LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance

by Tamara Leigh

  She did not. And wondered over it.

  When she did not respond, he said, “Ivo was Ivo. But worry not, your father was discreetly forceful when my uncle determined his priest’s vestments entitled him to speak without care for innocent ears.”

  For which Humphrey Reynard could be forgiven much. “My father is protective of his grandson.”

  “And for it, he has antagonized one who does not take kindly to being called to account for his words and actions.”

  Joslyn did not imagine Father Ivo would. Unlike Father Paul and other men of God with whom she was acquainted, Maynard’s uncle was not easy to converse with and, thus, did not inspire her to seek his counsel. The man was too disagreeable, and it made her wonder what hurts and haunts had shaped him. Regardless, there was comfort in knowing Oliver was with her father and in good spirits, and that on the morrow she and her son would be reunited.

  “I thank you for tidings of my son, Sir Liam. I wished to ask after him while we were at meal, but you were much occupied.”

  “So I was.”

  The lovely lady on the other side of him. She felt a twinge of something that had no cause to be jealousy—and was not, she told herself. Yet it was with difficulty she held his gaze against the temptation to look to the mouth that had known hers.

  But as if he felt her struggle, a glimmer of what she feared was amusement brightened his green eyes.

  Fumbling for something to avert his attention, she said, “You are a baron now.”

  The glimmer disappeared, the green darkened, and as she berated herself for not fumbling about a bit more, he said gruffly, “That I am.”

  Of Thornemede, not Ashlingford. And how she felt for him. With no proof he was legitimate born, ever he would be misbegotten to men of noble birth. While sitting beside him during the king’s award of Thornemede, she had heard murmurs of discontent among the nobility who wished the barony for themselves. Though Liam had shown no reaction, he could not have been oblivious to their resentment.

  As if remembering it himself, emotions he had surely held near throughout the long meal tightened his face.

  The moment Joslyn stepped close, she knew she once more erred, but she laid a hand on his arm.

  Roses. Their scent moved through Liam, and something hard at the center of him began to soften. He struggled to firm it up, telling himself all he felt was fleshly need, but there was something about her.

  He looked from the tenderness in her eyes to lips that parted. And bent his head.

  “Liam?” she said with uncertainty.

  Why uncertain? He focused on her mouth that was only a moment away—that should be forever distant from his.

  Almighty, what possesses me? he silently appealed. I do not want my brother’s wife. And yet she draws me to her like forbidden fruit—a bite of which could ruin what remains of me.

  As it could ruin her.

  He drew back and, though more angry with himself than her, said, “There is an answer to your need, Lady, but I am not it.”

  In her eyes, confusion flitted, hurt flickered, outrage flared. “I assure you, ’twas not need that made me do so foolish a thing! And were it, I would not turn to one such as you.”

  No longer forbidden fruit. Now the serpent. “An Irishman believed to be misbegotten,” he growled. “A man beneath you, fit only for the heel of your slipper.”

  She gasped. “You know that is not what I mean.”

  “Do I?” When she did not answer, he said, “If not need, what?”

  “I…”

  “Pity?”

  “Nay!”

  “Then?”

  She made a sound of disgust. “As bitter and angry as you are, it is beyond you to understand.”

  What he understood was that either she herself did not know why she sought to return them to the intimacy they had shared in the alley, or she knew too well and was appalled.

  “If ’tis beyond me, Lady Joslyn, that is because the only thing in all the world I truly desire—that entwines not only mind and body, but soul—has twice now been given to another.”

  Her eyes widened, and though he knew what he spoke sounded a threat against her son, he did not care. “Sweet words. A kiss. A caress.” He shrugged. “All for the moment. Only the moment. Whereas Ashlingford…a lifetime.”

  She stepped back.

  Refusing to be bothered by the fear once more rising from her, he said, “God willing, that is not beyond you to understand—and remember.”

