LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance (28 page)

“Your father agreed?”

She hugged the coverlet closer. “He wished to, but he had made my mother a promise ere she died that I be allowed to marry for love as she had.”

“Yet you did not refuse Maynard.”

“I did refuse him. Never could I feel secure with a man who gambled and drank to excess. And love… I felt no stirrings. He was handsome and well mannered when he was not full up in his cups, but I preferred his absence to his presence. My father was disappointed, but he honored my mother’s wish and declined Maynard’s offer.”

“How did he change your mind?”

She filled her lungs full, and on the exhale said, “Each time he returned to Rosemoor, my father lost to him, and one day there was not enough coin to pay the debt.”

There was Liam’s anger again—in the narrowing of lids, flaring of nostrils, setting of teeth. “I see.”

Shame warming her, she said, “Maynard and I struck a bargain. He would absolve my father of the debt if I married him—half once we were wed, the other half when I…produced a male child.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “I sold myself to him—made of myself a prostitute.”

Liam cursed.

She forced down a sob. “What was I to do? I could not allow my father to be ruined when it was in my power to aid him.”

Liam thrust up out of the chair, dropped to his haunches before her, and closed a hand over hers that made a mess of her skirts. “My anger is not with you. ’Tis with Maynard and your father for using you so poorly.”

She swallowed. “Are you not revolted?”

“When we were in the wood and I agreed I would hate myself did I lie with you, it was not because you had been Maynard’s. I would have hated myself for using you and making it that much harder to be near what was forbidden me. Thus, I am revolted only insofar as knowing you suffered my brother’s attentions.”

She turned her hand up into his. “I only lay with him the first days of our marriage.”

He frowned. “That is all?”

“I was so repulsed by his maneuvering that reduced me to mere chattel that I imposed conditions on our marriage—that during my pregnancy I would not suffer his attentions, and once he had his son, he would not come to my bed again. He was displeased, but above all, he wanted a noble heir, obviously one he could keep hidden from you, and so he agreed. And Oliver was conceived within days of our marriage.”

“Fortunate.”

She smiled slightly. “Nay, planned. A midwife helped me determine the best day to wed—when I was most fertile—and prayed over me that the babe would be a boy.”

“And Maynard kept his word.”

“A sennight after we wed, he left Rosemoor and did not come again until I was four months into my pregnancy. As I was only beginning to swell, he did not believe I was with child and sought my bed. I summoned the midwife, and though she confirmed my state, still he tried to break his word, but my father intervened.” She shook her head. “Such guilt he suffers, and I am to blame for much of it. I was angry for so long.”

“I am sorry for your sacrifice, Joslyn.”

“I would not change it, Liam. Not now that I have Oliver.”
And you,
she added to herself.

“Am I right in believing Oliver hardly knew Maynard—for that you delayed telling him of his father’s death?”

“Maynard visited his son twice—shortly after his birth and when he gifted him with the sword upon attaining his first year. Thus, Oliver knew him not at all, only of him.”

Silence slid between them. It felt right, as if things yet to be spoken could wait, as if there was time and occasion aplenty to better learn each other.

Lids lowering, her view of Liam’s face narrowing, Joslyn opened her eyes wide.

He smiled, stroked her hand. “Sleep now. We will talk more later.”

She promised herself she would only rest her eyes. But fatigue made a liar of her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Joslyn was not surprised to awaken alone in her chamber. As told by the light slanting through her window, it was late morn. Nor was she startled to find she had exchanged the chair for her bed. But she was disappointed, not only by Liam’s absence, but that she could not recall his arms around her as he had carried her to her bed.

Knowing he must have been in the fields for hours, she rose and quickly rinsed herself with cold water from the basin, dressed, and plaited her hair.

Belowstairs, the hall appeared to be empty, but as she crossed toward the kitchen to break her fast, the rustle of parchment drew her regard to the hearth.

Emma hunkered before the fire she fed, humming a song Joslyn recognized as one her own mother had sung—about a child’s toys lost, found, and lost again.

Joslyn changed course. “Emma?”

The woman sprang upright. “My lady! I did not know you had awakened.”

