Winterbourne

  "You saved his life. It was the least he could do." Jaufre looked away, his spine stiffening as the words came out with great difficulty. "It would seem I also am in your debt. I doubt that Philip would have released me so soon, even after Tristan paid the ransom, if you had not pleaded on my behalf."

  Roland shrugged. "You would never have been captured if you had not tried to come back for me." He looked Jaufre directly in the eye. "Why did you?"

  "I see you have not outgrown your habit of asking stupid questions," Jaufre said gruffly.

  Roland's face split into a broad grin, which wavered after a moment. "There is one more honor the king would bestow upon me which I am loath to tell you about." Roland drew in a deep breath. "He knew I was your son, but he did not quite understand the circumstances of my birth. He offered me Clairemont."

  Clairemont. The name of that place had become the bane of Jaufre's existence. He could hardly bear hearing it. "Congratulations, Sir Roland," he said dryly. "A handsome estate for a man of your years."

  Roland flushed a bright red. "Do you think I would keep it? I accepted the lands only to return them to you. To do otherwise would be the same as stealing. Especially now that Prince Louis will become the king of England, it will be possible for you to be the lord of Clairemont without dividing your loyalties."

  "I have no desire to be the lord of Clairemont. I never had, except for that damned oath." Jaufre's eyes bored into Roland as if seeing him for the first time. The young man fidgeted uncomfortably beneath the intensity of his gaze "The solution to the problem has been under my nose all the time, and I too blind to see it."

  He strode to the chests containing his clothing, tossing garments aside until he found the silver swan medallion. He snatched up his grandfather's sword and began tugging the Clairemont seal ring off his finger. He thrust all three at Roland. "Here. Take them."

  "But, my lord! I do not understand. It is the seal ring of the comte of Clairemont."

  "Good. You recognize your own crest. You will make a most wise and sagacious comte." Impatiently, he seized Roland's finger and shoved the ring into place. "Don't lose this."

  "But—but . . ."

  Feeling almost light-headed as the burden he had carried since the night of his grandfather's death dropped from his shoulders, Jaufre yanked Roland's own sword from his sheath and flung it aside. He began to slide his grandfather's sword into its place, but Roland's hand closed over his wrist.

  "You cannot mean this, my lord. What of your oath?"

  "My oath is fulfilled. AlI I ever promised my grandfather was that someday one of his blood would again be the lord of Clairemont."

  "But I am a bastard!"

  "You are Sir Roland or Roland Fitzmacy. But whatever you choose to call yourself, you are the great-grandson of Raoul de Macy, the son of Jaufre, earl of Winterbourne . Never forget that, boy."

  "I never have yet, my lord," Roland whispered, his eyes misting. He released Jaufre's arm, permitting him to gird the sword to his side.

  "Take care of it, boy. This sword has knighted the back of every de Macy male within my memory."

  He started to throw the medallion over Roland's head and then stopped. "Nay, if you will pardon me, monsieur le Comte. This did belong to me, and I will keep it this time." Jaufre's lips tugged into a half smile as he placed the medallion about his own neck.

  Now Grandfather, he thought as he watched his son reverently examining the sword at his side, your wishes have been filled. May you rest in peace, and I at last may do the same.

  Aloud he said, "Do not look the sword over too closely. It is not quite as bright and shining as your gift from the king."

  "It is magnificent," Roland breathed, drawing the weapon forth to study it. "It bears the scars of many battles. I believe you said that you were knighted by this sword."

  "Aye, boy. A lifetime ago."

  Roland regarded him shyly. "I know I have already been through the ceremony with the king of France. But I was wondering if you could. . . Nay, you would think it ridiculous." His words trailed off as he hung his head in embarrassment.

  Jaufre swallowed the sudden constriction in his throat. "Give me the sword," he said. "Kneel down."

  The heavy weight passed back into Jaufre's hands as Roland bent his knee, placing himself upon the floor before the earl. The young man dashed his hand quickly across his eyes before gazing up at Jaufre. His youthful face shone with such solemn purpose, such dreams of chivalry and valor yet untried, that Jaufre had to look away for a moment before he could proceed. The sword trembled slightly as he gripped the hilt between his hands and raised it above Roland's head.

