by Tamara Leigh
“Two, three… He will long be a child, incapable of managing a barony as vast and vital as Ashlingford.” The king narrowed his lids at Joslyn. “Do you propose to oversee Ashlingford yourself, Lady Joslyn?”
It had not occurred to her. She could read, write, and compute numbers that allowed her to assist with her father’s books, but Rosemoor was tiny compared to Ashlingford.
“Until Oliver comes of age and responsibility,” Father Ivo said, “I shall manage the estates for him, Your Majesty.”
“You? A man of God?”
“A man of God, but also of Ashlingford. Though much of my life has been spent doing the work of the Lord, I am a Fawke and know the barony well.”
“You think yourself more capable of managing it than Sir Liam?”
“I do.”
The king’s mouth twitched. “Did you not assist Maynard in managing the demesne ere Sir Liam returned to it?”
Color crept into the priest’s face. “Only in keeping the books, Your Majesty. My nephew did not consult me on matters of great import. He was stubborn that way.”
“Yet he allowed the half brother for whom he had no liking to make those same decisions for him.”
“I—”
King Edward held up a hand. “We have made our determination.”
Joslyn caught her breath. Then he had decided Liam Fawke was more suited to the title than a child figurehead and a priest. Thus, Oliver was not to have what his father had bequeathed to him. However, more than regret over the king’s decision, she felt relief it was he who denied her son his inheritance. Now Oliver and she could return to a life that placed neither of them in danger.
The king motioned forward the man who had earlier delivered Joslyn and Father Ivo into the great hall. “Summon Sir Liam.”
Dread flew through her. She had known Maynard’s brother was in the city but had not thought she would have to face him in the king’s presence. To be exposed to his mockery as he was titled Baron of Ashlingford would be unpleasant.
As the king’s man crossed to a door opposite the one Father Ivo and she had entered through, King Edward said, “Come, Lady Joslyn, stand by our side.”
She ascended the dais, and clasping her hands before her, silently vowed she would remain impassive no matter how Liam Fawke gloated over his victory.
“You have judged us wrong,” the king murmured.
“Your Majesty?”
“Patience, Lady Joslyn.” He moved his gaze past her to the man emerging from the side room.
Liam Fawke.
CHAPTER SIX
He knew her the moment he laid eyes on her, and it surprised him.
Standing to the right of the king, chin high, hands clasped at her waist, Joslyn Fawke looked every bit the noblewoman she had not been at Rosemoor. As if by a divine hand, she was transformed from unremarkable, begrimed, and ill-mannered to singular, flawless, and genteel. But though the disagreeable woman of three days past surely dwelt behind her eyes, he was certain no contentious word would pass her lips in the king’s presence.
Previous to his summons, Liam had been fairly confident King Edward would not steal the barony from him a second time, even if only to ensure Ashlingford’s revenues remained high, but his confidence shifted as if built on sand.
“Attend us, Sir Liam,” the king called.
Liam fixed his gaze on Edward and, as he traversed the hall with John on his heels, silently prayed that regardless of the wiles Lady Joslyn had worked on the king, they would not see her son named Ashlingford’s heir.
Acknowledging his uncle with a stiff nod, Liam halted alongside him and began to move through the formalities of introduction and veneration. Throughout, he strove to ignore the woman at the king’s side—and failed, his gaze drawn to her time and again.
“Are you with us, Sir Liam?”
“I am, Your Majesty.”
“There is something you find interesting about Lady Joslyn?”
Liam cursed himself, forced a smile. “Not interesting, Your Majesty. Surprising.”
“In what way?”
“The lady’s appearance is wholly different from our previous encounter.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her stiffen.
The king leaned forward, and with much interest, said, “Tell, Sir Liam.”
Joslyn had spun Edward around her finger. If he awarded Ashlingford to Oliver, would she lie with him this eve?
