Winterbourne

  Jaufre returned from the meeting to find Tristan in the great hall pacing before the fire. Deeply aware of the jealous glances cast his way from the French nobles who lingered hoping to have but one word with their king, Jaufre crossed the room to his friend's side.

  Tristan halted his nervous footsteps and scanned the earl's face. Keeping his features blank, Jaufre held out his hands to the fire, maintaining a maddening silence.

  "Well, my lord?"

  "Well what?" Jaufre asked, quirking an eyebrow at the knight's agitated countenance.

  "What happened? Was he threatening?"

  "Oh, quite the reverse. Charming, manners like figured silk, so smooth and fancy you wonder what it's going to cost you. He took me out on the walkway around the tower and pointed out how far they have come with the work on the new cathedral. Too much effort to be spent on a church, I thought. Now if it were a new fortress—"

  "He did not invite you to Paris to show you Notre Dame," Tristan said impatiently. "What else did he speak of?"

  "Well, he expressed his sympathy again and—" Teasingly, Jaufre broke off as he bowed, returning the nod he received in passing from the chevalier de Grenville and Baron Fecamp, worthy opponents from his tournament days.

  Tristan seized hold of his friend's sleeve. "Damn it, Jaufre. What does Philip want?"

  Jaufre grinned but decided he had goaded Tristan enough. Prying his friend's fingers loose from his black tunic, he replied, "In his own subtle fashion, His Majesty wished to remind me there might be more than one way back to Clairemont."

  "And what the devil does that mean?"

  "It means that our dear King John is not the only monarch with invasion plans."

  Despite the heat thrown out by the massive hearth, Tristan turned pale. "You think Philip means to invade England?"

  "If the time were right," Jaufre said, remembering the covetous gleam in the French king's eye when he had talked about his island neighbor. "And when that time comes, he has invited me to throw over my allegiance to John and cast in my lot with him—for the return of Clairemont, of course."

  He waited for an indignant outburst from Tristan at the mere suggestion of such a thing. He was surprised when the knight frowned and lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

  At last Tristan said, "Much as I hate to admit it, the French king has shown himself more skilled at warfare than John. Philip's proposal may well be the only way for you to fulfill the pledge to the old comte."

  "Surely you jest. Set aside my fealty to King John! Risk losing Winterbournel And for what? Clairemont is not worth a tenth of my English holdings."

  "To your grandfather, Clairemont was worth all of England," Tristan reproached him. "What will you do, my lord? Simply forget your promise?"

  "I'll do as I see fit," Jaufre replied flatly. "And I do not need you constantly reminding me of that damned oath."

  Tristan compressed his lips and turned his back on Jaufre. Jaufre raised his hand, wanting to reach out and assure Tristan that his irritation was not with his friend but with the predicament in which he found himself. But the knight was already striding away.

  Jaufre dropped his arm to his side and swore softly. He had had much time to regret the pledge given to his dying grandfather. By the wounds of Christ, it would have been easier to keep a promise to find the Holy Grail. King John was no Richard the Lion-Hearted. While Normandy fell to the French, castle by castle, it was rumored that John lolled abed with his young queen. Even with the support of his barony, it would be a miracle if John Softsword, with his lack of military prowess, could retake the lost territory. And the barons did not support John. Most of them were not interested in wasting men and money in a futile attempt to win back continental possessions they had learned to do without. In vain had Jaufre labored to convince his grandfather to be satisfied with his English estates. He had failed, and now he was pledged to carry on with this madness himself.

  Yet Jaufre knew that he could never accept Philip's offer to betray John. Even as he had sworn an oath to his grandfather, he had also sworn an oath of loyalty to the king of England. Other men might devise excuses to break their word, but not the lords of Clairemont; their motto was "My honor, my life." To a de Macy, honor and life were one and the same. No matter how great his reluctance, he had no choice but to try and win Clairemont with his sword, even if it seemed a certainty he would die in the attempt.