  "Go, fair son. Be a true knight and courageous in the face of enemies." He brought the flat of the sword down upon each of Roland's shoulders in turn.

  "So shall I, with God's help." Roland rose and replaced the sword at his side, stepping forward to accept the ceremonial embrace. But instead Jaufre clasped his son hard against him.

  When he released him, Roland's face was lit with joy. "Thank you, Father. I must leave you. The prince will be looking for me. I have responsibilities now."

  Aye, son, more than you know, Jaufre thought as he granted the young man permission to leave.

  Roland bounded out of the room, his steps bursting with exuberance. The earl knew it had likely never occurred to the young man his dreams of a French conquest could fail. Jaufre was convinced that England was now an entity unto itself, would never be ruled by a power from across the seas. Likewise he was sure that it had never occurred to Roland that one day he and his father might well find themselves as enemies again.

  Tristan entered the chamber, shaking his head. "What did you say to Roland? His face blazes as bright as the firewheels on Midsummer Night's Eve."

  "I surrendered to him my rights to Clairemont, along with my grandfather's sword." When Tristan merely smiled, Jaufre added, "You do not seem all that surprised."

  "I thought that might be a solution to your problem a long time ago, but matters seemed so strained between you and the boy, I hesitated to offer my opinion."

  "It would be the first time you ever hesitated."

  "It is difficult when one is always right." He grinned and backed off when Jaufre took a menacing step in his direction. "In any event, you may be sure Roland will make good use of that sword. I watched him ride off, and he was not halfway down the street before he came perilously near to involving himself in a quarrel with some English knight."

  Jaufre scowled. "The boy has grown, but there is much ahead that I doubt his ability to handle. Tristan, I am about to request a great favor of you."

  "I suppose I should bow and say, 'Command me what you will,' but knowing you I think I'd better ask what it is first."

  "I want you to stay close to Roland, keep an eye on him. He can be damnably impulsive and hot-tempered."

  "Gets that from his mother, I suppose."

  Jaufre fixed Tristan with a haughty stare, but it had no effect upon his incorrigible friend. Sighing, he gave it up. "There will be some difficult days for Roland. The English heartily welcome the French now, but I foresee a time when the tide will turn. When that day comes, I want you to make sure Roland flows with it, safely back to France."

  "Where will you be, my lord?"

  "I am going home, Tristan, home to Melyssan. The Great Charter is dead for the present. There is no more I can do here. I don’t like being in the dark as regards the king's whereabouts and our last messenger has not yet returned. I think it is time I went home."

  "I see. And while I am looking after your bear cub, who will keep you out of trouble?"

  "You will have to trust Lyssa for that." As Jaufre reached for his mantle, he glanced back, saying gruffly, "The day I left, I told her I loved her. Do you think she believed me after all this time?"

  "I don't know. But I am sure when you get back to Winterbourne, you will find some way to convince her."

  Jaufre returned his friend's grin. Their hands interlocke
d for a moment in a crushing grip that communicated so much that they could not say, so much they did not need to say.

  "Godspeed, my lord."

  "Farewell, my friend."

  Jaufre raced down the stairs, summoning his knights to ride for Winterbourne .

  The hail of stones barraging Winterbourne's walls stopped. Melyssan had become so accustomed to the periodic crashing that when the silence descended it took her a moment to realize what had happened. Such an unnatural calm. She had been penned up within the donjon for days upon days. Heedless of Whitney's warning, she slipped up the outer stairs to the top of the castle walls.

  "Lyssal" Her brother's tired, begrimed face registered his disapproval, but he appeared far too weary to remonstrate with her.

  "Whitney, what has happened? Why have they stopped?"

  She risked one peek through the embrasure, hoping to see the distant figure of a rider mounted on a great black stallion. No, she had forgotten. The black stallion was dead, slain at Bouvines. And Jaufre?

  Whitney pulled her back before she obtained more than a glimpse of the king's army, the sun glinting off their suspended swords.

  "What are they waiting for?"

