Winterbourne

  When Jaufre entered the great hall, he saw that word of the comte's condition had reached other ears as well. Finette, Father Hubert, and some of the comte's knights hovered by the circular stair leading to the tower bedchamber. Just like a flock of black-winged corbies awaiting the final death throes of a mighty lion.

  Finette's shrill voice carried above the other murmurs. "A plague upon the old fool. Why did he decide he has to die here in my bed?"

  "Devil take your bed." The priest yawned. "Why did he have to bother me with his confession in the middle of the night?"

  "None of you need be bothered," Jaufre shouted as he crossed the hall. "Clear out, the lot of you scavengers. No one is dying here."

  Most of the men fell back at his approach, some of them averting their gaze, shamefaced. But Finette blocked his path, smiling maliciously. "I'm sorry to have to contradict you, my lord. But the physician here thinks otherwise."

  Jaufre shoved her out of his way, his eyes raking the assembled company until he found a sallow-faced little man whose bony hands trembled as he confronted Jaufre's piercing gaze "My regrets, your lordship. There is nothing more I can do. Monsieur le Comte has fallen sick of a most feverish carbuncle."

  "A carbuncle, you ass!" Jaufre said. "If I find you've done some harm to my lord with your quack notions, I will make your whole body one open running sore."

  The scrawny man slunk behind the huge bulk of Hubert Le Vis. Jaufre turned away in disgust and mounted the first of the stone steps to the chamber above. He felt Father Hubert's ham-like hand catch his arm.

  "I'd wait a while before going up there," he said, wagging the heavy jowls that had earned him the nickname Le Gros. "I've heard his confession and given him the last rites. It will not be long."

  Confession. Last rites. Jaufre struck away the priest's hand. By the blood of Christ, these knaves had all but dug the old comte's grave and flung him into it whilst he still lived.

  "He has got some strange notion and is going to make you swear an oath. Why not stay down here until he's drawn his last? Save yourself a great deal of trouble." Father Hubert's beady eye disappeared into layers of flesh as he gave Jaufre a sly wink.

  Jaufre's fingers knotted into a tight fist. "Why, you—"

  Tristan stepped in between them. "Go on, Jaufre," he urged. “I will see to dispersing these—these persons."

  "You do that," Jaufre said, glaring past him at Father Hubert. "Make sure no one comes up to disturb him again lest they have their fat stomachs lined with my steel."

  Jaufre whirled and took the rest of the steps two at a time. Behind him, he heard Le Gros rumble, "I only tried to warn the man," and then Tristan's indistinguishable reply along with receding footsteps.

  All was unearthly quiet outside the door to the chamber where his grandfather lay. Try as he might, Jaufre could not stop his hand from shaking as he reached for the handle, dreading what might await him inside.

  The chamber was dark except for one light left burning in an iron candelabrum. Those jackals had even permitted the fire to go out. Jaufre's conscience smote him. The comte hadn't wanted to stop at the Chateau Le Vaille. It was Jaufre who had insisted they break their journey, hoping a comfortable bed might restore the old man. But while he rutted with Finette, his grandfather must have lain here suffering, so poorly attended.

  "Jaufre? Is that you?" The comte's voice came to him, muted behind the thick bed curtains.

  "Yes, my lord."

  Jaufre stepped forward and parted the heavy damask hangings. The gaunt form of Raoul de Macy lay in the shadows, motionless but for his labored breathing.

  "What folly is this?" Jaufre forced himself to speak with a false heartiness. "This place reeks of incense. Why did you not give Hubert's fat backside the flat end of your sword when he came troubling you with his absurd unction and paternosters?"

  "I sent for him." The comte gave a weak chuckle that ended in a spasm of coughing. "Better such a fat dolt than no confessor at all. Best I could find here. Chateau Le Vaille is not the place I would have chosen to die."

  His words sent a chill to Jaufre's heart; his grandfather had never spoken thus before. “It is this room," he muttered. "This cold darkness is enough to put anyone in mind of dying."

