Winterbourne

  Voices whispered from a great distance. "But where shall we take them? To Lady Enid?"

  "No, that is the first place the king would look. They must go to my brother."

  Melyssan felt lanky arms banding around her, experienced a sensation of weightlessness as she was lifted. Her head lolled against a bony shoulder.

  Taking a deep breath, she gave herself over to the feeling of exhaustion. Vaguely, she sensed a change in the air. It was fresh, sweet, like newly mown hay.

  Then she was being lowered, her body nestled against prickly wisps of straw. The world lurched abruptly beneath her. She banged into a wooden board, heard a rumble of wheels. Panic assailed her, a sudden terror of having lost something very precious. Her hands groped through the hay, encountering a small warm body, silken curls of hair. She sighed, drifting into unconsciousness.

  Time blurred into a haze of impressions: the rough jolting of the tumbrel, the steaming brew of chicken soup being forced past her lips, gagging her, burning her stomach, Jenny choking as Lady Gunnor fed her with a spoon .

  But the morning finally came when Melyssan opened her eyes, focused on the blue sky above and Jenny's wan smile. They were free and alive. Melyssan's lips moved in a prayer of thanks. She gripped the side of the cart, dragging herself to a sitting position. For the first time, she realized the perpetual jolting had stopped.

  Below her, Sir Hugh gave a relieved smile as he reached up to lift Jenny from the cart. Other arms stretched out to her, arms garbed in a flowing white robe. She looked down into the face of a man with Gunner's broad, honest features. But the monk's eyes held more serenity in them. Beyond him, she could see the massive bell tower of a church and cloisters.

  "This is my brother, Abelard, my lady," Gunnor said. "He will take care of you and the child."

  The monk smiled but said nothing as he carried her from the cart. She and Jenny were taken inside a low-roofed pilgrim's hostelry. The whitewashed chamber was austere, containing only a small pallet with a crucifix hanging above it. But the walls radiated a peace that comforted Melyssan.

  Gunnor blinked back her tears. "You will be safe here. We shall send you word of Lord Jaufre as soon as we hear anything." She bent down to where Melyssan sat on the pallet and gave her a quick hug, crying, “Ah, my lady, will the world ever come right again?"

  "Aye, Gunnor. I know it will." Melyssan's voice was weak, but her heart beat strong with renewed faith. She and Jenny had survived. She could not believe that Jaufre would do otherwise.

  Sir Hugh hung back, shamefaced. "Gunnor and I must be going now. I hope that someday you find it in your heart to forgive . . .-

  Melyssan reached for the large hand hanging limp at the knight's side and gave it a squeeze. "I already have, Sir Hugh," she said softly.

  The knight bowed, raising his fingers to her lips, his mouth compressed into a firm line. But when he and Gunnor quit the room, Melyssan heard him emit a loud sniff and blow his nose.

  Although not as talkative as his sister, Brother Abelard had a full measure of Gunnor's kindliness. He saw to Melyssan and Jenny's needs in the days that followed. Melyssan's appetite returned much more slowly than Jenny's. The little girl remained a trifle thin, but with the resilience of childhood, she seemed to have put all the horrors of their captivity behind her. But when they sat down to dine, Melyssan noticed Jenny would grab for her dish and spoon. She huddled them close, her brown eyes darting fearfully as if expecting someone to snatch her food away. It broke Melyssan's heart to watch her.

  It was a fortnight after Sir Hugh and Lady Gunnor had brought her to Swineshead Abbey before Melyssan felt well enough to walk in the outer court. Sighing with relief, she sat on a bench by the almonry and watched Jenny romp with a kitten. The child had finally ceased plaguing her to go through the inner gate back into the cloistered area where women were forbidden.

  "My lady?"

  Melyssan broke off her contemplation of the child and turned to face the gentle-eyed Brother Abelard.

  "I believe your prayers have been answered. I have discovered someone who has news of your husband."

  She jumped up, her knees trembling so hard Brother Adelard had to steady her. "There is a priest come here today. He said he is a survivor of the siege at Winterbourne.."

