Winterbourne (11 page)

She hugged Gunnor one more time, then drew away, saying, "Now you must hurry. I vow your cousin waxes impatient."

She glanced down at the darkened waterway, where Sir Hugh had just lifted his son to a tall man seated in a small wherry. The knight mounted the stone steps made slick by the lapping water and held out his hand to help his wife down. With a misty-eyed smile, Gunnor carefully descended to the lightly rocking boat.

Sir Hugh turned to Melyssan. "Thank you again, Lady Melyssan. I hope that our stay here has caused no discord between you and the earl."

Truthfully Melyssan could assure him it had not, since Jaufre as yet remained in ignorance of the true identity of his guests and she hoped that he would remain so. Sir Hugh saluted her hand with his lips, then leapt down to join his family.

Huddling in the warm folds of her mantle, she watched until the boat was rowed under the arched gateway and became naught but a dim shadow on the river beyond.

Master Galvan hustled to lower the iron portcullis, grumbling to himself, "Pilgrimages in the middle of the night. Pilgrimages to the devil, I say. Good riddance!"

Although she would not have expressed it the same way, Melyssan shared the guard's relief. She limped back to where Father Andrew stood, holding the candle, waiting to guide her back to her room.

"Well, we did it, Father." She smiled. "Sir Hugh and his lady are safely away from Winterbourne."

"Aye," the priest agreed, his gaunt face still lined with anxiety. "But I would feel better if we had got you safely away as well."

"I will be all right," Melyssan said, for the first believing it herself, that she had weathered the worst of Jaufre's stormy temper and come through the experience untouched.

No, she deceived herself if she thought that. Although she was a maiden still, Jaufre's kiss, his fierce embrace, had touched her, shattered her calm forever, awakening in her a longing to know what it was like to be loved by a man. One man… the lord of Winterbourne.

She became aware that the old priest regarded her through troubled eyes almost as if she'd spoken aloud, as if Jaufre's caress had left some visible mark on her countenance. A telltale blush mounted her cheeks, and she said, "You must not worry about me, Father."

"I have worried about you ever since that day I perjured myself before the king, telling him 'twas I who married you and Lord Jaufre. Now I fear I may not have helped save your honor after all. When—when His Lordship carried you from the great hall…"

"Nay, Father, 'tis not as it seemed. Although Lord Jaufre was exceedingly wroth with me, I swear to you I am unharmed."

"I am glad to hear that, my daughter," the priest said as if he still reserved some doubt. "Even so, I wish you were far away from this place."

"As I surely will be soon. On my way to St. Clare." She felt even less joy than usual at the thought of the convent. "In any case, I would not have gone without Whitney. How fared he after I left the hall?"

Father Andrew frowned. "He took no physical hurt. But his own meekness, his inability to defend you, gave him much spiritual pain. He went off with some of my lord's knights and I fear drank himself into the same condition as Father…" The priest's lips tightened as he corrected himself. "I mean Hubert LeVis."

"My poor gentle Whitney." Melyssan sighed. "If only he were not an only son, if only he had your choice, Father."

"The priesthood was not meant to be an escape from the problems of this world," Father Andrew said sternly. "Any more than a convent is. Now come, child. 'Tis time you returned to your bed."

He walked on ahead, illuminating the treacherous curved steps. Melyssan followed, pondering what the priest had said. Were his remarks meant for her as well as Whitney? Yet it was not as if she willingly sought to hide herself at St. Clare. In her wickedness, she'd begun to think she would offer up her soul for another future, a future such as other women enjoyed—the shelter of a warm home, a strong husband, babes.

All those things that Jaufre's wife would have when he married again. And if he ever chose to give his heart as well, that lady would be more blessed than all the saints.

Of course when Jaufre took a bride, it would be a maiden like her sister Beatrice, lithesome, beautiful, able to walk straight, graceful beside him, dance on their wedding day.

Her shoulders sagged at the thought until she felt leaden with weariness, drained by the day's events that had so unsettled her existence at Winterbourne. She parted from Father Andrew in the great hall, assuring him that the wall torches were adequate lighting for her to find her way back. Shuffling across the rush-strewn floor, her eyes were drawn to the spot where Father Hubert had collapsed, and she half expected to find him nestled amongst the many servants asleep on their pallets. But the huge bulk of the man was gone, and she assumed that in spite of Jaufre's command, Tristan had moved the priest to a more comfortable resting place.

