After Le Gros plunked back down onto his seat, Jaufre indicated that the pages could begin serving. Because she was the dinner partner who would share his trencher, he inquired of Melyssan what she desired for the first course. She gave a tiny shrug, leaving the choice up to him. He selected a portion of the roast boar and proceeded to cut off spoon-size chunks of meat and lift them from the trencher onto her manchet. The pink juices melted into the thick slice of wheaten bread that served as her plate. She removed a silver spoon from her nef, which was shaped like a tiny ship, and then proceeded to pick at her meat, the strong aroma of spiced pork doing little to tempt her appetite.
Jaufre ate heartily, keeping her within his gaze the whole time. His regard waxed bolder as he studied her flushed face, the arch of her neck, even while he continued to tear off portions of the meat, placing them between his lips and chewing with deliberate slowness. Licking the tips of his fingers one by one, he eyed her suggestively, mentally stripping away her kirtle and chemise until Melyssan felt naked before him. She gagged on the one bite she had managed to swallow and groped for the golden chalice she shared with Jaufre.
A moment later she began to choke. She had taken a huge gulp before she realized it was mead and not the watered-down wine she was accustomed to. Jaufre pounded her on the back as she came up sputtering for air. Her temper began to fray as, through streaming eyes, she caught a flash of his grin. Clenching her hands together in her lap, she resisted the urge to dump the rest of the vessel’s honey-colored liquid over his head. She collapsed back in her chair, longing for an end to this torturous ordeal.
“Tired, my dear?” Jaufre leaned so close that his whiskers nearly grazed her chin. “Perhaps, if you are not hungry, we can retire early. I am sure our guests would not mind.”
Melyssan sat bolt upright. “I am starved,” she gasped, and began spooning the pork into her mouth without tasting it.
Conversation at the high table followed its customary bent, grumblings against King John’s latest tyrannies.
“As if it were not enough, he wrung nearly every last cent out of the lady Blythe while she was his ward,” Sir Dreyfan said heatedly. “Now the king has debased her by forcing her to marry some wool merchant who lined the royal coffers with a fat bribe.”
Tristan lowered his spoon, frowning. “What more can be expected of a man who locks women and children away in a dungeon to die?”
“Not that old heart-rending tale again about Matilda de Briouse and her brat,” groaned Father Hubert. “Served the proud bitch right, I say.” He belched and drained his wine cup for the second time, although Father Andrew, who sat to his left, had not yet tasted a drop.
“Well, I suppose ‘tis true her husband most grievously offended the king,” Sir Dreyfan said.
“Grievously offended! And for this an innocent woman and her son were killed!” Melyssan cried out, then shrank back as the eyes of all the men turned upon her. She had not meant to take part in the conversation, but the story of Lady Matilda had upset her ever since her father had first told her of it.
When Matilda’s husband fled the king’s anger, John seized the lady and her son, shutting them up in a narrow cell until they slowly died of starvation. It was said the young man perished first, and, driven to the extremes of agony by her hunger, his mother had gnawed on the dead boy’s shoulder.
The horrible tale had preyed upon Melyssan’s mind for weeks, giving her nightmares. Even after all this time, hearing the woman spoken of caused her to shudder. Jaufre insinuated his arm along the back of her chair, allowing his fingertips to rest upon her shoulder.
“Come, my friends, I pray you find some other topic. You distress my bride with this talk of women dying.”
But Father Hubert refused to let the matter rest. Thumping his palm on the table, he called for more wine and said, “The amusing part of the whole story is that John swore he would never harm the lady Matilda and her son. And he didn’t. When he shut the pair up, he said he wasn’t harming them, but he wasn’t helping them, either.” Le Gros burst into guffaws, spraying the linen cloth with his spittle. “Didn’t harm , but didn’t help, either.”
Despite the fact that no one shared in his mirth, he slapped his huge thigh and began to wolf down his manchet, ignoring the polite custom that dictated the wheat bread be saved for the almoner to distribute among the poor. Crumbs fell from his mouth as he continued, “Now what I heard tell is that Lady de Briouse didn’t know how to stop her tongue from running. When the king first demanded she dispatch her son to London as hostage, she told John’s officer she had no intention of sending any of her children to a king who murdered his own nephew.”
