswin emerged from his tent, likewise armed, with two daggers buckled to his belt besides.
He stretched his long arms overhead and yawned before lapsing into a complacent smile behind his bristling mustache. "Good morrow, Lord Jaufre. This is the day, t
he end to our long struggle against tyranny."
Jaufre merely shot him a skeptical glance. Tristan strode up to join them. After greeting Lord Oswin, the knight looked Jaufre over and frowned.
"Did you not sleep again last night, Jaufre? You look exhausted."
"I am, but not from lack of sleep. I am tired of this whole business."
"I am sure that today will see the end of it," Tristan said quietly. "The king will approve the new charter. Then we may all return to Winterbourne in peace."
Jaufre compressed his lips. Could Tristan truly be as naive as the rest of these fools, believing that King John's seal on a piece of paper would put an end to hostilities and grudges conceived over a lifetime?
"Aye, we will give each other the kiss of concord and clasp hands." Jaufre sneered, flicking his fingers against Tristan's own sword. "We are all wearing these merely for adornment."
Tristan's face flushed, but before he could speak, Lord Oswin chimed in, "Better safe than dead, m'lord. That's my motto. We're encamped less than a mile from the king's own followers. What few he has left, that is."
"Ah, but you do concede that the king is capable of sealing that worthless charter with one hand while signaling for an ambush with the other?"
Sir Oswin was saved from answering as the leader of the rebel army, Robert Fitzwalter, raised his banner, indicating they were to start their march across the field toward John's encampment. The knights surged forward, trampling the tiny yellow buttercups beneath their booted feet. Runnymeade blazed with a dashing array of silken tunics marked with the heraldic symbols of many of the most powerful houses in England.
As they joined the ranks of the other barons and nobles, Tristan fell into step beside Jaufre. "So tell me, my lord, if you feel this is all a waste of time, why did you come? You could have approached the king, bribed him with silver again. Friends are a scarce commodity for him these days. He probably would have forgot the past, received you with open arms."
Jaufre's lips twisted into a wry smile. "Ah, but I am on a quest, my friend."
"A quest?"
"To please a lady," the earl said lightly, then lengthened his stride to escape Tristan's discomfiting stare. Faith, but his friend asked the damnedest questions. Jaufre was not sure himself why he had gotten mixed up in this business, though he greatly feared it had too much to do with a wistful pair of green eyes that clouded with disappointment when he cynically pricked her visions of himself as some noble knight fighting for chivalric ideals. What was he trying to prove? That he could resurrect her shining Sir Lancelot for her? Bring back to life some part of him that had died long ago?
He still tasted their parting kiss on his lips, heard his own unbelievable words echoing on the wind. "Lyssa, I love you." How could he, who did not believe in such an emotion, have ever said such a thing? Was it not as amusing as the position he was in now, a man of no faith marching behind a rebel leader who styled himself "the Marshal of God"? Jaufre threw back his head and laughed.
At that moment, he caught up to Fitzwalter who said, "I am glad to see you in such spirits, my lord. Is this not a glorious day, an important day, whose fame will ring throughout the ages?"
"Aye, so it is," Jaufre said, a smile quivering upon his lips. "It is the second anniversary of my daughter's birth." With that he trudged forward, leaving Fitzwalter's jaw hanging in astonishment.
When they reached the royal tent, the king was prepared for them. He sat behind a small table, surrounded by those few nobles who had remained loyal to his cause. His costly satin robes did little to disguise his expanding waistline. The golden crown looked as if it weighed down the graying head. He sparkled with gemstones beringing his fingers, festooning his neck, as if he had worn every jewel he owned to enhance the stature he lacked.
His smile glittered when he greeted the rebel barons in turn by name. Jaufre eyed the king warily as John wrung his hand with false heartiness.
"Ah, my lord Jaufre. I am glad to see you took no ill effects from your sojourn in France. And how was your daughter when you last saw her? My messenger reports she is a taking little thing, pretty and straight of limb, nothing like her mother."
Jaufre withdrew his hand, his jaw clenching. He thought John's smile a shade too wolfish as the king settled himself behind the table once more. John stared down at the document spread out before him, his jeweled fingers drumming nervously.
"Well, then, shall we make an end-- I mean, shall we commence the proceedings?"
One of the king's clerics stepped forward and began reading aloud the articles of the agreement that had been reached after a week of endless haggling.
"John, by Grace of God, King of England by Divine intuition and the salvation of our soul our present Charter, confirmed on behalf of ourselves and our heirs forever . . ."
