Winterbourne

  She was taken back to their encampment, where she spent her next day and night drifting in and out of blessed darkness, choking down the food they forced between her lips. Mercifully, the screams of the slaughtered were hushed, but the cloying stench of smoke hung in the air. She heard the smashing of stone as Jaufre's beloved Winterbourne was razed to the ground. With each crash, she felt something die inside her along with the memory of the faces of the people who had shared those walls—Nelda, Canice, Dreyfan, Father Andrew . . .

  She paid little heed when they flung her onto the back of a horse again. The only thing strengthening her in the long ride was her knowledge that Whitney and Jenny had escaped, that somewhere out there was Jaufre, her Dark Knight, who would ride down upon these murderers, showing no mercy.

  By noon of the second day, they approached the walls of a nearby castle, Penhurst, Sir Hugh and Lady Gunnor's castle. Her heart soared with sudden hope. Old friends. Yet it was the king's banner that flew from Penhurst, not Sir Hugh's. When the tall, scrawny knight came forward in the courtyard to lift her out of the saddle, she sank against him, glad of a familiar face, but he drew back.

  "His Majesty awaits you, my lady." His voice sounded cold and distant and he would not meet her eyes.

  "Nay, Sir Hugh. You would give me up to the king?"

  "I have no choice." His eyes traveled to the Flemish soldiers surrounding them. "I am the king's man now. I have my own wife and babes to think of."

  He led her past Gunnor, who wept, cuddling her children against her skirts. Melyssan wanted to reach out and reassure the woman. "Don't cry, Gunnor. I understand." She knew well the urges of a mother to protect her children at any cost.

  The king's cruel laughter rang in Melyssan's ears as he strode into the bailey. Even now the tyrant had a little girl clutched in his arms. The child wriggled, wailing in a familiar voice that struck Melyssan to the heart. "Mother!"

  Jenny!

  With a strangled cry, Melyssan flung herself at the king. The soldiers dragged her back. Jenny's tearful eyes pleaded, her small arms straining toward her mother. The wind shifted, and for the first time Melyssan heard the creak of rope overhead, saw the sinister black shadow pass back and forth over the king's gloating features. John nodded affably, indicating she should look overhead.

  Slowly she did, and the sound of her screams pierced her own ears. A man weaved in the wind, his head lolling over the fibers of the rope from which he dangled, his features distorted in death.

  Whitney.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Jaufre kicked his horse in the sides, all weariness forgotten he galloped the brown destrier up the rise of the hill. Heading for home, he eagerly motioned for his contingent of knights to pick up their pace. Yet it was not thoughts of Winterbourne that filled his head, but gentle green eyes, silken nutmeg waves of hair, and lips, honey sweet, sweeter than any stream to quench his thirst in this summer heat.

  Images of her fragile beauty chased through his mind like the white wispy clouds scudding across the azure sky, disappearing behind the tall line of trees. He threw back his head, basking in the warmth of the sun, delighting in delicious fantasies raised by one cloud pattern in particular. Lyssa in a gown of gossamer white, so sheer it was transparent. But as the puff of vapor shifted, so did the daydreams that obscured his vision. The first prickling of uneasiness stirred inside him.

  He reined in his horse so abruptly, the animal's head lashed to one side. Nothing but clouds and sky. What should there be in that to brew this nameless fear? He sucked in his breath. Nothing but clouds and sky where he should have seen patches of stone. Winterbourne!

  One of his knights, Sir Eldred, pressed forward as the rest of the troupe drew to a halt. "My lord. Perhaps we have taken the wrong road. Should we not be able to sight the donjon tower by now?"

  "Do you think I know not where my own castle lies?" Jaufre snapped, but his voice wavered. He stared at the empty sky.

  "What witchery is this?" he whispered, then dug in his knees, sending his horse forward at a cautious pace, trying to deny the sensation of dread creeping over him. His mount cantered around the bend, cresting the hill, until he reined it in to peer into the valley below.

  The verdant pastureland ended abruptly, the soft shades of green transformed into blackened stumps, the fields scorched as if it had been decreed by the lord of death that summer should reign here no more. Piles of ash and charred frames bore silent testimony to where the village had stood outside the gates of Winterbourne.