Tristan eyed the priest disdainfully. “The lady never said anything that the rest of us have not thought.”
“If you’ve been thinking such things, you had best keep it to yourself,” Jaufre warned Tristan. As he spoke he inched his hand up Melyssan’s shoulder until he was able to stroke the base of her neck. “Young Arthur may have died under mysterious circumstances, but he was guilty of rebellion against his uncle and sovereign lord.”
The idle caress from Jaufre’s callused fingers produced a strange quickening in Melyssan’s blood. She squirmed in her seat and finally pushed Jaufre’s arm away. “It was only rebellion if you thought John had better right to the throne than Arthur. The people in Wales believed that Arthur was the true king. They believed he was Arthur the . . .”
Her words trailed off at the sound of Jaufre’s rich baritone laughter. “Arthur the Pendragon born again? Come back with his sword Excalibur to lead his people in founding another Camelot?”
“Aye!” Her face burning, she raised her chin in defiance of the earl’s patronizing scorn.
“Oh, Melyssan, I thought by now you would have outgrown such fairy tales.” Jaufre chuckled. “To imagine John’s nephew was the Pendragon reborn! You may as well believe that I am Sir Lancelot.”
She shrank back as if he had dealt her a slap in the face. So he did remember the time he had met her at the tournament. How cruel he had become since then—that he should now seek to taunt her with her childhood dreams, mock her most cherished memory of him.
“Nay, my lord,” said Tristan. “Forbear teasing your lady over events of which she cannot be expected to know the truth. She must have been no more than a toddling babe at the time of Arthur’s rebellion.”
“My old nurse was from Brittany, where the young prince was born,” Melyssan said, staring unhappily down at her manchet, grown soggy with her uneaten dinner. “She explained everything to me.”
“Did she also explain to you that such ideas about Arthur can be construed as treason?” The sharp edge in Jaufre’s voice caused her to look up and find his brows snapped together in annoyance. “Now, talk of something else.”
His command boomed down the length of the table, and after a brief silence, Sir Dreyfan started up a discussion of how good the hunting had been this summer, despite some Welsh bandits who had been poaching in Lord Jaufre’s wood. Everyone seemed to forget the conversation regarding Arthur except Melyssan. She sat, twisting her linen napkin into knots as Jaufre’s words returned to haunt her. Arthur was a rebel against his sovereign lord, the king. Treason, Jaufre had said. Did that mean the earl was unswervingly loyal to John, no matter what injustices the king might be guilty of? She shivered. Perhaps when he learned the king desired her, the Dark Knight would offer her to John with his compliments.
And what of Sir Hugh and Lady Gunnor? Melyssan’s eyes strayed to the end of the hall, where the couple ate their dinner unremarked by most of the other guests. She prayed the Irish cousin would come tonight and she could get Lady Gunnor and her family away before Jaufre became aware that he sheltered so-called traitors at Winterbourne.
As the second course was served, Jaufre found that his own appetite had diminished. He studied Melyssan’s pale face, wondering what she was thinking. She’d turned very pensive since the talk about Arthur, and her eyes kept darting toward th
e troubadours and pilgrims who sat near the screens.
Jaufre’s hand froze in the act of lifting his cup to his lips. When he had paused in the great hall earlier to greet some of his men-at-arms, one of the guards—Master Galvan it was—had whined something about how he’d tried to do his job, but the lady would insist upon admitting beggarly pilgrims in the dead of night.
Who journeyed by dead of night? No honest folk, surely. First thing on the morrow, he would examine these holy travelers whose presence made Melyssan so uneasy. He did not know what mischief she plotted with these strangers, but he would have none of it at Winterbourne. Bad enough it had been for him to permit all this loose talk of John’s tyranny. There were too many knaves abroad these days ready to carry tales to the king. One such had already reported Jaufre’s visit to the French court, arousing John’s suspicions against his earl. Jaufre hoped to placate the king, not annoy him further. He would need John’s support if he ever hoped to recapture Clairemont.
