Oswin dismissed the threat with a wave of his hand. "John is too busy trying to take over the castle at Rochester. With a soldier like William of Albini commanding our garrison, His Majesty and his Flemish mercenaries will be there forever."
But Jaufre was not so sure. Of late he had begun to worry more and more about Winterbourne. Most of the rebel barons flocked to London from the north and east. He was one of the few who came from the Welsh marches. In time, Lyssa might find herself surrounded by enemies, with only Dreyfan and that foolish brother of hers to advise her. Whitney had showed some improvement during the war in France, but Jaufre feared the man might hand Winterbourne over to John at the first sign of trouble. What then would be the fate of Lyssa and Jenny at the hands of a monarch bent on leveling all of England to exact vengeance for his humiliation at Runnymeade?
"We have nothing to worry about." Sir Oswin's booming voice penetrated Jaufre's thoughts. "For the French will soon arrive to reinforce us."
One of Oswin's companions tried to silence him, but it was too late. Jaufre had heard the remark. He stood and leaned over Oswin, demanding with deadly quiet, "What did you say?"
Lord Oswin squirmed in his chair and then glowered defiantly. "It is well known, my lord, you have steadfastly opposed any schemes for appealing to France for aid in restoring order. But you are only one man. Fitzwalter thought it an excellent notion. He sent a delegation to Philip Augustus. The young Prince Louis will arrive in February."
"You fools!" Jaufre seized the man and dragged him up by the front of his surcoat. "You bloody fools. Do you know what you've done? We've scarce dealt with one tyrant and you would set loose upon us another."
Oswin wriggled from Jaufre's grasp. "Nay, we've asked Prince Louis to be our true king, who will help us preserve our ancient liberties."
"Liberties? I'm sick to death of hearing you whine about your liberties when you only mean your petty self-interests. That charter meant no more to most of you than it did the king."
Lord Oswin puffed out his chest. "What! What! Do you think I shall listen to many more of these calumnies?"
While he blustered, Jaufre drew forth his sword. "Any man of you that says I lie is welcome to try my steel."
A silence settled over the room until one by one the other knights shuffled out the door. Oswin eyed the sword for one moment longer before storming after them.
Jaufre sheathed his weapon and turned to face his grave-eyed friend. "So now this farce is completed. What do I do now, Tristan? Drag myself home to my wife, once more a failure? And a fool into the bargain, trying to be some sort of idealistic crusader I am not."
"I do not think you could ever be a failure in Melyssan's eyes," Tristan said. "She loves you, Jaufre."
Jaufre gazed into the fire, imagining honey-brown hair framing the sweetest face he'd ever seen. His shoulders slumped as he leaned one arm against the wall, resting his head upon it. "I wish I thought I was worthy of that love. I wish I could still be that young knight she saw on a long-ago summer's day."
He started up when a young page burst into the room, breathless with news. "My lord, you must come at once. Baron Fitzwalter is assembling all the nobles. There is dire news."
Tristan placed his hands on the boy's shoulders. "Get your breath, lad. Slow down and tell us what has happened."
"Rochester Castle has fallen into the hands of the king. All the rebels there including William of Albini are His Majesty's prisoners. "
Tristan and Jaufre looked at one another over the boy's head. So now the siege was ended, and King John controlled the road south from London. Even more important, John's mercenaries were now freed to carry the war to another part of England. Where would the king strike next?
A cold wave of apprehension rushed up Jaufre's spine. He closed his eyes, a vision of piercing clarity rising before him of white towers gleaming bright against the green Welsh hills. Winterbourne!
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Dark smoke billowed into the gray sky, black curls of it whisked on the wind as far as the battlements at Winterbourne. Melyssan peered through the embrasure, tears stinging her eyes at the sight of the wattle and daub cottages dissolving in the roaring midst of red flame. Screams rent the air of those unfortunates who had not been able to flee the village fast enough to reach the safety of the castle gates. Flemish soldiers pierced the stragglers with their pikes. A horse and rider thundered after a young girl, who ran shrieking with a babe bundled in her arms. Melyssan turned away, covering her face.
