Winterbourne

  Jaufre clenched his jaw as if somehow he carried Melyssan inside himself, could feel the overwhelming intensity of her grief.

  "Damn you, you old fool!" he cried. He dismounted and hoisted the priest's inert body over his saddle. "There, Lyssa. Let that satisfy you. I'll take him to where he can die with a roof over his head.

  "But then," he muttered, leading his horse forward down the road, "then, my love, I have more important matters to attend." Aye, more important than life itself.

  The death of a king.

  Melyssan followed Gunnor down the curving stone stairs, clutching Jenny in her arms as if she would never let her go, clutching her as she had from the first moment King John had restored the child to her, a mocking smile upon his lips.

  The lower they descended, the darker it became, until Melyssan lost her footing. She would have tumbled forward but for Sir Hugh's restraining arm. He eased her down the last step, and her eyes gradually accustomed themselves to the darkness. Jenny whimpered, tunneling her face against Melyssan's shoulder. "Let's go home, milady. Dark. Don't like this place."

  Melyssan patted her back reassuringly, her throat too constricted for words. Gunnor paused before a stout oak door, stepping back to allow Sir Hugh to move aside the heavy bar before swinging it wide.

  "In here, my lady," said Gunnor. "I have tried to make all as comfortable as possible for you during your—your stay with us."

  As Melyssan stepped inside the small dank chamber, Gunnor averted her head. The room was empty except for a straw pallet and some plates of food arranged before a hearth that was devoid of any fire. The sole light came from an arrow slit set high above their heads.

  "At least I am relieved you have not seen fit to put us in chains," Melyssan said. She tried to ease Jenny down from her aching arms, but the child clung to her neck.

  Gunnor broke at last. "Oh, milady." As she looked at Melyssan, tears coursed down her face. "We cannot help it. If there were aught else we could do . . ."

  "Gunner!" Sir Hugh said sharply. "That's enough. Return upstairs at once."

  With one final beseeching look at her grim husband, Gunnor covered her face and fled the room. Melyssan could hear her deep-throated sobs receding up the steps.

  Left alone with Melyssan, Sir Hugh shifted from foot to foot, his gangly arms dangling awkwardly before him. He cleared his throat. "There's food. Wine. You and the child should eat." He made as if to go and then paused in the doorway, a perceptible softening in his eyes. "I am sorry, my lady, about your brother. My men tried to wave him off, warn him to go back. But he would keep coming."

  "It was because he thought he rode to the castle of a friend."

  The red flushed from Sir Hugh's thin neck up to his brow. Glancing over his shoulder, he said loudly, "Then he was mistaken. I told you all long ago I was no rebel. I am the king's man."

  "Well said, Sir Hugh," purred a voice from the shadows behind the knight.

  Melyssan felt Jenny's grip tighten as King John glided into the small chamber.Her dark brown eyes peered at him from the safety of Melyssan’s shoulder. The king's thin lips twisted into a complacent smile. "I thought I should like to see what arrangements you have made for Lady Melyssan and her daughter. It is well she should be accorded the respect owed the wife of such a redoubtable warrior as the Dark Knight."

  John gave a mock sigh. "Ah, by St. Michael, I did quake with terror while my army lay siege to Winterbourne, fearing Lord Jaufre would swoop down from the hills at any moment to wreak his vengeance." He paused a moment, twisting the great sapphire on his fourth finger, admiring the setting. "But I suppose His Lordship could not tear himself away from the pleasures of London. They say our bawds there are more skilled than any in the world, even Paris. Do you not agree, Sir Hugh?" He poked the knight in the ribs, laughing. Sir Hugh joined him weakly.

  Although she knew it unwise, Melyssan could not restrain her anger. "How dare you mock my lord! No one has ever said of Lord Jaufre that he lay abed when there was fighting to be done." The king's dark eyes flashed dangerously, but she could not seem to stop herself. All the tension, the grief for those she had lost, poured out of her.

  "Take care, madam," John growled. "Remember it is your king you address."

  "My king. You are fit to be no one's king. You are even a poor excuse for a man."

  "Lady Melyssan!" Sir Hugh admonished, his face going white with fear. Even Jenny raised her head, her brown eyes widening at the unaccustomed sharpness in her mother's tone.

