Winterbourne (41 page)

"No, my lady," Tristan said gently. "But you must understand. Losing the battle, being captured. His pride has suffered a terrible blow. And despite how much he complained about it, I believe he is sick at heart that he did not retake Clairemont as he promised his grandfather."

He slipped an arm around her comfortingly. "Be patient with him, Melyssan. Time will restore to you the Jaufre you once knew. You must perforce wait a little longer."

She burst into tears. "But I have waited so long already. Since—since I was nine years old!"

She fled inside the donjon, leaving Tristan with his brow knotted in a frown, puzzled over her parting words.

During the ensuing days, Melyssan felt as though Jaufre had not returned to Winterbourne. It was his ghost that slunk along the curving stairs, a silent shadow that shrank from the company of other men. He spent many hours pacing the castle walls, pacing until Melyssan thought he must collapse from exhaustion.

Her bed remained as empty as when he had been a prisoner in France. It was worse now, having him close enough to touch yet seeing no answering spark of desire in his eyes. She oft stepped out of her way, stumbled, just to brush up against him. He never seemed to see her, any more than he did Jenny. Although the child was never forthcoming with those unfamiliar to her, she had conceived a positive fascination for the tall, quiet stranger who was her father. She toddled after him at every available opportunity.

Storm clouds hovered over Winterbourne the Sunday after Jaufre's arrival. The rumble of thunder and gray sheets of rain did little to raise Melyssan's depressed spirits. She arranged a special mass to be said in the chapel, celebrating the earl's safe return. But Jaufre startled everyone by refusing to attend.

"I fear, after all those years of the interdict, I have little stomach for this sort of ceremony," he said. "The rest of you may go pray and bless yourselves, just as you wish."

"But—but my lord," Father Andrew faltered. "Do I understand you to say that you never mean to attend mass?"

"Aye, you've a keen understanding, Father."

The priest regarded Jaufre sternly. "You cannot have thought this matter through, my lord. Regardless of your personal feelings, you must be aware that you set the tone for the rest of the household. Your knights look to you for spiritual example."

"I provide an example for no man," Jaufre said. "Let them find their own road to hell."

He retreated to the solar, as oblivious to Father Andrew's shocked disapproval as he was to Melyssan's beseeching look.

She half feared the storm would not keep him from his endless tread along the battlements, but later that afternoon, when she adjourned to the solar, she found him there, staling out the croslet at the drenching rain. Tristan and Whitney sat playing checkers at the trestle table. But from the remote expression on Jaufre's face, he might well have been alone.

Melyssan gathered up her needlework, pulling her stool as near to Jaufre as she dared without disturbing him. Her stitching lay idle in her lap while she stole glances at Jaufre's silent profile. She noticed that Tristan and Whitney did the same. Every few minutes, Jaufre would take a restless turn about the room as if the walls constricted him.

The tension grew so heavy even the snap of the logs on the fire resounded through the quiet room like cracks of lightning. Tristan shifted his legs, cleared his throat. "I heard that whilst on patrol, you met some of Sir Hugh's men out hunting yesterday," he said to Whitney.

"Aye." Whitney shoved one of his red pieces forward. "They had some black tidings to pass along. The king…" He paused to look at Melyssan. "Mayhap I should tell you later."

"Do not hold back on my account," she said. "I do not believe there is anything more the king could do which would shock me."

She gazed up at her husband, wondering if in his present frame of mind he would be distressed by more tales of the king. John was a subject Jaufre had avoided since his return. But he continued to stare out the window, his face expressionless.

Oh, my love
, she longed to call to him.
You are no longer in a French prison. Forget those terrible days, the lost war. Come back to me, Jaufre. Come back
.

Whitney jumped one of Tristan's checkers, then, as though unable to keen still, went on with his story. "Sir Hugh's huntsman said the king hanged three knights from Bristol last week. No warning, no trial, no reason! Except mayhap the king coveted the wife of one."

Melyssan shuddered. "Poor woman."

"Such tales are so commonplace these days," said Tristan. "I think the king's temper has grown worse since his failure in France."