  Her eyes brightened as if stars poured into them. But they were only tears. Only…

  Cur! he named himself and turned on his heel. “We will be missed,” he put over his shoulder. But as he neared the balcony’s threshold that was clear of the man-at-arms he had paid to wander elsewhere, the first drops of rain fell and he slapped a hand to the door’s frame to arrest his stride.

  He drew a deep breath, and keeping his back to her said, “But for all that, I would have you know that never would I do your son harm. Never.”

  Then he returned to the festivities. Throughout the remainder of that ordeal, he looked elsewhere when Joslyn came into view. It was enough to know that if he gazed near upon her and she upon him, whatever had made her draw close and touch him would no longer soften her regard.

  Thus, over and again, Liam the man heard Sir Owen of the Wulfriths cite the lesson specific to the temper that had needed to be tamed out of Liam the boy.

  Allow not wrath to command your actions, nor your words.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Joslyn searched the crowd approaching the tower in hopes of catching sight of the one over whom she had lost much sleep. It being the first time she and Oliver were parted overnight, she had been restless on her wonderfully plump pallet, managing only snatches of sleep between the hours of worry. But soon mother and son would be reunited to begin a journey she feared boded ill for both of them.

  She looked sidelong at Liam mounted on the horse alongside hers. For the dozenth time, she told herself that to her dying day she would be grateful he had not put his mouth upon hers at the palace—had instead revealed a single-mindedness that had once more made her fear for Oliver. However, though she did not doubt Ashlingford was all to him as he claimed, she was inclined to believe the last words he had spoken before leaving her—that never would he harm her son.

  Inclined, she reminded herself. Where Oliver was concerned, she could not be too careful.

  Few words having passed between Liam and her in the quarter hour since they had departed the palace, she accepted they would henceforth avoid each other as much as possible, speak as little as was feasible, and live their lives as separately as was practical.

  She returned her attention to the crowd and caught her breath when her gaze found Father Ivo and the knight Liam had left at the monastery to watch over Oliver. The two men were behind a procession of hay wains. And Humphrey Reynard followed, a wonder-struck Oliver in his arms.

  Riding on the fore of his grandfather’s saddle, the little boy gaped at the magnificently walled tower.

  Joslyn urged her mount forward and was relieved when Liam and his men did not follow and Father Ivo and the knight inclined their heads before continuing on. It would be difficult enough to bid her father farewell without having others hanging over her shoulder.

  “Mama, does a giant live there?”

  Joslyn had expected the first thing out of her son’s mouth would be accusation that she had not returned on the day past—at least, complaint over how afeared he had been. But it was as if her absence were an everyday occurrence. Had his grandfather’s arrival at the monastery comforted him sufficiently to temper his disquiet, or was this further evidence her baby was no longer a baby?

  Though there was ache in that, she was thankful he appeared untouched by her unkept promise. “A giant?” She guided her palfrey alongside her father’s. “’Tis true a mighty man lives there, Oliver, but he is not quite a giant.”

  “Nearly, Mama?” he pleaded for her to
feed his childish imagination.

  Arms aching for him, she reached to accept him from her father. “Very nearly,” she said as he came to her.

  “An’ a dragon lives there too?”

  She nodded against his golden head. “Most certainly.”

  He pulled back, grasped the ties of her mantle, and drew them through his hands. “We go to Ashaford now like A-papa said?”

  She smiled. “Aye, ’twill be a grand journey—an adventure. Are you excited?”

  His lower jaw began to jut. “A-papa not going with us.”

  She looked to her father. “But he will visit soon. Will you not, Father?”

  “Of course I shall.” Though his tone was jovial, there was no cheer in his eyes. He would be lonely at Rosemoor. Lonelier than in all the years since his son had left.

  Oliver eyed him. “Promise?”

  Humphrey reached and tapped his nose. “Promise, my boy.”

  Joslyn settled Oliver on the saddle before her. “We must be on our way. ’Tis a long ride to Ashlingford.”

  Her father tried to blink away the moisture in his eyes. “I shall miss you, Jossie.”

