Winterbourne by Susan Carroll
"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.
“It is the cry of a babe," said Roland.
Jaufre felt his heartbeat quicken but shook his head. "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.
But it was years too late to forge a bond with this son who resented him. Above stairs Lyssa awaited him with 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.
"There now, your ladyship will do just fine. Nay, don't try to sit up. You must take things slowly. Didn't I promise the eaglestone would bring you safely through?" The woman beamed and touched a chain from which dangled a dark, hollow stone the size of a walnut, which she had placed around Melyssan's neck when labor had begun.
"Thank you," Melyssan whispered, although she placed more faith in the tiny gold crucifix she clutched in her right hand. She released it now for the first time in twenty-three hours, feeling the marks the cross had gouged into her skin.
"My babe?" she asked, her eyes going fearfully to the shrieking bundle Nelda cuddled in her arms.
"Ah, that one." The midwife chuckled. “Stronger than you are at the moment. You need have no fears for the babe."
Melyssan struggled to a sitting position despite the old woman's protest. She did fear and it was the dread that had haunted her all the months she had carried the child in her womb.
"Bring the babe to me."
Although she continued to cluck and fuss, the midwife brought the wailing child to the bedside, laying it gently in the crook of Melyssan's arm. All she could see was dark fuzz adorning the top of a tiny face crimson with fury. With trembling fingers, she began to undo the blankets that swaddled the child.
"My lady," the midwife protested, but Melyssan gestured the woman to silence.
The blankets fell away, and Melyssan studied the little form stretched across her stomach. She caught one red, wrinkled foot and cradled it in the palm of her hand. So small, but so perfect. As was the other one, which she subjected to the same tender examination. The arms, thin, wiry as any newborn's were also so perfect. She was absolutely perfect as Jaufre's daughter should be.
"There, you see, your ladyship?" said the midwife. "You could not wish for a heartier, more beautiful little girl."
"No, I could not," Melyssan said, tears trickling down her cheeks. "Father in heaven, I thank thee." She trailed her hands over the pink skin, pausing to uncurl and count each diminutive finger and then the toes, before at last she was satisfied and pulled the blanket around the child. Drawing the baby close to her breast, she rocked her, cooing soft words of endearment. For the first time since she had drawn breath, Melyssan's daughter ceased her cries and was silent, enabling the mother to better study the round, velvety cheeks, pink lips drawn up like a bow, a petite snub nose. Unfocused eyes stared back at her, eyes amazingly alert and as dark-fringed as those of the man who now paused on the room's threshold.
"Jaufre." She leaned forward, surprised by the hesitation in his manner--he, who usually strode into a room with such confidence. Guiltily, she remembered how hours earlier she had driven him from her side. Then her thought had been all for the pain contracting her womb, how to endure it without going mad, how to brace herself for the next wrenching agony.
"My lord, please come in. Do you not wish to see your child?"
He nodded, crossing the room without seeming to see Nelda and the midwife, who curtsied and discreetly retreated outside. As he approached the bed, his gaze swept past the babe and settled on Melyssan, his fingers caressing the tangled strands of her hair.
"Lyssa. You look so—so almost as if you are of another world. Are you well?"
"Aye, my lord." She caught his hand and pressed a kiss along the leathery texture of his knuckles. "Never in my life have I been more so. Look."
She held up the babe, her heart swelling with pride, barely able to restrain herself from crying aloud, Look! Look at this astonishingly perfect being that came from my womb.
As Jaufre slipped the child from her grasp, she bit back her protest, overwhelmed by a surge of fierce protectiveness. But his hands were sure and strong as he steadied the babe's head, his lips parting in a broad, flashing smile.
"By my holidame, did you ever see such a sturdy, bright-eyed fellow? We shall name him Raoul, after my grandfather." Jaufre's rich brown eyes turned to her with a warmth such as she'd never seen before. His voice grew husky with emotion. "I have no words, Lyssa, to tell you how happy you've made me."
Her answering smile froze on her lips. "I am pleased you should say so, my lord. But I fear there has been some mistake."
"What mistake? A strong, handsome son, all that a man could ask for."
"It is a girl, my lord. That is your daughter."
She watched the light die in his eyes, like a candle's glow extinguished by a sudden gust of wind. He was silent for a long moment and then said, "A daughter. You—you are certain of this? What a stupid question. Of course you are certain." Quickly he handed the babe back to her, withdrawing from the bedside.
Melyssan snuggled the baby closer against her, feeling the wriggle of her limbs beneath the blanket. She gave a nervous laugh. "A restless child, your daughter. I don't believe Raoul will suit her. What would you have her called?"
"I had not thought." He shrugged. "It is of no great import. You decide."
Melyssan bit down on her lower lip. "She is perfect, Jaufre. Even both her feet."