  "I think they finished shoring up the mine under the north tower," Whitney said. "We've tried to stop their digging, tried and tried. But they brought up that siege tower, held us back. It has been impossible to get clear shots at them around that corner."

  His shoulders slumped. "It is not too late, even now, Lyssa. The king himself is no longer with them. He rode out this morning with a small party of men. His captain sent another messenger, wanting to know if we would surrender."

  She shook her head, but froze when she heard a strange squealing in the distance. Despite Whitney's restraining hand, she peeked out again. To her amazement, she saw a soldier herding forward a cluster of large pigs.

  "They must be running out of provisions," she said hopefully.

  But Dreyfan, who strode forward to man the wall near them, shook his head and snorted. "Grease."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Grease, my lady." The old knight spat over the wall. "Grease for firing the mine."

  Whitney's face paled. "They shored up the mine under the tower with timber logs. When they burn the logs, the mine will cave in, and the tower—" He took a deep, shuddering breath.

  Dreyfan said, "I think you'd best get back down below, my lady."

  Melyssan hastened back to the bailey, where the women prepared kettles of boiling water to fling upon the attackers. She checked on those who had been wounded, struck by arrows. So far they had been lucky, only six men had died. But if the tower wall did not hold, if Jaufre did not arrive soon . . . She sickened with fear. Jaufre must not know what danger they risked. He would never have abandoned them.

  She retreated to the great chamber they had shared together, sinking down upon the bed where they had loved and fought, where she had given birth to his child. When he left, he had said he loved her. Would she ever hear him say it again? They said the king's mercenaries were ruthless, vicious men, who cared nothing for the land and the people they destroyed. If they stormed Winterbourne, no one would be spared.

  Oh, Jaufre, I have tried so hard to be brave, to save Winterbourne for you. To save our child. But I need your strength. My love, come to me.

  Rising, she peered through the arrow loop and saw the sinister smoke darkening the sky as a hail of stones and arrows rained upon the castle. Then a terrible rumbling sound drowned all other noise, the earth itself groaning, writhing in pain at the fire belching from its womb. As if by some mighty wizard's spell, the old stone tower crumbled in upon itself, thundering to the ground in a thick cloud of earth and mortar. The dust had not yet cleared when she could hear the shouts, see the metal helms of faceless men pouring over the walls. With a frightened cry, she rushed down to the great hall.

  The chamber teemed with Winterbourne's soldiers storming inside, slamming the outer gate as the last defense was manned. Outside came the screams of the dying trapped beyond the walls. Whitney's voice pitched above the turmoil, urging the men up onto the inner walkway. They poised before the arrow slits to aim their bows. Melyssan shoved her wailing ladies inside the relative safety of the chapel. Jenny clung to Melyssan's skirts, and she had to grab the child to avoid being struck by something plummeting to the earth . . . one of the defenders, pierced through the head by an arrow. Burying the child's frightened eyes against her shoulder, she hurried into the chapel.

  Father Andrew remained calm, exhorting the women to pray. They all did, although their terror at the noise outside was great, many of them breaking into sobs. Jenny huddled on Melyssan's lap, clutching Jaufre's sheathed dagger, which the child had carried like a talisman all these long days.

  "Father. I want Father."

  Melyssan held her daughter close, unable to breathe the familiar reassurance any longer. Father Andrew gently stroked the child's head. "Child, you must pray to your Father in heaven."

  "Nay, I want my father. He'll make these bad men go away!"

  The door to the chapel crashed open. The women screamed, scattering to hide behind the altar. Melyssan crouched down, thrusting Jenny behind her, her nails bared like claws.

  Master Galvan loomed in the doorway, his reddened eyes wild as he brandished his sword. "Where is the bratling? I'll not be killed for the likes of her. Hand her over and we'll all be saved."

  "No!" Melyssan shrieked, her arms closing around Jenny as the burly man's gaze lighted upon the child. He stepped closer, but Father Andrew flung himself in the path.

  "Get back, coward. How will you ever face your Creator knowing you sacrificed an innocent—"

  The priest's words broke off into a muffled groan as Master Galvan smashed the flat of his sword upon the old man's head. Father Andrew fell, struggled to raise himself up and then lay still, the blood trickling across the familiar peaceful features.