  A commotion at one end of the hall disrupted Jaufre's gloom-filled train of thought. He looked up expecting to see that Philip Augustus had descended to greet his nobles at last, but the disturbance came from a new arrival to court. Head held high, the lady Finette made her entrance, resplendent in a yellow damask gown and pillbox cap scalloped to resemble a coronet. Jaufre's lips curved in a sardonic smile. Her red velvet mantle was pinned into place with the jeweled brooch he had flung at her.

  After their last encounter, he fully expected her to sweep haughtily past him. He was therefore surprised when she ignored the inviting stares she was receiving from most of the Frenchmen and walked straight to where he stood.

  "My lord Jaufre." Her dark eyes glinted at him over the rim of her fan. "How fortunate that I find you still in Paris. I feared you might already have embarked for England, and that would have been a great pity."

  "How so, my lady? Are you still out for my blood or only eager to earn yourself a necklace to match the brooch?"

  An angry red surged into Finette's cheeks, but she kept the smile fixed on her lips. The expression reminded Jaufre of a sleek greyhound he'd once had, how the animal would look when it managed to capture one of the tiny wrens flitting into the garden.

  "It is most unchivalrous of you to address me thus, especially when I have come so far to bring you urgent news from England. I am afraid you must brace yourself for more unpleasantness."

  Finette's smile broadened as she turned and snapped her fingers. A short figure emerged from the shadows of the arched entryway. Cautiously he approached Lord Jaufre, pausing midway to doff his cap, exposing a familiar balding pate.

  "Pevensy. What the devil!" Jaufre said, taking a menacing step forward, which caused the little man to falter.

  "You do know this fellow, then," Finette purred. "He came to my château looking for you, but I was not sure whether to put faith in his claims or not."

  "Know him? It is my steward from Winterbourne. Come here at once, varlet."

  "It was not my fault, my lord," Pevensy began to whine. "I have been grievously wronged. All summer,I have awaited your return from Brunswick so that you might redress—"

  "Redress be damned. What are you doing so far from your duties?" A horrible thought struck Jaufre, and he seized Pevensy by the front of his tunic. "Winterbourne. Something has happened at Winterbourne. Quickly. Tell me. Has it been overrun by the Welsh?"

  “Nay, my lord. By a woman."

  "What!"

  "She drove me from the gates of Winterbourne," Pevensy sputtered. "But I swear I did nothing wrong."

  Jaufre gave him a quick shake. "Who? Who?"

  "Your lady wife, my lord."

  Stunned, Jaufre loosened his grip.

  "Why, Lord Jaufre," Finette mocked him. "How secretive you have been. Faith! Are you ashamed of your new bride?"

  "Damn you. You know I have no wife!" Jaufre caught hold of Pevensy again and this time lifted him so that his toes barely touched the ground. "You had best come across with the truth, you lying miscreant, before I flay you alive."

  Pevensy went white from his neck to the top of his bald head. I swear, my lord. The lady did say she was your wife. Everyone at Winterbourne believes her."

  Finette bubbled over with merriment. "An imposter! Lord Jaufre's mighty fortress has been taken single-handed by some clever harlot."

  Her shrill voice carried and captured the attention of half the room. To his annoyance, Jaufre saw that many of the French barons were drawing closer, their faces twitching with curiosity. With great effort, he lowered his own voice. "You are
telling me you turned Winterbourne over to some whore?"

  "No. It was a lady, Sir William's daughter," Pevensy cried. "She had your falcon's seal, my lord, and was escorted by the king's own men."

  The chevalier de Grenville's voice rang out. "By heaven, it seems English castles are easily taken. Perhaps we should arm our ladies and send them across the Channel." His comment was followed by a chorus of booming male laughter.

  Jaufre felt his face flush a deep red. He gave Pevensy a rough shove that nearly sent him toppling to the floor. "Get out of my sight, you whoreson knave, before I plant my foot up your arse."

  The laughter ran louder as Pevensy scuttled for the door, still sniveling. Finette doubled over with mirth. "Months this thieving wench has had, queening it as the countess of Winterbourne. When you return, my lord, you will be lucky to find a cellar left to hold your salt."

