by Tamara Leigh
“Mama!” He stretched out his arms as if he thought she could fly into them.
John halted his horse before Liam’s and growled, “He bites.”
Lady Joslyn stepped forward. “Give him to me.”
At the knight’s questioning look, Liam shook his head.
The lady shot him an angry look. Then, as if fearful of further upsetting her son, she smiled tightly and patted the boy’s knee. “All is well, Oliver.”
Her touch and nearness comforted the boy enough to still his fitful movements, but he continued to reach to her.
“If you promise to keep your teeth to yourself, boy,” John said, “you may share my saddle with me.”
Oliver looked around, seemed to consider the merits of remaining beneath the man’s arm against being allowed to sit on the exquisitely worked saddle, and nodded.
“So this filthy little urchin is Oliver,” Liam said as John settled the child before him.
“I am not little!” Bright-eyed outrage replaced the boy’s fear.
Liam needed no more confirmation the child was Maynard’s. Cleaned, his hair would be as golden as his father’s, and visible beneath the dirt he bore the same forehead and jaw as generations of Fawkes before him. And though his amber eyes were gifted him by his mother, their shape was Maynard’s—and Liam’s.
Outrage slipping, Oliver pointed at Liam. “The red knight, Mama. The bad man!”
Liam looked to Lady Joslyn, raised an eyebrow.
Averting her gaze, she said, “He will not hurt you, Oliver.”
He narrowed his lids at Liam. “You hurt Mama?”
His childish concern softened Liam as he did not care to be softened. “Nay, Oliver, I am not the bad man she believes. I am your Uncle Liam, brother to your father.”
“My father?”
It was said with great bemusement, to which Lady Joslyn exclaimed, “This is not necessary!”
Liam picked over Oliver’s features. “How old are you, boy?”
He raised a hand, uncurled one finger, another, chewed his lip, and thrust his hand forward. “One…two. See?”
“I see.” Liam captured his mother’s gaze. “Let us go inside.”
“You expect me to welcome you into my father’s home?”
Tolerance nearly spent, Liam leaned down from his mount so she could better hear the words he would not have fall on her son’s ears. And was surprised by her scent. Instead of the rank odor of an unclean body, she smelled of earth and roses.
“If you prefer, I will take Oliver up before me and continue on my way.” Not that he had any intention of doing so. He must not only verify the boy’s claim to Ashlingford—that Oliver was legitimate—but it would be foolish to have tales of abduction follow him to London.
Defiance tamed, the lady said, “Of course not.”
“Then to the manor.” Liam urged his destrier around, a moment later checked the animal’s progress to receive the two riding toward him—Sir Gregory and Ivo.
Insufferable priest! Two days of hard riding should have tired the man, who was twenty years older than Liam, but Ivo had kept pace. Thus, to reach the boy without his uncle’s interference, Liam had resorted to trickery. After Ivo had gained them entrance into the village in the name of the Church, Liam had set Sir Gregory on the man, and in the midst of the fray, Liam and the rest of his men had ridden on the manor.
Ivo dragged his horse to a cruel halt, glared at his nephew, then landed his gaze on the woman who stood alongside John’s mount. “Where is your mistress, girl?”
The lady stood taller. “You are mistaken, Father. I am—”
“Lady Joslyn Fawke,” Liam said. “Maynard’s widow.” As disbelief jumped across Ivo’s face, Liam gestured at the boy. “Maynard’s son, Oliver.”
In spite of the child’s appearance, some of the harshness drained from the priest’s eyes. “Maynard’s son,” he breathed.
“Who are you?” Lady Joslyn asked.
It seemed with effort the priest pulled his gaze from the boy. “I am Maynard’s uncle, Father Ivo.”
The lightening of her grimly-set face evidenced Maynard had told her of his beloved uncle, and in him she saw an ally. Rightly so. Ivo would defend Oliver’s right to Ashlingford all the way to the papacy.
“We shall continue this inside,” Liam said and urged his destrier forward.
