Winterbourne Page 9
Apprehension nipped at her, and she paused uncertainly in the doorway. “I thought I heard some sort of scratching in here.”
Father Hubert mopped at his brow again. “Oh, that. Yes, I heard it, too. Rats behind the wainscoting, I think.”
“Rats? It is impossible. That’s a solid stone wall.” She ventured a step inside the room, trying to see the painting, but Father Hubert blocked her path. He reeked of wine, his red-veined eyes staring at her with an odd intensity, his mouth going slack. The hair prickled along her arm at having him so near, but she tried to repress her shivers. Despite his peasantlike manners, the man was, after all, a priest.
“Surely a lusty wench like you can find better ways to spend her nights other than rat catching.” He chuckled, his coarse fingers brushing her neck as he lifted one of her tresses, inspecting the golden-brown wave.
She snatched the strands away, stumbling back, her uneasiness at being alone with him growing stronger every minute. But she forgot her disquiet when she spotted a sword and a small pile of wood chips on the floor beyond him. “What is— Oh, no. The mural!”
Stooping down, she stretched her fingers out to the Saxon warrior she had touched only that morning. Now the figure was mutilated beyond recognition along with several of King Harold’s soldiers. Why would anyone want to deface such a magnificent painting? It was almost as if the vandal expected to find something behind it.
She froze as she remembered how she’d once heard her father speak of ambries, spaces many noblemen carved out in the walls of their castle to hide their valuables. But she’d never thought of there being such a thing at Winterbourne. Lifting her staff, she rapped on the mural panel. It was hollow.
“Some thief must have been trying to get at Lord Jaufre’s treasure,” she said, straightening up. “Did you see anyone, Father?” She stopped as an unwelcome realization crowded into her mind.
“No one at all,” he said with a chilling smile.
“I had best summon the guard.”
Striving to suppress her growing panic, she hobbled toward the solar entrance, but Le Gros’s thick hand shot past her, slamming the door shut as he leaned his weight against it.
“A pretty performance, my dear.” His porcine features split into an evil grin. “Such wide-eyed innocence. But I’ve a notion you’ve known about the cupboard for some time, clever girl that you are. Now why don’t you be a good child and show Father Hubert how to open it, and perhaps I’ll share with you.”
“Let me out of here,” she said, outrage and fear making her voice shrill. “Open this door at once, or I’ll scream!”
Her threat was useless as large, grimy fingers clamped down over her jaw, Le Gros’s other arm coming around her waist and lifting her off her feet.
“Think again, my lovely little bitch. You’d better be more—God damn you!” he hissed as she sank her teeth into him. With a guttural cry of pain, he dropped her.
Frantically, she crawled toward the door, but Le Gros was upon her again. He seized the top of her mantle, yanking it upward so that her head snapped back, the metal clasp cutting deep into her throat, choking her. She clawed at the joining until it released, sending her flying forward, her forehead grazing the oaken door.
Tossing the mantle aside, he grabbed for her. Her breath came in ragged little gasps as she found the strength to thwack her staff against his shinbone. But as she drew back to strike again, he wrenched the staff from her grasp. His fingers gnarled in her hair, dragging her away from the door as she screamed only to be silenced by his meaty fist cracking into her jaw. The room spun sickeningly as he flung her to the floor, crushing her beneath the flaccid layers of his obese frame.
She opened her mouth to cry out again, but this time it was his thick wet lips that cut off the sound. A tongue fetid with the taste of stale wine and rotting teeth thrust deep into her mouth, gagging her. Suffocating, she flailed about wildly until she caught hold of the chair leg and tried to topple it onto him, but it crashed harmlessly to the floor.
The noise did have the effect of causing Le Gros to raise his head, allowing her to breathe. Her stomach heaved, and she wheezed, terror having robbed her of her voice.
His reptilian eyes burned with something akin to madness as he panted, “Should’ve been reasonable, my lady. So you want to betray me? Then I must wring your pretty little neck. But first I’ll have a sample of what Lord Jautre’s been feasting on.”