  Jaufre closed his eyes, wanting never to open them again; but against his will he looked toward the gates of Winterbourne whose only barrier now a child might climb. Nothing but piles of rock and rubble, the dust appeared as if it had remained undisturbed for generations. The only wall that remained was a portion of the donjon, the arrow loops and thick-set windows glaring at him like the empty sockets of a corpse ravaged by vultures. Vacant windows where the shadow of Lyssa's face should have been, craning forward in eagerness as she watched him ride over the hill.

  A wave of nausea churned deep in his gut, as if he could still smell the pallor of death befouling the air. Welsh raiders had ever been a threat to Winterbourne but this was not their work.

  "God damn you to hell, John Plantagenet." He unsheathed his sword. "Death! Death to the king!" The bewildered faces of his men flashed before his eyes as they followed suit. He led them in a thundering charge down the hill, not checking his speed even as his horse began slipping on the loose rocks that had been the heart of Winterbourne.

  He raced at the fire-scorched timber frames. All that was left of stables, barns, mews, danced before his fury-blurred vision like the bared bones of skeletons.

  "Come out, you cowards! Come out and fight." The silence mocked him. Wheeling around, he circled the crumbling remains of the donjon, his sword whistling through the air. "Show yourselves, damn you!" His shout reverberated off the dark, scorched stone walls roofed by an indifferent blue sky.

  Sir Eldred hedged to his side. "This must have happened days ago. My lord, there is no enemy here."

  Jaufre shifted in his saddle, glowering at the man, the sword gripped in his fist burning to taste of vengeance. Sir Eldred reined in his mount, backing away. The silence thickened around them until Jaufre heard nothing but the distant call of birds, the restless snorting of horses.

  The sword became too heavy to hold aloft any longer. The earl's arm fell limp to his side, accompanied by Sir Eldred's sigh of relief.

  "Aye," Jaufre muttered. "Too late.” He looked about him, trying to comprehend the nightmare ruins of all that he had cherished. It was as if Winterbourne had never been anything but a pile of ash and broken mortar, the castle with its four strong turrets and towering donjon but a dream conjured by some sorcerer. He had walked the walls of a place that did not exist, his lady Melyssan and her kisses but another part of the enchantment that had deceived him.

  "No!" Jaufre shook his head to clear it. "She was no dream. All the rest of my life may have been a lie, but not she."

  Sir Eldred swallowed. "The sun waxes hot here. Perhaps my lord would wish to ride down by the river, bathe his face in the cooling water. This has been a dreadful blow."

  Jaufre sheathed his sword. "Nay, we will keep riding. We must follow the king's army. It is obvious he has taken my wife and babe as his prisoners."

  The fear rose in him, to be swept away by the tide of his fury. "He shall rue the day if he harms either of them. I'll wash the ash from these walls with his blood."

  "We will follow you anywhere, my lord," Sir Eldred said, mopping at his sweating brow. "But they say the king has imported many fearsome mercenaries. Perhaps we should return to London for Sir Tristan, seek the help of the French."

  "There is no time. I was too late once to save my lady from being captured by the king. I will not fail her again."

  Sir Eldred's further pleas stilled as another of the knights came riding up. "My lord, we have found one of the peasants fro
m your land. He is preparing to bury someone at the edge of the field."

  "Take me to him," Jaufre said. "Perhaps he can tell me which direction the king took and what prisoners were with him."

  He rode after the knight, impatient to question the man and be gone. Each hour more of delay, who knew what it might mean by way of misery for Melyssan and Jenny? He cursed himself over and over again for his folly in not leaving London sooner, his carelessness in not making sure they were safe.

  Two of his men dragged forth the quaking peasant to meet him, shoving the ragged man to his knees. Dull-witted eyes risked a terrified glance at the earl.

  "Well, sirrah, do you not know who I am?"

  "Aye," the voice quavered. "You are my dread lord, the Dark Knight. But I did nothing wrong. I only seek to dig a grave for the dying."

  "First I want answers. Were you here when the king's soldiers came?"

  The man nodded, great tears coursing down his dirt-encrusted cheeks. "I ran from the swords, hid down by the edge of the river, pretending I was slain. But for the others, there was no place to hide. All dead, my lord, they are all dead. They pulled the walls down around them."