At the manor steps, he was met by hand-wringing servants and the men he had ordered to position themselves there in the event of trouble. But trouble did not come from those of the manor. It came from the villagers, who amassed on the road Liam and his men had taken. Their weapons implements such as Lady Joslyn had wielded, they came to ensure all was well at their lord’s manor.
Liam looked around. “Lady Joslyn, assure your people naught is amiss and instruct them to return to their homes.”
Contempt flared in her eyes, but a glance at John, who held her son, made it smolder. She set a hand on the boy’s leg. “The knight has a fine horse, does he not?”
“Bigger than A-papa’s.”
“Much bigger than your grandfather’s. Do you think you can watch him while I talk to the villagers? I shall not be long.”
A frown puckered the space between his eyes, and he looked at John. “You not a bad man?”
The knight smiled. “Indeed, I am not.”
Oliver nodded at his mother. “I watch the horse.”
The lady sent Liam a narrow-eyed look and started toward the road.
Motioning Sir Gregory forward, Liam noticed the red-rimmed cut tracing the man’s cheek. Ivo’s dagger had done that, though surely his uncle would have preferred to sink it in the young knight’s breast. “Sir Gregory, accompany Lady Joslyn.”
The lady halted, but though she must have longed to argue, she put her shoulders back and continued on as if she went alone.
CHAPTER THREE
Liam Fawke’s eyes.
They drew Joslyn’s when she entered the hall, pierced her, then shifted to the knight who had accompanied her to speak with the villagers.
Her disquiet deepened. She had heard it said a great destrier completed a warrior, but such was not the case with Maynard’s brother. Even without his fine horse beneath him, he was imposing. Tall, though not unusually so, his broad shoulders come out from beneath his mantle and his muscled legs defined by the cut of his chausses set him apart from others. And she loathed every inch of him.
She did not have to look far to find her son. He stood in Liam Fawke’s shadow, eyes fixed on the man above him.
Quelling the desire to call him to her, she crossed the hall with as much dignity as possible in her soiled attire. Sir Gregory followed—no doubt to report on her conversation with the villagers. Unfortunately, it had been uneventful, fear for Oliver having curbed her tongue such that she had been unable to alert her father’s people to the seriousness of what had transpired.
But Liam Fawke had not won, she assured herself upon noting Father Ivo warmed himself before the hearth. Maynard had told her his uncle was loyal to him, and though the priest had not disguised his dismay over her appearance, she had glimpsed the promise of aid in his eyes.
“Mama!”
Refusing to acknowledge Liam Fawke, she accepted the small hand Oliver popped into hers and silently thanked the Lord that ill had not befallen him. Yet.
She bent. “Did you tend the knight’s horse well?”
He bobbed his head. “And Unca Liam let me touch his sword!”
Joslyn flinched at the title he bestowed on one who sought to steal his birthright—who might even have murdered his father.
“Is that so?”
“An’ his dagger.”
Feeling the man’s eyes on her, she continued to ignore him.
“He’s a great knight, Mama.”
Derisive laughter escaped her. “Is that what he told you?”
“Nay, Sir John told me.” He pointed across the hall to the surprisingly short knight who had snatched him from his flight to the
woods.
As she straightened, out of the corner of her eye she saw Liam Fawke turn to Sir Gregory.
“Thirsty, Mama,” Oliver said, just loud enough to make it impossible for her to hear the exchange between the two men.
Not that it mattered, there being nothing the knight could report that would cast her in a light deserving of anger.
She motioned a servant girl forward.
“Aye, my lady?”
“Honey milk for my son, Clare.” Then, reminding herself she was the lady of her father’s house, she added, “And ale for these men.”
“Sir Liam has called for drink, my lady, but I will fetch Oliver his honey milk.”
Resentment sprang through Joslyn, but before she could make anything of it, her son tugged her skirt. “Hungry, too.”