Shifting his weight, he hooked his fingers around the neckline of her chemise, and the sound of renting material assailed her ears as he tore it down the middle, exposing her breasts to his lustful gaze.
New sensations of horror shot through her body, reviving her flagging strength. She clawed at his eyes, scratching the flabby pockets of skin as he ripped the garment the rest of the way, leaving her completely naked beneath him.
Grunting with rage, he caught her arms and pinioned them over her head. With his free hand, he administered a series of open-palmed slaps to her face until her senses reeled and she was dizzy with pain.
“N-no,” she sobbed. “Oh, God help me. Jaufre!”
He smothered her cries by stuffing the sweat-soaked napkin into her mouth, taunting as he did so, “Do y’think he’d care who has a piece of you, bitch? After what you’ve done to him? Wonder is he ‘asn’t already snapped your neck at the end of a rope like he did his first whore. Nay, wench. He’s likely to thank me for this.”
Le Gros’s hand closed over her breast, dirt-encrusted nails scraping the tender flesh, pinching the nipple until her throat went raw from the anguish she could not release by screaming.
She forced her tear-filled eyes to remain open even though Le Gros’s puffy jowls and drooling lips swam before her. She had to wake up. It was the only way to make the nightmare go away, make the king vanish like the dreadful phantom he was.
But it was not the king bearing down upon her. It was Le Gros, and the knee he slammed between her legs, prying her thighs apart, was agonizingly real. There would be no waking up this time, no sweet fantasy of Jaufre to keep the night demons locked away where they belonged.
Oh, Holy Mother, she prayed. Just let me die.
Her eyelids fluttered as she willed herself into oblivion, the last sight misting before her Jaufre’s face. She imagined he cried her name, yet she heard nothing but a muffled growl as darkness claimed her.
The next she knew, her body felt strangely free, as if a great burden had been torn away, leaving her floating in a spinning black emptiness. And cold, so cold. She managed to open her eyes and was dazzled by blinding light. Was this what it was like to die?
The roaring in her ears slowly disappeared until she could hear other sounds, muted at first, then louder, inhuman shrieks and curses.
“Goddamned bastard. I should’ve killed you.”
The light resolved itself into a single candle flame, and Melyssan rolled her head toward the voice, the pain that knifed through her head telling her that she was still very much alive. Her vision clouded and then cleared, so that she saw figures moving as if through a fog. Jaufre, his face twisted with demonic fury, towering over a shapeless brown form, pudgy, thick-knuckled hands lunging for Jaufre’s throat, Jaufre’s fist plunging into Father Hubert’s stomach, the priest doubling over, Jaufre’s booted foot, flashing, taking Le Gros full in the face.
Jaufre was going to kill him. Tristan must stop him before it was . . . The confused thought slipped away as she closed her eyes, trying to remember where she was. No, she’d left the banquet hours ago. She was in—she opened her eyes—in the solar. And Jaufre had appeared from nowhere, attacking Father Hubert again, because, because the priest had.…
Her hand fell on something, thin fabric shredded, tattered remnants clinging to her bare skin. The priest had raped her. Waves of nausea swept over her with the return of a
nguished memory.
“Get up, you whoreson dog.” The toe of the earl’s boot slammed into Le Gros’s rib cage, punctuating every word. “I said, get up!”
Father Hubert groaned and was still.
Melyssan’s arms and legs moved as if they belonged to someone else, dragging her up until she crouched on the floor, violent tremors racking her body. Suddenly Jaufre hovered over her, tucking her mantle around her. But it didn’t warm her. Nothing would ever draw the chill from her bones. She glanced up and found in his brown eyes a reflection of her own torment. Hands bruised from the savage blows inflicted upon Le Gros gently stroked the tangled curls back from her face.
“No!” She wrenched her head away, forcing the words through swollen lips. “Don’t touch. Don’t look at me. I’m vile, dirty. He—“
“He didn’t,” Jaufre whispered fiercely. “I stopped him, tore him away. Melyssan, please believe me.”
Her eyes roved fearfully around the shadowed corners of the room. “Is he gone?” she quavered.