  "But Brother Adelard, it is not possible," she protested. "All were slain except myself and my daughter. The only priest—" She broke off, suppressing the painful memory of Father Andrew bleeding upon the chapel floor.

  "You must see for yourself, my lady." Brother Abelard gestured toward the gate, where a figure stood, garbed in a black gown, looking strangely out of place amongst the white-robed monks. The heavy ironwork clanked open as the priest glided into the outer courtyard.

  Any doubts Melyssan had were swept aside when she saw how Jenny ran to the old man, flinging her arms about his neck. As Melyssan stumbled forward, the child's face turned to her, flushed with triumph.

  "See, milady? It is Father Andrew. I told you people could come back alive!"

  The priest eased Jenny to the ground, his pale blue eyes shining with tears as he looked at Melyssan. She threw herself against his thin chest.

  "Ah, my dear child," he quavered. "This is the most joyous day of my life, finding you here when I thought the worst."

  "But how is this possible?" she asked when she was able to speak.

  "Your husband. He saved my life after Winterbourne fell and brought me here."

  She pulled away from him, her eyes darting to the cloisters beyond, her heart pounding with sudden hope.

  "Jaufre brought you? Then he is here, unharmed? Oh, Father, you must tell me, where is he?"

  She watched in dismay as the joyous expression faded from the age-lined face. He fumbled with his rosary beads. "Perhaps we should go into the chapel now and pray."

  "Father, where is he?" Fear welled inside her as she seized the thin black-robed shoulders.

  "He's gone to . . ." The priest faltered, unable to get out the words, his face contorting with anguish. "Oh, heed me, my lady. Get you hence into the chapel and pray for the earl. Pray for him as you have never done before. Only God can help him now."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The October mist draped Jaufre like a heavy cloak, obscuring his vision as his leather-shod feet sank into the muddy soil of the Nene estuary. Cautiously he led his horse forward, prodding the ground ahead of him with a long pole lest he be sucked down by a patch of treacherous quicksand.

  Most travelers to Lincolnshire avoided this dangerous route. At low tide, the Nene River flowed to meet the North Sea over a broad bank of sand, unsure footing that disappeared all together when the mighty surge of ocean returned. It was far safer to take the longer inland route. But Jaufre was not looking for safety.

  He'd come too far to turn back now. Today he would rid the world of a tyrant, the murderer who had destroyed his love and his life, Lyssa and Jenny. Chance had favored him. He had encountered the king's baggage train outside Norfolk. For the price of a drink, he had loosened one of the driver's tongues, discovered that while the king and his army took the safer road around Wisbech, the slower-moving baggage train was to gain time by crossing the Nene. The king would join them, anxiously awaiting the precious treasure that accompanied him everywhere.

  Jaufre's lips twitched with derision. He could well imagine what a restless night the king must have spent, being parted from his money for even a short time. Jaufre would do him a great favor. He would give His Majesty an eternity to recover that lost sleep.

  The earl regained the more solid footing of the opposite shore and drew his horse deeper into the line of trees. He secured the animal to a low branch, gently stroking the velvet-brown nose. If he should chance not to come back, when the mist lifted, someone would find the courser and be grateful to care for it. It was a magnificent beast and had served him well on his grim quest.

  Untying the crossbow from its place upon the saddle, Jaufre hefted the weapon, slipping back down to the s
horeline to begin his impatient vigil. As the morning wore on, the fog lifted but little. As yet there was no sign of the baggage train. He paced along the sandy bank, for the first time questioning the information he had received. If the train were to cross, it must do it soon or risk the incoming tide.

  Just when he was certain they had chosen another route or put off the crossing to another day, the mist parted and he saw the first ghostly outlines of laden horses trekking across the sands, the shadowy guides preceding them with their prodding poles.

  Jaufre slunk back into the trees. Where was the king? He should have come riding up to meet them. As if in answer to his question, he heard the thunder of approaching hooves. The fog confused his senses and before he could ascertain the direction, the riders were almost upon him. He crouched low, his heart thudding with anticipation. The standard-bearer galloped past, the royal banner unfurled. As other horses cantered past, Jaufre picked out the rider he sought. John's stumpy figure was nigh swallowed up in the midst of the tall soldiers. But his mantle swept back, revealing the flash of jewels adorning his person.