  He threw back all the bed curtains and moved the candle closer, preparing to relight the fire. But he nearly toppled the candelabrum when the tiny flame illuminated the comte's face, white as the snowy waves of hair that lay tumbled upon the pillow, his skin stretched taut against hollow cheeks. His eyes, once so remarkable for their unusual coloring, the brilliant hue of polished silver, were now as hazy as the morning mist. Arms that only that afternoon had reined in a restive mount now lay limp at his sides.

  "How could this be?" Jaufre cried. "Why did you not send for me sooner?"

  "Sharp pain came. Then I found l could not move. I had to have the priest first, in case I died in state of bad grace."

  Jaufre began piling logs onto the hearth with frantic energy, as if somehow the fire could bring back the spark of life he saw fading before his very eyes.

  "Leave that," said the comte. "Not cold."

  "You must be. It's freezing in here. It will only take—"

  "Leave it."

  The comte drew a sharp intake of breath that sent Jaufre flying to his side. He saw the old man's eyes dilate in agony, and he seized one withered hand and wrung it helplessly, willing his own strength to somehow pass into those weakened limbs.

  "Damn Finette," he said. "If she knew what a woman is supposed to know, what any peasant's wife would know about healing . .. Never mind. We will find another physician, a better one."

  The comte's pain-racked features suddenly relaxed. "No. No help for it and little time. Sit by me."

  "You're exhausted. You need to sleep. I should never have allowed you to undertake that mission for the king to Saxony. It was too much."

  For a moment something gleamed in the old man's eye. "It was important. England needs alliance with the emperor if we're ever going to retake Normandy. Besides, you forget yourself, m'boy. Where I go is my choice. Not yours."

  "Then do not choose to die. Fight!"

  A smile tugged at the corner of his grandfather's lips. "I've seen seventy-six years, Jaufre. I am old enough to know when to lay down my sword." He closed his eyes.

  Jaufre pulled up a wooden stool, settling himself beside the bed, wrestling with his anger, his longing to smash his fist against the wooden frame and rage at the comte. Fight, damn you, fight! I want you to live. He'd seen war and disease carry off his father, mother, uncle and brothers. If he lost his grandfather, he would truly be alone, the last of the de Macys.

  When the comte spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper, and Jaufre had to lean forward in order to hear him.

  "I needed confession for my sins. One deed weighs heavy upon my soul...never been forgiven."

  Jaufre feared the old man's mind had begun to wander. "Hush, my lord. The priest is gone. You have been absolved."

  "No, not the priest. You must forgive." The comte's chin trembled as he turned his head a fraction, struggling to focus on Jaufte's face. "She was evil, nearly killed you. I loved you beyond all, even own sons. I hanged Yseult. You never forgave. You hated me."

  A great constriction knotted in Jaufre's chest. "Nay, Grandfather, do not say that. I was a fool. It is you who must pardon me."

  "And Godric, young Godric."

  "Stop, my lord. There is no need to speak of this now. It is all long past, forgotten."

  "Forgot?" Raoul de Macy's brow wrinkled with a slight frown. "Yes, I did forget. The sword, Jaufre. Fetch my sword."

  "What?" Jaufre asked, still disturbed by the painful memories evoked by the comte's fragmented speech. But he realized his grandfather's thoughts had abruptly taken a new direction.

  "Fetch my sword. Hurry."

  Although he thought his grandfather confused, Jaufre hastened to obey lest the old man grow agitated. When he removed the heavy broadswo
rd from its scabbard, he was assailed by other images from the past, a long-ago summer's day. This same battered weapon, the sun striking off the shining blade as it was held aloft in Raoul de Macy's powerful bronzed hands. Then the sword arcing through the air, the tip coming to thud down upon Jaufre's shoulders, first one, then the other, and the comte's deep voice charging him, "Be thou a good knight."

  "Jaufre, bring the sword." The feeble whisper from the bed called him back to the present. Jaufre carried the sword over and would have laid it beside the comte so that his fingers could rest one more time on the carved silver hilt, but his grandfather said, "No, yours now. You swear by it—to retake Clairemont."