  But Melyssan rushed on, ignoring the knight's attempts to intervene. "You attacked our castle deliberately while my husband was away. Cravenly making war on women and children because you have not the stomach to fight a man like Jaufre."

  "Take care! Take care," John repeated, purple veins beginning to stand out along his neck. "You are my prisoner. I will—"

  "Will what? Hide behind my skirts when Jaufre comes after you?"

  "Nay, I need neither you nor your bratling as hostages. I will crush the earl when the time comes." He seized Melyssan by the throat, gouging it painfully. "Crush him and all the rebels just like this."

  Before Melyssan could make a move to free herself, she felt Jenny stiffen. "Don't touch my mother. I'll kill you." The child lunged forward, sinking her teeth into John's wrist.

  "Owww!" The king snatched his hand back. "You little shewolf." His eyes glazed over. Melyssan staggered back, half dropping her daughter in an attempt to shield her as the king drew back his fist.

  "Nay, wait!" Although his knees shook, Sir Hugh stepped between them. "Please, your Majesty. When we undertook to keep these prisoners for you, you pledged your word no harm should come to them."

  For a moment Melyssan thought the king would strike Sir Hugh aside. She glanced wildly about for a weapon, anything to defend her daughter. But then John took a steadying breath and drew back, turning away to compose himself. When he faced them again, it was with his customary expression of sly good humor.

  "Why, so I did. You do well to remind me, Sir Hugh." He clapped the knight roughly on the back. "I would not wish to be guilty of breaking my word."

  John's gaze settled on Melyssan and Jenny, his eyes narrowed to gleaming slits as he rubbed his hands together. "Aye, we shall not harm them, but we will not help them, either." He waved Sir Hugh out of the room, the sudden mirth he struggled to contain exploding on the other side of the door. Melyssan heard the heavy bar slam into place.

  As she lowered Jenny onto the pallet, rubbing her exhausted arms, she tried to tell herself she was relieved the men had gone. She and Jenny were safe for the present. Yet it was as if the king had left behind some lingering trace of evil that swirled like a mist around herself and Jenny.

  That deep laughter and his strange parting words, triggered a memory. Suddenly she was back at Winterbourne , listening to the fat Father Hubert recount a jest to the company. The king said wouldn't harm . . . but wouldn't help, either. She could still see Le Gros holding his shaking sides, guffawing at something only he found amusing. He'd been speaking of Matilda de Briouse and her son starving to death in the king's dungeon

  A wave of horror assailed her, the calm that had sustained her throughout the siege of Winterbourne deserting her. She hurled herself at the heavy oak door, pounding it with her fists. "No, Sir Hugh, I beg you. Come back! Don't let him do this to us!"

  Her cries were answered with silence. She sank down the door. "Ah, sweet Mother in heaven.”

  She rocked herself back and forth, giving way to the tears that had been penned up inside her for so long, tears over her longing for Jaufre and anxiety on his behalf, tears for all those lost at Winterbourne, tears for Whitney .

  She'd almost forgotten she was not alone when she felt the small hand patting her hair. "Don't cry, Mother. I take care of you. I made that bad king go away." Through the haze of her tears, she looked up to see Jenny peering at her, her small chest swelled out with pride.

  She reached out to envelop the child in a large h
ug. "Oh, aye, so you did, sweetheart. So you did. My lord would be so proud of you."

  She held her daughter close, drawing strength from her, burying kisses along the top of her head as long as the little girl would permit it. Finally Jenny squirmed free. "I'm hungry. Let's eat now."

  She scooted over to where Gunnor had left the plates, and Melyssan followed, wiping away the last of her tears upon her sleeve. She watched her daughter stuffing a chunk of wheat bread into her mouth and felt the panic rise in her again. She fought the urge to stop Jenny. They should ration the food, try to make it last as long as possible. Yet most of the things Gunnor had left—the bread, the stew and the roast pigeons would spoil if not eaten soon. How could she deprive Jenny if this were to be the child's last meal?

  Melyssan gave herself a shake. She could not think that way. Even if the king gave such a command, Sir Hugh and Lady Gunnor could not be so cruel as to carry it out for him. News of the downfall of Winterbourne was bound to reach London. Then Jaufre would come. She had to believe that.