"I am sure she is. You do not need to show me."
She stayed the hand that had begun tugging on the blanket. "I am sure next time we will produce a son just as beautiful." Her luminous green eyes raised to his, pleading.
Much as he loathed himself, he could not give her the reassurance she sought. Damn, he had wanted, needed, a son so badly. Waves of disappointment washed over him. Lyssa looked so pale, the radiant aura that had surrounded her now shattered. He had no desire to see her put through such an ordeal again anytime soon. But the war in France loomed imminent, drawing closer than ever. For the first time in his life, he experienced a stab of fear that he might die in battle, without leaving a son behind to bear his name.
"I will leave you now," he said. "I shall send a messenger to bear the glad tidings to your family."
Her reply was all but muffled as she buried her face against the babe's blanket. "It will be of small interest to them. My mother will not care, and Whitney has never forgiven me."
"Enid will want to know you are well. She was most concerned even from the day she first told me you were with child. While she treated the wounds on my back, she treated me to a lecture on how frail . . ." His voice trailed off as he realized from the stricken look on her face that he'd made a mistake.
“You knew?" she cried. "You knew I carried your child when you married me?"
"Of course I knew." He looked away, unable to cope with her tear-filled eyes. "You were being obstinate, so I pretended I didn’t. Damn it, what difference does it make now? Let us not rake through those old ashes again." He retreated to the door. "You must excuse me. I slept but little last night. I am completely exhausted."
Before she could say anything more, she found she was alone with her daughter. He was exhausted? Weariness tugged her down like the undertow lurking beneath foam-flecked waves. The flow of strength that her joy in the babe had produced vanished.
Melyssan was scarce aware when the midwife came to take the babe from her arms, easing her back down upon the pillow. She was too caught up in her misery over Jaufre's revelation. He had known about the child, and had done the honorable thing, marrying her and hoping she'd give him a son. But she had failed him. She rolled over onto her side, clenching her fists into the pillows. Now all she had given him was a lifetime to regret.
In the ensuing months, Jaufre found no escape from the child's wails or Melyssan's dark-rimmed eyes. She had become but a wan shadow of herself, forever drawing away from him, she and this new daughter of hers forming a magic circle in which he had no part. He knew he had stirred to life all her old doubts as to his reason for marrying her, yet he could not find the words to reassure her.
Preparations for the war increased each day, pulling him closer to a time of decision. He felt as if he approached a peak in his life, where honor and success might be his or lost forever in the tides of battle. Feelings of doubt beset him, feelings he could share with no one. In some strange way, his marriage to Melyssan had weakened him, made him more vulnerable than he cared to admit. He wanted nothing more than to remain at Winterbourne, by day riding over his lands, by evening lying with his head upon Lyssa's knee, her gentle hands stroking his brow while their children romped before the fire.
The prospect of battle did not thrill him as it had in the days men had first acclaimed him the Dark Knight. Never had he so much to lose. Lyssa and the child they had christened Genevieve were both so fragile. If he died in France, whose strong arm would defend them? The king and his greedy courtiers would descend upon Winterbourne like a pack of ravenous wolves.
The babe's screams acted as a constant reproach to him. One afternoon in early autumn he returned to the castle hot, sweating from a day's exercise of his sword arm, only to hear once more the seemingly perpetual wails coming from the part of the castle garden near the large apple tree. Gritting his teeth, he strode in that direction, heedless of the half-rotted fruit that crunched beneath his boots.
Genevieve's young wet nurse sat dozing on a bench while the child rested in a basket settled at her feet. Dozing! How could the wench possibly sleep with the babe howling like a greyhound with a burr caught in its haunches? The creature must be half-deaf. Jaufre bent over and shook the girl roughly by the shoulder. Her eyes widened in terror as she startled out of her slumber.
"Awaken, mistress. Is it your intent to starve the bratling? Put her to the breast and quiet this ungodly noise."
The girl leapt to her feet and crossed her arms protectively over her ample bosom. "I pray you, my lord. I but fed the child a half hour since. She could not be hungry."
"Then get her fresh garb. She must be wet."
"Oh, no, my lord. She is well cared for, I promise you."
"Then what the devil is amiss? Why is she forever shrieking?"
The girl made a helpless gesture, a blank expression crossing her simple face. "Why, babes cry, my lord. It is all they can do. I have oft suspected that perhaps they have little demons that torment them, demons so small—"
"Demons!" Jaufre took a menacing step closer until the terrified girl retreated behind the apple tree. "Get you from my sight, you hen-witted fool. If I set eyes on you again, I will show you demons."
The girl's face crumpled. Covering her face with her hands, she fled from the garden. Jaufre's satisfaction in seeing her go was soon dissipated by a wave of panic when he realized he was now alone with a howling infant.