  It had been eight years since the comte's beloved Château Clairemont had fallen to the French, along with the rest of Normandy. Most Englishmen had given up the idea of recovering their continental possessions and turned with renewed vigor to managing their English estates. Jaufre agreed with them, but his grandfather did not. The Norman blood had always flowed in Raoul de Macy's veins, stronger than his Saxon heritage.

  "My lord, do not trouble your mind with such things," Jaufre soothed him, adding what he no longer believed himself. "We will take your Norman lands back from the French very soon."

  "Swear it. By the sword. One of my blood will again be lord of Clairemont."

  Jaufre hesitated, fingering the weapon's jeweled hilt. A knight's oath was a sacred thing, not to be given lightly. If he failed to keep his promise, he would be guilty of perjury, damned.

  But a tear trickling from the corner of his grandfather's eye swept all such doubt aside. He raised the sword, gripping the hilt with both hands.

  "By the blood of Christ, I do so swear."

  As soon as the words were spoken, Jaufre felt as if a great burden descended upon his shoulders. But he forgot the strange impression as he watched the comte's eyes flutter closed, the furrows on his brow smoothing as he issued a great sigh.

  Jaufre flung the sword aside. "Grandfather?"

  "Now I can sleep," murmured the comte. "Will you stay?"

  "Yes, my lord," Jaufre said hoarsely, and sank back down on the stool, feeling drained, defeated. Reaching out, he enfolded cold, emaciated fingers within the warmth of his own grasp. Gently, he traced the crescent shape on his grandfather's wrist, a birthmark peculiar to the de Macy family. Jaufre's father had had it, as had his older brother, Malcolm. Perhaps one day a son of his would also bear the mark, a great-grandson the comte would never live to see .

  Jaufre swallowed hard and stared unblinking at the canopy overhead. The comte was quiet now. Even his breathing seemed to come more slowly. During the long night, he spoke once as if in his sleep. "No regrets. Only would like to feel the sun on my face one last time,"

  Never certain when his own weariness overtook him, Jaufre's head rolled forward onto his chest, and when he next opened his eyes, the light of dawn was filtering through the arrow slits that formed the chateau's only windows. He straightened up, rubbing the back of his stiff neck, trying to get his bearings. His fingers curled around something that felt like ice. His grandfather's hand. As Jaufre remembered where he was, a heavy weight pressed down upon his heart. His gaze traveled slowly up the still form of the comte, to where the sunlight bathed his face, the proud features now smoothed into a peaceful mask of death.

  Jaufre wondered dully if his grandfather had still been alive when the sun rose, felt its rays touch him one last time, as he had desired. He would never know. Sliding off the stool, he knelt in homage to the man who had been everything to him, father, brother, seigneur. Although he fought against the aching sensation of loss, the pain would come. Starting at the pit of his stomach and working its way up, it burned his throat with the tears he could not shed.

  Raising the comte's cold hand to his lips, he kissed the gold signet ring, ancient symbol of the lords of Clairemont. Then he slowly stood and folded his grandfather's arms across his chest. He began to draw the sheet up around him and stopped, unable to bring himself to cover that familiar face; even now it looked as if the old man but slept.

  Stumbling from the room, Jaufre discovered Tristan where he had been keeping his vigil just outside the door. His friend's red-rimmed eyes bored into Jaufre’s, but there was no need for words. Jaufre touched him on the shoulder, indicating he was now to go in to the comte.

  Without waiting for any further response, Jaufre raced down the curving stone stair. He needed to get outside, to be alone. The castle was closing in on him. In the chateau's courtyard, the household bustled with its normal morning activity. The guard gathered around a trough, washing sleep from their faces while pages trotted forward with slices of fresh wheaten bread to break their fast. Jaufre paused a moment to stare. Nothing changed. Another death, and the world marched on exactly as before.

  Cloying lavender perfume filled his nostrils, and Finette pressed forward to stand beside him, munching on a roll dripping with honey. Before she could speak, one of the guards hastened over.

  "Your pardon, my lord, my lady, but there is a strange boy at the gates. A peasant, or so I believe. He demands to see Lord Jaufre."

  "Demands!" Finette said after swallowing the large bite she had stuffed in her mouth. "Set the dogs on the insolent beggar. They will hasten him on his way."