  "But the prisoners. Where did they take the prisoners?"

  Sobs shook the thin frame crouched before him. "No prisoners. None. All dead. The captain cried, 'Slay them all. Leave not a stone standing.' "

  Terror constricted Jaufre's chest, making it difficult for him to breathe. Terror of the one enemy he knew he could not fight, the enemy that had defeated him the night he'd watched the old comte slip away.

  "You fool!" he roared. "What of the women?"

  "Trapped inside the donjon, my lord. Their screams. Ah, their screams." The peasant clutched his arms above his ears as if he could still hear them. "They buried them there. Pulled the stones over their scarred bodies."

  "Liar!"

  With a terrified howl, the man flattened himself to the earth as Jaufre plunged his horse forward. "Seize him. I'll have the truth whipped from him.”

  At that instant a low groan sounded in Jaufre's ears, strange, unearthly because it did not issue from the man cowering below him.

  "My lord," Sir Eldred called out. "This dolt was about to bury a man still alive."

  Jaufre maneuvered his horse over to where Eldred knelt by a familiar black-robed figure. Father Andrew sprawled upon the ground, the upper portion of his head swathed in a filthy makeshift bandage. His blood-drained lips moved, whispering something.

  As Jaufre flung himself out of the saddle, the peasant whimpered, "He be dying. I was just readying the grave. It was a miracle he lived thus long, crawling out of the donjon to the river. Like me, they thought him dead. But they didn't bury those outside the walls. They just left us, so I—"

  "Be quiet, you fool." Jaufre bent over the near lifeless form of the priest and roughly pried open one eye. He thought he saw a spark of recognition. "Father Andrew. Where is Melyssan? My babe?" He repeated the demand several times without getting any response.

  At last the lips moved, so faintly that he had to bend his head forward to hear. But when the whisper came, it was sharp enough to slice through his heart. "Dead. Soldier came. Sword in chapel."

  "Chapel's gone," the peasant intoned. "They pulled down the walls. Pulled them on—"

  His words choked off as Jaufre shoved him to the earth. The earl staggered past the man, past the bowed heads of his knights, and leapt upon his horse. He headed the animal back across the blackened bailey to the donjon, the ruins of which he had ridden across all unknowing, that it was Lyssa’s tomb.

  "No!" He leapt his horse over the heaping stones into the midst of the ruins. The animal lost its footing in the ash, going down upon its knees with a terrified whinny and flinging Jaufre out of the saddle. It struggled to its feet before bolting wild-eyed from the ruins.

  Jaufre scrambled up, stumbling toward where the chapel had stood. "Lyssa! Jenny!" He clawed at the ashes, fighting with all his strength to move the heavy stones. He strained until he felt his muscles would snap, the sweat pouring down his shuddering body. The shards of rock shifted and settled back into place.

  "Curse you!" Jaufre roared at the insensible rock. "Will you hold now when you wouldn't before? When you wouldn't keep that whore-son's sword away from my love?"

  Staggering back, he flung himself in a fit of blind rage on the remaining wall, pounding at the blackened mortar with his fists, howling epithets at the worthless stone that had not sheltered Melyssan, worthless and weak as his own two arms, which had not been there to defend her and could not now draw her back from the crushing weight of this grave.

  His flesh scraped raw but stung him no more keenly than the agonizing loss that pierced his heart. He drove his bleeding fists against the unyielding rock again and again until he sank to his knees. A dry sob burned his throat as he buried his lacerated hands deep into the ashes.

  "Damn you, Lyssa. Damn you. You see what comes of love—of dreams?" He grabbed a handful of blackened soot and flung it into the wind before collapsing facedown onto the broken rock, willing himself to become part of it, as lifeless and unfeeling as the shattered stones of Winterbourne .

  He was uncertain how long he lay there, but when he moved again, the sun was setting behind the trees. He heard whispers coming from behind the walls.

  "He's gone mad, I tell you."

  "Oh, that Sir Tristan was here."

  "Well, he is not. Eldred, we cannot leave the earl thus. We must take him by force to some shelter and seek help."

  "Nay, look, he stirs. Wait a few moments longer. Do you think you have the skill to restrain him? I promise you I am in no hurry to attempt it."