All was silent, even the guards making their rounds in another part of the castle. Therefore when she approached the door to the solar, the scraping noise, slight as it was, carried to her ears. She paused, wondering if one of the greyhounds had somehow gotten itself shut up inside the room. Strange, though, that the animal did not howl and bark until it was released.

Leaning against the door, she opened it a crack and peered inside. Much to her amazement, a tallow candle burned, throwing out a small circle of light from its position on the table. The scratching issued not from just inside the threshold, but over by the Conquest mural. Swinging the door open wider, she confronted the broad buttocks of Hubert Le Vis as he bent down to squint at something, wiping away the perspiration glistening on his rotund face with a linen napkin.

Her gasp of surprise startled him, and he twisted his head around. Spotting her in the doorway, he scrambled to his feet with astonishing swiftness for a man of his size and one moreover who had been presumed dead drunk only hours earlier.

"Why, if it isn't Lord Jaufre's… lady." After his initial shock at seeing her had faded, he leered at her, moving closer. "What draws you from your bed at this hour?"'

A twinge of apprehension nipped at her, and she paused uncertainly in the doorway. "I thought I heard some sort of scratching in here."

Father Hubert mopped at his brow again. "Oh, that. Yes, I heard it, too. Rats behind the wainscoting, I think."

"Rats! Tis impossible. That's a solid stone wall." She ventured a timid step inside the room, trying to see the painting, but Father Hubert blocked her path. He reeked of wine, his red-veined eyes staring at her with an odd intensity, his mouth going slack. The hair prickled along her arm at having him so near, but she tried to repress her shivers. Despite his peasant-like manners, the man was, after all, a priest.

"Surely a lusty wench like you can find better ways to spend her nights other than rat catching." He chuckled, his coarse fingers brushing her neck as he lifted one of her tresses, inspecting the golden-brown wave.

She snatched the strands away, stumbling back, her uneasiness at being alone with him growing stronger every minute. But she forgot her disquiet when she spotted a sword and a small pile of wood chips on the floor beyond him. "What is—Oh, no. The mural!"

Stooping down, she stretched her fingers out to the Saxon warrior she had touched only that morning. Now the figure was mutilated beyond recognition along with several other of King Harold's soldiers. Why would anyone want to deface such a magnificent painting? It was almost as if the vandal expected to find something behind… She froze as she remembered how she'd once heard her father speak of ambries, spaces many noblemen carved out in the walls of their castle to hide their valuables. But she'd never thought of there being such a thing at Winterbourne. Lifting her staff, she rapped on the mural panel. It was hollow.

"Some thief must have been trying to get at Lord Jaufre's treasure," she said, straightening up. "Did you see anyone, Father?" She stopped as an unwelcome realization crowded into her mind.

"No one at all," he said with a chilling smile.

"I—I had best summon the guard."

Striving to suppress her growing panic, she hobbled toward the solar entrance, but
Le Gros's
thick hand shot past her, slamming the door shut as he leaned his weight against it.

"A pretty performance, my dear." His porcine features split into an evil grin. "Such wide-eyed innocence. But I've a notion you've known about the cupboard for some time, clever girl that you are. Now why don't you be a good child and show Father Hubert how to open it, and perhaps I'll share with you."

"Let me out of here," she said, outrage and fear making her voice shrill. "Open this door at once, or I'll scream!"

Her threat was useless as large, grimy fingers clamped down over her jaw,
Le Gros's
other arm coming around her waist and lifting her off her feet.

"Think again, my lovely little bitch. You'd better be more—God damn you!" he hissed as she sank her teeth into him. With a guttural cry of pain, he dropped her.

Frantically, she crawled toward the door, but
Le Gros
was upon her again. He seized the top of her mantle, yanking it upward so that her head snapped back, the metal clasp cutting deep into her throat, choking her. She clawed at the joining until it released, sending her flying forward, her forehead grazing the oaken door.