Liam glanced at her, and seeing her eyes were wide with offense, said, “It would not be gentlemanly of me to carry tales, my king. Suffice it to say this lady is much improved over the one I met at Rosemoor.”
Edward smiled. “So she is at her best for us?”
Liam considered her flushed countenance, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, her hips embraced by a jeweled belt, her black, gold-tipped slippers peeking from beneath her skirts. “Most certainly, Your Majesty.”
The king chuckled and sat back on his throne. “Then to business.”
As this day would decide the rest of his life, Liam reminded himself of the control he must keep regardless of what was said.
“Sir Liam, we have considered your petition for hereditary rights over Ashlingford, and yours is a defensible claim. But as there is much to consider with a barony the size of Ashlingford, ours is not a decision easily arrived at.”
Then the decision was made, meaning Edward would entertain no further argument. But what had he decided? To award the barony to its rightful heir or to one barely capable of wiping his own nose?
“As you have ever been a loyal vassal, albeit willful at times, and are honorable and just, we are inclined to believe the men who have corroborated the bargain your brother struck with you. However, there is more to consider than a promise made by a desperate man.”
Ivo stood straighter, Lady Joslyn drew a sharp breath, and John muttered, “Dear Lord!”
And Liam…
His blood coursed hard for all the wasted years, its pound resounding between his ears, its throb felt in his throat and hands, its crimson color before his eyes. And for it, he nearly missed the king’s nod to the senior guard—a signal to prepare himself and his men. Edward had not forgotten what Liam was capable of.
“Nobility descends from nobility, Sir Liam,” the king said. “Even could it be proved you are legitimate born, it remains that while one half of you is of your father, the other…” He smiled apologetically. “…is of the common.”
What he did not say was that it was not just any common blood. It was that of the Irish. But though Liam longed to rage over the mark ever upon his brow, by all that was holy, he would not be ashamed of the woman his father had loved.
The king settled his elbows on the arms of his throne. “Though the son of Maynard Fawke is too young to take up the barony, we have decided Ashlingford shall pass to him.”
As Liam stared at the man, the triumph radiating from his uncle made the loss ten-fold worse. And further tempted him to rage as he had done seven years past when the king had first given his birthright to another. It had required four guards to take Liam to the floor and drag him from the hall. How many would it take this day?
Then you are still a rash twenty-two-year-old? taunted the voice he did not want in his head. But it was there, and it encouraged him to draw a long, slow breath. On its equally slow exhale, he vowed that though he would leave London as landless as he had seven years past, this time he would not do so as the volatile Irishman. He would be the dignified, dispassionate Englishman.
“We are pleased you have gained control of your anger, Sir Liam.”
Liam inclined his head. “And now I beg your leave, Your Majesty.”
“In due course. There are matters yet to be resolved.”
Liam clenched his hands. He needed to be gone from here, to put the breadth of England between himself and those present, especially the gloating Ivo and the woman who had given Maynard the means to triumph. He looked at her.
Her brow was furrowed, but inside she wa
s surely alive with the victory gained over him. A woman worthy of Maynard.
“Do not think we are unaware of your value, Sir Liam. Thus, we have a proposal.”
“Sire?” Liam was surprised he could speak past his constricted throat.
“As we are loath to jeopardize the revenues of the barony, we would see you continue in the capacity in which you served your brother.”
Liam stared.
Ivo spluttered. “B-but Your Majesty,” the priest exclaimed, “I would be honored to manage the estates until the child comes of age.”
“Most generous, priest, but ’tis Sir Liam we would entrust with Ashlingford.”
Never had Ivo looked so flustered, and when Liam steered his gaze to Lady Joslyn, he saw her jaw had slackened and color had drained from her face.
Though he had no intention of accepting the king’s proposal—providing it was not a command—he asked, “How am I to be compensated, Your Majesty?”
Edward smiled. “This eve there will come into our hall men who vie for the Barony of Thornemede. You know it?”
