Winterbourne (44 page)

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Authors: Susan Carroll

Tags: #Fiction - Historical, #Romance & Love Stories, #France, #England/Great Britain

BOOK: Winterbourne
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Laws, ancient liberties, confirmed and set down for all time in that fragile parchment lying beneath the king's hand. John's eyes roved over the barons, settling upon their swords. Grudgingly he reached for his seal.

For a moment, Jaufre forgot he had joined the rebellion to restore himself in Melyssan’s eyes. He almost believed in the power of the Great Charter, almost believed that he had participated in an undertaking that was something fine and noble, that would outlive this day, the tyrant king himself, live as long as the old rolling Thames, whose bright waters he could see sparkling through the opening in the tent.

"
Liberties unimpaired…for ourselves and our heirs forever. "

Jaufre's eyes locked on the king's face, and his brief moment of hope vanished. For one instant John dropped his mask of good cheer. His wide-set eyes darkened with hate, studying the face of every rebel present, coming to rest upon Jaufre, encompassing him in their stygian blackness. Then John smiled.

 

"We will all ride back to Winterbourne in peace." Jaufre mimicked Tristan's voice five months later as his boots crunched against the cobbled pavement of London's streets. He hugged his sable-lined mantle tight against his body to shut out the chill November fog.

"You could well have done so," Tristan said, blowing against the raw red skin of his exposed hands. "No one constrained you to become involved with the committee of twenty-five."

"Did you truly expect John to uphold that damned charter without some body of men to compel him?" Jaufre snorted. "I might have known it would come down to a question of force in the end. I only hope Melyssan will be satisfied by the effects of this charming little crusade. I wish her much joy of her empty bed this winter."

Tristan grimaced. "More joy than I've had sharing a pallet with you. The way you toss and groan of nights, I think you need a cold plunge in the Thames."

Jaufre glared at him as they mounted the creaking wooden stairs leading to the house of the wealthy merchant whose hospitality they shared during their enforced stay in London. As they passed into the hall, the merchant's wife greeted them with sour looks. Aye, the rebel army had been hailed with great enthusiasm when it first marched into London, but now no one was pleased with the Great Charter.

The merchants were dissatisfied because the charter did not place restraints upon foreigners importing goods. The more radical northern rebels felt John had not conceded enough and were already busily devastating royal manors and forests. The king had only waited until the end of summer before reverting to his customary behavior. Even now he was importing mercenaries from overseas and laying siege to Rochester Castle, the stronghold that commanded the road south from London.

For the life of him, Jaufre could not understand what made him cling so stubbornly, lingering in London, trying to make the new laws work. The Great Charter was dead. A year from now, who would even remember its existence? Why could he not simply return to Winterbourne and worry only about protecting what was his, as he had always done? Let some other fool slay the dragon.

It did naught to improve his exacerbated temper when he found Lord Oswin and some of his cronies gathered by the fire, their feet propped up, red noses deep in cups of ale.

"Lord Jaufre. Sir Tristan." Oswin saluted them with his goblet. "What! Abroad so early on a Sunday? You weren't trying to sneak into a church, I trust."

He wagged his finger at Jaufre. "Teh. Teh. You know the pope has excommunicated all of us for rebelling against our good and pious King John, just when His Majesty took the pledge to recapture the holy lands. We dastardly knaves are all that stopped him from going."

Oswin and his companions guffawed heartily over the tale John had passed along to the pope. Jaufre and Tristan retreated to seats in the opposite comer of the room. Jaufre was surprised at himself. At one time, he would have joined in their mirth, greatly appreciating the jest that the irreverent John, after defying the pope for years, should now be among His Holiness's favorite sons. But he found himself wondering what Lyssa would think of her husband being excommunicate, his lands at Winterbourne once more under the interdict. She had been so happy, so at peace, to have the faith restored to her home.

"What's amiss, de Macy?" Lord Oswin called out. "Have we suddenly become not good enough to drink with you?"

"His Lordship is in no humor for such revelry," Tristan replied, making little effort to disguise his dislike for the baron.

"Eh, why so glum, man? Even if the king doesn't mean to keep faith with us, we have worsted him. Here we sit, entrenched in a position of strength."