  The king reined to a halt less than a hundred yards from where Jaufre lay hidden. Many of the soldiers dismounted, but the king remained in the saddle, his hand shading his eyes as he squinted in the direction of the approaching horses and wagons.

  Using the tree for cover, Jaufre slowly stood up, his grip tightening on the crossbow. Drawing forth a bolt from his pouch, he pointed the bow downward, hooking the bowstring to his belt. Engaging the stirrup with his foot, he cocked the weapon. In the fog-hushed world, even the creak of the bow sounded loud to his ears. He looked anxiously toward the horsemen on the shore, but like the king, their attention was riveted upon the baggage train.

  "Majesty," shouted one of the soldiers, "perhaps the baggage train should go back. They waited too long to cross. See where the tide already waxes higher."

  John's angry reply carried to Jaufre's ears. "Do you think I mean to wait that long for my treasure to arrive? Simply because my guards are afraid to get their ankles wet! Signal them to hasten."

  Hasten? Jaufre's mouth set into a line of grim amusement. Aye, he would hasten. Hasten John on his road to hell. He raised the bow to his shoulder. He was so close, he could have reached out and touched one of the guards' horses. But if he retreated, he would be out of range with the weapon. He would never be able to escape, but if the quarrel aimed true, nothing else mattered. They would taste of his steel before he died.

  "Majesty!" cried a soldier. "The tide comes in fast. It is already up to the hubs of the wagon wheels."

  "Tell those fools to lay on their whips. Hurry!" The king waved his arms, gesturing frantically toward the men fording the river. In another moment, he might ride forward.

  Jaufre inched his finger toward the trigger, lining up the king in his sight. He would have only one chance; he must make it count. Through the heart or through the head? If John possessed such an organ as a heart, it was likely so small and shriveled that not even the best marksman in the world would be able to locate it. Through the head, then. His breath stilled, he tipped the bow slightly, taking aim .

  The sudden roaring assaulted his ears like thunder.

  What by all that was holy! Jaufre's hand faltered. His gaze was torn from the king, riveted by the sight of the water. Foam-flecked waves and swirling eddies burst over the baggage train, spewing white death as surely as the Red Sea had surged to claim the pharaoh's army.

  Screams of men and terrified horses were muted by the pounding of the water. The oncoming rush of tide overran the estuary, catching the baggage train in its pull before it was within reaching distance of the opposite bank.

  Jaufre froze, hearing the king's demented cry of "My treasure! My treasure!" John hurled himself into the water, and several of his guards plunged after him.

  "Your Majesty! Come back. There is naught to be done."

  Jaufre tried to move, but his limbs felt rooted to the spot as the scene imprinted itself upon his mind.. Hands clawed above the waves, faces contorted with terror, the necks of wild-eyed horses craning, wagons splintering . . . All were swept away as if two giant arms stretched out, dragging everything in their path out to sea. All that remained was the bubbling green surface of the water.

  Stunned, Jaufre lowered his bow. A few lucky men hauled themselves ashore, among them a small bedraggled figure with sparse gray hair plastered to his head. Coughing, sputtering, the dripping form set up such an inhuman wail as chilled the earl's blood, before collapsing in a sodden heap.

  Overhead the mist suddenly parted, the sun breaking through like a fierce bright eye glaring down upon the writhing form of the king. The crossbow slipped from Jaufre's fingers, and he stumbled back, shielding his eyes.

  He followed the king's army for the next few days as if in a trance, always keeping his distance. Although the soldiers were well within his sight, he never obtained a glimpse of the king.

  The unstrung crossbow hung in its place upon his saddle. Jaufre touched it nervously from time to time, his mind trying to reconstruct all that he had seen, find some logical explanation. The baggage train had simply waited too long to cross the estuary. Never would he forget that rampaging fury of white water, swirling men, horses and treasure, to the bottom of the sea. And King John, clenching his heart in agony as if he had been struck down by some invisible hand.