Of course he did, though it could hardly be called a barony. Half a day’s ride from Ashlingford, Thornemede had fallen into disuse, its aged baron having outlived his sons and now he, too, was dead. Was this what the king offered? A squandered barony for a thriving Ashlingford twice its size?
“I know Thornemede, Your Majesty.”
“Those who wish it for themselves will eat our meat, swill our wine, and flatter us in all manner of ways, but we will award it to you do you agree to manage Ashlingford for your brother’s son until he is of age.”
Not the barony his father had intended for him. Not the one he had broke sweat upon. Not the one he had bettered ten times over in keeping the bargain made with Maynard.
“True, Thornemede is not as great as Ashlingford,” King Edward continued, “but it is respectable and will support the generations that spring from your loins. And so, a baron you will be, and your son and his son thereafter.”
Liam set his jaw. Let Edward live with the consequences of his decision. The one Maynard had deceived would return to the tournaments he had pursued following Edward’s decree seven years earlier—and should never have renounced. After a year of besting other knights and filling his purse, then packs with winnings so he might one day purchase his own estates, he had accepted Maynard’s offer and poured his earnings into Ashlingford to set aright the misuse of revenues. It would be different this time.
“With your permission, Your Majesty, I decline your generous offer.”
Edward’s eyebrows rose. “If ’tis not an offer but a command?”
“I would ask that Your Majesty not make it so.”
The king considered him. “We will allow that.”
Ivo’s sigh was surely heard by all.
“So tell us, Sir Liam, what would entice you to accept our offer?”
Liam nearly declared there was naught that would move him, but a voice that spoke in the language of revenge whispered that here was a means of putting Ivo in his place. As for Lady Joslyn…
Do not, he silently countered. Ask permission to leave and do not look back.
But already he looked back—and saw Ivo rejoicing, seated in the lord’s high seat, presiding over the great hall, emptying the coffers, making a ruin of Montgomery Fawke’s legacy.
Pride be cursed, revenge be had! He would accept the proposal and deprive his uncle of the power he lusted after. And the lady? She would be deprived of his absence.
“What concessions?” the king pressed.
The negotiation could not have progressed better had Liam declined Edward to gain such. “Though it has the name, Thornemede is hardly a barony, Your Majesty.”
“Its castle being of stone and sturdy, it can be rebuilt,” Edward said, though he certainly knew that was not what Liam referred to.
“What of the monies required to do so? ’Tis my understanding Thornemede’s coffers are weighted by naught but dust.”
Edward slowly nodded. “The lands are rich. They will produce again. And there is wool.”
Providing the sheep had not been slaughtered to feed mouths left hungry by poor crops. “Until then?”
“Very well,” Edward said. “If you accept our proposal, we shall issue a writ exempting you from taxes for three years—time aplenty to turn Thornemede profitable.”
Not enough. Knowing he would prick the king’s ire, Liam said, “Surely Your Majesty is aware it will take more than that to restore Thornemede.”
Edward’s nostrils flared. “What do you ask, Sir Liam? That we finance the barony for you when there are others who would pay us for the privilege of gaining it for themselves?”
“Not Your Majesty, but Ashlingford. One tenth of its receipts for my service to that barony.”
“One tenth!” Ivo moved toward the dais. “’Tis robbery!”
“Stand away, priest,” the king ordered.
Ivo jumped back. “Your Majesty, surely you can see the harm that would be done Ashlingford if this vengeful man is allowed to return. And to take such a large portion of the receipts! You cannot do this.”
“Can we not?” Edward spat. “Though you appear to have forgotten, Father Ivo, we are the king. We do as we please.”
“Of course, sire.” Ivo’s eyes darted left and right as guards on both sides advanced. “’Tis just that—”
“It matters not to us whether you take your leave of our hall on your own legs or you are carried from it.”
The priest pivoted, hastened to a side room, and slammed the door behind him.
The king drew a breath that settled him back in his chair. “One tenth,” he murmured and steepled his hands, then looked up as if calculating the impact that percentage would have on his revenues. “Very well, but only after our taxes have been satisfied.”