It was early for supper, and the thought of a bath beckoned mightily, but it seemed best to have the meal done with—the sooner to rid Rosemoor of their unwelcome guests. If that was possible.
Deciding a washbasin would suffice, she returned her attention to Clare. “Tell Cook to prepare platters of cold meat, cheeses, and bread. Then enlist others to aid you in moving the tables and benches away from the walls.”
“Aye, my lady.” The girl turned away.
“Let us go wash ourselves and change our clothes, Oliver. When we are finished, you will have your drink—”
“Clare!” Liam Fawke called.
Joslyn caught the pretty smile the girl offered him. “My lord?”
“You may tell Cook he need not hurry.” He looked at Joslyn. “The ale will suffice until the lady has had her bath.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Nay, Clare!” Joslyn held her gaze to Liam Fawke’s. “Tell Cook to prepare the meal with all speed. My son and I are hungry.”
Her sharp defiance, to which the servants were unaccustomed and the warriors in their midst surely took offense, flooded the hall with silence. An unacceptable silence. Refusing to blink, she said, “Now, Clare!” and heard footsteps scurry toward the kitchen.
Liam stared at the woman who silently dared him to countermand her and was surprised by the ebbing of his displeasure. As unbecoming as the filth-bedecked woman was, she stirred something in him. Because she was not placid and proper as she ought to be? Nor as cold and unfeeling as first believed? Might she have a bit of the Irish in her?
That last made him smile.
And her glower. “What is it you find amusing, Sir Liam?”
Before he could answer, the servants who had earlier been sent for drink returned bearing pitchers of ale. Once he had a tankard in hand and the rising din provided adequate privacy, he said, “I did not know my mother, but my father told she was outspoken and passionate, at times inappropriately so. Thus, as Maynard disliked spirit in a woman—said it reeked of the common—I am surprised he took to wife one like my Irish mother.”
The lady’s eyes widened. “I am not Irish.”
Liam’s tension returned. Was she offended at being equated with people on that side of him? Regardless, it called to mind Maynard’s hatred of the Irish, and before he could think better of his words, he said low, “Of course, I am sure that what mattered most to Maynard was your ability to make an heir.”
She drew a sharp breath, glanced at her son who had wandered to a side table where drink was being poured. “What matters, Sir Liam, is Maynard took me to wife—unlike your father, who did not wed your mother. That my son is legitimate—unlike you. And Oliver is the heir of Ashlingford—again, unlike you.”
Before Liam could further betray the first lesson taught him during his knighthood training, he clenched his teeth. They stared at each another, and when finally he found words he would not later regret, he said, “Are you finished, Lady Joslyn?”
If she feared him, it did not show. “Quite.” She shifted her gaze to the hearth, and Liam followed it to his uncle.
Ivo gave a slight shake of his head—a warning she should not pursue whatever had roused his nephew. In this, she would be wise to heed the priest’s counsel.
The tables and benches having been positioned during the pouring of ale, Liam strode toward them and shouted, “To meal!”
She had been cruel. Crueler even than Liam Fawke, who she prayed did not know the truth of her marriage—that he merely guessed well. She did not share Maynard’s hatred of the Irish, which she suspected had all to do with his half brother, but Liam Fawke’s baiting had riled her. When he had responded to her vehement denial she was Irish by saying Maynard had wanted her for her ability to give him a son, she had breathed in the shame she had cast from her upon Oliver’s birth. And breathed out spite.
Now with her son seated on her right, Father Ivo on her left, Joslyn stared at her food as she heard again the harshly superior words that had named Liam Fawke’s father a knave, his mother a whore, and him a whoreson.
That was not who she was. Or was it?
She gave a slight shake of her head. She had spoken out of fear of the man whose coming Maynard had said would endanger their son. And Liam Fawke had given her cause to believe it. He had nearly ridden her down, snatched Oliver, and forced his way into her home. And he was not done.
Drawing a full breath, she looked to where Oliver had come up on his knees to search out choice morsels from her trencher.