"We cannot just stand here," she cried. "We must do something to help them."
"We shall be lucky to help ourselves," Whitney mumbled.
"Whitney. I am the mistress here. Open those gates and send some of our knights out. I command you."
He shook his head. "Nay, we will need every man. Unless you want that to be yourself out there running away with Jenny clutched in your arms."
She bit her lip as he hit upon her one weak spot. Willingly would she have risked her own life in an attempt to save those people, but not her child. Defeated, she drew back behind the merlon and waited, tears sliding down her cheeks. Waited until the screams came no more, until the only sound was the distant hiss of the flames, the rumble of booted feet and horses' hooves as the king's army marched on Winterbourne.
Sir Dreyfan clambered up to the walkway. His grizzled face scowled when he saw Melyssan. "Are you mad, boy?" he shouted at Whitney. "Get my lady down from here."
She felt Whitney tense beside her. "You'd best get to the safety of the donjon, Lyssa. They are bringing up the catapults."
"Whitney, I—"
"Go on," he said, giving her a rough shove. "You'll only be in the way up here. You'd best go down below and begin making preparations to tend thewounded."
Her heart thudding, she did as he bade her. As she wound her way down the stone stair through the gate tower, she passed many of the castle guard, their friendly faces looking grim beneath their steel helms, the crossbows in their hands aimed and ready.
There seemed to be so few of them, the king's soldiers so many. But she was forgetting Jaufre. When news of the siege at Winterbourne reached his ears, he would rally his knights and ride to their rescue. If the news reached his ears . . . She was no longer sure exactly where her husband was. The last she had heard of him was when the messenger brought the news saying the Great Charter was accepted. How they had all cheered and celebrated! Tyranny and injustice vanquished forever! She was so proud that her husband should have played a part in it.
As she entered the great hall of the donjon, she found all her ladies-in-waiting gathered together by the chapel. Their faces reflected their fear, but Jenny bounded forward into Melyssan's arms, her brown eyes shining with excitement.
"Milady, milady." She hugged Melyssan around the neck, her smile expectant, hopeful. "Father has come home?"
"Nay, Jenny. It is not Father." She watched the child's face cloud with disappointment, marveling at how Jenny carried such a strong image of Jaufre. She had been so young when the earl left last spring, yet she retained a great impression of him in her heart.
As Melyssan cradled the child close in her arms, she thought it was not so hard to understand. Was not Jaufre forever impressed upon her own heart?
She looked over the child's head, speaking with courage and conviction. "The king's army has come. Nay, Nelda, don't weep. There is nothing to fear. Winterbourne is a strong fortress."
"But I've heard tales of the siege at Rochester,” Canice said. “Shan't we all starve in here?"
"Of course not, you foolish woman. We are well stocked and soon my lord Jaufre will come and drive them from our gates."
She noticed Father Andrew standing quietly in the shadows. Her voice sharpened with irritation when she saw the doubt register in his eyes.
"In the meantime, we must prepare linen and herbs for bandages. Stay inside the donjon and keep out of the men's way. Now, off with you and be about your tasks."
The w
omen reluctantly dispersed, except for Canice, who waited quietly for Melyssan to release Jenny into her care. Melyssan was ashamed to admit it, but her daughter’s warm arms about her neck gave her courage. Jenny regarded her mother, her lively eyes unusually wide and serious in her small face.
"Is the bad king's army coming inside?"
"Nay, my love. Our castle is very strong." But even as she said so, Melyssan recalled snatches of things she had heard Jaufre say. How oft had he complained the castle lacked proper defense measures. "Unsafe," the earl had groused. "Unsafe."
"It doesn't matter in any case," Melyssan said, shifting Jenny in her arms. The child grew so heavy, soon she would be unable to lift her. "My lord will come and rescue us." Once again she noticed Father Andrew's lips tighten as he crossed himself.
Jenny nodded her approval. "Aye, my lord will come and kill all those bad men." Her small brows knit together in an expression so fiercely reminiscent of Jaufre, Melyssan laughed, at the same time fighting back her tears.