The banquet began to pall on Jaufre, and he pressed his knee against Melyssan’s leg under the table, but she had become so quiet and withdrawn that she no longer responded to his baiting. She barely noticed when the pages served the last course of fruits, nuts, cheese, wafers, and spiced wine.
Then the pastry cook entered, his chest puffed out, as he supervised two young boys carrying a towering subtlety molded into the shape of a castle, the cunningly wrought battlements and turrets garnished with nuts and almond paste.
As they sat the sweet confection before the earl, he started in recognition. It was the Château Clairemont—to the last detail of the drawbridge and miniature watchmen constructed of sugar. The walnut Jaufre had been about to crack for Melyssan crushed between his fingers into a handful of tiny fragments. The last thing he wanted was another reminder of the burden placed upon him by his grandfather.
“I hope it pleases Your Lordship,” the cook simpered, and bowed. “It is done in honor of your succession to the titles of the late comte, may God rest his soul.”
“Thank you,” Jaufre said, trying to summon forth a gracious smile.
Le Gros half stood, the rolls of his stomach resting on the table as he squinted at the pastry as if he’d just noticed it. “Clairemont,” he slurred, the effects of the wine he’d consumed evident in his florid countenance. “I’ll be damned.”
He smiled slyly at Jaufre. “Well, my lord, thash one way to redeem the pledge to the old comte.” The priest waved his hand with a wild flourish. “Grandfather, I have retaken the pashtry.” Erupting into a fit of giggling, he dove across the table and broke off one of the turrets, spilling out the honey-sweet raisins that were stuffed inside.
As Le Gros dropped the hunk of pastry into his trencher, Jaufre’s fingers clenched around the side of the table until his knuckles were white. Struggling to control his temper, he reminded himself that Father Hubert was his guest. It would be a waste of time and dignity to try and teach the pig better manners.
“Take that thing away,” Jaufre snapped to the downcast pastry cook. “We have already eaten our fill.”
When the subtlety was removed from his sight, Jaufre sat back down, drumming his fingers on the table. The sound of Le Gros sucking his fingers as he gorged himself on the pastry rasped at nerves already raw since his discovery of Melyssan’s deception.
“Let us have some entertainment, my lord,” Tristan interposed hastily.
“It appears we are already having it,” Jaufre said, his stare withering the grins off the faces of some of the younger knights who found Le Gros’s crudity amusing. “What say you, my lady? Are you of a mind for a little diversion?”
“Whatever you wish, my lord.”
Her meek demeanor only served to fan the flames of Jaufre’s smoldering anger. Well, he would soon see how complacent she remained. “I think I should like to hear a traveler’s tale. I see that we have some pilgrims amongst us this evening. Come forward, good people, and regale us with the wonders of holy shrines you have seen on your journey.”
Her reaction was all that he desired. Shocked out of her lethargy, her face drained of color and her sea-shaded eyes dilated with fear.
“No,” Melyssan stammered, her heart hammering against her rib cage. Sir Hugh and Lady Gunnor cowered on their bench, and she knew the simple couple lacked the wit and imagination to make up stories of their supposed pilgrimage. If they came before Jaufre, they were certain to expose themselves.
“See, my lord,” she said desperately. “We have also jongleurs present. I should prefer some music.”
For once Melyssan felt grateful to Father Hubert, for he loudly seconded her request. “A song. A song!” he bawled out, banging his cup against the table. “Lesh have a song.” But her gratitude soon turned to dismay when the priest winked at her and added, “Lesh have a song from y’r lady, Lord Joffey. Bet she can warble a pretty tune.”
“Oh, no,” Melyssan protested, knowing full well her limitations. Enid had always been the musical one in their family. “I am sure one of the minstrels will be eager to oblige.”
“Ah, but my guests long to hear your sweet voice, my dear,” Jaufre said. His eyes glittered with mischief as he began to pull back her chair.
The other knights chorused their agreement, but Melyssan hung her head in mortification and gripped the sides of her seat.