It was more than Liam had hoped for. “Then, if it pleases you, Your Majesty, I accept your proposal.”
Edward leaned forward. “We would have given more, Sir Liam.”
“More, Your Majesty?”
“We know your worth. So ’tis we who have won.”
Then this had been but a game. In less than half an hour the king had assured both his revenues and his amusement.
Beginning to regret his revenge-driven decision, Liam said, “With your permission, I will take your leave, Your Majesty.”
“Regrets?”
Too many to number. “I have accepted your proposal, Your Majesty, and so it will be.”
“So it will.” Edward waved him away. “Your leave is granted.”
Liam looked one last time at Lady Joslyn and told himself he was not disturbed by the fear in her eyes. It was, after all, the least owed him. Doubtless, once she moved past it, she would prove difficult. But if she tried to interfere with his management of Ashlingford, the woman would learn he was now lord to her lady, even though only by way of duty to his king.
Liam bowed to Edward, and with John at his side, strode back across the hall.
“Sir Liam,” the king called.
Liam halted before the doors held wide by two attendants, turned.
“We will expect you in our hall for dinner. Do not disappoint us.”
Not a request. Holding close his resentment, Liam said, “I would be honored.”
Joslyn stared at Liam Fawke’s retreating back. When the doors closed, so great was her relief at having him go from sight that she nearly reached to the back of the king’s throne to keep from folding over herself.
“Ashlingford is your son’s,” Edward said. “What have you to say, Lady Joslyn?”
Struggling to maintain a composure this day’s revelations had weakened, she said what was required of her. “I am grateful, Your Majesty.”
He studied her. “We are not so sure.”
The deep breath she drew shuddered into her lungs. “I worry for the safety of my child—that he shall be often exposed to one who hates him, sire.”
“Sir Liam does no
t hate your son.”
Her composure gave way, and she dropped to her knees beside him. “With all that was told this day, he has yet more reason to wish ill upon Oliver—to do him harm. Pray, Your Majesty, grant him Thornemede, but do not send him to Ashlingford.”
Mouth softening, Edward reached forward and cupped her chin. “Lady, for good reason your departed husband and his uncle earned Sir Liam’s wrath, not an innocent child.”
Something about the king’s touch made her long to pull back, but lest she offend, she remained unmoving. “I would like to believe that, but I cannot.”
He slid his thumb across her jaw in what seemed a caress, then drew his hand back. “We would not jeopardize your son, lady. Look elsewhere for your enemies.”
Guessing she was dismissed, she stood.
The king pushed back a lock of blond hair that had crept over his brow and moved his gaze down her figure. “You will, of course, join us for dinner.”
She inwardly groaned. Not only had she assured Oliver she would be away a short time, and already it was beyond that, but she had no desire to pass more time in the king’s company, especially when that company was to include Liam Fawke. “I thank you, Your Majesty, but Oliver—”
“Do you argue with us, Lady Joslyn?”
She looked to her hands. “Pray, forgive me.”
He grunted, then called, “Sir Miles, see that a chamber is prepared for the lady.”
“A chamber?” Joslyn gasped. “Your Majesty, I do not require—”
He glowered, and as she silently cursed the power of men, he said, “I have further business to attend to, Lady Joslyn.” He reached for one of several parchments on the table beside him, unrolled it, and began to read.
“Your Majesty.” She bowed, stepped from the dais, and followed Sir Miles from the hall.
The queen.
How did one decline such a summons? Or perhaps the better question—could one decline? Regardless of the answer, Liam was tempted to send the lovely lady in waiting back to her mistress with only an apology that the knight who had twice lost his bid for Ashlingford could not accept an audience with Philippa. But no matter the seriousness of the offense of rejecting her summons, no matter the longing to retreat like a beaten dog who wants only to be alone with his wounds, he owed the queen. And he owed her much.