Winterbourne (33 page)

We deem Winterbourne adequate to hold against any Welsh uprisings. Beyond that, Lord Jaufre need not fear.

By Grace of God, His Most Sovereign

Majesty, John of England.

"Adequate!" Jaufre raised his head to glare at the quaking messenger. "He deems this
adequate
. Only look here, sirrah."

He seized the messenger by the front of his tunic and dragged him over to the croslet. "Look at the north wall, how weak it sets upon the edge of the old castle mound. It could be mined under in a matter of days. And those old square towers." Jaufre thrust his pointing finger so close that the servant blinked. "How is one even supposed to see the enemy attacking on that side?"

"I—I don't know, my lord."

"And the old water gateway, with no further outer wall to defend it. Think you Winterbourne is safe?"

"Ah—ah, 'tis a most noble-looking castle, my lord."

Jaufre gave him a fierce shake.

"N-no, my lord. Not safe. Ah, St. Michael bless me. Not safe."

"Bah!" Jaufre released him so abruptly the man's spiderlike legs all but collapsed beneath him. Striding over to the table, Jaufre swept his hand across it, sending the plans scattering in all directions, scattering even as his dreams for building Winterbourne into the mightiest fortress in England.

He shoved John's letter back at the messenger. "Here. You know what you can do with this."

The servant nodded bleakly.

Balling his hands into fists, Jaufre stormed toward the door, pausing a moment to look back. "When you return to London, you may tell His Most Sovereign Majesty that—" The earl broke off, his anger momentarily lost in astonishment.

The messenger was tearing off bits of the letter and slowly chewing the parchment with the resignation of a martyr.

"What in the name of St. George are you doing?"

The messenger swallowed, gagged, and then mournfully tore off another piece. "Alas, my lord, this is not the first time I have been required to eat a message I have delivered for the king. Most of the barons—"

"You fool. I only meant for you to rip it up or burn it. I—Oh, God's teeth!" Throwing up his hands in disgust, Jaufre stalked out of the solar. As he took the curving stairs to the great hall two at a time, he reflected it was as well he had been diverted by the servant's folly. He had been about to make a very imprudent reply to John's message.

His fists clenched again at the king's refusal to allow him to fortify his castle. Obviously John did not want the earl of Winterbourne sheltered behind the walls of a mighty fortress, sheltered beyond his own grasping talons. An uneasy truce had existed between himself and the king ever since his marriage to Melyssan. As preparations moved forward each day for the long-awaited invasion into France, he and John were bound together by a common goal. Sometimes Jaufre dared believe they might succeed in conquering Normandy. It was close to one year since his grandfather had died, and he had not yet kept his pledge. Although he grudged the waste of men and money that would go into the French campaign, he would at least free himself of that accursed oath when the old comte's banner flew over Clairemont again. But when that time came, what would become of his unholy alliance with the king? How could he ensure that Melyssan and their child would remain safe from the tyrant's uncertain temper?

As he entered the dais end of the great hall, the servants were yet clearing away the remains of the midday meal. Most of the food on his trencher remained untouched. It was impossible to eat while Melyssan's chair at his side remained empty, while above-stairs she…

Jaufre halted on the last step. How could it take so damnably long for such a small thing as a babe to be born? Something had to be wrong. Despite himself, he half turned to go back up the stairs. Damn it. There had to be something he could do. Yet he remembered how earlier he had lingered by Melyssan's bedside and reached for her hand.

"Don't touch me," she had said through clenched teeth. For one dumbfounded moment, he thought she had cursed him under her breath as her hands came up to clutch her abdomen. Then she had snapped at him to move back and cease smothering her.

"Well, I'll be hanged if I
smother
her anymore," Jaufre muttered, reluctantly returning to his original course through the great hall. As he passed by, he overheard one of the servants whisper to his fellow, "Lookee, 'ere comes the earl to commence his pacing around the great hall again."

Jaufre glowered at the fellow. Instead of withering under his stare, the impudent creature grinned. "Gor bless Yer Lordship. Tis only the first that's so worrisome. By the next time yer lady is in the straw, ye'll be off ahunting somewheres."

