Winterbourne (49 page)

"Please, Jenny, go to sleep. Uncle Whitney cannot come because—because he is dead."

Jenny's mouth turned down, and she frowned uncertainly. "The bad king killed him?"

"Aye, my love." She smoothed a stray curl back from the child's brow. How much Jenny was coming to understand at so tender an age. It was difficult to remember that her daughter had only seen three years of life. But the next moment, Jenny disconcerted her by asking, "When will Uncle Whitney be alive again?"

"On this earth, never," she explained gently. "But in the world to come—"

"Fahver always came alive again. When he played wolf and I slew him, he always did."

Melyssan gave a laugh, half of frustration, half of wonder, at Jenny's words. Her daughter forever surprised her with accounts of things she and
Fahver
had done together. She suspected Jaufre had showered far more attention upon the child than she ever dreamt of, although she was never sure what had taken place and what was the product of Jenny's fertile imagination. She knew she had been wrong to believe that Jaufre did not love their child. She hugged that knowledge to herself in the darkness even as she hugged Jenny close and allowed the child to spin tales of her adventures with Lord Jaufre de Macy, the terrible, wonderful Dark Knight Without Mercy.

"Aye, he loved you, Jenny," she whispered when the child slept beside her at last. "And he loved me." The thought of his parting words comforted her through a restless night.

But in the morning, the door to the chamber did not open. No shamefaced Gunnor appeared bringing more food in defiance of the king. When Melyssan put her ear to the door, she heard nothing, as if the rest of the castle had ceased to exist. She fed Jenny some more of the bread, doling it out in smaller portions along with what remained of the stew. Her own stomach growled. By the end of the day she felt light-headed but resisted the urge to eat. The king would leave soon. He never stayed long in any one place. Tomorrow Gunnor would come to relieve them. She hushed Jenny's cries and rocked her to sleep.

But the second day passed, along with the next and the next, until eventually Melyssan lost all track of time. She paced the confines of the cell, staring at the closed door as if she could will it open with her mind. Jenny's whining rasped at her nerves, and her stomach began to feel as if her flesh caved in upon itself. She fed the bread to Jenny even though it had begun to molder. Still, she could not bring herself to believe Sir Hugh and Lady Gtinnor would allow them to starve. But for the first time, as she watched Jenny fall asleep exhausted from weeping, she cursed Jaufre in her heart. Damn him! How could he not realize they needed him?

On days that it rained, she doubled the straw pallet in half so that she could stand upon it and reach the narrow window opening. By holding out the empty goblets, she could catch the precious droplets to ease their thirst. Although it pained her, she threw out what remained of the pigeon breasts, fearing they would be driven to gnaw on the bones and be poisoned with the stale meat. Jenny spent most of the time clutching her stomach, sobbing that it hurt.

Melyssan could scarce find the patience to think up games and tales to distract her. They shared the last of the bread.

Her dreams were tormented by visions of Matilda de Briouse, the woman's flesh stretched taut against her skull, her teeth large and hideous, gnawing at the bones of her son… but the son became a girl child—Jenny—and Melyssan awoke screaming.

She pushed herself off the pallet, a new resolve strengthening her. She was not Matilda de Briouse. She and Jenny were not chained to the wall. They still had water. She would find some way to escape. Using the blunt end of one of the heavy silver goblets, Melyssan began driving it like a hammer against the door. Perhaps she could splinter the wood.

But the door was of oak. After an hour her hands were bruised and raw, the door barely scratched. Fighting back her tears, she paused to rub her aching wrist.

"I'm hundry. Muvver," Jenny wailed.

"I heard you the first time, Genevieve. Please be quiet for a little while."

"But I'm hundry!"

Melyssan flung the cup across the room. It was hopeless. Hopeless. There was no escaping this place. Damn all of them. How could they do this to her child? She covered her ears with her hands, unable to endure Jenny's cries any longer. To think that only a few months earlier there was little in the world she could not have given her child, and now she could not fulfill her most basic need.

Jenny pressed her pale face within inches of her mother, so that Melyssan stared into her daughter's shadow-rimmed eyes. "I'm
hundry
the child screamed.

