Winterbourne by Susan Carroll
Her words were lost in a thunderous pounding at the door. Enid scrambled off the bed, but before she took another step the door had crashed open, kicked in by a stalwart soldier.
"What means this outrage?" Enid cried. But the soldier was already stepping aside for another to enter.
Melyssan's heart thudded. She dug her nails into the pillow as she watched the small man enter into the room. Wide-set eyes glittered above a black, Mephistophelian beard. The dark gaze swept past Enid's frozen form to pin Melyssan on the bed.
"Ah, so what the red-haired wench said is true," purred John Plantegenet. "What, my lady countess? Will you make no obeisance to your king?"
The phantom figure of her nightmares glided closer, becoming more solid, more terrifyingly real, with every step he took. Yet even to save her life, Melyssan could not move a single muscle.
Enid sank into a deep curtsy. "Pray, excuse my sister, Your Highness. She is not well. She has had a most fatiguing journey."
John stroked the sable fur trimming the neckline of his gold-cloth surcoat. "So we would imagine, traveling with such stealth and secrecy." His snakelike eyes snapped to Enid. "And you, my lady, have been most remiss in your duties as hostess by not informing us of the countess's arrival."
"I thought it would be of little import to Your Majesty. You gave me to understand your chief reason for visiting Kingsbury is to attend the tournament."
"This woman's movements must always be important to us." Melyssan shrank back as he leveled one jewel-bedecked finger in her direction as though it were a weapon. "Is not she wife to Jaufre de Macy, one of the greatest traitors this realm has ever known?"
Jaufre, a traitor? The coupling of that beloved name with such a foul word sent a surge of strength through Melyssan's limbs. Quickly she eased herself off the bed, taking care that Enid's robe draped modestly around her. She was doubly glad the garment was overlarge when the king subjected her to a lascivious appraisal, wetting his lips.
Despite the nausea that churned inside her, Melyssan made a stiff curtsy and said in level tones, "Your Majesty is much mistaken. The earl of Winterbourne is ever loyal to England."
"Aye, but what of his king?" John growled. "So you do still possess a tongue, my lady. It is well, for it will take many soft and fair words to convince us of—" His gaze flicked hungrily up and down the length of her body. "Of your devotion to the crown, and why your husband should be spared the fate of all traitors."
The king waved a languid hand in Enid's direction. "You may retire now, my lady. We have much to discuss with my lady Melyssan in private."
Although she was very pale, Enid stepped between Melyssan and the king. "Nay, Your Grace. It is not proper that I should leave my sister unattended in your presence."
"Proper?" The king's lip curled in a snarl. "You presume to lecture us on what is proper? Get you hence, woman. We deem it proper you should look after your own husband." His voice softened as his lips tightened into a cruel smile. He fingered the jewel-encrusted dagger sheath affixed to his belt. "Who knows what fate holds in store? Men seem to be so much more short-lived than women."
Enid swallowed hard and opened her mouth to speak again, but Melyssan placed a gentle hand upon her shoulder. Although her fingers shook, she maintained the regal posture of a princess as she said, "Do as the king commands, Enid. I am more than ready to stay here and defend my husband against any calumny."
Melyssan's fear was great as the king's soldier accompanied her reluctant sister from the bedchamber, leaving her alone with the king. But unlike the terror that had nigh suffocated her when His Majesty had threatened first her virtue and then her brother, this time her fear sent the blood racing through her veins in a savage way she had never experienced before. For now her fear was for Jaufre. She vowed to draw the king's vengeance down upon her own head rather than see him make one move to harm the man she loved.
She met John's leering eyes boldly, standing her ground without flinching as he came nearer. "How comes Your Majesty to say such vile things about my husband when you must know they are lies?"
"We know nothing of the kind," John said. Chills swept over her as his cold, silky fingers brushed aside the robe so that he could caress the base of her neck. "What we do know is that he would not help us in our war against the Welsh a fortnight ago. He came to Nottingham carried on a litter and claimed he was too ill to fight."
"It is true." she said. "He was wounded with an arrow."