“He’s over there.” At her terrified start, he clutched her shoulders. “Don’t be afraid. He’s unconscious, perhaps even dead. He won’t hurt you again, I swear it.”
But as if Jaufre’s oath had been an incantation, Le Gros loomed up behind the earl, like a malevolent gargoyle springing to life from stone, eyes blazing, red mouth foaming with blood.
The blade of his sword glinted as it hissed through the air, arcing toward Jaufre’s neck. Melyssan’s strangled cry alerted the earl, giving him precious seconds to dive for the floor, taking her with him. The sharp edge whizzed inches from the top of his head and clanged loudly against the wall. In one fluid motion, Jaufre was on his feet, assuming a defensive stance between Melyssan and Le Gros while he drew forth his dagger. The short blade looked absurdly inadequate beside the priest’s length of gleaming steel, the sting of a wasp against the fang of a wolf.
Le Gros spat out a mouthful of blood and teeth and began to circle Jaufre. “You tried twice. Kill me over a whore. Now my turn.” He made a wild lunge, which Jaufre barely sidestepped.
“Melyssan,” Jaufre said. “ Crawl to the door.”
She heard him, but she could not make her paralyzed limbs obey. She watched as Le Gros flew at Jaufre again and again, the wildness of his swings and his lack of agility the only things that saved the earl. Jaufre danced around him, his body tensed to spring if he ever found his opening. One instant of bad timing and Le Gros’s weapon would hew deep into the earl’s flesh, if Jaufre should tire or stumble.
She had to help him. Fighting off the numbness terror had imposed upon her, she crept forward, the straw rushes abrading her hands and knees. A few yards away she saw her staff. If she could reach it, trip Father Hubert with it or strike him, distract him for but a moment, allowing Jaufre his chance .
There, the staff was now only a foot away. She cowered back as heavy feet trampled dangerously near her arm. Le Gras spared her not so much as a glance, his eyes now glazed with a lust to kill. As he launched himself at Jaufre, she summoned up one last effort, throwing herself at the walking stick. Her fingers closed over the tip as Hubert’s sword ripped the side of Jaufre’s tunic, the blade coming to rest with a dull thud against the table. The blow toppled over the candle and sending it rolling toward the edge. Jaufre swooped on it to prevent the flaming wax from dropping into the straw. The room plunged into darkness.
Melyssan could no longer identify the shapes of the two men, but she could hear, sounds all the more terrifying because she could not see who made them. The clatter of steel, a scuffling of feet, then a deep groan, someone falling, crashing to the floor near her. Nearly crazed by her blindness, she longed for the courage to reach out but dreaded what she might find.
“Jaufre?” she called softly, her heart thundering in the deathly stillness. She received no reply except for heavy breathing and boots rustling through the straw, moving to where she crouched, the thin staff her only shield.
CHAPTER FIVE
Melyssan held her breath, trying to still the movement of quaking limbs, but the footsteps continued to advance upon her as if guided by unerring instinct. Hands slick with perspiration closed on the end of the staff and she drew it back, poised to strike.
At that instant the door crashed open, flooding the room with torchlight, illuminating the face of the man bending over her. Jaufre.
The staff fell from her nerveless fingers as she staggered into his strong arms, which closed tightly around her, banding her to his chest. Through labored breaths, he murmured her name, burying his lips against her hair.
Dry sobs convulsed her frail shoulders. "I thought he killed you."
"Jaufre! What the devil!" Tristan's voice broke into her consciousness. He stood frozen in the doorway, sword drawn. "Le Gros," he croaked. "Sweet Mother of Christ!"
Tristan stared down at the floor, and then she saw what riveted his gaze. Large feet sprawled apart, jutting out from a mound of black wool in which the hilt of the dagger poised like a jeweled ornament. A red stain pooled over the huge expanse of chest.
Jaufre felt Melyssan shudder, and he pressed her face against his tunic blocking out Le Gros's white, puffy face contorted into a grimace of death.
"Tristan," he said, snapping the knight out of his shocked trance. "No questions. Dispose of that carcass. Keep this quiet until I talk to you."
Folding the mantle more tightly around her, he swept Melyssan off her feet, cradling her against his chest. "Now I must look after my wife."
