Winterbourne (2 page)

She screamed and cried out for her brother, the king's mocking laughter echoing in her ears. Whitney was being dragged away, the glow of the hot irons reflected in his terrified eyes.
No… no! Help me! Help me
! The king's mouth smothered her cries with his fetid breath. Her arms flailed helplessly against him.

Then he was there. The tall knight garbed in blue and gold, the falcon crest on his helmet. Jaufre, his ebony hair waving back from the broad plane of his brow, the hard line of his granite-hewn jawline softening as he smiled. But before she could call his name, his features shifted, blurred, until he was no one she recognized. Only another of those faceless forms. The king's weight bore down upon her.

"No!" Melyssan sobbed, fighting her way back to wakefulness. She blinked and lay gasping until her mind slowly accepted the fact that King John was no more than the feather pillow sprawled across her chest. With shaking fingers, she flung it aside and sat up. She was alone in Jaufre de Macy's massive timber-framed bed.

She rubbed her eyes to clear away the last vestiges of the dream, then pushed aside the crimson bed curtains. The phantoms had fled with their cruel pushing hands, leaving only the form of her lady-in-waiting, Nelda, slumbering on her straw pallet, and the glow of the fire that had been banked in the hearth. As the rush of cool air assaulted her naked skin, raising goose-flesh, she replaced the curtains and tunneled beneath the furs. She hated the dream, hated the feeling of helplessness it recalled. Though her eyes felt heavy, she stared into the darkness, straining to keep awake. The nightmare lurked in the shadows, waiting for her to drift back into its embrace.

The only way to fight it was to create her own dream—force her mind toward more pleasant imaginings. She had done it ever since she was a child, weaving fantasies in her head. At one time she was Guinevere with Sir Launcelot riding to slay dragons in her honor. Or she was a dazzlingly beautiful lady at the Court of Love, accomplished in composing songs, noted for her graceful movements in the dance…

Tonight she closed her eyes and pretended that she truly was the mistress of Winterbourne, eagerly awaiting the return of her lord. As eagerly as Jaufre would ride to return to her. Not Jaufre as he was now, hard, cynical, but the gay young man he had been the first time she had seen him.

Melyssan snuggled deeper into the soft nest of furs. The memory of that day remained clear in her mind, even though she had been but a child of nine years. The baron de Scoville, her father's liege lord, had held a great tournament in honor of the knighting of his eldest son. As a rare treat, she and her sisters were permitted to accompany their parents on the short journey, although much against her mother's wishes.

"Take Enid and Beatrice if you must," Dame Alice had said. "But not Melyssan. Do you wish all the great lords and ladies of the land to be gawking at her foot?" Her mother had rolled her eyes and launched into her familiar plaint. "I am a God-fearing woman. What sin was mine that one of my children should be so accursed? Better that she had died instead of Nancy."

"Yes, yes, but she did not," Sir William had replied wearily, "and since she is to be walled up alive in a convent one day, what is the harm in her having a little amusement now?" Her father had reached down to give her a careless pat on the head. "Poor little cripple-foot."

And so she was permitted to go, although with strict orders to stay as much out of sight and do as little walking as possible. Perhaps what happened to her was God's punishment for disobeying her mother…

She and Beatrice slipped away from their nurse and made their way to the field, where the draped stands and the lists had been erected. Ladies and knights bedecked in silk tunics and surcoats trimmed with ermine and sable moved among the tents, laughing, some even dancing to the tunes of a wandering minstrel. Squires bustled about harnessing up their masters' sleek chargers. Bea, although only seven, soon attracted a crowd of young pages. She was already a little beauty with her long blond hair and cerulean-blue eyes. The boys outdid themselves in their efforts to show off for her and surpass each other in wit.

One plump, freckled lad, noting Melyssan's awkward gait, sang out, "Why, she walks like a crane, a pettigrew." He flapped imaginary wings and imitated that bird's exaggerated manner of placing one foot before the other.

The others roared with laughter. "Mistress Pettigrew. Mistress Pettigrew," the boys chanted. Even Bea put a hand to her mouth and collapsed into a fit of giggling.