Joslyn glanced from the blackened remains of parchment upon the fire to the single sheet Emma held at her side. “What are you burning?”

The woman shifted her weight. “Are you not hungry, my lady? Certes, Cook can find you something to eat to keep you till the nooning meal.”

“Are they your writings? Those Ivo wanted?”

Emma clenched her hand on the one she had yet to burn. “Do not concern yourself, my lady.”

Joslyn did not wish to pry, but she was certain that whatever Emma had used to check Ivo’s behavior involved more than the two who had been privy to it. “Surely there is no harm in telling me now that Ivo is dead.”

As if fearing Joslyn would snatch the parchment from her, Emma stepped back. “They are no longer of use to me or anyone.” Her breathing was shallow. “As Ivo wanted them so badly, I thought I would send them to join him in hell.”

 
Knowing she was responsible for Emma’s overwrought state, Joslyn said, “Very well. ’Tis yours to do with as you think best.”

Emma tossed the crumpled parchment atop the fire. The flames licked up around it, blackening it until its secrets were reduced to ashes.

“Your secret is safe, Emma.”

“As it should be,” the woman whispered.

The silence grew weighty, as if of mourning, but Joslyn knew it was not the loss of Ivo that Emma lamented.

“Where is Oliver?” Joslyn asked.

“With his uncle in the fields. As ’tis a beautiful day, Liam said he could accompany him.”

The fields were not safe for children, especially with plows on them, but Joslyn knew Liam would allow no harm to befall her son. “Join me?” she asked, turning toward the kitchen.

“I thank you, but I will rest now.”

“Are you ill?”

“Just weary. Straight through my bones.”

The day had been long without Liam and Oliver, made longer when the Ashlingford men returned from working the demesne lands to sit at table for the evening meal. Amidst the clamor, Joslyn found no time to speak to Liam—hardly enough to catch his eye, but when he did look her way, he smiled.

Throughout supper, she listened to Oliver’s accounting of the oxen, which he claimed were ten times as big as his uncle’s horse, the plows that
chewed up the dirt,
and the men, including his beloved uncle, who had put their backs into the hard work.

Not until Joslyn put Oliver to bed did she find the opportunity to be alone with Liam. Rising from her son’s pallet, she turned to the man she had felt watching her from the doorway and crossed her chamber. In the corridor, she closed the door and went into his arms.

He kissed her, and when he pulled back, she said, “You are leaving again.”

“I must.”

“How long?”

“Winter comes. With the harvest in and cereal crops soon to be sown, there will be little occasion for me to journey to Ashlingford. ’Twill likely be spring ere I am needed here again.”

She ached over the long, lonely winter ahead. “But you will come, will you not?”

His silence said otherwise. “I can make no promises. Much depends on when the plague arrives.”

And there was little hope it would not. Almost daily tidings were delivered of its merciless creep—more and more its sweep—across England.

She laid a hand on his jaw. “I will wait for you. And pray for you. And love you across the distance.”

Once again, he denied her the speaking of those same words, but she was certain they were in his parting kiss.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Princess Joan was dead.

As with most talk of the plague, her death was spoken of in hushed tones in those places not yet touched by the darkness, including Thornemede. But in Dorset where the dread sickness raged, the passing of the daughter of King Edward and Queen Philippa was certain to be told by voices loud with hysteria. After all, if those believed to be nearest God were not spared, what hope for the common man?

Liam pushed a hand through his hair. Now he better understood the reason Queen Philippa had yet to answer his missive. It would be some time before she arose from her mourning to do so. If ever.

Though he had been heading for Thornemede’s smithy when he overheard news of the princess’s death, he turned now to one of those who spoke of it.

The merchant stood on the opposite side of a table his goods were laid out upon, several women servants his audience. “Plague took her this past August while she was in France.”

“In France?” Meg breathed.

“Aye, journeyin’ to wed the son of the king of Castile.”

Three months then, Liam counted. Though news was wont to travel slowly throughout England, he was surprised it had taken so long for something of such import to reach Thornemede.

“Lord Fawke!” the merchant called. “There is something I can show you?”

