Winterbourne (25 page)

He handed Jaufre a glittering gold chain from which dangled a medallion. Momentarily the earl forgot the agony of skin stretching away from a tear in his leg as he cupped the finely wrought metal circle in his hands. Numbly, he stared at two swans with their necks intertwined, their sapphire eyes winking at him in the glow of the torchlight. Twisting the chain around his bronzed fingers, he marveled at how the golden links appeared as bright and untarnished as the day he'd first seen the medallion, the day his grandfather had tossed it over Jaufre’s head.

And the last time he'd seen it? Jaufre half smiled at the memory of a sixteen-year-old boy experiencing the excitement of his first mistress, a beautiful lady of much sophistication who had taken great delight in tutoring a callow youth in the arts of love.

Amicia. Amicia of Chalon. The most dazzling widow in all of France. Jaufre had been determined to impress her, demonstrate his gratitude for her help on his road to manhood. He could still remember how she'd laughed, although not unkindly, as she'd accepted the medallion.

"Ah, my young friend. You may regret parting with your treasure." A mysterious smile had tugged at the corner of her lips. "But who knows? Someday I may have occasion to send these pretty swans sailing back to you."

The lilting voice of his first lover vanished as harsher accents cut into Jaufre's consciousness, dispelling the memory.

"That's mine," the boy croaked. "Damn you. I didn't steal it. 'Tis my birthright. All the birthright that I have."

As Jaufre looked up from his contemplation of the chain, his eyes locked with the boy's. The shock of having the medallion returned after all these years faded, and Master's Galvan's words registered. The boy.
His
medallion had been hanging around the neck of this strange peasant boy who spoke French so impeccably, and with such a cultured voice. Even the smears of dirt could not disguise those fine-chiseled features: a cleft chin, aquiline nose, and silver eyes that were more suited to a nobleman's face, a nobleman like…

Jaufre's breath caught in his throat. "Unshackle the prisoner. Leave us."

"But—but, my lord," Gal van began to protest.

"Do as you're told."

Galvan jumped as if he'd been cracked with a whip, hastening to obey. If he said anything more, his mutterings were lost in the creak of chains as he freed the captive's hands. The boy sagged to his knees, his hands splayed out to break his fall. By the time Galvan had trudged up the short flight of steps and banged the outer door closed behind him, the boy, though still in the same position, was vigorously rubbing the circulation back into his arms.

"Come here," Jaufre said.

The boy's jawline hardened for a moment, but then he shrugged. His thin legs wobbled as he stood and slowly approached the earl.

Jaufre held out one hand. "Let me see your wrist."

"A trifle belated to express concern over my well-being, is it not, my lord?"

"Damn you! Your wrist!" Jaufre grimaced as he jerked forward on the stool.

The boy sighed and held out his hand.

"Not that one. The right." Jaufre's large hand closed around the pale slender fingers of the boy. Tipping the hand over, he laid the medallion across his leg as he rubbed at the grime on the boy's wrist. He felt the lad's forearm tense, sensed his desire to grab for the chain, but he stood motionless while Jaufre inspected the skin made raw from contact with the manacles.

The mark stood out clearly at the center of the wrist, a small brown crescent shape like the moon when it waned. The boy would have drawn back, but Jaufre's grip tightened as he continued to stare, unable to credit the evidence of his own eyes.

"How come you by this mark?"

" 'Twas there from the time I left my mother's womb." The boy's lips twisted into a grim smile. "I have been scarred from the moment of my birth."

The hand crushed inside of Jaufre's began to tremble, tremble so hard that Jaufre found he could not prevent his own limb from shaking as well.

"What—what is your name, boy?"

"I call myself Roland Fitzmacy."

"Fitzmacy? A strange choice, surely."

"My father never saw fit to leave behind a name for me, so I perforce had to find my own."

The accusing words blasted through the room like the cold draft rushing from above as the dungeon door scraped open. The earl could hear two voices, Master Galvan's and a woman's, arguing. Then the guard fell silent. When Melyssan rounded the curve of the stair, she was alone.