  "That is hardly necessary." Jaufre fumbled in his purse for a coin and tossed it to the guard. "Give him this."

  As he walked away, he noted with contempt that Finette intercepted the money and whispered something to the guard, but he felt too weary to rebuke her or give more than a passing thought as to why a beggar should ask for him by name.

  Finette followed him, the silken train of her gown rustling through the dirt. "So the old man's dead at last. Well, I hope you do not think to bury him here. You can damn well cart him back to England. You must have some room left in the ditches."

  The next instant she cried out as Jaufre spun around and caught her shoulders in an iron grip. He felt almost grateful to Finette. It was so much easier to deal with anger than grief.

  "Never fear. I would not bury my dog in this stinking hole. I will take the comte where he belongs, back to Clairemont."

  Finette gave a near hysterical laugh. "Clairemont? And do you think the French constable will simply open the gates and let you march right in to hold your touching little rites?"

  "He will open the gates," Jaufre said, releasing her. "By God, he will. Or I will open them for him."

  Jaufre's threat proved unnecessary. The constable at Clairemont willingly flung wide the castle gates by gracious permission of His Most Sovereign Majesty, Philip Augustus of France. AIthough the comte had ever been his enemy, the French king sent his condolences at the death of the right brave knight Raoul de Macy and begged that as soon as his grief was somewhat assuaged, Lord Jaufre would do him the honor of paying a visit to the court in Paris.

  After Jaufre had the old comte entombed at Clairemont's chapel in a magnificent porphyry sarcophagus with all the pomp and respect due his high rank, the earl considered King Philip's invitation despite strong objections from Tristan.

  "I do not trust the man." Tristan scowled. "Can you forget how he conspired to keep King Richard a captive of the emperor?"

  Jaufre shrugged. "Philip would have little to gain by imprisoning me. No one is going to raise one hundred and fifty thousand marks for my release."

  Paying final respects to his grandfather's tomb, Jaufre ordered his knights to pack their gear and be ready to ride to Paris. He girded on the comte's sword, which still felt strange strapped to his side, being heavier and far more ornate than his own weapon. But it felt no stranger than the thick seal ring he now slipped onto his right hand. Engraved on its flat surface were two swans, their long necks entwined, the badge of the lords of Clairemont.

  Tristan shifted awkwardly as he watched Jaufre put it on. "I removed it from the comte's finger the morning after he died. Before he sent me to fetch you that night, he instructed me to see that you received it when h
e was gone. He bade me make certain you did not lose his seal as you did your own."

  Tristan's eyes locked with Jaufre's, and then they both burst out laughing, the first easing of their solemn mood for many days. The remark Tristan repeated was so typical of the old comte. When Jaufre had mislaid his own signet ring during his stay at Sir William's manor, his grandfather had groused at him unmercifully for his carelessness.

  In somewhat lighter spirits than when they had arrived, Lord Jaufre's entourage rode away from Clairemont to Paris. As his black stallion cantered through the double gates of the city wall and over the drawbridge that spanned the green waters of the Seine, the earl saw at once that the reports he had heard were true. Philip Augustus was rebuilding Paris. Church spires warred for precedence with the cone-capped towers of what had once been an old hunting lodge and was now the mighty fortress known as the Louvre. Burghers shoved their way through the throngs of students, peasants, and artisans making their way to Les Halles, the brightly painted buildings housing the new marketplace.

  And still the air rang with the boatmen's shouts as they unloaded more sand and limestone from their leather-sailed boats onto the quays. Jaufre's ears were assailed with the steady chink of workmen's tools and the creak and clank of the hoisting machines as the construction continued. A man of vision, this Philip Augustus, he thought. A man of ruthless ambition. So what did he want of the earl of Winterbourne?

  As they crossed the Petit Pont, Jaufre drew alongside Tristan to gauge his reaction to Paris's new splendors. He was amused to note the younger man's eyes darting from side to side as if he expected an ambush to be launched at them from every side street. The look on his face bordered on panic when they arrived at the old island palace and Jaufre was summoned to a private audience with Philip Augustus.