Liam started to decline, but a brooch among the pieces of worked metal caught his eye. He lifted it to catch the light. It was simple, made special only by delicate petals fashioned of silver that enfolded four rubies. Roses.

“’Tis lovely, aye?” the merchant prompted.

Liam unhinged the pin, closed it.

Had Joslyn replaced the one lost in her escape from Ivo during the six weeks since Liam had last been at Ashlingford? In the next instant he abandoned such ponderings. Until he had word from the queen, it would not do for him to send Joslyn gifts. He set it down. “Aye, lovely.”

“I will make you a good price, my lord.”

Liam shook his head and turned away. And there stood Gertrude. He should have known she would be near. Though Michael and Emrys had taken to adventuring, the little girl was never far from Meg.

She gave a dimpling smile perfected these past months, quite effective when she wished to sit on his knee before the fire, ride on his shoulders, or search his trencher for a tasty morsel.

“You would like something?” he asked.

She slid her hand into his. “Over here, Uncle Liam.” She tugged him to where another merchant displayed leather goods. Peering over the table’s edge, she tapped the toe of a small goatskin slipper dyed red.

“Do you think they will fit, Gertie?”

She looked to her feet shod in plain brown slippers, nodded.

Liam picked up the goatskin slippers. “If I buy these for you, what think you I should buy for Michael and Emrys?”

“Michael wants a dagger like yours.” She touched Liam’s scabbard. “Emrys wants a belt.”

“How do you know that?”

She shrugged. “Just do.”

Liam looked around and located Michael standing before the merchant whose table was laid with weapons. Farther down, Emrys was doing his best to make a man’s belt fit his boy’s waist. “I see,” he said and looked to the stout woman behind the table.

She gave a gap-toothed smile. “Slippers for yer little girl, my lord?”

His little girl… “Aye.”

The woman named a price.

He countered with an offer of half—still more than their worth.

The woman tried again, but he held firm and soon was helping Gertrude don her new slippers. With the proud little girl skipping behind him, Liam crossed to where Michael stood hopeful. He purchased a blunt-edged dagger for the boy and bought Emrys a belt that had to be looped twice around his waist to stay up.

“When I am grown, still it will fit,” Emrys said, having refused the merchant’s offer to shorten it for him.

“That it will,” Liam said.

After the brothers admired each other’s treasure, they trotted off.

“Can I have a ride, Uncle Liam?” Gertrude asked.

“I have work to do now, but later, hmm?”

She nodded, too content with her red slippers to beseech him to change his mind.

He led her back to where Meg waited alongside the merchant’s table.

The woman took the little girl’s hand. “Come, child, we’ve pastries aplenty to stick fingers into.”

“Oh, can I?”

“Aye, but you must not tell your uncle I allowed it.” Meg grinned at him and led Gertrude away.

Once more, Liam’s eyes were drawn to the brooch.

“’Tis a good weight, my lord, and the rubies are of good quality.”

Liam ran a thumb over the gems. “’Tis Ashlingford you go next?”

“Aye, on the morrow.”

Liam handed the brooch to him. “Deliver this to Lady Joslyn Fawke for me.”

The merchant nodded. “I shall, my lord. Any word you would have me carry with it?”

“Only that ’tis from the Baron of Thornemede.”

It was the first she had heard from Liam in all these weeks.

She hurried to the keep, ascended to her chamber two steps at a time, and closed the door. When she laid back the folds of leather, a silver brooch set with four rubies blinked at her as if with awakening eyes.

“Oh,” she breathed and lifted it into the dusky light of an overcast day.

From the Baron of Thornemede,
the merchant had said when she had wandered to his table following the purchase of spices, candles, and other household items. There had been no message accompanying it, but none was needed.

She removed the brooch Emma had given her and wove the pin of her new brooch through the folds of her mantle.

These past weeks, the loneliness of Liam’s absence had often made her question what he felt. Here was her answer. The brooch was beautiful, but its true beauty lay in the love that had caused him to purchase it for her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

It came like the dark of the dead of night, and by morning a score of villagers stood outside the castle gates waiting to be admitted.