Bracing herself against the wall, she placed one foot carefully after the other upon steps that were more worn here than in any other part of the castle. She cringed as a large rat scuttled past her skirts, and the sticky threads of cobwebs tangled around her fingers. A heavy, dank odor of decay hung in the air, and she half expected to confront the naked bones of some long-forgotten prisoner.

The sight that met her eyes was far stranger. Man and boy confronted each other, frozen immobile as statues except for their interlocked hands, which shook as if under the strain of some mighty contest. Her arrival seemed to break the spell that chained them together.

Jaufre released the lad, shifting himself on the stool so that his cloak covered his leg, but not before Melyssan saw the red patch spreading along his tunic. She all but flung herself the rest of the way down the stairs.

"My lord, what madness is this? When Tristan told me you had come down here, I could scarce believe it. You should be in your bed. You cannot—"

She broke off as the torchlight better revealed Jaufre's face to her. He was pale, with a certain stillness in his eyes she knew instinctively had nothing to do with the pain of his wound.

One eyebrow raised in but a weak imitation of his usual mockery. "Ah, do come in, Lyssa. Come here and meet Roland Fitzmacy, the young gentleman who tried to split your skull with an arrow yesterday."

"Nay, you lie, varlet. Never would I purposefully try to harm a lady." The boy's hands balled into fists as he took a menacing step closer to Jaufre.

Melyssan flung her body in front of the earl as she faced the lad she had come to think of as a bloodthirsty savage. But Jaufre's next words nearly caused her to tumble over onto the earl's lap.

"Rest easy, my lady," he drawled. "Surely there is no need for you to protect me from my own son."

"Your—your son?" She stared at the lad, who propped his hands on his hips, silver-gray eyes defying her disbelief.

"Aye, so it would seem," Jaufre said. "He has the mark, the look of a de Macy about him. And this." The earl dangled the golden medallion before her eyes. "Although I must say, his mother chose a peculiar way of restoring it to me."

"My mother is dead," Roland spat out. "And even if she were alive, she would have restored nothing. She lost interest in me years ago after she had other sons,
legitimate sons
by a man with enough honor to have married her."

"I see." Jaufre lightly touched his injured leg. "Then this tender reunion was all your own idea."

The gesture served to startle Melyssan out of the trance she had fallen into since entering the dungeon. There would be time enough later to sort out this bewildering turn of events. Right now, she had to help Jaufre. But when she tried to examine the new damage he had done to his leg, he pushed her aside, his eyes never wavering from Roland.

"Well, boy?"

Roland's lip jutted out, and he folded his arms across his chest. But his cheeks flushed a bright red, and he lowered his gaze to the ground. "I—I never set out to kill you, if that is what you mean. I heard about you from my mother's chaplain, tales of what a brave and honorable knight my father was. I thought you might care—might have enough sense of responsibility to help me win my spurs."

He scuffed his toe in the straw. "I first tried to see you outside of the Chateau Le Vis, and you had them set the dogs on me. The next time we met, you were more concerned about that damned stag. I still carry the marks on my back from that encounter. You left me with no other means to draw myself to your attention."

Melyssan heard the sharp intake of Jaufre's breath, but before he could reply to the outrageous speech, Roland astonished her by capturing one of her hands.

"If I frightened you yesterday, my lady, I most humbly crave your pardon. You were never in any danger. I am the finest bowman in all of Normandy."

As he lifted her limp fingers to his lips, a strangled oath issued from Jaufre. The Dark Knight struggled to his feet. Although he braced himself with her staff' in one hand, he managed to yank Melyssan to his side with the other.

"I'll have you drawn and quartered yet, you insolent pup. Why the devil didn't you just open your mouth and tell me who you were that day in the field? Your tongue seems to run loose enough upon all other occasions."

A lump bobbed up and down in Roland's thin throat. "I shouldn't have had to tell you. You should have known. You should have recognized me."

"Recognize you? St. Michael, grant me patience! How was I supposed to recognize what I didn't even know existed? Your mother never told me she was with child."

"That makes no difference." Roland's high treble voice rose in volume to match the earl's. "You should have married her after you bedded her. After you wantoned her, 'twas the only honorable course."