The king's grip tightened. "The infamous wound. Aye, I saw it. I made him undo the bandages. I swear it was self-inflicted by the coward so that he could defy his king. He is not the man his grandfather was."
"Jaufre is no coward!" she cried, seizing hold of John's wrist. The way his fingers encircled her throat made it hard for her to breathe.
"They're all cowards. All my barons." John's dark eyes glazed over. "I had to forgo my expedition into Wales. I cannot trust any of them. They are all after my crown. They would have waited until the heat of battle, then some traitor would thrust a sword in my back."
The king's voice rose with every word, and his fingers gouged harder and harder into her throat. Melyssan fought for air. Dear God, he was mad.
But the next instant John blinked and refocused on Melyssan. His hand relaxed and resumed those featherlike caresses, which gave Melyssan the sensation of brushing against cobwebs. She took a deep, painful breath to steady herself.
“What were we speaking of?" he murmured. "Ah, now I recollect. We were deciding what proof you would offer to convince us of your husband's loyalty, what reasons to spare Lord Jaufre his head."
He pushed the gown down past her shoulders. "It is an ugly thing for a man to be hanged for treason, my dear. The throat knots with pain as the victim writhes in the dance of death. But he is cut down before the thick hemp can quite squeeze the life out of him. Then the horses pull on the ropes tied to his legs and arms. Sometimes it takes as long as half an hour before the limbs are ripped off. A strong man like Lord Jaufre might still be alive. Then the executioner, his hands already slick with blood, would have to take a double-edged sword and—"
"Stop it!" Melyssan's hands clenched into fists as she fought the urge to strike out at those black, mocking eyes, rake her nails across the thin, sneering lips. "I will offer you whatever proof you desire," she cried, knowing she was lost. She had only one weapon to use in Jaufre's defense.
"We recognized at the first you were a young woman of much good sense." The king chuckled and shoved her back toward the bed.
"Wait." She placed both hands against his chest, the heavy chains and emerald necklets he wore cutting into her palms. "I would have your oath that you will not harm my lord if I comply with your desires.”
The king smiled. "Certainly, my dear. We have no sword, but trust this will do as well." He fingered the holy relics he wore around his neck. "I, John, King of England, do solemnly swear I will not command the death of the earl of Winterbourne. By the blood of Christ."
With a throaty growl, he fell upon her, dragging her beneath him onto the bed. Melyssan thought she would suffocate from the cloying smell of his perfumed garments and the shame of what she was about to do. How could she lie here and permit this man to touch her, know her intimately as only Jaufre had?
She could not even scream or fight back as she had done against Le Gros, but instead must remain quiet, submissive, as the king bared one breast and began pinching the nipple as if to test her.
"I see you have ripened well under Lord Jaufre's touch," he whispered roughly against her ear. "My sweet Melyssan. I have thought much about you since I sent you to Winterbourne, bided my time, knowing this day would come."
His lips fastened greedily upon hers, sucking at her mouth until she thought she would be ill. Clenching her eyes tightly closed, she prayed that the king would soon be done.
He nipped sharply along her neck as he began easing the robe up her thigh, his stocky body quivering with laughter. "The sweetest moment of
Tears pricked at the back of Melyssan's eyelids. That was a satisfaction the king would never have. Jaufre would not care.
She steeled herself for the final humiliation as John's hands began moving over her legs. "Let me see what treasures you keep concealed beneath this coarse gown, lady," he gloated. But the fingers that would have yanked away the robe suddenly stilled. With a muffled shriek, he flung himself away from her.
"What deviltry is this?"
Bewildered, Melyssan slowly sat up and discovered that his shaking hand gestured toward her bent foot. She regarded her own limbs with a strange detachment, as if seeing them through John's eyes. Scratched and swollen purple from her long days on the road she had to admit even her good foot appeared as grotesque as the other one.
John backed away from the bed, his sleeve pressed to his lips. Malevolent eyes glared at her over the length of a satin-covered arm. "I thought you but lame, not deformed."