  She took hold of Jaufre's arm, clearly enjoying every minute of his discomfiture. “Poor Jaufre. This creature at Winterbourne must be a madwoman, doubtlessly possessed of a demon. Shall I send Father Hubert back to England with you to perform an exorcism?”

  Jaufre shook free of Finette as he strove to control his anger, lest he be tempted to wipe the smirks off these French faces. He strode away without replying and did not check his step until he was well clear of the great hall.

  Sir William’s daughter, that dolt Pevensy had said. Who would have thought that simpering little Beatrice would have been cunning enough to play him such a trick? But now that he thought about it, he could see how she had brought the thing about.

  He pictured again in his mind the day he had lost his seal ring at Wydevale. Standing in the apple orchard, he had suffered a bee sting in the webbing between his fingers. Noting his hand begin to swell, he had stripped off his ring before it could become painfully tight. Beatrice had come, annoying him by wanting to squeeze his hand and recite some curing incantation she had learned from her old nurse. In the process of struggling to avoid her nonsense, he had dropped the ring, unnoticed, into the grass. Later, when he had returned to the spot, all efforts to find it had been in vain.

  Obviously Beatrice had retrieved it, saving it until a time when she could put it to good use. Using his seal, she had somehow convinced King John of her claim to be his wife and installed herself at Winterbourne.

  Jaufre’s hands clenched. The conniving wench had had nigh an entire summer to wring whatever she could out of his estates. She probably had some lover waiting in the background, and perhaps they planned to murder him when he returned, or simply flee together. Yseult and Godric’s tale played out all over again.

  Except this time, he was no infatuated young fool. And no matter where Beatrice chose to hide, even if it was within the sacred confines of the convent, he would find her and haul her out by the scruff of her neck.

  “And then, my lady wife,” he whispered fiercely, “you will regret you ever slipped on my ring and planned your ‘wedding day’—regret the day you were ever born.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Chickens squawked, scattering out of the way of the hooves of the dun-colored palfrey that galloped into the courtyard at Winterbourne. The young rider garbed in the de Macy livery of blue tunic and gold hose waved his cap in acknowledgment of the greetings from soldiers manning the walls.

  “Halloo, young Arric,” Sir Dreyfan called down to the page. “What distance away is Lord Jaufre?”

  “Not more than a league, sir.” Arric piped up, squinting against the rays of the late afternoon sun. “The master sent me on ahead to tell you he brings a guest with him from France. He bids you make all ready for their comfort.”

  “I will inform his lady.”

  His lady. The words caused Melyssan to draw back from the crosslet through which she had watched the messenger’s arrival. She pressed her hands against cheeks gone pale. The dreaded day had arrived at last. Lord Jaufre was coming home. Intermixed with her fear was a strange fluttery sense of anticipation.

  Her fingers dosed over the handle of her cane, and she made her way slowly across the solar, avoiding the only pieces of furniture contained within the private withdrawing room: a heavy oak trestle table and a high-backed chair. Along one wall was a mural depicting a scene from the long ago Norman invasion. Melyssan trailed her hand over one of the soldiers standing on shore awaiting the onslaught of the conqueror’s army.

  “Did your knees knock together, little Saxon,” she whispered, “as badly as mine want to do?”

  Someone seized her arm, and she spun around to confront Whitney, his face as pale as her own. “Melyssan, here you are. What are you going to do?”

  “I suppose I am going down to prepare for the arrival of my lord and his guest. The chambers in the north tower will want new rushes, and then there must be food.”

  “Are you planning to bake the meats for your own funeral? We must flee from here. There’s still time.”

  “But I can’t leave Sir Hugh and Lady Gunnor.”

  “Then bring them with us, for Christ’s sake.”

  “No,” Melyssan said, pulling away from him. “It is not safe for them. They must wait until tonight when Sir Hugh’s cousin comes with the boat,”

  “That is what you told me when they arrived two days ago, and so far no cousin has ever showed. We can all escape right now through the water gateway below the castle. There is a supply boat that—“

  “We would never get that far in the daylight before we were overtaken. And Lady Gunnor’s children! If there were a struggle, they might be harmed.”