  But it was difficult to keep her optimism, especially when she had to endure Jenny's repeated questionings. Her appetite replete, the child snuggled down beside her on the pallet. She refused to be lulled to sleep by any of the tunes Melyssan hummed, and she felt far too drained to regale Jenny with the usual tales of Camelot.

  Suddenly Jenny sat bolt upright beside her. "Why doesn't Uncle Whitney come let us out?"

  "He cannot, my love." Melyssan struggled to keep her voice steady. She did not want to think any more about Whitney now. Later, when she was safe in Jaufre's arms, she would deal with the grief of losing her brother.

  But Jenny persisted. "Can't he get out of that rope those bad men put on him?"

  "Please, Jenny, go to sleep. Uncle Whitney cannot come because—because he is dead."

  Jenny's mouth turned down, and she frowned uncertainly. "The bad king killed him?"

  "Aye, my love." She smoothed a stray curl back from the child's brow. How much Jenny was coming to understand at so tender an age. It was difficult to remember that her daughter had only seen three years of life. But the next moment, Jenny disconcerted her by asking, "When will Uncle Whitney be alive again?"

  "On this earth, never," she explained gently. "But in the world to come—"

  "Father always came alive again. When he played wolf and I slew him, he always did."

  Melyssan gave a laugh, half of sorrow, half of wonder, at Jenny's words. Her daughter forever surprised her with accounts of things she and Father had done together. She suspected Jaufre had showered far more attention upon the child than she ever dreamt of, although she was never sure what had taken place and what was the product of Jenny's fertile imagination. She knew she had been wrong to believe that Jaufre did not love their child. She hugged that knowledge to herself in the darkness even as she hugged Jenny close and allowed the child to spin tales of her adventures with Lord Jaufre de Macy, the terrible, wonderful Dark Knight Without Mercy.

  "Aye, he loved you, Jenny," she whispered when the child slept beside her at last. "And he loved me." The thought of his parting words comforted her through a restless night.

  But in the morning, the door to the chamber did not open. No shamefaced Gunnor appeared bringing more food in defiance of the king. When Melyssan put her ear to the door, she heard nothing, as if the rest of the castle had ceased to exist. She fed Jenny some more of the bread, doling it out in smaller portions along with what remained of the stew. Her own stomach growled. By the end of the day she felt light-headed but resisted the urge to eat. The king would leave soon. He never stayed long in any one place. Tomorrow Gunnor would come to relieve them. She hushed Jenny's cries and rocked her to sleep.

  But the second day passed, along with the next and the next, until eventually Melyssan lost all track of time. She paced the confines of the cell, staring at the closed door as if she could will it open with her mind. Jenny's whining rasped at her nerves, and her stomach began to feel as if her flesh caved in upon itself. She fed the bread to Jenny even though it had begun to molder. Still, she could not bring herself to believe Sir Hugh and Lady Gunnor would allow them to starve. But for the first time, as she watched Jenny fall asleep exhausted from weeping, she cursed Jaufre in her heart. Damn him! How could he not realize they needed him?

  On days that it rained, she doubled the straw pallet in half so that she could stand upon it and reach the narrow window opening. By holding out the empty goblets, she could catch the precious droplets to ease their thirst. Although it pained her, she threw out what remained of the pigeon breasts, fearing they would be driven to gnaw on the bones and be poisoned with the stale meat. Jenny spent most of the time clutching her stomach, sobbing that it hurt.

  Melyssan could hardly find the will to think up games and tales to distract her. They shared the last of the bread.

  Her dreams were tormented by visions of Matilda de Briouse, the woman's flesh stretched taut against her skull, her teeth large and hideous, gnawing at the bones of her son, but the son became a girl child—Jenny--and Melyssan awoke screaming.

  She pushed herself off the pallet, a new resolve strengthening her. She was not Matilda de Briouse. She and Jenny were not chained to the wall. They still had water. She would find some way to escape. Using the blunt end of one of the heavy silver goblets, Melyssan began driving it like a hammer against the door. Perhaps she could splinter the wood.

  But the door was of oak. After an hour her hands were bruised and raw, the door barely scratched. Fighting back her tears, she paused to rub her aching wrist.

  "I'm hungry, Mother," Jenny wailed.

  I heard you the first time, Genevieve. Please be quiet for a little while."

  "But I'm hungry!"