  She put a hand over his. “We shall miss you.”

  He abandoned his attempt at a smile and laid his other hand over their two. “I have determined I will find your brother.”

  Her heart lifted. Then some good would come of Oliver and her leaving Rosemoor. At last, he would loosen his pride and bring Richard home—providing her brother agreed. Though Humphrey Reynard was not a cruel man, he had begun imbibing heavily after the death of his beloved wife. The first two years, he had often drunk himself into fits of rage, but never had he turned his grieving on his daughter.

  It was his son who had been given punishment not his due. Thus, Richard had taken to the road, jolting Humphrey out of his reckless behavior. Though he still drank more than was good for him, not since the night his son left had he so completely lost control.

  “I am pleased, Father,” she said past a constricted throat.

  “I hope I shall be. Richard is more stubborn than I.”

  “You will send news when he is home again?”

  “I shall.” He looked beyond her, and she followed his gaze to where Liam and his men had been joined by Father Ivo.

  She started to withdraw her hand, but he clasped it tighter.

  “I do not like that priest, Jossie.”

  He was not always a good judge of character, as evidenced by his fondness for Maynard, but according to Liam, Father Ivo had given him good cause to dislike him. “I will be cautious,” she said.

  “As for the Irishman, he may not be the man Maynard led us to believe.”

  Then whatever had passed between the two men during their ride to the monastery had cast Liam in a better light—far better than her father, who had been revealed as a gambler and a drinker. “I pray you are right, Father.”

  He released her hand and shifted around to remove the bundle tied to the back of his saddle. “Your belongings. I collected them first thing this morn.” He leaned sideways and secured it to her saddle.

  He had not peered within. Had he, he would ask after the sword that had been Maynard’s gift to Oliver.

  “I thank you,” she said, pleased she would be able to change into the comfort of her own garments when they paused during the journey to rest and tend the horses.

  “God be with you, Daughter.” Her father turned his horse back toward the city.

  “Love you, A-papa,” Oliver called.

  Humphrey Reynard looked over his shoulder, and Joslyn saw the struggle on his face that revealed a longing to profess his own feelings. But he merely winked and lifted a hand in farewell.

  Out of the wood they came, like a violent wind through dry grass.

  Tightening her arm around Oliver, Joslyn dragged on the reins to turn her palfrey to the right. It obeyed but carried her only two strides before pulling left.

  They were surrounded, their attackers all around and among them. Shouting, weapons catching sun on silvered blades, a score of brigands set themselves upon the Ashlingford knights. And soon they would be upon Oliver and her.

  Heart pounding so hard she could make no sense of her son’s words, she searched out the one who might prove their savior. But Liam was not to be seen, and she was struck by a thought she did not wish to think—this attack might be the means by which he rid himself of her son.

  A thousand times nay, she prayed.

  “Mama?”

  She considered the bordering wood, moved her thoughts to the scabbard hung from the belt about her waist, met her son’s wide-eyed gaze. “Hold tight to me!”

  He turned into her and wrapped his arms around her waist. But before she could spur away, they were dragged onto another’s horse. Joslyn was certain it was one of the attackers, but those things felt in the alley told otherwise. Liam was keeping his word.

  “Do not fight me,” he growled.

  She opened her mouth to tell him she had no intention of doing so, but was silenced when she glimpsed the brigand charging toward them, sword cutting the air.

  Seeing Liam’s own sword was before him, his other arm around Oliver and her, she was staggered at the realization that just as he now guided his destrier with only the press of his legs, so he must have done when he plucked her son and her off their horse.

  “Hold to the saddle!” he ordered.

  She gripped the pommel, hunched over Oliver, and felt the clash of swords in her bones. Like the beat of a smithy’s hammer, the song of steel rang in her ears. But it was not a weapon being forged. It was death. And when moisture out of a cloudless sky flecked her hands, she began to pray for deliverance.