Tossing the mantle aside, he grabbed for her. Her breath came in ragged little gasps as she found the strength to thwack her staff against his shinbone. But as she drew back to strike again, he wrenched the staff from her grasp. His fingers gnarled in her hair, dragging her away from the door as she screamed only to be silenced by his meaty fist cracking into her jaw. The room spun sickeningly as he flung her to the floor, crushing her beneath the flaccid layers of his obese frame.

She opened her mouth to cry out again, but this time it was his thick wet lips that cut off the sound. A tongue fetid with the taste of stale wine and rotting teeth thrust deep into her throat, gagging her. Suffocating, she flailed about wildly until she caught hold of the chair leg and tried to topple it onto him, but it crashed harmlessly to the floor.

The noise did have the effect of causing
Le Gros
to raise his head, allowing her to breathe. Her stomach heaved, and she wheezed pathetically, terror having robbed her of her voice.

His reptilian eyes burned with something akin to madness as he panted, "Should've been reasonable, my lady. So you want to betray me? Then I must wring your pretty little neck. But first I'll have a sample of what Lord Jaufre's been feasting on."

Shifting his weight, he hooked his fingers around the neckline of her chemise, and the sound of rending material assailed her ears as he tore it down the middle, exposing her breasts to his lustful gaze.

New sensations of horror shot through her body, reviving her flagging strength. She clawed at his eyes, scratching the flabby pockets of skin as he ripped the garment the rest of the way, leaving her completely naked beneath him.

Grunting with rage, he caught her arms and pinioned them over her head. With his free hand, he administered a series of open-palmed slaps to her face until her senses reeled and she was dizzy with pain.

"N-no," she sobbed. "Oh, God help me. Jaufre… Jaufre!"

He smothered her cries by stuffing the sweat-soaked napkin into her mouth, taunting as he did so, "Do y'think he'd care who has a piece of you, bitch? After what you've done to him? Wonder is he 'asn't already snapped your neck at the end of a rope like he did his first whore. Nay, wench. He's likely to thank me for this."

Le
Gros's hand closed over her breast, dirt-encrusted nails scraping the tender flesh, pinching the nipple until her throat went raw from the anguish she could not release by screaming.

She forced her tear-filled eyes to remain open even though
Le
Gros's puffy jowls and drooling lips swam before her.

She had to wake up. It was the only way to make the nightmare go away, make the king vanish like the dreadful phantom he was.

But it was not the king bearing down upon her. It was
Le Gros
, and the knee he slammed between her legs, prying her thighs apart, was agonizingly real. There would be no waking up this time, no sweet fantasy of Jaufre to keep the night demons locked away where they belonged.

Oh, Holy Mother, she prayed. Let me die. Just let me die before he…

Her eyelids fluttered as she willed herself into oblivion; the last sight misting before her was Jaufre's face. She imagined he cried her name, yet she heard nothing but a muffled growl as darkness claimed her.

The next she knew, her body felt strangely free, as if a great burden had been torn away, leaving her floating in a spinning black emptiness. And cold, so cold. She managed to open her eyes and was dazzled by blinding light. Was this what it was like to die?

The roaring in her ears slowly disappeared until she could hear other sounds, muted at first, then louder, inhuman shrieks and curses spawned from the depths of hell.

"Goddamned bastard… should've killed you."

The light resolved itself into a single candle flame, and Melyssan rolled her head toward the voice, the pain that knifed through her head telling her that she was still very much alive. Her vision clouded and then cleared, so that she saw figures moving as if through a fog. Jaufre, his face twisted with demonic fury, towering over a shapeless brown form… pudgy, thick-knuckled hands lunging for Jaufre's throat… Jaufre's fist plunging into Father Hubert's stomach… the priest doubling over… Jaufre's booted foot, flashing, taking
Le Gros
full in the face.

Jaufre was going to kill him. Tristan must stop him before it was… The confused thought slipped away as she closed her eyes, trying to remember where she was. No, she'd left the banquet hours ago. She was in—she opened her eyes—in the solar.

And Jaufre had appeared from nowhere, attacking Father Hubert again, because, because the priest had…

Her hand fell on something, thin fabric shredded, tattered remnants clinging to her bare skin. Because the priest had raped her. Waves of nausea swept over her with the return of anguished memory.