Winterbourne Read online

  And when caught, how his fair-skinned Yseult had wept again, swearing it was all Godric's doing and none of her own. Like a fool, he'd believed her and given her another chance—a chance to kill him. Jaufre stroked the tip of the scar at his throat.

  Melyssan clasped her hand to her mouth as Whitney careened clumsily toward the quintain. Was this show of dismay but a performance to attract attention to herself? He wished he could decide.

  Perhaps Tristan was right. Perhaps she was just as innocent and unselfish as Jaufre himself had once imagined her to be. He wanted to accord her the benefit of the doubt, but he knew women and their cunning deceits all too well. And there was still the unresolved matter of those pilgrims.

  Having organized the quintain practice, Tristan returned to stand beside him. "There," he said. "I hope you are at least satisfied with the horsemanship of our lads."

  "Tolerable." Jaufre was loath to admit he had been staring at Melyssan and not the riders.

  "Tolerable! There's not one out there whose skill in the saddle would put you to shame. Except," Tristan amended, "I do wish I could teach young Whitney to keep his weight more forward in the saddle when he charges."

  They watched Whitney make a thundering run at the quintain, only to drop his lance. He yanked on the reins and veered aside barely in time to avoid crashing into the crosspiece.

  “You might begin by telling him that as far as we know," Jaufre drawled, "no one has ever been killed by a wooden dummy."

  The earl crossed his arms over his chest in disgust as the young man rode back to try again. But the page Arric swiped someone's horse and galloped in ahead of Whitney despite the hoots of the men. The boy hit the dummy square between the eyes with the tip of his lance.

  "It is time that lad was made a squire." Jaufre nodded his approval to the excited boy who whooped and shook his fist in the air.

  Whitney steeled himself to begin his second run. The young man approached the quintain more cautiously this time, slowing to a sedate trot at the end. He missed the head, catching his lance on the edge of the dummy's shield, which sent the wooden man veering around to thump Whitney on the back, nearly unhorsing him.

  It vexed Jaufre to note how Melyssan applauded the feeble performance, waving her kerchief by way of encouragement. "For the love of St. George," he growled. "My grandmother could have done better."

  Although Tristan smiled, he said, "Be not so impatient with Whitney. He tries."

  "He is a weakling. Soft-hearted and soft-headed. He reminds me too much of—" Jaufre sucked in his breath as the painful realization caught him unaware.

  "Of who?"

  "Godric!" Jaufre grabbed up his helmet and plunked the heavy kettle-shaped piece of steel over his head. His vision was now restricted to a narrow slit, so he did not see Tristan's reaction to his comparison. "It is time I put some heart into those lads," he growled.

  He marched out onto the field, his shield and sword held aloft by outstretched arms, issuing a challenge. The squires recognized the invitation and forgot the quintain. Horses were consigned to the care of pages amidst joyous war cries while the young men scrambled for their swords, shields, and helmets.

  With a little shiver, Melyssan realized Jaufre meant to take them all on—some half-dozen stalwart men, not including her own brother, who reluctantly eased his helmet over disordered brown locks.

  She had taken great care to keep her eyes averted from the earl this morning, although she was very much aware of his presence as he stood idly watching the squires. Now she decided she might be pardoned for staring, since the earl had made himself the center of attention.

  The sun glinted off the helmet that concealed his features, the gold plumes of his crest ruffled by the breeze. The squires were mostly strapping fellows in their late teens, but next to Jaufre's tall, hard-muscled physique, they dwindled in significance. The earl's royal-blue tunic bore his falcon emblem emblazoned across his broad chest. Slits in the garment's sides revealed the taut cords of his powerful thighs, which moved with catlike grace as he tensed, waiting for his squires to marshal their attack.

  "Surely it is no contest," Melyssan breathed. "He cannot possibly hold off all of them."

  Sir Dreyfan, who stood next to her, chuckled. "Wait and see, my lady."

  The bolder of the squires closed in for the attack. Jaufre wheeled, preventing any of them from coming at his flank, his sword slashing with a speed and accuracy that left Melyssan dizzy trying to follow its movement. In short order, one squire was crawling across the field to retrieve the weapon knocked from his grasp and two more retreated, nursing bruised ribs.