He clutched at his holy relics and shrieked, "De Macy has tricked me. Tricked me! He shall pay for this."
As he whirled to leave, panic surged through Melyssan. She lunged after the king, grabbing hold of his arm. "Nay, Your Grace. I beg you. Remember your promise."
"Let go of me, you bitch." With a vicious backhand, the king sent her sprawling to the floor. "The mark of the devil is upon you."
The salt taste of blood filled Melyssan's mouth, but she struggled to a sitting position. "Please," she said desperately. "It was not Jaufre's trickery, but mine. He is not my husband. You cannot blame him.”
John paused by the door, his breath coming in short, rapid gasps, the eyes beginning to cloud.
"I lied to you," she cried. "I pretended to be his wife because I couldn't bear for you to touch me. It is I who should be punished."
"Oh, aye, madam, and so you will be. I promise you that." He yanked the door open and screamed, ''Guard! Guard! Arrest this woman at once."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The pounding hooves of the sleek black stallion tore up clods of dirt as it thundered along the road toward Wydevale Manor. The horse's dark-bearded rider leaned forward in the saddle, black cape billowing behind him, his eyes reddened from lack of sleep.
Peasants sowing the fields with winter corn paused in their task long enough to cross themselves. One stout lad ripped across the fields screaming for Father Andrew and all the saints to come to the rescue: the devil himself was raging amongst them.
Jaufre de Macy dug his knees into his exhausted mount and rode on, scarcely aware of the turmoil his presence created. It was thirty-two days since Melyssan had disappeared. Thirty-two times he'd watched the sun set and plunge him into another night of hell, agonizing over what perils she might be facing, torturing himself over what dire fate had befallen her.
"A woman cannot be standing in the courtyard one moment and vanish the next as if she were snatched by spirits," he had bellowed at his knights and servants the evening after he'd recovered consciousness and discovered Melyssan missing from Winterbourne.
How was it possible that not one of the dolts had seen her go? How could they just let her slip away? Nay, mocked a harsh voice inside him. How could you just let her slip away?
He rubbed at the grit being flung into his eyes and was haunted by an image of Melyssan as he'd last seen her, the pain in the depth of her eyes as she'd turned and fled. There was so much he needed to tell her. Sweet Christ! Were the last words she was ever to hear from him going to be---.
No! Over the next crest was Wydevale Manor. She would be there, safely hidden away in her father's home, no matter what lies Sir William had sent in reply to his urgent inquiries. He'd already spent the morning storming through the sacred cloisters at St. Clare, sending the frightened sisters scurrying before him like a nest of squealing mice until the outraged Mother Abbess had convinced him Melyssan was not amongst them. Jaufre grimaced, his head still throbbing from the encounter. Why did the old harridan have to whack him with that crucifix in the exact same spot where he'd hit his head before?
He reined in his horse and, when the cloud of dust settled, saw the small manor house nestled in the valley below. He took a gulp from his wine sack to wet his parched throat, allowing his sweating horse to get its second wind, waiting for his entourage to catch up with him. He'd outstripped his knights by some distance, except for Tristan and Roland, who were now the first to reach his side.
The boy rode well, Jaufre admitted grudgingly. Something might be made of him yet if he could resist the urge to fling the insolent whelp back into the dungeons.
Roland took a swig from his leather pouch, wiped his lips, and said, "Well, what now, my lord? Do we terrorize some more nuns?"
Jaufre gave him a dark look that would have quelled anyone else but otherwise ignored the boy as he turned to Tristan. The knight's dirt-streaked face was lined with weariness.
"That's Wydevale." Jaufre gestured toward the distant manor and extended his wine flagon to Tristan.
Tristan nodded grimly. "I trust you mean to exercise more diplomacy down there than you did at the convent."
"A fool's errand," Roland muttered.
Jaufre clenched his jaw. "If her father surrenders Melyssan to me, there will be no trouble. I know she has to be there." When he saw Tristan's skeptical look, he added vehemently, "I should have checked here myself long ago, instead of allowing you to persuade me to waste time placating the king at Nottingham."