Tears stung Melyssan's eyes until, unable to bear the torment any longer, she swung her cane at the freckled boy. He promptly grabbed it and yanked it away from her.

"Give that back!" she cried shrilly, flinging herself at him.

The boys tossed her cane from one to the other, easily keeping it out of her reach as they pushed her among them, holding her up so that she teetered like a helpless doll. Her tears flowed freely, blinding her, as she stumbled forward onto her face.

Deep sobs racking her, she placed her palms flat against the earth and tried to push herself up. She flinched as something went whirling past her. The freckled page landed in the dirt, wailing and holding his ear.

"Mannerless whelps," growled a deep voice. "Is this how you treat a lady? And you expect one day that you will become knights? I will see the lot of you cowards whipped. Now be off and out of my sight."

The boys scattered, even the freckled lad scrambling to his feet and fleeing as if he had just seen the devil. Melyssan felt herself lifted and set upon her feet. The cane was pressed back into her shaking hand. A man's fingertips, rough with calluses, smoothed back her hair and brushed the moisture and dirt from her cheeks.

When she dared to look up, her breath caught in her throat. Bending over her was Sir Launcelot, stepped straight out of her dreams. His hair was blue-black as a starless midnight. Thick-fringed lashes framed a pair of twinkling brown eyes that warmed her like fire.

"Are you hurt, my lady?" he asked in that richly timbred voice that was like balm to her wounded feelings.

She shook her head, too .stunned by the mere proximity of such a godlike being to make reply. She could only stare at him as he straightened her tunic. His eye fell inevitably upon her foot, the special leather boot disguising little of its strange shape. She began to cry anew, and one tear dropped from her cheek to fall upon his hand.

"Nay, my lady, you must not weep," he said. "Would you let such pearls as these fall upon the insensible ground?" He raised his hand to where the drop had fallen and kissed it. Then, to her astonishment, he dropped to one knee before her, his smooth-shaven face now at a level with her own.

"Permit me to make myself known to you, my lady. One Jaufre de Macy, a humble knight who had sighted you from afar and been so moved by your beauty, I am come to seek your favor."

Her surprise at these words brought her hiccupping sobs to a halt. She peered suspiciously at him. "You—you are teasing me?"

"Nay, my lady, and to prove it, I will not rise from this spot until you give me leave."

She looked into his deep brown eyes but could find not a trace of mockery, only kindness. A rustling movement nearby told her that Beatrice stood watching. When Melyssan glanced at her, she saw that her younger sister was gaping at her with newfound respect.

Flicking back one long tress over her shoulder, she arched her neck proudly. "You may rise, my lord."

But still he knelt. "First, I would beg my favor of thee, fair one."

Graciously she inclined her head. "What is it, my lord?"

"Some small token that I might carry with me into the tournament today so that my vanquished opponents will come to pay homage to the beauty of my lady… ?"

"Melyssan," she whispered, and then, "I could give you my veil." With trembling fingers, she tugged the head covering free from her gilt circlet and handed the gossamer silk to Sir Jaufre. He rose to his feet and gravely accepted the token.

"God grant you victory today, Sir Launcelot," she said solemnly.

Smiling, he carried her small hand to his lips and brushed it with a gentle kiss. Then he chucked her under the chin and strode away to mount his horse…

Melyssan burrowed her head into the pillow as the memory faded. The little girl was gone, as was the courtly young man who had knelt at her feet and banished her tears. He had never been able to keep his pledge of having the other knights bow down to her. Long before the tournament began, Melyssan had been hustled away by her nurse. Scolded for losing her veil, she was sent to bed supperless, though later her older sister, Enid, had contrived to smuggle some cheese to her. And Jaufre's heart had been captured by Lady Yseult of the fair skin and indigo eyes.

Melyssan groaned softly and rolled onto her back. Often she had dreamed of how things might have been different, if only she had been older that day, if only Lady Yseult had not been present at the tournament to bewitch Lord Jaufre. If only…

Melyssan glanced down toward her foot and sighed. She played this game of wistful imaginings too often. It took away the sting of truth for a moment but only made facing the facts doubly hard.

For the reality was Jaufre had married Yseult, and by the next time she saw him, Yseult was dead. Melyssan's shining young knight had turned into a harsh, bitter man who would not be moved by the tears of a child in distress any more than he would by those of a woman.