  "Father!" Melyssan cried. But she had no chance to mourn for her old friend. Galvan roughly knocked her down, snatching Jenny from her arms. The other women tried to hold him back, but he kicked them aside.

  Melyssan staggered to her feet, a red haze swirling before her eyes. All fear left her. In its place surged a fierce anger of a mother wolf whose cub is threatened. She found the dagger Jenny had dropped and unsheathed it. The death cry burned in her throat as she launched herself at Galvan’s broad back, burying the blade to the hilt.

  Galvan dropped the child to the ground, losing his sword as his hands clawed the air wildly, trying to reach the knife. He slumped to the floor, writhing, his eyes rolling in their sockets,

  Melyssan scooped up the sobbing child and limped out of the chapel. Acrid smoke scorched her nostrils. She fell back, gasping at the intensity of the blaze.

  "They've set the hall afire!" Nelda screamed. Soldiers tumbled from the walkway above, screaming as their bodies fell into the flames licking the rushes.

  Whitney dashed to her side, taking Jenny from her arms. "We've got to get down below. To the waterway."

  She tried to follow him, but his long strides left her far behind. She choked, her lungs aching from the smoke as she fell the remainder of the steps to the bottom floor of the donjon. She felt Nelda helping her to her feet and looked around wildly for Whitney and her child.

  Nelda glanced fearfully overhead. "My lady, the fire. It will eat though the floor and bring it down upon our heads."

  But Melyssan's eyes were riveted on the distant figure of her brother. Dear God, what was he doing? Some of the men had raised the gateway far enough for him to get through.

  "Whitney!" She shrieked his name as he leapt into the water, taking Jenny with him. He could not! He would not try to save himself by turning Jenny over to the king.

  She hobbled after him, her feet slipping on the slick surface of the wall, plunging her into the cold water. Her skirts dragged her down beneath the surface, and she gasped in mouthfuls of water that burned her lungs worse than the fi
re. Then she felt hands pulling her up. Dreyfan! As she flailed in the water, his strong arm clung to her, both of them sweeping out into the stream.

  Puffing, the old knight paddled toward shore, tossing her up onto the bank. She choked, straining to catch her breath. Whitney was some yards farther on, running toward one of the Flemish mercenaries.

  "No! Jenny!" Her voice came out in a pathetic croak "Whitney, don't!" But even as she cried, her brother's sword sang through the air, cutting the man out of the saddle. He threw Jenny up onto the horse and vaulted after her. Melyssan watched in horror as two more riders bore down upon him. An arrow from the walls cut down one, and Whitney laid into the other with a ferocity and strength that stunned her. As the second rider went down, Whitney whirled his frightened mount and looked back toward the castle.

  "No, no, Whitney," she cried. "Don't try to come back for me. Ride out. Save Jenny."

  He could not hear her, but as other Flemish soldiers raced up, he had no choice. He spurred his horse and galloped off, clutching Jenny in front of him. The foot soldiers attempted a futile pursuit. There were no horsemen close enough to catch him.

  "Dreyfan! He made it. They’ve escaped!" Laughing hysterically, she turned back to the old knight. He sprawled upon the bank, his sightless eyes raised toward the sun, a crossbolt protruding from his neck.

  Melyssan backed away. All the fight had been taken out of her once she saw her daughter borne to safety. She waited, commending her soul to God as a horseman thundered at her, his sword drawn to strike.

  He paused, pointing his blade down at her exposed foot. "Look, It is the crippled whore, Lord Jaufre's wife. By God, we may have lost the bratling, but perhaps the king will pay handsomely to get this wench."

  Rough hands seized her, bound her and threw her across the back of a horse. She watched the death throes of Winterbourne in a daze, wishing blackness would claim her. After an eternity, there was a mighty roar. The smoke pouring into the sky told her the fire had gutted the interior.

  The mercenaries' captain barked, "Put everyone to the sword. Let there be none left alive. Level this place. The king wants not a stone of this rebel's hell left standing."