  Melyssan flung the cup across the room. It was hopeless. There was no escaping this place. Damn all of them. How could they do this to her child? She covered her ears with her hands, unable to endure Jenny's cries any longer. To think that only a few months earlier there was little in the world she could not have given her child, and now she could not fulfill her most basic need.

  Jenny pressed her pale face within inches of her mother, so that Melyssan stared into her daughter's shadow-rimmed eyes.

  “Hungry!" the child screamed.

  Involuntarily, Melyssan's hand shot out, striking the child to the ground. As she recoiled in horror of what she'd done, Jenny slowly sat up, stunned to silence. It was the first blow the child had ever received in her life. That it should have come from her broke Melyssan as nothing else had. She pulled Jenny hard against her, her body racked with great dry sobs. She had no tears left.

  The hours stretched on. Sometimes the gnawing pain in her middle grew so intense she could not even rise from the pallet. But the physical pain was no worse than the one in her heart when she gazed at Jenny. The once round, shining face was now drawn, pale, the sparkling brown eyes dull, listless. She slept longer and longer, hardly making a sound, not even a whimper. Her child was dying before her eyes, and she was helpless to prevent it.

  Jaufre. She could not summon the strength to call his name. He must be dead, or he would have come. As she lay beside her daughter, her only thought was to join him wherever he might be. If in death, she prayed that it might come soon for her and Jenny. She drifted into a restless sleep in which she dreamed again that Jaufre's black stallion thundered up the road to the castle. So clearly could she see him brandishing his sword, racing across the drawbridge. He was flinging open the door to the cell, tenderly brushing the hair back from her brow. "Melyssan, I've come for you and the little one. Make not a sound and follow me."

  But the dream was so strange. Jaufre's voice was not the rich timbre she remembered. As she watched, the rugged planes of his face dissolved, the beard disappearing to become the broad, honest face of Lady Gunnor bending over her. The candlelight glistened upon the moisture in her eyes.

  With a startled cry, Melyssan sat up, only to have Gunnor's thick hand cover her mouth. "Hush
, my lady. The king is long gone, but many of his soldiers remain."

  Melyssan sank back against the straw mattress, trying to clear her befuddled senses. "Gunnor! What—what are you doing?"

  "I could bear it no more, my lady. I nigh went mad thinking of you and your little one down here. Even if we did not owe you what we do, I could not leave you here to die."

  "You've come to help us?" Melyssan's eyes traveled past Gunnor to the outline of the doorway beyond. The heavy oak door was thrown back, the shadows of the outer world beckoned. "You've come to help us escape!"

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Rain pelted the thatch covering of the hovel where Jaufre dragged the old priest, seeking shelter from the storm. Water dripped through the roof, splattering into the clay-lined hole in the center of the room, threatening to douse the fire that burned there. The flames hissed, sending forth an acrid stream of smoke that made breathing even more difficult in the dank confines of the cottage; the only ventilation came from one window cut through the thick mixture of dung and straw. Crouching to avoid brushing his head against the low roof, Jaufre kicked open the door, heedless of the wind-driven rain.

  "Better we drown than suffocate," he said to the peasant woman who huddled in one corner, her arms wrapped around a small, half-naked child. The woman didn't answer, shrinking as a crack of lightning split the air. Her youthful face reflected the same bewildered terror that had been there ever since Jaufre had first burst in upon her, with Father Andrew slung over his shoulder.

  Oblivious to the woman's fear, Jaufre left the door propped open. He bent down on the mud-caked earthen floor, kneeling beside the bag of dried ferns upon which he had laid Father Andrew. The priest looked so pale and cold. Jaufre drew a worn woolen blanket around him, pressing his hand against the thin chest. The heartbeat was faint, but steady. Damn, but the old man was tenacious. He should have died two days ago. In all that time, Jaufre had not found a roof to shelter him until now. He remembered his annoyance when he awoke that first morning and found the priest still alive, knew that he had no choice but to attempt to care for him. He had tromped the countryside, finding yarrow herbs, trying to recall all that he had ever seen Melyssan do when tending a wound. The gash on the old man's head was encrusted with dirt. He'd had to clean it, rebind it. As the peasant had remarked that day when Jaufre had found Winterbourne a ruin—had it been only two days or two centuries ago?—it was nothing short of a miracle the priest had survived the siege.