He had ridden north early last summer to pay court to her sister Beatrice, much to the surprise and delight of her parents. It was a matter of wonder that such a great lord, heir to large estates in Normandy and England, earl of Winterbourne in his own right, should seek the daughter of a humble knight to be his second wife…

Dame Alice turned the manor house inside out preparing for Lord Jaufre's coming. It was with the greatest reluctance that she made Melyssan's presence known to him at all. Shyly, Melyssan stepped forward to greet him. Eight years had not dimmed her remembrance of him, but she saw no trace of recognition on the earl's countenance.

His face had grown lean and hard, the lower portion covered with a trim black beard. Lines etched deep into his forehead and around the eyes. Those merry brown eyes that once had warmed her were now as cold and empty as a hearth where the fire has died.

Lord Jaufre spent most of his visit with her father, arranging the details of the marriage contract. Melyssan thought him almost unaware of her existence, although at times she caught him staring at her, his expression unreadable. Few words passed between them until the evening she and Beatrice lingered over-long in the garden.

The warm June twilight was heady with the fragrance of roses just beginning to blossom, mingled with the scent of rosemary, sage, sweet fennel. Melyssan sank onto a wooden bench, weary from trying to reconcile Beatrice to her forthcoming marriage with Lord Jaufre. In truth, her heart was not in the task.

"I won't marry him, Lyssa. He's old, nearly thirty-five, and I hate dark men," Bea stormed. "Enid chose her own husband. Why shouldn't I?"

Melyssan sighed. "Our sister was a very wealthy widow. Providing she did not offend the king, she was free to marry again as she pleased. It is different for you. I am sure that in time—"

"No! He's a horrid, cold-hearted man. I loathe him. He had Lady Yseult hanged. I want to marry Aubrey." Bea sniffed. "You don't understand what 'tis like to be in love, Lyssa. Some-one like you could never understand." Her sister ran out of the garden before she could say another word.

Mayhap Bea is right, Melyssan thought as she stood up, placing her staff directly in front of her. She leaned on it with both hands, stretching the stiffness out of her limbs. Mayhap I don't understand. I know nothing of love, nor am I likely ever to find out.

The time was rapidly approaching when she would be expected to join the order of sisters at St. Clare's. She should have entered the convent long ago, but surprisingly, her mother had found one excuse after another to detain her at home. Melyssan had not objected. She was troubled to find she did not view the prospect of dedicating her life to God with the joy expected of her. How could she take such vows when of late her peace was constantly troubled by strange longings, longings to which she could not put a name?

Footsteps behind her put an end to her disturbing reverie, but before she could turn around, she heard Jaufre's deep voice disconcertingly close behind her.

"Ah, there you are, my betrothed. I find you alone at last."

Melyssan opened her mouth to correct his error, but his arms encircled her from behind, his hands cupping her breasts. She gasped as she felt the heat of his fingers even through the layers of her kirtle and chemise. Starting from the sensitive area behind her ear, his lips caressed a path to the base of her neck.

The words she had been about to utter died in her throat, and her cane clattered to the ground as she brought her own hands up to cover his. She felt peculiarly weak, unable to pry his fingers away and instead found that she pressed him more tightly against her. Her mind whirled from the warm sensation of his mouth gliding along her flesh. She turned slightly in his arms until she faced him. Melyssan felt him start as he recognized her, but still he did not let go. His lips parted and he brought them nearer, ever nearer. She opened her eyes wide, measuring the depth of his gaze.

Then he jerked back, releasing her so suddenly she staggered. He had to grip her by the elbow to prevent her from falling.

"I'm sorry," he said gruffly. "The veil concealed your hair. I thought you were Beatrice."

Melyssan did not reply. She knew she should be covered with confusion, furious at him for making such a stupid error. Yet she was incapable of remonstrating. She felt most unlike her usual calm self, as if Jaufre's touch had awakened her from a dream, stirring feelings she had not known she possessed. Never had she felt so… so alive.

"I… I am not Beatrice," she said foolishly. She had never-envied her beautiful younger sister, but at that moment she thought she would have given her soul to have changed places with her.