"We would not have to be at the mercy of the king's temper if we had the Great Charter." Whitney nearly knocked the checkerboard to the floor in his vehemence. "They say Fitzwalter's army means to march on London soon. I loathe fighting, but by God, I wish I were with them. If it ever pleased my lord to join the rebellion, I would follow him willingly."

"Well, it does not please my lord." Jaufre's deep voice caused Melyssan to jump. He spun around, looking like a man who had just been startled awake. "I have no intention of being involved in a skirmish which is none of my affair."

"None of your affair?" Whitney croaked. "People robbed of their lands, wrongfully slain, even women and children such as Matilda de Briouse and her son—"

"These people are nothing to me. I shall consider myself fortunate to protect what is my own from the king. Others must do the same."

Tristan's mouth opened as if to speak, then closed. But Melyssan could no longer remain silent. "My lord, I thought as a knight, you are pledged to… would wish to…'" She faltered, her eyes flicking to the mural, where Sir Launcelot charged, his lance aimed at a black-armored knight. "Not everyone is as strong, as invincible, as you are, Jaufre."

He followed the direction of her gaze, and Melyssan saw a flash of anger return to the mahogany eyes.

"Invincible?" He gave a mirthless laugh. "Aye, so invincible I rode to Paris chained to an ox cart like one of those pathetic bears dragged from town to town, performing for the rabble."

Melyssan felt the color drain from her cheeks. "Oh, Jaufre. I am so sorry. I—I never imagined…"

"What did you think? That I pranced along the streets like some sort of conqueror? Nay, my dear, defeated knights are treated like the cattle they are."

When she rose, stepping toward him, he held up one hand to ward her off. "Stay where you are. I do not need your pity." He shifted his gaze to glare at Tristan and Whitney. "Any more than I need to hear this endless blathering about that charter. Christ's blood! The talk has been of nothing else since I set foot on English soil. I don't intend to risk my life, or imprisonment, for a worthless scrap of paper."

He strode out of the solar, slamming the door behind him. Melyssan turned slowly, her eyes locking with Tristan's. The knight lowered his head, seeming no longer able to give her the reassurance she sought.

She tried to stifle the surge of disappointment that welled in-side her. Jaufre was home. Safe. She should be grateful. What more did she expect? She had always known that her husband had abandoned the ideals of his youth.

But she sensed he had abandoned other things as well. Somewhere at Bouvines, the dungeon in Paris, he had left behind the aura of strength and confidence that had once emanated from him. The confidence that had enveloped her like a warm mantle, making her feel safe, secure. Jaufre was home, but she still felt afraid.

Chapter 18

The rains passed. By the next afternoon the sun broke through the clouds, burning away all traces of the storm. Jaufre watched as the servants erected a silk tent behind the apple tree in the garden. They dragged a large tub inside, carting buckets of water to fill the wooden vessel. Then he dismissed the servants, refusing all help with disrobing for his bath.

Alone, he removed his boots, mud-caked from a morning of tromping across the fields to settle a dispute between two of his tenants over a parcel of land. He stripped off his sword belt and sweat-stained surcoat. It was unusually warm for this early in spring. Breathing in the scent of the apple blossoms, he lifted his eyes to the tiny white petals fluttering from the tree. Above him loomed the great donjon, the sun glinting off the white arcading the masons had sculpted with such care nigh sixty years ago. Familiar scents and sights. Winterbourne was as ever unchanged. Why did it seem so foreign to him?

Because he had changed. He no longer felt worthy to be the master of these lands, not worthy to be the grandson of Comte Raoul de Macy of Clairemont. He had failed to keep his oath, returned home beaten. A knight who had lost his shield, his sword, his horse… his honor. He had crept back into England, a year of his life wasted languishing in a French fortress.

He could not complain he had been ill-treated while a prisoner. The food had been adequate, his cot comfortable, the chamber large enough to walk about. But his sleep had been tormented with dreams of Winterbourne, of Lyssa with her honey-brown hair and green eyes. Longing for her became an unbearable ache, his desire a fiery torture worse than if they had racked his body over live coals.

And now that he was back, he could hardly bear for her to look at him. Had he seen disappointment lurking in her eyes at having her husband return thus? Skulking back home like some vagabond? She, who had always cherished such a shining vision of him. Sir Launcelot.