Involuntarily, Melyssan's hand shot out, striking the child to the ground. As she recoiled in horror of what she'd done, Jenny slowly sat up, stunned to silence. It was the first blow the child had ever received in her life. That it should have come from her broke Melyssan as nothing else had. She pulled Jenny hard against her, her body racked with great dry sobs. She had no tears left.

The days stretched on. Sometimes the gnawing pain in her middle grew so intense she could not even rise from the pallet. But the physical pain was no worse than the one in her heart when she gazed at Jenny. The once round, shining face was now drawn, pale, the sparkling brown eyes dull, listless. She slept longer and longer, scarce making a sound, not even a whimper. Her child was dying before her eyes, and she was helpless to prevent it.

Jaufre. She could not summon the strength to call his name. He must be dead, or he would have come. As she lay beside her daughter, her only thought was to join him wherever he might be. If in death, she prayed that it might come soon for her and Jenny. She drifted into a restless sleep in which she dreamed again, dreamed that Jauire's black stallion thundered up the road to the castle. So clearly could she see him brandishing his sword, racing across the drawbridge. He was flinging open the door to the cell, tenderly brushing the hair back from her brow. "Melyssan, I've come for you and the little one. Make not a sound and follow me."

But the dream was so strange. Jaufre's voice—it was not the rich timbre she remembered. As she watched, the rugged planes of his face dissolved, the beard disappearing to become the broad, honest face of Lady Gunnor bending over her. The candlelight glistened upon the moisture in her eyes.

With a startled cry, Melyssan sat up, only to have Gunnor's thick hand cover her mouth. "Hush, my lady. The king is long gone, but many of his soldiers remain."

Melyssan sank back against the straw mattress, trying to clear her befuddled senses. "Gunnor! What—what are you doing?"

"I could bear it no more, my lady. I nigh went mad thinking of you and your little one down here. Even if we did not owe you what we do, I could not leave you here to die."

"You've come to help us?" Melyssan's eyes traveled past Gunnor to the outline of the doorway beyond. The heavy oak door was thrown back, the shadows of the outer world beckoned. "You've come to help us escape!"

Chapter 23

Rain pelted the thatch covering of the hovel where Jaufre dragged the old priest, seeking shelter from the storm. Water dripped through the roof, splattering into the clay-lined hole in the center of the room, threatening to douse the fire that burned there. The flames hissed, sending forth an acrid stream of smoke that made breathing even more difficult in the dank confines of the cottage; the only ventilation came from one window cut through the thick mixture of dung and straw. Crouching to avoid brushing his head against the low roof, Jaufre kicked open the door, heedless of the wind-driven rain.

"Better we drown than suffocate,'" he said to the peasant woman who huddled in one corner, her arms wrapped around a small, half-naked child. The woman didn't answer, shrinking as a crack of lightning split the air. Her youthful face reflected the same bewildered terror that had been there ever since Jaufre had first burst in upon her, with Father Andrew slung over his shoulder.

Oblivious to the woman's fear, Jaufre left the door propped open. He bent down on the mud-caked earthen floor, kneeling beside the bag of dried ferns upon which he had laid Father Andrew. The priest looked so pale and cold. Jaufre drew a worn woolen blanket around him, pressing his hand against the thin chest. The heartbeat was faint, but steady. Damn, but the old man was tenacious. He should have died two days ago. In all that time, Jaufre had not found a roof to shelter him until now. He remembered his annoyance when he awoke that first morning and found the priest still alive, knew that he had no choice but to attempt to care for him. He had tromped the countryside, finding yarrow herbs, trying to recall all that he had ever seen Melyssan do when tending a wound. The gash on the old man's head was encrusted with dirt. He'd had to clean it, rebind it. As the peasant had remarked that day when Jaufre had found Winterbourne a ruin—had it been only two days or two centuries ago?—'twas nothing short of a miracle the priest had survived the siege.

Why was God so sparing with his miracles? Jaufre flopped down beside the old man. Mayhap tonight the old man's good fortune would wear out. Then he would be free to pick up his pace, before the king got too many miles out of reach.