  As he trailed after the army through Swineshead, the earl saw that they were heading for the Cistercian abbey where he had left Father Andrew. The king was borne to the gates on a litter, which drew out scores of people from the villages, pressing inside the monastery courtyard to see what had happened.

  Jaufre mingled with the crowd of peasants and soldiers, picking up snatches of the conversation around him.

  "They say the king be dying, half drowned in the river he was."

  "Nay, I heard it was poison."

  "Or the shock of losing the royal treasure."

  "It was a surfeit of peaches and new cider. His Majesty is gripped with dysentery."

  "Nay, you fools." One voice boomed out louder than the others. "He was smitten by the hand of God himself, punished for his wickedness at last."

  As Jaufre was jostled by the crowd, he started as an age-lined hand came to rest upon his shoulder. He looked down into the anxious eyes of Father Andrew.

  "Lord Jaufre. God be praised! It is you! When I first heard of the king's arrival, his condition, I greatly feared you had. . ." The priest's eyes probed Jaufre's.

  The earl replied with a slight shake of his head. He pressed into the old priest's hands the unfired bolt.

  "Forgive me, Father," he said, "for I have sinned . . ."

  Melyssan lifted the train of her gown, pushing her way through the crowd in the outer court. Her heart beat so hard against the fabric of her chemise, she thought it must soon burst.

  He had come. Come at last, and Father Andrew said she would find him in the part of the church reserved for laymen. She paused by the side door to catch her breath. The priest told her that Jaufre believed both she and Jenny were dead. Perhaps she should wait until Father Andrew had prepared him.

  But she could contain herself no longer. She shoved open the door and stepped inside the cool, dark transept, breathing in the sweet, smoky scent of the ancient incense that had seeped into the stones. The chamber echoed with the distant chants of the choir reciting prayers in Latin for the dying king. Dying, and not by Jaufre's hand. Melyssan murmured her own words of thanks as she stepped farther into the church, her eyes adjusting to the dim light.

  The great nave was empty except for one tall knight at the back of the church, who knelt on the cold stone floor, his head bowed. He looked like some devout crusader returned from the holy lands, a gold cross affixed around his neck, his mighty sword laid before him like a sacrificial offering.

  "Jaufre?"

  Her whisper was so soft he scarce heard it above the drone of the chanting monks. Yet it startled him all the same as h
is eyes came to rest upon the woman standing in the pool of colored light cast by the stained-glass window. The candles on the altar behind her cast a glow around her waving honey-brown hair, half-hidden by the gossamer, half-circle veil falling over her delicate shoulders. The pale oval of her face was lost in the shadows, but the slender white hands before her rested lightly on the rounded surface of a cane.

  Jaufre blinked at the golden vision, but it did not disappear. He rose slowly to his feet and walked toward it. After what he had seen, it was no longer in him to doubt the presence of another miracle. He moved within touching distance of the shimmering image, spellbound by the shining green eyes, the rose-petal lips trembling with eagerness.

  "Jaufre. Oh, my love."

  When the vision tried to hurl herself against his chest, he held her back. Too many times had he invited these dreams into his arms only to have them disappear, leaving behind such desolation as would drive him mad. Let him be content to gaze upon this one until she fled as all the others had done before her.

  But his hands grasped her shoulders, flesh that was solid and warm even beneath the layers of silk. His fingers caressed the satin texture of her neck, and he felt her pulse beat, strong and steady.

  As Melyssan studied the dazed expression on Jaufre's face, her heart constricted with fear. Father Andrew had warned her he had passed through a grave ordeal. She coaxed back a disorderly lock of raven hair from his brow. "Do not look at me thus, my lord. I am no spirit, I assure you. I am alive, and your daughter as well." Straining upward, she gently brushed his lips with a kiss.

  It was as if she had released him from a spell. His entire body shook as he sank to his knees before her.

  "Lyssa." His arms encircled her. He buried his face against her waist, great sobs racking his frame. "Lyssa!”