Jaufre snorted. She must learn sooner or later he was naught but an ordinary man. There was no way he could live up to the chivalric fantasies she harbored in her soul. He even doubted his strength to hold what was his, defend his wife and daughter from a tyrant's madness. What would King John do when he discovered the earl who had defied him in France was still very much alive and back in England? Perhaps he should send Lyssa and Jenny away, hide them…

He shucked off his tunic and shirt until he stood clad only in his woolen breeches. Trailing his fingers through the chill water, he shuddered. How much would it take to cleanse himself of the shame of his failure?

A movement outside the tent caught his eye. He whistled low, half expecting it to be one of the greyhounds. A pair of dark curls appeared at the tent opening, followed by wide brown eyes that peered at him.

"What's this?" he said, starting forward. "Have pixies invaded Winterbourne in my absence?" At his approach, the babe backed away, nearly stumbling onto her rump. He stepped out of the tent, following her.

Babe. She was scarce that any longer, but more of a little girl. Her cheeks had lost some of that babe-like roundness, her dusky hair brushing against the neckline of her linen shirt, which did not quite reach her knees.

"Jenny," he whispered, lowering himself on one knee to her level, stretching out his arms. Although he had been home over a week, she was still shy with him. It pained him to think she had no memory of him.

"Come, child. I will not hurt you." He spoke gently, withdrawing a pace. He longed to lift her into his aims but dreaded that he would frighten her. After studying him for several minutes, the child moved closer without a trace of fear in her eyes. He soon discovered it was not himself she had come to inspect. She swooped past him, pouncing upon his discarded clothing.

With a crow of delight, she lifted the jeweled sheath that contained his dagger, her stubby fingers attempting to pluck free the shining rubies embedded in the teather.

"No, Jenny." He snatched the weapon from her grasp. " Tis naught for little girls to play with."

Shocked indignation swirled in her velvet-brown eyes. She plunked herself onto the ground, her lower lip thrust out before she let loose an ear-shattering wail.

He gaped at her in astonishment before sternly commanding, "Genevieve. Stop that racket at once." He swiped ineffectually at the large tears trickling down her face. She ignored his soothing attempts at placation, stiffening her spine when he lifted her onto his lap. Despite himself, his irritation gave way to a twinge of amusement at the killing look his daughter directed at him. Faith, if the child were a queen, she would be screaming, "Off with his head!"

"Oh, here." He returned the sheathed weapon to her. "I do not suppose you are strong enough to draw forth the blade in any case."

Jenny gave several more wounded sniffs before she would accept the offering. Then she began to examine the jewels once more, her woebegone face splitting into a dazzling smile. Jaufre expelled a great sigh of relief.

"Such a temper! I'll wager someday you will make your husband tremble in his boots."

She peered up at him through long dark lashes, coy dimples quivering in her cheeks as though she understood his words. Jaufre tangled his fingers in the silken strands of her curls.

"Ah, Jenny. Do you have any notion at all who I am?"

A look of keen intelligence crossed the child's face. She poked one pudgy finger against his stomach. "Darnigh. Darnigh," she said.

"Darnigh?" he repeated, his brow furrowing in confusion. Then his face cleared, and he smiled at her. "Oh. Dark Knight."

Jenny bobbed her head vigorously. "Aye, Darnigh."

"I can see your mother has been stuffing that wee head with too many foolish tales." He flicked his fingers under her plump chin. "Dark Knight is not my name, Jenny. I am your father. Fa-ther," he said, emphasizing each syllable.

Her small nose crinkled. She patted her warm, moist palm against his chest. "Fah-ver," she pronounced solemnly, then surprised him by bouncing upward to plant a wet kiss on his cheek. She hugged the dagger sheath, regarding him with large, innocent eyes, eyes that held no knowledge of lost battles, broken oaths, defeat…

The child's look of open adoration touched some chord deep inside him. For the first time in many months, Jaufre discovered he still knew how to smile.

It was sometime later when Melyssan realized the nurse had misplaced her daughter. Canice was full of apology. She had looked away for but a moment. Melyssan curtly ordered her to check the stable yard. Jenny wandered in that direction whenever she got the chance, and none of the men would possess the sense to send her back.