"Position of strength?" Jaufre snarled, pushing to his feet. "Has it never occurred to you we are virtual prisoners here in London, skulking behind the city walls while John is free to attack any of our castles he chooses?"

Oswin dismissed the threat with a wave of his hand. "John is too busy trying to take over the castle at Rochester. With a soldier like William of Albini commanding our garrison. His Majesty and his Flemish mercenaries will be there forever."

But Jaufre was not so sure. Of late he had begun to worry more and more about Winterbourne. Most of the rebel barons flocked to London from the north and east. He was one of the few who came from the Welsh marches. In time, might not Lyssa find herself surrounded by enemies, with only Dreyfan and that foolish brother of hers to advise her? Whitney had showed some improvement during the war in France, but Jaufre feared the man might hand Winterbourne over to John at the first sign of trouble. What then would be the fate of Lyssa and Jenny at the hands of a monarch bent on leveling all of England to exact vengeance for his humiliation at Runnymede?

"We have naught to worry about." Sir Oswin's booming voice penetrated Jaufre's thoughts. "For the French will soon arrive to reinforce us."

One of Oswin's companions tried to silence him, but it was too late. Jaufre had heard the remark. He leaned over Oswin, demanding with deadly quiet, "What did you say?"

Lord Oswin squirmed in his chair for a moment, then glowered defiantly. " Tis well known, my lord, you have steadfastly opposed any schemes for appealing to France for aid in restoring order. But you are only one man. Fitzwalter thought it an excellent notion. He sent a delegation to Philip Augustus. The young Prince Louis will arrive in February—"

"You fools!" Jaufre seized the man and dragged him up by the front of his surcoat. "You bloody fools. Do you know what you've done? We've scarce dealt with one tyrant and you would set loose upon us another."

Oswin wriggled from Jaufre's grasp. "Nay, we've asked Prince Louis to be our king, our true king, who will help us preserve our ancient liberties."

Jaufre lunged forward but was restrained by Tristan. "Liberties. I'm sick to death of hearing you whine about your liberties when you only mean your petty self-interests. That charter meant no more to most of you than it did the king."

Lord Oswin puffed out his chest. "What! What! Do you think I shall listen to many more of these lies, these calumnies?"

While he blustered, Jaufre drew forth his sword. "Any man of you that says I lie is welcome to try my steel."

A silence settled over the room until one by one the other knights shuffled out the door. Oswin eyed the sword for one moment longer before storming after them.

Jaufre sheathed his weapon, then turned to face his grave-eyed friend. "So now this farce is completed. What do I do now, Tristan? Drag myself home to my wife, once more a failure'? And a fool, this time, a fool, trying to be some sort of idealistic crusader I am not."

"I do not think you could ever be a failure in Melyssan's eyes," Tristan said. "She loves you, Jaufre."

Jaufre gazed into the fire, imagining a reflection of honey-brown hair framing the sweetest face he'd ever seen. His shoulders slumped as he leaned one arm against the wall, resting his head upon it. "I wish I thought I was worthy of that love. I wish I could still be that young knight she once saw on a long-ago summer's day."

He started up when a young page burst into the room, breathless with news. "My lord. You must come at once. Baron Fitzwalter is assembling all the nobles. There is dire news."

Tristan placed his hands on the boy's shoulders. "Get your breath, lad. Slow down and tell us what has happened."

"Rochester. Rochester Castle has fallen into the hands of the king. All the rebels there including William of Albini are His Majesty's prisoners."

Tristan and Jaufre looked at one another over the boy's head. So now the siege was ended, and King John controlled the road south from London. Even more important, John's mercenaries were now freed to carry the war to another part of England. Where would the king strike next?

A cold wave of apprehension rushed up Jaufre's spine. He closed his eyes, a vision of piercing clarity rising before him. Towers… white towers gleaming bright against the green Welsh hills. Winterbourne!

Chapter 20

Dark smoke billowed into the gray sky, black curls of it whisked on the wind as far as the battlements at Winterbourne. Melyssan peered through the embrasure, tears stinging her eyes at the sight of the wattle and daub cottages dissolving in the roaring midst of red flame. Screams rent the air of those unfortunates who had not been able to flee the village fast enough to reach the safety of the castle gates. Flemish soldiers pierced the stragglers with their pikes. A horse and rider thundered after a young girl, who ran shrieking with a babe bundled in her arms. Melyssan turned away, covering her face.