“Surely you would not refuse us, my dear, when you are such a skilled performer.” The barb behind his words only strengthened her resolve not to be made any more his fool than she already was. Stubbornly she shook her head and then gasped when she felt Jaufre’s hand gliding over her knee. When his fingers began creeping up the inside of her thigh, she scrambled to get to her feet, glaring down at the earl’s triumphant smile.
“Ah, my lady has changed her mind.” He snapped his fingers. “Jongleur, if you would be so good as to accompany her.”
One of the minstrels rushed forward with his lute, and Melyssan shook out her skirts, fuming over how neatly Jaufre had trapped her again. Still, she could endure it if it kept his mind off Sir Hugh and Lady Gunnor .
The silence that settled over the great hall was enough to suffocate her. Clutching her trembling hands behind her back, she cleared her throat, her mind going terrifyingly blank. Then slowly she recalled the words to a song her nurse had taught her. It had come from the court of the old queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine, written by one of her 37 rotégés, Bernard de Ventadour.
“When the flowers appear beside the green leaf When I see the weather bright and serene ,” she sang in a wooden little voice, which had become inaudible by the time she reached the end. However, Sir Dreyfan came to her aid and swelled the last two verses with his booming bass.
“And I must sing as all my days are full of joy and song and I think of nothing else.”
Smiling weakly at the gallant old knight, she plopped back down in her chair, her knees shaking in time with the polite smattering of applause.
Le Gros scowled, his nose nearly sunk inside his wine cup. “Thash a May song. Whash she singing a May song for when winter is coming?”
“Spring has always been my favorite time of year,” she said quietly. “I have my fill of winter as soon as the first snow flies.”
“And how long does it take y’ to get y’r fill of the earl of Winterbourne?” asked Le Gros. “I bet it takes more’n one snow then. Thash quite a wench y’ have there, Joffey. Don’t go hanging her as quick as y’ did the lash one.”
His coarse laughter echoed strangely in the great hall as a deathly silence fell over its occupants. All heads turned to Lord Jaufre, who had gone very still. Yet Melyssan saw no spark of anger in his deep brown eyes—rather, they were like granite.
The tension crackled in the air like damp pine logs tossed onto a dying fire. Everyone was aware of it except Le Gros, who hugged his trencher, scooping up some more of the pastry he had plunked on top of his meat. “Lesh have some dancing. Tell those rogues to play shumthing, Joffey.”
The earl of W
interbourne snapped his fingers for a page to present him with ewer and basin to wash his hands. Then he rose slowly to his feet. “Come, Melyssan. It is time to retire.”
As he drew her up beside him and wrapped his arm around her waist, Melyssan’s pulse leapt; she dreaded being alone with Jaufre as much as she was relieved to be escaping Lc Gros.
But they had not moved two paces away from the table when Le Gros called out, “Leaving so soon, Joffey? Oh, thash right. Y’r lady wouldn’t ‘ave much luck trippin’ a meashure. But I’ll wager that little crippled leg dances pretty enough when y’ get down between ‘er thighs.”
Melyssan felt the muscle in Jaufre’s arm jerk as if something had snapped deep inside. He whirled around and came at Le Gros from behind. Seizing him by the neck, the earl forced the thick skull downward, until Le Gros’s face smashed into his trencher. Jaufre’s face contorted with fury, the cords standing out on his bronzed neck, as he jammed the head down harder despite Hubert’s flailing efforts to get free.
Melyssan bit on her knuckle. Dear God, Jaufre was going to kill the man! Le Gros’s servants apparently thought so, too, for many of them had leapt from their seats and were moving forward, groping for their daggers. Jaufre’s men-at-arms jumped up, more than ready to meet them with drawn sword. Some of the women screamed.
Tristan kicked his stool aside as he flung himself at Jaufre, attempting to pry the earl’s fingers from Le Gros’s neck.
“Stop it, Jaufre! Do you hear me? Stop it! We’ll have a full-scale battle here in a minute.”
Either Tristan’s words or the sight of his agitated face penetrated Jaufre’s consciousness. Abruptly he released Le Gros, who sagged in his seat, his head lolling back as he gasped for air. Melyssan did also, realizing for the first time that she had been holding her breath.