LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance (25 page)

Laughter barked from Ivo. “You think me so fool to believe you will not go to him anyway? Nay, I shall not leave until I have what belongs to me. Fetch it, Emma.”

“Do as he says,” Sir Hugh allowed.

His words caused Ivo to relax his hold enough for Joslyn to take advantage of it. Her right arm pinned beneath his that held the blade to her, she thrust her left elbow up and back.

The crack of bone. A howl of pain. The loosening of his hand on her.

She wrenched to the side, freed herself, and swung around.

“Witch!” Ivo shouted, blood running from his nose, over his mouth, and off his chin.

“You are a disgrace to the Church,” Joslyn spat. “A pestilence. A degenerate. A—”

Baring bloodied teeth, he raised his dagger and charged at her.

“To me, my lady!” Sir Hugh called.

As she ran toward the steward who ran at Ivo, she heard her pursuer’s seething breath but could not know if the displaced air at her back was imagined or the sweep of a dagger. Blessedly, Sir Hugh reached her first and thrust her aside.

Landing on her hands and knees in the dirt, she looked around and saw the steward slash with his own blade, heard Ivo’s pained cry.

It was too dim to determine the extent of the false priest’s injury, but she glimpsed his stunned face before he ran.

While the steward chased him from the garden, shouting to alert the guards to the intruder in their midst, Emma and Father Warren hastened to Joslyn’s side.

“Are you injured, my lady?” Emma asked.

Joslyn sat back on her heels and touched her neck. “Barely. Blessedly, Sir Hugh is as quick of stride and deft of blade as he is with numbers.”

Emma urged her to standing. “Come, I will tend your cut.”

It was a quarter hour before the steward appeared in the hall where those who had begun settling in for the night had been roused by the commotion.

“You have captured him?” Joslyn asked.

“Apologies, my lady. He scaled the wall ere I or the men-at-arms could reach him.”

“But he was wounded.”

“I cut his arm, but not deeply.”

A chill went through her. “He is not done with us. He will return.”

“I have sent a dozen men after him.”

Wishing there was comfort in that, she looked to the castle folk whose faces reflected concern. “We are safe,” she said. “Pray, gain your beds and the good night’s sleep due you.”

As they moved to their pallets, she turned to Emma. “We must talk.”

“How came you by the coin, Emma?” Joslyn asked.

“The coin?” Sir Hugh said.

As he was trusted by Liam, Joslyn had asked him, as well as Father Warren to join her and the woman in the kitchen.

“The coin my husband stole from Ashlingford,” Joslyn explained.

Sir Hugh blinked. “You have it, Emma?”

“Most of it. ’Tis what Ivo came for.” The steward having rekindled the flame in one of the great fireplaces where spitted meat was roasted, there was enough light to see the flushed and swollen imprint of Ivo’s hand on Emma’s face.

“How did you gain the coin?” Sir Hugh asked.

Emma sighed. “I have a penchant for listening in where I should not. Upon learning Maynard had fallen from his horse and was dying…” She shook her head. “…I went to him. When I neared the solar and heard Ivo and him discussing the coin, I remained without until Maynard revealed its location.”

“Where was it hidden?”

“In the chapel of the old village.”

“The old village?” Joslyn asked.

“Aye,” Father Warren said. “A score of years past, a fire went through Belle Glen and burnt all to the ground save the chapel. It caught fire as well, but the walls remained standing.”

“Where in the chapel?” the steward asked.

“Under the floorboards beneath the altar.”

He nodded. “The chapel is not far from the ravine Maynard fell into.”

Joslyn touched Emma’s arm. “After Ivo rode to Rosemoor with Liam, you retrieved it.”

“I did, and I would have returned it to Liam had I not found a better use for it.”

“Protecting us.”

“Aye, God will not reward me, but I could not allow Ivo to carry tales to the bishop of sins you had not committed. He is evil, and every day that passes he grows more kin to the devil.”

“Where is the coin?” Sir Hugh asked.

“Sewn into the hems of Lady Anya’s old gowns.”

Joslyn caught her breath. This explained the coin that had struck her brow the day she had donned the pink gown. Emma must have overlooked it in emptying the hem for Joslyn to use the garment.