She set Jenny on her feet, giving her a pat. "Perhaps you'd best run along with Canice. Mother has many things to do."
"Me, too. I'm going to go get a sword so I will be ready to help Father," she called over her shoulder as the nurse led her away.
"Mistress Genevieve, ladies do not wield swords," Canice scolded.
"This one does." Jenny left the hall staring truculently up at her nurse.
Melyssan followed Father Andrew where he had slipped into the chapel. He knelt before the altar, fingering his rosary. She knew she should leave, ignoring the disapproval she sensed from the priest ever since news had reached them of Jaufre's excommunication. But her nerves were on edge. Outside the castle, the walls were too quiet. The battle had not yet begun. What were they waiting for?
"It is Sunday, Father," she said, her voice echoing loudly in the small chamber.
"And so?"
"I want you to say mass."
He rose to his feet and faced her, his black robes brushing the altar. "You know I cannot do that, milady. Your husband is excommunicate. That places his lands under the interdict as well."
"I have been thinking about that. The pope's ruling is unjust. We shall ignore it. Lord Jaufre is master here. I want prayers said for his safe return."
"My first responsibility is to the Holy Church and to God," the priest said sternly. "I cannot pray for a man who offends both."
"Jaufre has offended no one but that tyrant king. He marched to London to try for peace, seeking only to secure the liberties that—"
"He marched as all the others did, to protect their own selfish interests. Do not try to make something noble out of his behavior, Melyssan. It will only break your heart. There is no difference between Lord Jaufre and his barons and that marauding army outside."
"Don't speak of my husband that way. I'll no longer endure it. Too long have I tolerated your silent disapproval. You do not know him. You never have. He will ride from London to help us."
"I suppose he will. He will want to save Winterbourne."
Her breath caught in her throat, but she refused to let the old priest dim her image of Jaufre, cast aspersions upon the nobility of his actions. "Perhaps I cannot force you to pray for my husband. But I love him. I care nothing for what the pope says or you. Even if Jaufre should be condemned by God Himself, I would follow him to hell."
The old priest shuddered and bowed his head. "I have seen too much of the pain this man has brought into your life. And now you are driven to blaspheme God.”
Melyssan could bear to hear no more and fled from the chapel only to find Jenny romping in the great hall. Somehow she had eluded her nurse. Horror tore through Melyssan when she realized the child held a large dagger, which she withdrew from its ruby-encrusted sheath.
"Jenny, give me that thing," she gasped, snatching it away.
Jenny's lower lip jutted out. “Give that back. I need it to kill King John."
Melyssan raised the weapon far above the child's grasping fingers. "It is not a plaything. Wherever did you get it?"
"From Father’s chest. He always let me hold it."
"Did he indeed? Well, Mother shall have a long talk with Father when he gets home."
When he gets home . . . The thought pounded through her brain. Oh, Jaufre, my love, please come home. Put an end to this nightmare of uncertainty.
Whitney strode into the great hall, the grim cast of his countenance telling her there was more bad news.
"Have they commenced the assault?" she asked, ignoring Jenny, who stamped her foot and demanded the return of the dagger.
"They sent a messenger forward to parley. They would leave us in peace if their terms were met."
"What terms?"
"If we surrender the castle to them, without resisting, the king pledges no one will be harmed. You may retire to the convent at St. Clare."
She studied her brother's uneasy expression. "Whitney, there is something more you are not telling me."
Whitney stared at the floor, not meeting her eyes. "The king wants Jenny."
The dagger clattered from Melyssan’s hand and Jenny dove for it. But Melyssan's arms had already closed around her daughter despite her angry squeals of protest.
"Never!" she cried. "May he rot in hell first."
"He swears he will not hurt her, Lyssa. He wants her for a hostage.''
"A hostage to use against Jaufre! You give the king his answer, Whitney. Have the men commence firing their arrows from the wall."
Whitney hesitated, his eyes lingering wistfully on Jenny's triumphant face as her fingers closed around the end of the dagger.