"Wantoned? If we are going to speak of lost virginity—" Jaufre halted abruptly, then added more to himself, "But I suppose at that time I cherished the same boyish notions of honor. Must be why Amicia kept quiet about the babe."

In calmer tones, Jaufre addressed Roland again. "Boy, your mother was the daughter of a powerful French baron and a wealthy widow. She had no desire to marry a green youth who was only a younger son. My elder brothers still lived then. I had no prospect of inheritance. 'Twas but a pleasant interlude for both of us, nothing more."

Although Jaufre's fingers on her waist were warm, binding, his casual description of his past
affaire de coeur
struck a chill to Melyssan's heart. A pleasant interlude. Was that how he would think of her when she was gone?

Jaufre's turn of phrase did not set well with his son, either. "Pleasant?" Roland said, his voice ominously quiet. "Aye, pleasant for everyone but me."

"When you are older, when you have had some experience of women yourself, you will understand better how these things happen."

Roland drew himself up to a lofty stance. "I will never stoop to such sordid behavior. For a knight to achieve great deeds, he must remain pure in heart and mind."

Jaufre's face suffused a deep purple. He released Melyssan and turned away, muttering, "Of all the priggish young… I have to get out of here before I kill him with my bare hands." He nearly stumbled as he began climbing the stairs. Halfway up, he bellowed without turning around, "Melyssan!"

The sound of her name set her frozen feet into motion. But before she followed Jaufre out of the dungeon, she took one final look at the boy. She found she could almost forgive him for what he'd done to Jaufre. He looked so small and desolate in that vast empty chamber, blinking up at the torch as if he waited for it to burn out and plunge him into darkness once more.

Jaufre paused on the other side of the heavy oak door to wipe the beads of sweat from his brow. "God's blood, if this isn't the last thing I needed to find out today, that I am sire to some half-lunatic Sir Galahad."

Before Melyssan could say anything, Jaufre's eyes swept her accusingly. "This was most likely Amicia's doing. She probably stuffed the boy's head full of those Camelot legends, that same Arthurian nonsense you are so fond of. If nothing else, this is a lesson to me that a man should be careful where he spills his seed. I want no more bastards."

Self-consciously, Melyssan's hand flew to her stomach. But no, she reassured herself. She had no reason as yet to believe she might be with child. It would not be the first time she had been a few days late.

"What—what will you do with the boy?" she asked, trying desperately to think of anything but the new fear his words gave her.

"How the devil should I know?" Still using her staff, he hobbled up the inner staircase that led back to the great hall. Walking but a few paces behind him, Melyssan could tell he grew more unsteady with every step he took.

"You must pardon me for appropriating your cane," he said through clenched teeth as they reached the upper archway. "I suppose I will have to have one of my own made."

She tried to draw his arm about her shoulders, fearing soon that her slender weight would not be enough to support him. "You must return to your bed, Jaufre, and let me rebind the wound. Tis bleeding again."

"Small wonder, with all the chunks you cut from me. I told you 'twas better to let well enough alone."

Even as he spoke the harsh words and saw her flinch, Jaufre regretted his churlishness, but the burning pain and growing sense of giddiness stifled any attempts he might have made to ask her pardon. He did not want to rip up at Melyssan. If only she could let be. If only she understood the true source of his agitation. But he could not bring himself to add to her distress by telling her of the messenger that had arrived early that morning. He hated to watch the way her face drained of all color, how her sea-green eyes dilated with fear at the mere mention of the king's name.

How would she react if she knew that John had summoned the earl to march with his army against the Welsh, a summons that concluded by declaring that if Jaufre did not come, John would know once and for all that the Dark Knight was his enemy and a traitor to the realm of England?

To send word now of his injury would seem like fabricating a convenient excuse. If he were attainted for treason, what would happen to Melyssan, Tristan, his knights, and all those who followed under his banner? They would be dragged down with him. What of the pledge of his grandfather, which he had not yet tried to fulfill? Jaufre rubbed his thumb over the swans on the signet ring. He had no choice. He had to join the army at Nottingham. But how he would manage it when his head swam with every step he took, he did not know.