  Sir Dreyfan bristled with pride. "There has never yet been a warrior to equal my lord, save perhaps William Le Marshal and the great Lion's Heart himself."

  "Oh?" Melyssan said, feigning indifference although her heart had begun to pound unaccountably faster. For once she was fascinated by a sport whose violence she normally abhorred. The tireless strength in Jaufre's arms astonished her as he repelled yet two more attackers. In spite of herself, she remembered how effortlessly he had swooped her off her feet the night he'd carried her from the great hall, how he'd soothed her to sleep, her naked breasts and thighs absorbing the heat of his virile male body even through the layers of his wool shirt and tunic.

  Melyssan quickly ducked her head lest Sir Dreyfan see the blush coursing into her cheeks from such remembrance. Where had Jaufre slept since then? She had no idea and dared not ask. As she fought wakefulness night after night in his bed, the old magic of dreaming of her young Lancelot did not work anymore. Instead she tossed and turned, envisioning the earl as he was now, lean and hard, with dangerous glints in his dark eyes. Then she felt ashamed, almost as if she betrayed a memory she'd long held sacred.

  Why should she torment herself over a man who had forgotten her very existence? All too well had Jaufre kept his promise of not forcing his attentions upon her. She'd lived in dread for days that he would confront her, demanding to know more about Sir Hugh and Lady Gunnor; but even that seemed to have been dismissed from his mind as having little importance. Although he still kept her trapped at Winterbourne like a sparrow beating its wings against the bars of a cage, he treated her with an offhand courtesy as though he took her presence for granted, like any other officer of his household staff. Watching him as he now fought his way across the field, Melyssan reflected that he could probably trip over her and keep right on going.

  Jaufre grunted as the largest of his squires caught him in the ribs, but he recovered and sent the brawny youth stumbling over backward with a well-placed blow to the thigh. Although the sweat streamed down his cheeks, making the helmet as stuffy as a bake oven, he was enjoying the exercise, ridding himself of his sexual and political frustrations with the same strokes. He caught a flash of Melyssan through his eye slit and was annoyed to see her staring down at the ground.

  Raising his weapon aloft, he looked for fresh opponents, but he had crossed swords with all the men save one. Whitney hung back, his sword held halfheartedly in the ready position as if he hoped to escape unnoticed—the exact same tactic Godric had always used whenever there was a melee. Jaufre clenched his teeth and charged at Whitney, delivering a hard thunk against his shield that sent the young man staggering.

  To the earl's annoyance, Whitney scarce made use of his sword at all, relying mostly on the shield to deflect Jaufre's blows. Jaufre crashed his weapon down again and again, determined to rouse some aggressive response from the weak-kneed man before him.

  "Fight, damn you!" Jaufre roared, but Whitney seemed to have given up. He cowered back, almost losing his grip on the shield.

  Hearing such a clatter, Melyssan stole a glance and found Jaufre bearing down hard upon her brother. Whitney's shield was not doing him much service, allowing Jaufre to rain a volley of direct hits upon his helmet.

  Stifling her cry, she tried to hurry to his rescue, but Sir Dreyfan caught her by the arm. "Please, my lady. Ye must remember to stay back."

/>   "But he's slaying my brother." She struggled against the old knight's large restraining hands.

  "Nay, lass, 'tis all in sport. His lordship is only using blunted weapons."

  Only blunted weapons, Sir Dreyfan might well have said the earl was only using a cudgel the way his heavy sword clattered down upon Whitney's head. After one particularly savage buffet, her brother dropped both sword and shield and sank to his knees, pitching forward onto his belly. Sir Dreyfan released Melyssan, and she hobbled across the field, half falling in her haste to reach Whitney.

  Lord Jaufre looked down at his handiwork, his expression masked by his armor. Melyssan flung herself down beside Whitney, then reeled back in horror. Although it was Whitney's back she touched, what stared up at her was the front of his helmet.

  "Dear God," she choked. "You twisted his head around."

  To her outraged astonishment, a deep chuckle rumbled inside Jaufre's steel kettle. "It is not the head that's turned around, only the helmet."