“What of the writings, Emma?” she asked.

Her laughter was dry. “That is a piece of our past—far too old to dig up.”

“But important enough that Ivo wanted it.”

She shrugged. “Not only is he ungodly, he is a superstitious fool.”

Joslyn knew she meddled, but whatever the writings consisted of, they had seemed as important to Ivo as the money—perhaps more. “Still, I would know.”

“I am sorry, my lady. That remains between Ivo and me.”

Sir Hugh scraped back his stool. “I shall prepare a missive for Lord Fawke.”

“But he comes on the morrow,” Emma said.

Joslyn shook her head. “He sent word it will be another sennight ere he returns.” She looked to the steward. “But you need not write, Sir Hugh. At first light, I shall take word to him of what happened.”

“You?”

“Aye, if he will not come to Ashlingford, I will go to Thornemede.”

“My lady, if Ivo is not found this eve, he may still be near come the morrow.”

“Then I will require a sizable escort. Will you arrange it?”

“I am certain Lord Fawke would prefer you remain here.”

“Still, I shall go.”

Hugh grumbled something and started for the door. “I will see to your escort.”

“Sir Hugh!”

“My lady?”

“I thank you for saving my life. If ever there is anything I can do to repay you, you will tell me?”

He smiled. “’Tis not often a knight who has taken up books to earn his living is able to experience again that which made him first take up the sword. That is payment enough, my lady.”

Longing was in his words, as if it had not been his choice to post entries and work numbers. Did his true desire lie in the weapons of warfare and the straining of a horse beneath him? “Still, I am indebted.”

He inclined his head and continued toward the door.

“I must prepare a report for the bishop.” Father Warren stepped down from his stool. “Certes, he will be interested in knowing how Father Ivo represents the Holy Church.”

Would it do any good? Joslyn wondered as the priest followed the steward. When the two were gone, she looked back at Emma. “I thank you for protecting Liam and me.”

“I would see neither of you hurt more than already you are.”

Joslyn was tempted to feign ignorance, but it seemed an insult to the woman. “Aye, there is ache enough.”

Emma’s smile was sorrowful. “When you fall in love with one you cannot have, methinks there is only one way to reclaim yourself. You must
climb
out of love. And that is more difficult than falling in love. The walls can be so very steep.”

Softly, Joslyn said, “You have climbed them yourself.”

Emma nodded. “It is many years, but I knew love once.” She sighed. “Or thought I did.”

A quarter hour later, as Joslyn settled her head on her pillow, she wondered if her only claim to love would be that she had known it once—that she would so hurt for her loss she would feel the need to scale those steep walls.

Regardless, upon the rising of the sun she would be on her way to Liam, and not only to deliver news of what had transpired this night. When her life had teetered on Ivo’s blade, she had feared leaving Oliver motherless, but also leaving Liam unaware of how deeply she felt for him—that he had been loved with all of her woman’s heart. Though the Church forbade them a relationship beyond that of a sister to a brother, on the morrow he would know that all the years of her life she would long for him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Joslyn rode at the center of the approaching party, unfettered hair rising and falling like ink-black waves, a slumbering Oliver before her.

From atop his own mount, Liam stared. What had made her leave the safety and comfort of her home to journey to backward Thornemede? Surely she did not come merely because of his delay in returning to Ashlingford?

“Lord Fawke,” a knight called as the party slowed their advance, “we deliver Lady Joslyn and her son to you.”

As ever, her presence moved through him, amber eyes speaking of things they should not and parted lips reminding him of how soft and yielding they were beneath his. She was more beautiful than the flower she smelled of. And he was the thorn to her rose.

“God’s wounds!” he muttered. It mattered not how long he stayed away, his longing for her did not lessen.

When she halted her palfrey before him, he asked, “For what have you come, Lady Joslyn?”

Oliver roused, lifted his head, and reached. “Wanna ride with Unca Liam.”

Once more, Liam marveled at how far they had all come since the day he had ridden on Rosemoor and been thought a murderer. Never would he have believed anything good would come of Maynard’s deceit, but here they were.

“Unca Liam!”

Liam looked to Joslyn, and receiving her nod, guided his horse alongside hers. The brush of his leg against hers made him want to reach for her instead, but it was Oliver he grasped beneath the arms and settled on his saddle.