  “What about the harm to us if we stay?” Perspiration beaded Whitney’s brow. “I’m not arguing anymore. I will take you out of here even if I have to carry you.”

  He took a step toward her, but she backed off and held her staff before her to ward him away.

  “For the love of God, Lyssa, please,” Whitney begged. “What am I to do if the Dark Knight should draw his sword upon me? You know I cannot fight him.”

  Stark terror crept into his soft green eyes, the same terror Melyssan had seen on her gentle brother’s face a hundred times before when threatened with the clash of arms. She reached out to touch his cheek.

  “Oh, Whitney, you go. By yourself, you could get away.”

  “But I cannot leave you.”

  “I will be all right. At the most, Lord Jaufre will imprison me. And you could ride home to Wydevale for help.”

  Whitney seized on the suggestion with pathetic eagerness. “Yes, I could, couldn’t I? I could get Father to intervene with Lord Jaufre.”

  “I will be safe until then.” She gave him an overbright smile, hoping to hide her disbelief in her own words. “But you must hurry.”

  They both became aware of a clamor of voices and a scurrying of feet at the bottom of the stairway leading to the solar. Knights, men-at-arms, servants, all scrambled to the courtyard to shout a welcome to their returning lord.

  “Lyssa!” Whitney said in an agonized whisper. He caught her up in his arms and planted a kiss on her cheek. Then he turned and was gone, leaving Melyssan with a strange sinking feeling.

  She was truly atone now—alone to face Jaufre’s fury. Outside the narrow window, she heard a guard up on the parapet walk cry, “I can just make out the horses. They’re coming over the crest of the hill.”

  Squaring her shoulders, she descended to the great hall and then down the covered stair leading to the bailey. She could not see over the throng of heads to the main gate. The doughty figure of an elderly knight elbowed his way through the milling crowd of grooms, chambermaids, and clerks.

  Sir Dreyfan’s deep voice boomed, “My lady. What do ye back here? The earl will wonder what has become of ye.” Beaming through his thick, grizzled beard, he offered her his arm with a grand flourish. She could not look at him as she accepted it. The gruff old knight had been so protective of her, so courteous since that long-ago summer day she had first arrived at Winterbourne. How his broad, honest face would harden with contempt when Lord Jauf
re exposed her lies!

  With an almost boyish spring in his step, he led her forward. Kitchen wenches, stableboys, soldiers, her ladies-in-waiting, all fell back, their faces shining with a joy and excitement she wished she could share. Sir Dreyfan escorted her to the very front of the assembled household and a few steps beyond, so that she stood out, a solitary figure, the first one Jaufre would see when he came through the gate.

  Oh, Jaufre, she thought. Could it be true, all those things Beatrice said about you? “He hanged his wife, Lyssa,” Bea’s voice echoed in Melyssan’s head. “No one even knew what Yseult had done to displease him. He just hanged her,”

  The clear high notes of a trumpet sounded, followed by a thundering of horses’ hooves. The guards standing up on the castle walls began to cheer. Melyssan closed her eyes tight, wishing desperately she was a little girl again and it was young Sir Jaufre outside the ramparts, only come to claim her veil. She felt a light touch on her shoulder as someone stepped into place beside her. Her eyes fluttered open, and she choked back a glad outcry. Whitney.

  Fear still etched his features, but now it was mingled with shame as he hung his head. Blinking away her tears, she squeezed his hand, and he looked up to give her a rueful smile. Together they turned, hearing the creak of the pulleys as the iron portcullis slowly inched its way upward.

  On the other side, the restive horses of Jaufre’s knights shifted and brushed against one another, pawing the ground as if they, too, were eager to return to Winterbourne. Tristan barked a command to the excited pages to keep hold of the bridles on the baggage mules and then snapped at the squire, Ross, to have a care what he was about: in another minute he would be dropping the earl’s banner into the dirt. Maneuvering his way to Jaufre’s side, Tristan stole a glance at the earl’s stony profile and reflected he had never seen Jaufre so grim when returning to Winterbourne. Father Hubert didn’t help matters with his constant needling about the bold hussy passing herself off as Jaufre’s wife.