  The earl removed his own head covering and tossed it to a page, while swiping at the perspiration glistening in his dark beard.

  As if to lend credence to Jaufre's words, a low moan echoed from the back of Whitney's helmet. Sir Dreyfan moved in and rolled Whitney over, testing his limbs. “Easy, lad. No bones broken, only the wind knocked out of ye.”

  "Only the wind!” Melyssan said. "He's half-dead. Take that thing off him before he suffocates."

  Dreyfan tugged at the metal headgear, but it wouldn't budge.

  "Take care," Tristan said as he rushed to kneel beside them. "It is crushed here on this side. You might rip his face. Arric, go get the blacksmith."

  As the page tore off in the direction of the barn, Melyssan felt Jaufre step behind her. "Do not fret, my dear. Your valiant brother isn't the first man this has ever happened to. He will live to fight another day."

  The earl's bronzed fingers rested on her shoulder, but she wrenched herself from his grasp and said, "No thanks to you." She captured one of Whitney's groping hands. The fingers curled pathetically around hers as he issued another muffled groan.

  "I was only trying to teach the lad his sword was meant for something more than a place to store holy relics in the hilt."

  "You pounded him into the ground as if he were a tent stake." She glowered up at Jaufre.

  "Well, to be sure." He stroked his beard, the thoughtful gesture belied by the unholy glint in his eyes. "There were times I did wonder if I was not fighting the wooden dummy by mistake."

  The chortle of mirth from the other men who had gathered around only added more fuel to her indignation. Seething inwardly, Melyssan continued to caress Whitney's hand until the burly figure of the blacksmith arrived, hefting a large iron hammer and chisel in his fist.

  Melyssan was pushed aside as Sir Dreyfan dragged Whitney's body to position his head on a large rock. He and Tristan held her brother down as the smithy commenced the delicate task of trying to batter the helmet back into shape without crushing Whitney's skull. Melyssan‘s eyes filled with tears and she cringed with every chink of the hammer while the cause of her brother's torment looked on with folded arms, his face alight with sardonic amusement.

  "Don't be too concerned if you can't get the helmet turned around," Jaufre said. "I'll wager Master Whitney fights just as well with it on backward."

  "Oh, go to the devil, Jaufre," Tristan snapped as another whimper escaped from the young man.

  Shrugging, Jaufre sauntered over to Melyssan, where he tried to flick the tears off her cheeks, but she slapped his hand.

  "Don't touch me, you great oaf. How could you so strike down a defenseless boy?"

  Jaufre's brows drew together in annoyance. Perhaps he had gotten a little rough, but she had no call to speak to him as if he were some sort of a monster, attacking unarmed children.

  "When I was the age of that defenseless boy, I'd already been knighted two years and acclaimed the champion of at least ten tournaments."

  "Truly?" she said, her green eyes flashing. "I believe I may swoon, I am so impressed."

  "You should," he said, feeling the red sting his cheeks at being made to sound like such a braggart. "But most men could do as well. At least those not coddled by their sister. Your brother will never win his spurs at this rate."

  "If that means changing into a great hulking brute like you, I'll see the damned spurs flung to the bottom of the well first."

  Jaufre threw his hands into the air and grimaced at his squires. "Women!"

  Their answering snickers caused Melyssan to ball her hands into tight fists until her nails gouged her palms. To think she'd dared to imagine that in the heart of Jaufre de Macy existed some fragment of chivalry, some part of the gentle knight who had rescued her as a child. Bah, what a fool's dream.

  She tensed as the helmet was eased upward, revealing Whitney's white, bruised features. With trembling hands, he felt his chin, nose, and teeth as if checking that they were still intact. Rolling to his knees, he retched into the grass for several seconds.

  "Never let it be said the lad has no stomach," Jaufre said. "He's leaving half of it scattered over the bailey."

  "Oh, let up on him, Jaufre." Tristan scowled.

  Melyssan crossed over to Whitney and gave his shoulder a sympathetic squeeze, her heart wrung by the sight of his peaked, humiliated face. But her ungrateful brother shoved her hand away.

  "Stop, Lyssa," he whispered. "You're only making everything worse."