  “To the devil with you!” Liam shouted, his body following the thrust of his sword and bending her more deeply over Oliver.

  Then a cry of pain and rage that turned her prayers to pleadings that it was not Liam’s life laid to waste as she prepared to take the brunt of the fall from Oliver should the Lord’s wishes differ from hers.

  Of a sudden, they were moving again, Liam’s breath in her hair, the muscles of his chest straining against her back.

  “Thank you, Lord,” she gasped, and opened her eyes to see they had crossed into a shaded wood.

  With an urgency that spoke of blood yet to be shed, Liam halted his destrier beside a group of boulders, dismounted, and pulled Joslyn down beside him.

  “Get behind the boulders and remain there until I return,” he said as she stumbled under the burden of Oliver. “And whatever sharp thing you have beneath your mantle, make it ready.”

  Before she could do so, a shout from the edge of the wood announced the arrival of two brigands.

  “Now!” Liam bellowed, teeth bared, nostrils flared.

  Thinking here must be the one who had raged at King Edward seven years past, she ran and dropped behind the first boulder. As she peered over it, holding Oliver to her with one arm, reaching with the other for the sword she had donned when their party had earlier stopped at an inn, she watched Liam ride back into the fray.

  “Scared, Mama,” Oliver said as she drew the sword from beneath her mantle.

  Lest he looked around and witnessed the bloody clash, she pressed a hand to the back of his head to hold him to her shoulder. “All is well,” she soothed.

  Lord, it is not, she spoke heavenward. But pray, let it be. Let no ill befall Liam and his men.

  Liam glanced toward the road where the Ashlingford knights appeared to be holding their own against the attackers, then swept his gaze to the first brigand, a man much his own size. Hopefully, a worthy opponent upon whom the rage of wasted years could be loosed.

  With a shout, he spurred his mount forward and slammed his blade across the other man’s. Though the impact knocked the brigand sideways, the man remained astride as Liam urged his destrier past to engage the second attacker. But at the moment his sword should have met his new opponent’s above their heads, Liam reined left and swung his blade downwa
rd.

  A squawk like that of an incensed bird evidenced the piercing of the soft belly of the brigand who wore no chain mail, the crimson upon Liam’s blade confirming it.

  Leaving the wounded man to a fate that would prove he was terribly mortal, Liam wheeled his mount around and once more met the first brigand. They crossed swords, but neither blade gave, causing both horses to rear beneath the strain of locked weapons.

  Meeting his opponent’s gaze, seeing a like anger there, Liam forced the other man’s sword off his.

  As the horses’ hooves dropped back to the ground, the brigand countered with a stroke that grated across Liam’s mail shirt, then heaved forward to push his blade through the links. But Liam broke flesh first, slicing through an exposed thigh.

  The brigand shouted and leaned to the side to thrust the booted foot of his injured leg at his opponent’s chest.

  Though the attempt to unseat Liam was unexpected, his knighthood training did not fail him. Reacting with little thought, he grabbed the man’s leg and shoved.

  The brigand teetered, grasped at his destrier’s mane, and dropped to the mossy earth.

  It would have been easy to run him through before he recovered sufficiently to regain his feet, but Liam’s recent loss demanded better than an easy end to a murderer. Fitting his hand more precisely around the hilt of his weapon, its familiarity against palm and fingers focusing him, he swung out of the saddle.

  In spite of a gaping wound, the brigand was on his feet. “Come, you misbegotten canker,” he shouted.

  Misbegotten. More fodder for Liam’s suspicion this attack was by design. But whose? A nobleman who sought Thornemede for himself? Or one who wished Liam as far from Ashlingford as possible—more specifically, in the grave?

  He was drawn nearer the possibility it was his uncle, that no matter how many attackers Ivo slaughtered in an attempt to cast suspicion elsewhere, they would die having done him a service. Unfortunately for the priest, they would fail.

  Liam lunged and, with a downward stroke, severed dozens of links of shabby mail. “I yet stand,” he snarled as the man staggered back.