"We cannot just stand here," she cried. "We must do something to help them."

"We shall be lucky to help ourselves," Whitney mumbled.

"Whitney. I am the mistress here. Open those gates and send some of our knights out. I command you."

He shook his head. "Nay, we will need every man. Unless you want that to be yourself out there running away, running away with Jenny."

She bit her lip as he hit upon her one weak spot. Willingly would she have risked her own life in an attempt to save those people. But not her child. Defeated, she drew back behind the merlon and waited, tears sliding down her cheeks. Waited until the screams came no more, until the only sound was the distant hiss of the flames, the rumble of marching feet, horses' hooves as the king's army marched on Winterbourne Castle.

Sir Dreyfan clambered up to the walkway. His grizzled face scowled when he saw Melyssan. "Are you mad, boy?" he shouted at Whitney. "Get my lady down from here."

She felt Whitney tense beside her. "You'd best get to the safety of the donjon. Lyssa. They—they are bringing up the catapults."

"Whitney, I—"

"Go on," he said, giving her a rough shove. "You'll only be in the way up here. You'd best go down below and begin making preparations to tend—in case anyone is wounded."

Her heart thudding, she did as he bade her. As she wound her way down the stone stair through the gate tower, she passed many of the castle guard, their friendly faces looking grim beneath their steel helms, the crossbows in their hands aimed and ready.

There seemed to be so few of them, the king's soldiers so many. But she was forgetting Jaufre. She doubted not that when news of the siege at Winterbourne reached his ears, he would rally his knights and ride to their rescue. If the news reached his ears… She was no longer sure exactly where her husband was. The last she had heard of him was when the messenger brought the news saying the Great Charter was accepted. How they had all cheered and celebrated! Tyranny and injustice vanquished forever! She was so proud that her husband should have played a part in it.

As she entered the great hall of the donjon, she found all her ladies-in-waiting gathered together by the chapel. Their faces reflected their fear, but Jenny bounded forward into Melyssan's arms, her brown eyes shining with excitement.

"Milady, milady." She hugged Melyssan around the neck, her smile expectant, hopeful. "Fahver has come home?"

"Nay, Jenny. 'Tis not Fahver." She watched the child's face cloud with disappointment, marveling at how Jenny carried such a strong image of Jaufre. She had been so young when the earl left last spring, yet she retained a great impression of him in her heart.

As Melyssan cradled the child close in her arms, she thought it was not so hard to understand. Was not Jaufre forever impressed upon her own heart?

She looked over the child's head, speaking with courage and conviction. "The king's army has come. Nay. Nelda, don't weep. There is naught to fear. Winterbourne is a strong fortress."

"But—but," Canice faltered. "I've heard tales of the siege at Rochester. Shan't we all starve in here?"

"Of course not, you foolish woman. We are well stocked. And soon my lord Jaufre will come and drive them from our gates."

She noticed Father Andrew standing quietly in the shadows. Her voice sharpened with irritation when she saw the doubt register in his eyes.

"In the meantime, we must prepare linen and herbs for bandages. Stay inside the donjon and keep out of the men's way. Now, off with you and be about your tasks."

The women reluctantly dispersed, except for Canice, who waited quietly for Melyssan to release the child. Shamed she was to admit it, but the child's warm arms about her neck gave her courage. Jenny regarded her mother, her lively eyes unusually wide and serious in her small face.

"Is the bad king's army coming inside?"

'"Nay, my love. Our castle is very strong." But even as she said so, Melyssan recalled snatches of things she had heard Jaufre say. How oft had he complained the castle lacked proper defense measures. '"Unsafe," the earl had groused. "Unsafe."

"It doesn't matter in any case," Melyssan said, shifting Jenny in her arms. Faith, the child grew so heavy, soon she would be unable to lift her. "My lord will come and rescue us." Once again she noticed Father Andrew's lips tighten as he crossed himself.

Jenny nodded her approval. "Aye, Muvver. My lord will come and kill all those bad men." Her small brows knit together in an expression so fiercely reminiscent of Jaufre, Melyssan laughed, at the same time fighting back her tears.

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