  Jaufre sat up, rubbing the grit from his eyes with a soot-streaked hand that only made matters worse. He tasted of his own blood but felt no pain. He was as gutted and empty as the ruined walls whose shadows loomed over him in the fleeting light of day. Staggering to his feet, he leaned against the stonework for support.

  "My lord?" Sir Eldred's voice called timidly. When Jaufre did not reply, he stepped cautiously closer. "My lord, night approaches. I—we were wondering if you have done here."

  "Aye. I am done."

  "Then perhaps we should find some other place to camp."

  Jaufre nodded, brushing past the man. "Get me my horse." He was more than ready to leave Winterbourne, lands that once had been beyond price. Now the castle, too, had betrayed him, surrendering all that he loved to the savagery of a tyrant s army. He wished to set eyes upon this desolation no more. Too many ghosts trod these grounds, threatening him with the return of memory, and with memory would come pain.

  Despite his resolve, his steps faltered, forcing him to linger outside the charred remains of the garden. Instead of the scorched tree trunk, he saw the old apple tree blossoming white as Jenny scrambled into its shade, her deep brown eyes alight with joy as he pursued her, giggling when he caught her up in his arms; he saw Lyssa watching them from a distance, her sea-green eyes going all misty. A piece farther back had stood the tent. He remembered the soft sheen of Lyssa's hair brushing against his skin as her hands trailed through the water the day Melyssan had bathed him, the last time they had made love.

  No! He crushed the memories. Let them rest forever amongst the ruins of Winterbourne. To remember brought such searing pain as would bring him to his knees, such agony as he could not survive.

  But why cling to this wretchedness? whispered a voice inside him. What purpose was there to existence without her?

  He became aware that Sir Eldred had retrieved his horse and was leading it forward. "My lord, from what the peasant said, I believe it most likely His Majesty's army headed north. If you would still follow King John, we should also head in that direction."

  King John! Jaufre's slumped shoulders snapped back, the name acting upon him like a dark talisman. "Aye, the king," he muttered. "I had almost forgot."

  "Perhaps now that you know your lady . . ." Sir Eldred's voice faded. He stared fixedly at t
he ground. "There seems no longer any need to confront the king thus unprepared. We would stand little chance against his army."

  "Aye, little chance." Jaufre knew he would have to find another way. "I believe you are right, Sir Eldred. You and the rest of the men may ride out. I no longer have any need of you."

  "My lord?" The knight's eyes widened with incomprehension.

  "You may return to your own manors, back to London, wherever you choose. I care not." Jaufre swung into the saddle. He could hardly bend his swollen hands to grip the reins, but he forced his fingers to do so, heedless of the pain that seemed so unimportant. He had a purpose again, something to fill the emptiness inside him, the cold venom of hatred, vengeance.

  Still Eldred hesitated. "You would ride alone, my lord?"

  "Are you hard of hearing or merely stupid? Have I not told you twice to be gone?"

  "Aye, my lord. I shall tell the others of your command." He backed away. "But what of the priest, my lord? That dimwitted peasant has run off, and the good father yet lives."

  "I shall see to him. Be off with you."

  Sir Eldred nodded and scurried for his own horse.

  Jaufre could see that the knight and the other men-at-arms spent some time discussing the situation, with many glances in his direction. One by one, they gradually dissolved into the twilight, the echoes of their coursers' hooves fading to silence, leaving him alone amongst the ruins of his castle. He turned his horse in the opposite direction, coming to a standstill beside Father Andrew where he lay beside the partially dug grave.

  The old man would be dead before morning. Jaufre stared down through the gathering gloom at the black-robed figure, his heart twisting with bitterness. How had this miserable creature survived, whilst Lyssa and Jenny had not?

  The earl prepared to urge his horse forward when a low moan escaped from the old man. So let him die here alone in the darkness where the devil might chance upon his soul. Had he or his God lifted one finger to save Melyssan? To save the woman he loved? Yet try as Jaufre would to suppress it, he could not forget the glow in Lyssa's face when she had asked if Father Andrew could remain at Winterbourne. Father Andrew, her comforter, her spiritual adviser, her friend. If Lyssa could see him now, dumped upon the hard ground, dying . . .