“Did you miss me?” Oliver asked.

Liam smiled. “I did.”

“Gonna tell my stories now?”

“I will tell you the first on the ride back to the castle.”

Oliver bobbed his head, pointed. “That your castle?”

“Aye, Thornemede.”

The boy wrinkled his nose. “’Tis big, but not pretty like Ashaford.”

Liam glanced at Joslyn and saw her draw her lower lip between her teeth. “’Tis older than Ashlingford by a hundred years, and it has not been cared for as it should have been.”

“Like you care for Ashaford?”

Liam moved his gaze over the Ashlingford knights and men-at-arms and thought them nearly as discomfited by the innocent question that reminded all that the one who should have been their lord never would be. But as he had not thought possible, the pain of that truth had dulled.

“Aye, Oliver. Thus, I have set to making Thornemede right. And as you shall see, one day it will be worthy.” The boy smiled, and Liam announced, “There is drink to be had in my hall. Lady Joslyn and I will follow.”

The men surely having ridden all morn without pause, they were eager to accept the invitation, directing their horses around Liam and Joslyn.

Liam took up his reins and returned his regard to Joslyn. Though her explanation for coming to Thornemede would have to wait until Oliver was otherwise occupied, he asked, “Is it Ivo?”

“’Tis.”

He turned his horse back toward the castle and began to weave a story for Oliver. Though there was tale aplenty left when they reached the keep, Oliver did not complain when told the remainder must wait until bedtime.

Liam set the boy on his feet, watched him scramble up the steps, then crossed to Joslyn. Almost wishing she had dismounted on her own, it being near torture to touch her, he reached for her. When he set her to the ground, he fought down the temptation to hold her longer, took her elbow, and guided her up the steps.

The first thing that struck Joslyn was not the shabbiness of Thornemede’s hall but the sweet laughter of children rising above the talk of men.

“Oliver has found some children to play with,” she said of the four gathered near the stairs that accessed the sleeping chambers. Unfortunately, there were few opportunities for him to be around other children at Ashlingford, and as he had spent considerable time with the village youngsters at Rosemoor, he missed having friends.

Liam removed his hand from Joslyn as they crossed the hall. “The little girl is Gertrude. The two boys are Michael and Emrys.”

“Servants’ children?”

“Nay,” he said, and that was all.

But no explanation was needed, she saw as they neared. Up close, the children were as beautiful as Oliver, their resemblance to him impossible to ignore—especially the golden hair. Even had she wished to overlook it, it would be impossible.

She drew alongside Liam where he halted outside an alcove, and feeling his sidelong gaze, withheld hers. Though she had expected Maynard had fathered illegitimate children, she was unprepared for the reality. Had she loved him as she loved Liam, the hurt would be indescribable, especially since the little girl appeared to be younger than Oliver. Instead, she felt mostly sorrow for her husband’s unacknowledged children.

Knowing Liam waited on her reaction, fearing he thought she would respond as Anya had to him, she turned her face to his and said low, “You should have told me.”

“There was no time.”

“I know I gave no warning of my visit to Thornemede—I could not—but surely you could have revealed their existence long ere now.”

He studied her face. “It seemed an unnecessary burden, and most women do not wish to know their husbands as they truly are.”

She gasped. “Do you think me blind? Ignorant? I knew Maynard was not faithful. Even at Rosemoor he found women more willing than I—” She almost choked on the words she swallowed, which proved a useless endeavor, as evidenced by the narrowing of his lids.

Forcing herself to hold his gaze, she said, “Regardless, never would I fault these innocents—Oliver’s brothers and sister—for the sins of their father.”

Liam set a hand on her shoulder. “I am sorry, Joslyn.”

She jerked her chin. “The only pain is that of humiliation. These children… Surely Maynard did not come all the way to Thornemede?”

“They were sown on Ashlingford women. I brought them with me when I came here.”

“Their mothers too?”

“Nay. Gertrude was abandoned, and the boys’ mothers are dead—one in birthing, the other by the plow.”

Joslyn drew a deep breath. “Why did you do it, Liam? They are not your responsibility.”

“Are they not? I am their uncle, the same as I am Oliver’s.”