"Your wife," Tristan repeated, giving him an odd look. "Oh. Aye, my lord."
But the strangeness of what he'd just said barely registered with Jaufre as he hurried up the curving stair, clutching Melyssan tight against him, his only thought that he must get her warm. The hand that gripped the neckline of his woolen shirt was clammy, and the only sound issuing from her was ragged little gasps. He'd rebuild the fire, wrap her up in the furs, and beyond that he didn't know. He didn't know how he would deal with the shattered look in those sea-green eyes.
Up in his chamber, he eased her onto the bed and tried to pull the coverlet over her, thinking if she would just go to sleep, then perhaps in the morning, she would recover. But she sat up, shoving the furs away. Underneath the mantle, she rubbed her arms.
"I have to wash," she whispered.
"What?" he asked, not understanding. " It is not morning yet, Melyssan. You need to rest, forget about all this."
"No! I need water. Need to wash away the feel of him."
He could not reason with her and, in the end, sent a page to fetch a pail from the cistern. When Jaufre brought the leather bucket inside the room, he thought the icy water was the last thing she needed, but she snatched the receptacle away from him with the eagerness of one dying of thirst.
Turning her back to him, she stood near the fire he had kindled in the hearth, dropping what remained of her torn chemise. She slipped the cloak back so that it hung just from her neck, baring ivory shoulders along with glimpses of the creamy swell of her hips and firm, high breasts as she began splashing the frigid water over herself.
Ashamed to find himself staring, Jaufre averted his eyes toward the door, confused thoughts tangling a web in his mind. By God's blood, he'd killed a priest tonight. There would likely be hell to pay when his deed was discovered by the church, by the king. And yet the very idea of Le Gros set his blood to boiling all over again. He relived with vicious satisfaction the moment he'd snuffed the candle and pinned Hubert's wrist to the table, guiding his dagger through the dark with feral accuracy, thrusting it through the layers of soft, blubbering flesh into that maggot-ridden lump that passed for a heart.
He had killed men before in battle, but never with such a degree of hatred. The intensity of his loathing surprised him. He'd viewed Hubert as a buffoon, an irritating clown, at most. Yet earlier this evening, when Le Gros insulted Melyssan, when he'd caught the bastard trying to rape her, he'd fallen upon the fat knave as if he'd had the chance to
rid the world of the devil himself.
And all over a woman Jaufre had termed a lying wench, a scheming harlot. Yet it was no harlot's reactions to a man's lust that now drove her to scour herself as if her skin were infected with leprosy. He stole a peek at her and saw her abrading the tender flesh of her forearm with a violence that left it raw.
Unable to restrain himself, he rushed to her side. "Melyssan, what are you doing? Stop it."
Quickly she draped the mantle around herself again, but not before he saw the livid red splotches marring the pearl-colored skin. She continued to scrape at her hands, crying out with a little catch in her voice, "It won't come off. I can still feel him. It won’t come off! "
He grabbed the linen towel away from her, and when she struggled to get it back, he seized her by the wrists and hauled her away from the water bucket.
For a moment she held herself rigid, glaring at him, her eyes a mirror of helpless rage, shame, and despair. Then she collapsed, the tears flowing free at last, as she muffled her sobs against his chest.
His previous anger and mistrust of her were for the moment swept aside. He sat down on the stool by the hearth, drawing her onto his lap, cradling her in the protective circle of his arms, wanting only to comfort her, restore the serenity that was as natural a part of her as the flowing nutmeg hair he caressed.
Her arms tightened around his neck, her hot tears trickling down his throat as she pressed her face against his shoulder, weeping as stormily as a little girl.
"Why did he do it? Why?" The words came brokenly between her sobs. "He took holy vows. He was a priest!"
Jaufre did not know what answer to give as he stifled his own cynical opinion that priests were no different from other men in their lusts, and very likely worse, having to keep up a front of holiness and celibacy. Awkwardly, he patted her on the back, his hand tense with frustration that he, who could put the heart back into war-weary soldiers with but a look, was so inept at mending the broken spirit of one sensitive girl.