"My lord, we had large troops of men out scouring the countryside for your lady. It would have benefited none of us, least of all Melyssan, if you had been arrested for treason."
"I came perilously near it, anyway."
"I admit you and John did not part on the best of terms, but at least he did allow you to depart."
"A paltry fellow, your English king." Roland sniffed. "Now Philip of France—"
"Roland, do you ever know when to hold your tongue?" Tristan snapped.
Jaufre answered for him. "No, he doesn't. He gets that from his mother. A charming woman, Amicia, but lord, she could talk a man to death."
Roland's face flushed, and he sat up straight in the saddle. "A pity you never succumbed. For my part I wish the lady Melyssan Godspeed in escaping from you. And I warn you now, if she is at Wydevale, I won't let you harass her. She saved my life, and I consider myself her champion."
Jaufre snorted. "The lady would do better defending herself. She's worth ten of you in a fight."
"Damn you. I am the finest bowman in Normandy, and if I chose, I could—"
"Don't threaten me, boy," Jaufre said, the fine threads of his temper beginning to snap. "I never want to see you with a bow in your hands again. If you want to kill me, learn to use a sword and fight me with honor, not like some cowardly peasant."
"I will. Don't you think that I won't!"
Tristan edged his horse in between them. “Enough, both of you! I have had about all I can tolerate of—" He broke off, staring past Jaufre into the valley beyond.
"What is it?" Jaufre whirled his mount around eagerly, hoping for the sight of a slender maiden, her nutmeg hair curling to her waist, the sunlight glowing on her ivory skin. But all he saw was a long line of people wending their way from the manor house to the meadow. It was as if everyone on the estate had turned out for this procession.
"Sweet holy Mother," Roland said, blessing himself. "They are preparing to bury someone in the ditch."
Jaufre's eyes locked with Tristan's. The moisture that welled in his friend's eyes revealed the knight's apprehension as clearly as the whispered prayer that reached Jaufre's ears.
"Peace, gentle lady."
"No!" The denial tore from Jaufre's throat as he spurred his courser and charged down the hill. The horse cleared the small stone fence and galloped across the newly plowed field. Astonished, frightened faces flashed before Jaufre's eyes as he flung himself out of the saddle
A woman screamed, "Saints preserve us! He's come for poor Sir Swithbert's soul."
Sir Swithbert? Jaufre stared down at the huge bulk draped in the winding sheet. Far too large to be a woman. A tremor of relief shot through the earl's body, and his hands shook. He raked them back through his sweat-soaked hair. Dear God? What was the matter with him? He was behaving like a madman.
Damn it. He needed Melyssan, needed her right now. He would shake her until her teeth chattered for giving him such a fright, and then crush her in his arms, demanding her forgiveness, and never let her go until she vowed to be his wife. And then, by St. George, he would never lose her again even if he had to chain her to his side.
Sir William's mild features gradually came into focus. The elderly knight bowed deeply as he greeted Jaufre in flustered tones. "My lord. What an unexpected honor! How did you hear of the death of my uncle?"
But Sir William was thrust aside by his son. Whitney's face blanched with rage as he snatched up a pitchfork from one of the hay mows and brandished it at Jaufre.
"My family has borne enough of your insults, de Macy. Get out of here. Now!"
"Aye, so I will, boy, when I have your sister with me." Oblivious to the three sharp prongs leveled at his chest, Jaufre stepped closer. "Where have you hidden her?"
"Clear off, I said," Whitney cried shrilly as he retreated a step, ignoring his father's command that he drop the pitchfork. "Melyssan is not here."
"Then I shall go look for her back at the house," Jaufre said. He turned on his heel and limped toward the manor house as Tristan and the rest of his entourage rode into the pasture.
"Jaufre, beware!"
Tristan's cry rang out just as Jaufre's own instincts warned him to whirl in time to meet Whitney's stumbling charge. He dodged but was saved more by Whitney himself as the young man deflected his aim at the last second. The pitchfork clattered to the ground as Jaufre dived for Whitney, pinning him beneath his weight.