Melyssan's arms tightened on the child as she studied her brother's expression. She could not help remembering Jaufre's opinion of her brother. “He is weak like Godric. He will betray you one day, Lyssa.”
"No!" she said aloud. She would allow no one to poison her mind against her husband or her brother. "We shall survive, Whitney. Jaufre will be here soon. You and Dreyfan muster the men to defend the walls, and do the best you can."
Whitney nodded. He tousled Jenny's curls. "Just remember, Lyssa. I love her as I do you. And I know how much she means to you."
With one final glance back, he strode away to hurl Melyssan's defiance at the king. The siege of Winterbourne had begun.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The cheers of the crowd dinned in Jaufre’s ears as the populace of London surged forward into the street to greet the French soldiers. The Frenchmen nodded and waved, carefully guiding their mounts around the women, who hiked up their skirts and rushed too close to the horses' hooves. Men clapped each other on the back and danced jigs along the cobblestones as if their deliverance were at hand. Although Prince Louis had yet to arrive, the French had marched to London unopposed by King John's army. At last report, it was rumored that John had fled north. To hide in Scotland, said his gleeful detractors.
Jaufre's lips curled in scorn as he and Tristan watched the proceedings from the doorway. Tristan's eyes were grave.
"It seems history would repeat itself. Only this time the conquerors come not from Normandy. The prospect of a French king is a strange one. I am not so sure it agrees with me."
"They have not conquered anything yet." Jaufre turned, preparing to reenter the house. "As to French king, English king, I am sick to death of either. Sometimes I feel as if I would like to retire from the world to a quiet monastery."
A cultured voice spoke up behind him. "Somehow I cannot envision you as a monk, my lord."
Jaufre whirled around to confront a tall young Frenchman who had dismounted. The earl's eyes traveled in disbelief up the lean hips to the broad shoulders until he reached the face. Silver-gray eyes glinted at him, a half smile twisting his lips.
Tristan found his voice long before Jaufre was able to speak. "Roland! God's blood, lad, I scarce recognized you." The young man returned Tristan's hearty embrace, but his eyes never left Jaufre.
Tristan drew back, laughing. "Just l
ook at the young longshanks. You are as tall as your father now, and you quite dwarf me."
"That has never been so difficult to do. How are you, boy?" Jaufre clasped Roland's hand briefly, his gruff voice concealing the mixture of emotions that churned inside of him. "So you've come over to invade my lands?"
"No, my lord," Roland said. "Upon finding you among the rebels, I assumed you were one of those who had invited the help of King Philip."
"Then you don't know me very well, do you?"
Roland arched one brow. "Perhaps I do not"
"Let us not stand around in the midst of this mob," Tristan said. "Come inside, lad, and tell us what mischief you've been up to over there in Paris."
Roland consigned his horse to the care of a young page and followed Tristan into the house. As Jaufre brought up the rear, he studied the boy's frame. Tristan was right, the lad had grown. He was a boy no longer. Jaufre also noted that the gold spurs of a knight adorned Roland's boots. The young man appeared to put an extra spring in his step to make them jangle more loudly.
Up in the small chamber where Jaufre and Tristan shared a pallet, the three men settled down to goblets of burgundy wine. Roland showed little inclination to talk about himself but made eager inquiries after the people at Winterbourne, especially Jenny and Melyssan.
"They are all well," Jaufre said, though his brow furrowed. The last messenger he had sent seeking news had as yet failed to return. He felt the return of his earlier fear that John might attack his castle next. But by all reports, the king was headed for Yorkshire.
After teasing the young man about the fringe of hair sprouting on his upper lip, Tristan glanced from Roland to Jaufre, then abruptly excused himself. When he had left the room, an awkward silence descended.
Jaufre was first to speak. "It is a most handsome sword you've got strapped to your side. I see Philip has treated you well, Roland."
"It is Sir Roland now." The young man puffed out his chest, then looked slightly ashamed of his boastful manner. "I am not sure I was worthy of the honor, but the king knighted me last Christmas."