  Tucking his helmet under his arm, Jaufre approached and bent down to peer at Whitney. "All better now? Come on. I'll give you another chance, but I'll fight with my left hand this time."

  Whitney's only reply was a sullen shake of his head. He struggled to his feet and walked away. Melyssan tried to hold him back, fearing that if he left now, he would never be able to face these men again. But he yanked free and kept on going, causing her to stumble back and stub her foot on the blacksmith's discarded hammer.

  "Another time, mayhap when you've more the belly for it," Jaufre called after Whitney.

  Melyssan grimaced with pain as she wriggled her throbbing toe, fury and frustration churning inside her at Jaufre for his insensitivity and at her brother for his meekness.

  "Well, lads:" said the earl, "despite the mighty buffets I sustained from Sir Whitney, I believe I'm still up to a little more exercise." Something in the jaunty way he donned his helmet and stooped to pick up his shield snapped Melyssan's remaining hold on her temper.

  "I'll give you mighty buffets," she cried. Dropping her staff and using both hands, she strained to lift the heavy iron hammer. As Jaufre was straightening up, she banged the smithy's tool down on his helmet near the region of his ear. The force of the blow reverberated up her arms, causing her to fly backward, tripping over the hem of her cloak so that she landed on her bottom with a hard thud.

  Jaufre sank to one knee and then, with a muttered curse, staggered up and ripped off the helmet. Bells were ringing in his ear louder than the chimes at Westminster the day of the king's coronation. He struck his palm vigorously against his temple to stop the insistent clanging.

  Sweeping the crowd of laughing men, his furious gaze wiped the mirth from their faces, except for Tristan, who continued to smirk, and Sir Dreyfan, who slapped his thighs and guffawed until tears streamed down onto his beard. By the feet of Christ, who had dared to strike him thus?

  Then he saw her sprawled upon the ground, skirts shoved up past her knees to where her garters were tied around shapely thighs. Disheveled strands of golden-brown hair fell across storm-washed green eyes as her dainty hands contended with the unwieldy hammer. The way she looked up at him, baring small white teeth, put him in mind of a ferocious kitten.

  "Why, you little witch," he hissed, although he was having great difficulty keeping up the appearance of being furious.

  Melyssan trembled with savage exhilaration. It was the first time in her life she'd ever permitted her temper such free rein. But when she saw Jaufre adva
ncing, her jaw dropped open in dismay. Dear God, what lunacy had come over her? Feeling much like a foolish mouse who has just tweaked a lion's tail, she attempted to escape, but the hammer rolled between her legs, pinning the folds of her kirtle to the ground so that all she could do was scoot helplessly backward.

  Jaufre straddled over her, his face screwed into an expression of angry menace as he lifted the hammer with one hand, tossing it aside effortlessly. Seizing both her arms, he hauled her to her feet and rammed her against his chest until she could feel the hard links of chain beneath his tunic. Her heart leapt into her throat, but she compelled herself to raise defiant eyes to his, biting the inside of her lip to keep it from quivering. Even though his mouth was set into a tight line, she had the fleeting impression it cost him an effort to look so fierce. Beneath Jaufre's thick-fringed black lashes glittered devilish lights she remembered all too well.

  "So, little vixen," he said with a mock growl. "You're not as tame as I thought. Well, I know how to deal with that."

  Banding her squirming wrists to her back with one large hand, he brought his other arm up behind her shoulders. Her startled gasp was smothered beneath the burning sensation of his lips crashing down upon hers. Struggling against the hard embrace and his demanding mouth became even more futile as fire coursed through her veins, robbing her of what little resistance she possessed.

  Suddenly she realized how much she had hungered for his touch all these long endless days at Winterbourne. Remnants of her anger, her frustration, her growing passion, all swirled inside of her, sweeping away her natural shyness, until she pressed her lips against his, returning the kiss with equal fervor. It was Jaufre who ended the embrace, slowly drawing back, his lips lingering as if they parted from hers with the greatest reluctance. While her giddy world gradually ceased revolving, she felt the rise of his chest as he drew in a shuddering breath. His face drained of color as if he had received a great shock.