How did one deal with such a small, unreasoning bundle? He risked one peek into the basket and said with all the sternness he could muster, "How now, mistress Genevieve! Cease this unseemly racket. Such behavior will not be tolerated."
Feeling the fool, he glanced around guiltily, dreading he might have been overheard, but the rest of the household seemed to be avoiding this part of the garden where his daughter shrieked. His words had not the least effect on Genevieve. If anything, her howls continued with renewed vigor. Jaufre twitched aside the blanket, unable to suppress a twinge of amusement. He detected no sign of distress in the child. Rather, her round face puckered in an expression of anger, more ferocious than he'd seen on many a redoubtable warrior.
Jaufre clucked his tongue. "I am relieved you have no words as yet, my daughter. I fear what you might say would prove most unladylike. What vexes you so?"
He studied the small body, noting for the first time the swaddling that crisscrossed over her frame and prevented neither arm nor leg from moving so much as an inch.
"By St. George, now I see what ails you, little one." He frowned and scooped the babe out of the basket, "I should curse them myself if they had bound me up like a suckling piglet."
Sitting down upon the bench, he laid the babe across his lap and unwound the bandage until Genevieve was garbed in naught but her tiny shirt and tailclout. Almost immediately upon being freed, her howls stopped and she took a great shuddering breath of relief.
To the earl's delight, she waved her arms through the air and administered several vigorous kicks to his stomach. "What, my lady? Is this how you would repay your rescuer?"
She responded to his voice with a gurgle, and her eyes focused on his face. The tiny lips tilted in a winsome smile. He caught one of the swinging fists, dwarfing it with his own. The delicate pink fingers curled around his thumb with a grasp not easily broken.
"You are strong for a wench, my lady Genevieve. Genevieve. It is a mouthful of a name for a wee thing like you. Perhaps I shall call you Jenny. What think you of that?"
Jenny cooed, and Jaufre could have sworn she understood. He placed one hand behind her neck and was beginning to lift her back into the basket when he was startled by Melyssan calling his name.
"Jaufrel What are you doing?" She appeared at the entry of the garden, astonishment reflected in her green eyes. He flushed bright red, fearing she might have overheard the nonsense he had been crooning to the child. He thrust Jenny into her arms.
"I was but doing the work that wet nurse you hired is incapable of," he said, annoyed by the defensive edge he heard creeping into his voice. "I am weary of hearing the child scream from cock's crow to dusk."
Melyssan examined Jenny as if she sought for marks upon her body. He placed his hands upon his hips and glared, hurt and anger warring inside of him. How dare she behave as if she believed he would do some hurt to a helpless infant, let alone his own daughter!
"You have undone her swaddling," she pronounced at last in accusing tones.
"Swaddling? Is that what you call it? I more wondered what crime the child was guilty of that she should be made a prisoner at so te
Melyssan bent down to retrieve the discarded linen bandage, trying to hide her disappointment. When she had first come upon Jaufre holding the child, she had dared hope he was beginning to accept Genevieve just a little. But how could he make jest of something that was important to the babe's well-being?
She laid Jenny in the basket, preparing to bind her again. The babe's face puckered, dark clouds gathering in her eyes as she drew a shivering breath, the preliminary to an ear-splitting howl.
Jaufre reached down and caught Melyssan by the wrist. "Nay, you shall not truss her up like that again."
"But my lord, I must." She looked from his determined face to her helpless daughter squirming in the basket. "All babes are swaddled. If they were not, their limbs would not grow strong and straight."
"That is nonsense. I absolutely forbid it. I take no pleasure in listening to her scream."
"Pleasure?" Melyssan wrenched her wrist free. "Then I shall take her where you need never be disturbed. But my daughter shall not grow up to be a cripple."
"She will not, if you leave her alone. I warn you now, if I catch anyone binding her up like that again, I will send them packing from this castle."
"Including me?" she asked. But he was already striding away. The bandage fell from her fingers as she sank to the ground beside the basket. She had heard that implacable note in Jaufre's voice before. He meant what he said.
"What shall we do, Genevieve?" she asked, biting down upon her quivering lip. "He will not heed me. “It would seem my fears, my wishes, are unimportant to my lord."
She bent over the basket, gently stroking the babe's petal-soft cheek. Jenny's hands entwined in her hair, tugging on the long nutmeg strands that had lost their luster. Melyssan had looked at herself in the mirror only that morning. She was no longer attractive, she told herself, having grown paler, her eyes duller, since her confinement.
"He is weary of me, already weary of his honorable marriage." Carefully Melyssan disengaged the babe's fists from her hair, marveling at the child's strength. A strength she was terrified would be lost if Jaufre forbade the swaddling. If Genevieve had been a boy, the earl would never have behaved thus. How could he vent his disappointment upon their innocent daughter?