Filthy little urchin, Liam Fawke had called him—and it was true. Oliver was beyond pleased to sit at table wearing his garden dirt, having never before been allowed.
What would her father say of his grandson if he walked in? More, what would he say of his daughter, who not only allowed it but also looked the urchin? He would be horrified, though with enough ale in him, he would likely find humor in it.
“Lady, I fear you tread too heavily.”
Startled by the whisper at her ear, she looked into Father Ivo’s mature, fairly attractive face. “Pardon?”
“Do not push the knave,” he said from behind the hand towel he pressed to his mouth. “Allow me to prepare the way for Oliver and all will come right.”
She glanced at Liam Fawke, who sat across the table and three chairs down. Though his eyes were on his goblet, he appeared to be listening to the knight beside him. “How?” she asked. “I—”
“Speak no more. I will come to you this eve.”
Her thoughts running ahead, hope beginning to flow, she nodded.
“My uncle is an interesting man, do you not think, Lady Joslyn?”
Attempting to hide her surprise behind a quickly composed face, she looked into Liam Fawke’s green eyes. “As we are hardly acquainted, I cannot say.”
His smile was keen-edged. He could not know what had been said between them, but he knew it had to do with him. “Ah, but I am sure you will become close friends. What think you, Ivo?”
The priest stuffed a piece of cheese in his mouth and slowly chewed.
Seeking another path down which to lead Liam Fawke, Joslyn said, “How came you into the village?”
“In this, my uncle proved useful. He gained us entrance in the name of the Church.”
“And had you been turned away?”
“We would have waited for night and scaled the walls.”
“I see.” She looked to her trencher.
A quarter hour later, she was again dragged from her thoughts, this time by the arrival of Father Paul, the priest who had ministered to the people of Rosemoor for the past twenty years and had presided over the vows spoken between Maynard and her.
Following one of Liam Fawke’s men across the hall, Father Paul seemed relieved to lay eyes upon Joslyn, but his smile lowered as he took in her appearance.
She stood to receive him.
“Regain your seat, Lady Joslyn,” Liam Fawke ordered.
She longed to defy him, but Father Ivo’s foot atop hers reminded her to tread lightly, and she lowered to the bench.
While Father Paul waited to be told the reason he had been brought to the manor, Liam Fawke ordered his men from the hall.
“Outside,” Joslyn whispered.
“Why?”
“Because…” Knowing she was about to be drawn into another of his endless queries, she said, “I will tell you later.”
He sighed and returned to scavenging her trencher.
When all that remained were Father Ivo, Father Paul, Joslyn, and Oliver, Liam Fawke strode around the table. “I apologize for rousing you so late in the day, Father, but I have good reason.”
The priest eyed him. “You are?”
“Sir Liam Fawke, half brother to Lady Joslyn’s husband, who is now departed.”
Father Paul crossed himself and cast his sympathetic gaze upon Joslyn.
She inclined her head in acceptance of condolences for a man neither had known well.
“What is it you want of me, my son?”
“There is the question of who stands to inherit my brother’s estates.”
The priest folded his hands at his waist. “I would think it Oliver.”
A muscle in Liam Fawke’s jaw spasmed. “The child is legitimate born?”
Joslyn leapt to her feet, but before she could voice anger at what he implied, Father Ivo gripped her arm and pulled her down.
“It matters not,” he whispered.
She drew a shaky breath and conceded it was of no benefit to challenge Liam Fawke. Not yet.
“Of course Oliver is legitimate,” the priest said. “’Tis Lady Joslyn we speak of, sir, not a harlot.”
“When was she wed to my brother?”
“The year of our Lord 1344. The end of autumn, was it not, Lady Joslyn?”
Teeth clenched, she nodded.
“Aye,” the priest continued, “there were leaves upon the ground and a storm in the making.”
“Was the marriage recorded?”
“No marriage or birth in Rosemoor goes unwritten. By my own hand it was inscribed in the church docket.”