Jaufre stepped toward the man. He was seriously considering wringing his scrawny old neck when he was startled by a loud crash from the other end of the hall. Whirling, he saw that two of his young squires had come to blows, sending an iron candelabrum toppling over. If the wax tapers had been lit, the fools would have set the rushes afire. Several of the maidservants scattered away, squealing as the two young men hugged each other like ferocious bears, hurtling to the floor in a tangle of legs and flailing fists.

Jaufre hurried across the hall, mumbling imprecations under his breath. Most heartily did he regret having sent Tristan to replace the aged seneschal whose recent death had left Ashlar in a state of confusion. Because of Melyssan's impending confinement, the earl had hesitated to travel north himself. But without Tristan's sobering presence, his squires were more apt to indulge in unruly confrontations such as this one.

"Hold, both of you, and get to your feet!" Jaufre bellowed, but the young men were too far gone in their anger to heed him. They broke apart, struggling to find room to deliver their blows as fists
whooshed
through the air. One of the combatants was Roland, but that came as no surprise. When a fight broke out, one was always Roland. At least the boy had not gone for his sword this time.

Jaufre lunged forward, grabbing the closest belligerent, the young squire, Arric. As he yanked him back, the priest burst out of the chapel and rushed to intercept Roland.

It was by Melyssan's request Father Andrew had returned as chaplain at Winterbourne. Jaufre conceded that the man, though aged, carried a certain quiet authority. The priest subdued the furious Roland without doing more than laying a hand on his shoulder and staring hard into his eyes. It took Jaufre a moment longer to bring Arric to his senses. The young man came close to gouging the earl with his elbow before he realized who had seized him. Only when he felt the tension slacken from Arric's shoulders did Jaufre release his grip on the boy.

"What is this, my sons?" asked Father Andrew, his low voice carrying even in the vast cavern that was the great hall. "You behave like peasant lads outside the very door of God's temple, forgetting the respect you owe your Creator and the earl. To treat his great hall as if it were a stableyard—"

"Thank you, Father, but I can preach my own sermons," Jaufre said, staring from Arric's blackened eye to the flushed face of his son. "Would one of you care to favor me with an explanation before I—"

"I can't bear any more of this posturing, my lord," Arric burst out. "Even if he is your son. He is a traitor. He—"

"A traitor? Simply because I speak the truth?" Roland wiped a trickle of blood from his chin, regarding Arric with heated scom.

"Truth? You lying poltroon! Forever bleating about that knave across the Channel."

"That knave is a great king. You wouldn't catch Philip Augustus crawling on his belly to the pope like your paltry John Softsword—"

Father Andrew sternly intervened. "You forget King John's recent obeisance will put an end to our terrible interdict."

"Your pardon, Father. But for King John to give his crown to the pope! Make England a mere vassal of Rome! Pah, what a weakling! In France, it would not be tolerated."

"If you love the French so much," Arric snarled, "go back over there, you Norman bastard."

"Enough." Jaufre gave Roland a sharp cuff on the ear when the young man took a purposeful step in Arric's direction. His son's eyes flashed silver lightning, his fingers flying to the sword at his belt. But Father Andrew's hand shot out to quickly cover the boy's.

"Have both of you forgotten your original intentions? You had come to pray with me in the chapel for the safe delivery of our lady Melyssan through her ordeal of childbirth."

"They'd best pray for their own safe delivery if I catch them at such mad sport again," Jaufre said. "I'll not have my knights or my squires fighting amongst themselves."

"I will speak to them of their duties," Father Andrew said gently. "But for now, mayhap Your Lordship would care to accompany us to the chapel and—"

"Prayers are your province." Jaufre folded his arms across his chest. "That is what I pay you for… unless you care to say a mass instead," he mocked. "Nay, I forgot. The interdict has not officially been lilted. Your holy master the pope still haggles with the king over what fines John will pay for his insolence in defying Rome. Of course, such monetary considerations are of far more importance to the Church than what few miserable souls may be lost in the meantime."

