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Authors: Susan Carroll
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since that long-ago summer day she had first arrived at Winterbourne. How his broad, honest face would harden with contempt when Lord Jaufre exposed her lies!
With an almost boyish spring in his step, he led her forward. Kitchen wenches, stableboys, soldiers, her ladies-in-waiting, all fell back, their faces shining with a joy and excitement she wished she could share. Sir Dreyfan escorted her to the very front of the assembled household and a few steps beyond, so that she stood out, a solitary figure, the first one Jaufre would see when he came through the gate.
Oh, Jaufre, she thought. Could it be true, all those things Beatrice said about you? "He hanged his wife, Lyssa." Bea's voice echoed in Melyssan's head. "No one even knew what Yseult had done to displease him. He just hanged her."
The clear high notes of a trumpet sounded, followed by a thundering of horses' hooves. The guards standing up on the castle walls began to cheer. Melyssan closed her eyes tight, wishing desperately she was a little girl again and it was young Sir Jaufre outside the ramparts, only come to claim her veil. She felt a light touch on her shoulder as someone stepped into place beside her. Her eyes fluttered open, and she choked back a glad outcry.
Whitney. Fear still etched his features, but now it was mingled with shame as he hung his head. Blinking away her tears, she squeezed his hand, and he looked up to give her a rueful smile. Together they turned, hearing the creak of the pulleys as the iron portcullis slowly inched its way upward.
On the other side, the restive horses of Jaufre's knights shifted and brushed against one another, pawing the ground as if they, too, were eager to return to Winterbourne. Tristan barked a command to the excited pages to keep better hold of the bridles on the baggage mules and then snapped at the squire, Ross, to have a care what he was about: in another minute he would be dropping the earl's banner into the dirt. Maneuvering his way to Jaufre's side, Tristan stole a glance at the earl's stony profile and reflected he had never seen Jaufre so grim when returning to Winterbourne. Father Hubert didn't help matters with his constant needling about the bold hussy passing herself off as Jaufre's wife.
Le Gros swilled a large mouthful of wine from his leather flask. Wiping a spray of red droplets from his lips, he said, "Well, my lord. At least the bitch didn't turn away any more of your people. Good thing. You might not have been able to get back inside your own castle."
Jaufre said nothing, but Tristan noticed the slight tic at the corner of his mouth. The knight wished to heaven the stupid priest had some notion of when to hold his tongue. Jaufre was most dangerous when he went quiet like that, his eyes as hard as slate.
Tristan heartily regretted that Father Hubert had not been left on the other side of the Channel. He put little credence in Lady Finette's explanation that the priest had ecclesiastical affairs to conduct, but broaching the subject to Jaufre had been useless. The earl didn't care if the devil rode with him so long as he got back to Winterbourne to punish the woman pretending to be his lady. But Le Gros's presence worried Tristan. There was always a dagger or a sword strapped where the priest's rosary beads should have been, and the pack of servants who accompanied him looked more fit for hanging than praying.
Tristan had tried to caution Jaufre before they set out. " 'Tis rumored that Le Gros is not above pilfering from his host. It would not surprise me if Finette has not foisted this fellow on to you out of spite, hoping he will cause you some mischief. Everyone at Winterbourne knows you house your silver in the cupboard behind the mural. If Le Gros were to have opportunity…"
"If it worries you so, hide the money in the chapel," Jaufre quipped. "That is one place you will never find the good father."
And that had been all the satisfaction Tristan got from warning Jaufre. He would have
With an almost boyish spring in his step, he led her forward. Kitchen wenches, stableboys, soldiers, her ladies-in-waiting, all fell back, their faces shining with a joy and excitement she wished she could share. Sir Dreyfan escorted her to the very front of the assembled household and a few steps beyond, so that she stood out, a solitary figure, the first one Jaufre would see when he came through the gate.
Oh, Jaufre, she thought. Could it be true, all those things Beatrice said about you? "He hanged his wife, Lyssa." Bea's voice echoed in Melyssan's head. "No one even knew what Yseult had done to displease him. He just hanged her."
The clear high notes of a trumpet sounded, followed by a thundering of horses' hooves. The guards standing up on the castle walls began to cheer. Melyssan closed her eyes tight, wishing desperately she was a little girl again and it was young Sir Jaufre outside the ramparts, only come to claim her veil. She felt a light touch on her shoulder as someone stepped into place beside her. Her eyes fluttered open, and she choked back a glad outcry.
Whitney. Fear still etched his features, but now it was mingled with shame as he hung his head. Blinking away her tears, she squeezed his hand, and he looked up to give her a rueful smile. Together they turned, hearing the creak of the pulleys as the iron portcullis slowly inched its way upward.
On the other side, the restive horses of Jaufre's knights shifted and brushed against one another, pawing the ground as if they, too, were eager to return to Winterbourne. Tristan barked a command to the excited pages to keep better hold of the bridles on the baggage mules and then snapped at the squire, Ross, to have a care what he was about: in another minute he would be dropping the earl's banner into the dirt. Maneuvering his way to Jaufre's side, Tristan stole a glance at the earl's stony profile and reflected he had never seen Jaufre so grim when returning to Winterbourne. Father Hubert didn't help matters with his constant needling about the bold hussy passing herself off as Jaufre's wife.
Le Gros swilled a large mouthful of wine from his leather flask. Wiping a spray of red droplets from his lips, he said, "Well, my lord. At least the bitch didn't turn away any more of your people. Good thing. You might not have been able to get back inside your own castle."
Jaufre said nothing, but Tristan noticed the slight tic at the corner of his mouth. The knight wished to heaven the stupid priest had some notion of when to hold his tongue. Jaufre was most dangerous when he went quiet like that, his eyes as hard as slate.
Tristan heartily regretted that Father Hubert had not been left on the other side of the Channel. He put little credence in Lady Finette's explanation that the priest had ecclesiastical affairs to conduct, but broaching the subject to Jaufre had been useless. The earl didn't care if the devil rode with him so long as he got back to Winterbourne to punish the woman pretending to be his lady. But Le Gros's presence worried Tristan. There was always a dagger or a sword strapped where the priest's rosary beads should have been, and the pack of servants who accompanied him looked more fit for hanging than praying.
Tristan had tried to caution Jaufre before they set out. " 'Tis rumored that Le Gros is not above pilfering from his host. It would not surprise me if Finette has not foisted this fellow on to you out of spite, hoping he will cause you some mischief. Everyone at Winterbourne knows you house your silver in the cupboard behind the mural. If Le Gros were to have opportunity…"
"If it worries you so, hide the money in the chapel," Jaufre quipped. "That is one place you will never find the good father."
And that had been all the satisfaction Tristan got from warning Jaufre. He would have
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