He closed his eyes, praying for sleep without dreams. But as always, the dream came, Lyssa bending over him, whispering, "Nay, my love, 'twas only an evil spell cast by the king. Hold me, touch me. I'm alive, Jaufre, alive." Her lips were upon his, so warm, so real, he thought he could reach out his arms and draw her close. Her kiss was so vivid, he could feel the warmth of it—only to awake more bereft than ever when he found the lovely vision had fled and himself lying upon the damp earth of the cottage.

The fury of the summer storm had ended, but the chill morning mist seeped into the cottage, causing him to shiver. He noted the peasant woman struggling to relight the fire as he sat up to check upon the priest. Father Andrew's eyes were open, but he had experienced brief phases of consciousness before. Something was different this time. There was a lucidity in his gaze that had been absent. He studied the cottage, his pale blue eyes coming to rest upon Jaufre before he closed them again.

Jaufre's heart sang with savage exultation. The old man was getting well enough to be left behind.

"Lyssa," he whispered. "I have done my best. I saved him. Now let me go. Let me go and do what I must do."

"Sir Knight?" The soft voice startled him. He became aware the peasant woman pushed two wooden bowls toward him. The child hid behind her skirts, peering at him as he accepted the humble offering. He gulped down the lentil soup without tasting it, then propped up the old man and tried to feed him.

"Here. Eat this and get your strength back. I have to leave you soon. Do you understand?"

During the moments when he was weakest, the priest had permitted Jaufre to pour wine down his throat, swallowing obediently, but now that he was lucid, he struggled, averting his head.

"Too old. Too tired. Leave me alone."

"Open your mouth, you fool. You're hanging to life by a thread now. Don't tempt your fate. Even your God must have a limit to his patience."

"Ready to die. Why will you—not let me?"

Jaufre shoved him back down onto the floor. "Die, then. It matters naught to me. The choice is yours."

But as he backed away, he felt a rush of anger. He had already wasted two days caring for the old man. He should have kicked him into the grave at Winterbourne and been done with it. He could have been two days farther on the road to plunging a knife through John's black heart.

"Damn you! The choice is not yours. You'll live whether you wish it or not." He propped the priest up, this time forcing some of the liquid down his throat. The old man coughed, tried to pull away. Jaufre could sense him using what little reserves of strength he possessed to will himself into the grave.

"Why you—do this? Let me go—to God. You don't care."

"I don't, but
she
would have. You're going to live because she would have wished it so." He was uncertain if the sense of his words penetrated the priest's mind, but the old man went limp, allowing Jaufre to feed him like a child.

He no longer showed any resistance, but the earl still did not trust him. Forcing the priest to live became an obsession with him as great as his desire to kill the king. Despite his resolve to move on, he lingered at the cottage, obliging Father Andrew to eat what meager food the widowed peasant could provide for him.

While the old man rested, Jaufre spent his time poaching rabbits and small game from the woods nearby, long hours that provided more substantial meals and helped him grow familiar with the crossbow, a weapon that he had scarce ever touched before.

The delay gave him time to think. He would never get near John in the guise of the earl of Winterbourne before being captured. To encompass the death of the king would require much cold calculation and a new skill. Jaufre sent the quarrel flying from the crossbow, dead through the heart of a partridge as it fluttered beneath the underbrush.

Later that day, as he plucked the bird and roasted it upon a spit over the fire, he noted with satisfaction that the priest was sitting up. Father Andrew spoke so little, Jaufre wondered if the blow had addled his wits. But there was yet a keen intelligence that lurked in the faded, ancient eyes. He caught them turned upon himself as if to probe the secrets of his soul. He presented his back to the priest, pretending to be absorbed in his cooking.

The peasant woman was out grubbing in the meager patch of land that passed for a garden, leaving her child unattended. As he toddled too near the fire, Jaufre caught him by the tail of his smock and hauled him roughly back. But his voice was gentle as he said, "Stay away from the fire, little one."

He brushed the thick mat of hair aside from the child's face, the yellow-streaked brown nothing like Jenny's dusky curls. But the expression in the eyes was the same, the dancing light of curiosity.

"I know the flames look beautiful," Jaufre said. "So bright and warm, as if tiny faeries danced inside them. But you must remember, sometimes even that which is beautiful can hurt you."