The priest bowed his head, refusing to be baited, but not before Jaufre noted the tightening of the lips, the spark of anger in the pale blue eyes. Aye, he thought, you loathe me as much I despise you, sir priest. You would have seen Lyssa a nun, dead, anything sooner than become my wife. You've made your feelings plain ever since I permitted you to speak the vows that bound us together, although the words well-nigh killed you.

Aloud he said, "Arric, since you have time for such idleness as prayers, you may spend the rest of the day mucking out the stables. Roland will join you after we have had some private speech."

With that he turned on his heel and stalked away, without waiting to see his commands obeyed. Roland shuffled along behind him, but Jaufre did not turn around to face the young man until they were alone in the solar. He seated himself in the high-backed chair while Roland stood stiffly before him, his shoulders squared as if he balanced a block of wood there and dared anyone to knock it off. His resemblance to the old comte was so great, Jaufre found it painful to look upon him. Those silver-gray eyes seemed a reproach to him, a reminder of the promise he had made to Raoul de Macy, a promise unkept.

The earl suppressed an urge to run his hand through his hair. By no gesture or look must he show the sensation of weariness and defeat that came over him when he regarded this son of his. Aye, the boy had trained hard over the past months. He had seen to that, keeping his son under his own eye instead of sending him off to study the skills of a knight while serving another lord, as was the custom. And Roland had learned quickly. He rode, fought with a sword, and handled the lance with more dexterity than many men who had already won their spurs. But he had not outgrown the reckless lack of self-discipline and the boastful hauteur that brewed trouble wherever he chanced to be.

"Well, boy," Jaufre said at last. "I thought I made it plain I would tolerate no more of you stirring trouble amongst my household."

Roland tipped his head back, a gesture that accented the pugnacious set of his chin. "Take your squires to task, my lord. They are equally to blame. I cannot so much as breathe a word about my old home in France without one of them ready to set upon me."

'"Aye, of course, and with no encouragement whatsoever from you. Do not think to cozen me, boy. I hear how your tongue runs apace, bragging of the superior prowess of French knights over the English, singing praise of Philip Augustus."

" 'Tis fitting for a man to speak well of his liege lord."

"As long as you remain here at Winterbourne, I am your liege lord and I serve John of England. In future, you will remember that or I will whip you myself."

"You may attempt it."

Jaufre swore and half rose from his chair. "One day you will push me too far, boy. You expect special consideration because you are of my blood, but—"

"Special consideration?" Roland laughed bitterly. "I would like only to be treated as well as the other squires. No matter what happens, you always leap to the conclusion I am the one to blame. My punishment is always twice as harsh. Nothing I ever do meets with your approval."

"You asked me to help you win your spurs, boy. Not coddle you like a—" Jaufre halted midsentence as a strange sound penetrated the solar. It was as soft as the mew of a kitten, so soft he was not sure he had heard it until Roland also cocked one ear as if listening to something in the chamber above them.

" Tis the cry of a babe," said Roland.

Jaufre felt his heartbeat quicken but shook his head. "Nay, it could not be. How could such a small voice carry so far?"

"A lusty pair of lungs. Doubtless those of a male child." Roland swallowed and then choked out, "My felicitations, Your Lordship. It would seem you have finally acquired a son." His face gone quite pale, Roland made Jaufre a stiff bow before sweeping out of the room.

The earl stared after him, unwillingly seized by a pang of sympathy for the young man. For once Roland's customary expression of hauteur had been belied by a look of hurt longing.

Ah, but 'twas too late, Jaufre thought, years too late to forge a bond with this son who resented him. And above-stairs Lyssa awaited him, Lyssa and the child who would one day be his heir.

The sunlight streaming across the bed blurred before Melyssan's eyes as she lay panting, gathering the remains of her strength to keep from plunging into blackness. Her legs trembled violently as her whole body experienced a surge of relief, freed of its great burden. Weak she was, but the pain was gone, and in the distance she could hear her babe screaming loudly enough to bring the castle walls down. She drew in another deep breath, and her head cleared.

The kindly moon-shaped face of the midwife hovered above her, wiping her brow with a damp cloth and pressing a brew of slippery elm bark to her lips. Lyssa sipped and choked on the tea.