As Jaufre listened to the king's affirmation of the ancient laws of their land, something stirred inside him.
"The English Church shall be free, liberties unimpaired. . . . To no one will we sell, deny, or delay right of justice. . . . No free man shall be taken, imprisoned, or exiled except by legal judgment of his peers . . . no fines to financially ruin a man, not even the lowliest serf . . .the restoration of all hostages, lands, castles wrongfully dispossessed . . ."
Laws and ancient liberties, confirmed and set down for all time in that fragile parchment lying beneath the king's hand. John's eyes roved over the barons, settling upon their swords. Grudgingly he reached for his seal.
For a moment, Jaufre forgot he had joined the rebellion to restore himself in Melyssan's eyes. He almost believed in the power of the Great Charter, almost believed that he had participated in an undertaking that was something fine and noble, that would outlive this day and the tyrant king himself, live as long as the old rolling Thames, whose bright waters he could see sparkling through the opening in the tent.
Jaufre's eyes locked on the king's face, and his brief moment of hope vanished. For one instant John dropped his mask of good cheer. His wide-set eyes darkened with hate, studying the face of every rebel present, coming to rest upon Jaufre and encompassing him in their stygian blackness. Then John smiled.
"We will all ride back to Winterbourne in peace." Jaufre mimicked Tristan's voice five months later as his boots crunched against the cobbled pavement of London's streets. He hugged his sable-lined mantle tight against his body to shut out the chill November fog.
"You could well have done so," Tristan said, blowing against the raw red skin of his exposed hands. "No one constrained you to become involved with the committee of twenty-five."
"Did you truly expect John to uphold that damned charter without some body of men to compel him?" Jaufre snorted. "I might have known it would come down to a question of force in the end. I only hope Melyssan will be satisfied by the effects of this charming little crusade. I wish her much joy of her empty bed this winter."
Tristan grimaced. "More joy than I've had sharing a pallet with you. The way you toss and groan of nights, I think you need a cold plunge in the Thames."
Jaufre glared at him as they mounted the creaking wooden stairs leading to the house of the wealthy merchant whose hospitality they shared during their enforced stay in London. As they passed into the hall, the merchant's wife greeted them with sour looks. The rebel army had been hailed with great enthusiasm when it first marched into London, but now no one was pleased with the Great Charter.
The merchants were dissatisfied because the charter did not place restraints upon foreigners importing goods. The more radical northern rebels felt John had not conceded enough and were already busily devastating royal manors and forests. The king had only waited until the end of summer before reverting to his customary behavior. Even now he was importing mercenaries from overseas and laying siege to Rochester Castle, the stronghold that commanded the road south from London.
Jaufre could not understand what made him cling so stubbornly, lingering in London, trying to make the new laws work. The Great Charter was dead. A y
ear from now, who would even remember its existence? Why could he not simply return to Winterbourne and worry about protecting what was his, as he had always done? Let some other fool slay the dragon.
It did nothing to improve his temper when he found Lord Oswin and some of his cronies gathered by the fire, their feet propped up, red noses deep in cups of ale.
"Lord Jaufre. Sir Tristan." Oswin saluted them with his goblet. "What! Abroad so early on a Sunday? You weren't trying to sneak into a church, I trust."
He wagged his finger at Jaufre. "You know the pope has excommunicated all of us for rebelling against our good and pious King John, just when His Majesty took the pledge to recapture the holy lands. We dastardly knaves are all that stopped him from going."
Oswin and his companions guffawed heartily over the tale John had passed along to the pope. Jaufre and Tristan retreated to seats in the opposite corner of the room. Jaufre was surprised at himself. At one time, he would have joined in their mirth, greatly appreciating the jest that the irreverent John, after defying the pope for years, should now be among His Holiness's favorite sons. But he found himself wondering what Lyssa would think of her husband being excommunicate, his lands at Winterbourne once more under the interdict. She had been so happy, so at peace, to have the faith restored to her home.
"What's amiss, de Macy?" Lord Oswin called out. "Have we suddenly become not good enough to drink with you?"
"His Lordship is in no humor for such revelry," Tristan replied, making little effort to disguise his dislike for the baron.
"Eh, why so glum, man? Even if the king doesn't mean to keep faith with us, we have worsted him. Here we sit, entrenched in a position of strength."
"Position of strength?" Jaufre snarled. "Has it never occurred to you we are virtual prisoners here in London, skulking behind the city walls while John is free to attack any of our castles he chooses?"