LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance

by Tamara Leigh

  The brigand came at him again, allowing Liam to color his blade with the other’s life, fill his ears with suffering, and shout his triumphs to the heavens. And when the brigand swung wide, opening himself to certain death, Liam did not finish him. He let the man recover his breath and, when he charged again, sank his blade into the sword arm offered him.

  Spitting curses out of a contorted face, the brigand retaliated with a sloppy slice that earned him like blood.

  More aware of the warmth trickling toward his wrist than the pain in his forearm, Liam fended off the next stroke, sweeping his blade high and forcing the man’s sword above his head. “You or me?” he spat.

  Fear moved onto his opponent’s face, but a glance beyond Liam moved it off and he rasped, “You.”

  Certain the man’s spirit was restored by the sight of others coming to his aid, hoping a more satisfying challenge awaited him, Liam said, “Then we are done,” and closed his left hand over his right on the sword hilt. With a musical ring of steel on steel, he ran his blade down the other, forcing it toward the ground, then arced his sword up and sliced open his opponent.

  The brigand jerked, gurgled, and dropped.

  As Liam looked upon one who would soon grow still and later cold, he was struck by how many years had passed since he had taken another’s life. This day he had claimed three. But with regret seeking to dilute his anger, he reminded himself that the only way to survive was to add to that number.

  In answer to the ones announced by pounding hooves, he swung around and deflected the blow of a brigand who charged him on horseback. There was not enough time to turn aside the next one’s weapon, only enough to jump back and spare his skull the mace’s iron-spiked head. But not his jaw.

  Now there was pain, the easing of his anger in the face of death causing him to feel the blow as he had not with his first injury. Excruciatingly aware of both, he considered the attackers who had come about and once more set themselves at him.

  Knowing they would kill him if he did not return to the raw, ugly place inside him, he growled, “Maynard, Ivo, Anya.” And when the brigands neared, he was ready.

  Wielding his sword in one hand, he reached with the other and pulled his dagger from his belt. Years of practice had perfected the left-handed throw learned at Wulfen Castle, as evidenced by the blade’s unwavering flight into the chest of the brigand who swung the mace. Then the other was upon Liam where he stood in the path of the man’s horse.

  Liam spread his legs, raised his weapon, and at the last possible moment leapt to the side and swung his sword up and behind. The blade caught the man mid-back, and though the chain mail spared his flesh, he was knocked forward.

  Liam bolted after him, but defend was all the brigand could do, and he soon lost the saddle and was forced to fight across the floor of the wood and onto the road.

  When the Ashlingford knights, whose own battles were won, drew near to offer assistance, Liam shouted them back. Thus, they watched as the man who should have been their lord sought to prove himself yet more worthy of the title denied him. And he did, dropping the brigand to his knees and onto his face.

  Heaving shoulders straining the sweat-soaked seams of his tunic, Liam picked his gaze over the strewn bodies. Not all the attackers were accounted for. Thus, it was possible those who had fled at the realization they were the weaker force would regroup and attempt another ambush farther up the road.

  The Ashlingford knights had not escaped unscathed, the rent shirts of mail and slashed chausses revealing injuries similar to those Liam had sustained. But none were dead, as near a miracle as could be had. Only Sir Gregory had fallen, and he appeared very much alive where he leaned on another knight, a hand to the wound in his side.

  Liam strode to the brigand he had put through with his dagger and stared at the weapon that had been awarded him during his knighting at Wulfen Castle—a much-coveted and esteemed Wulfrith dagger, its pommel set with jewels to form the cross of crucifixion. This day, he had honored it.

  He pulled the blade free. As he wiped it on the hem of his tunic, he fastened his gaze on Ivo. The priest stood to the right of a disheveled, crimson-stained John. Though his face mirrored repentance for the lives taken with his unholy sword, Liam knew his remorse was not for them but for what they had failed to accomplish. His hated nephew would return to Ashlingford.

  Anger surging anew, Liam thrust the dagger into its scabbard and, sword in hand, stepped forward.

  Just one more life, he silently vowed. And what better place for a mock priest to die than on the battlefield he had created? Few, if any, of the Ashlingford knights would object if the man perished among his equals. But another would.

  He looked across his shoulder. Did Joslyn yet cower where he had left her? Or were her eyes fixed on him, ready to witness what would seem an unforgivable act?

  Suppressing the desire to end the pestilence that was Ivo, he slid his sullied sword into its scabbard and strode toward the wood.

  She stood before the boulders, chin up and shoulders back, the only vulnerability about her the little boy huddled in her arms. No cowering lady, this one who had braved the streets of London.

  Once again, he reflected on the odd match his brother had made, he who had preferred his women simpering and needy—even if only acting the part. Joslyn was strong, though not as strong as she wished to appear, he saw as he neared and glimpsed in her eyes the haunting of those things seen and heard.

  He regretted what she had been made to witness. From the moment he had turned from her, he had been so immersed in the battle to survive he had forgotten her. But it was just as well, for had he tried to shield her from the warrior, he might have yielded up his life. It mattered not what she thought of him. And he owed her no explanation for who he was and what he had done.

  He halted before her. “You are well?”

  Eyes moving over his bloody jaw, she nodded and said softly, “You are injured.”

  “Naught that will not heal.”

  Her lids flickered, and she lowered her gaze over the marks of battle adorning his chain mail.

  “Are you ready to ride, Lady Joslyn?”

  “Aye.”

  “Can I look now, Mama?” Oliver started to draw back.

  “Not yet, my love.”

  Liam nearly asked if she would like him to carry the boy, but being outfitted in blood, a more unsavory suggestion he could not make.

  “Let us be gone,” he said, but as he turned away, she elbowed aside her mantle and he caught the glint of steel, then the length of blade she sought to return to the scabbard on her belt. A short sword. He had guessed as much when he had plucked her and Oliver from their horse, but he had not had time to ponder how she came to carry it on her person—more, if she was capable of wielding it.

  Unable to ignore her struggle to fit the blade in the scabbard’s mouth while holding her son, he stepped forward, swept the mantle back off her shoulder, and closed his hand around the hilt she relinquished with a murmured, “I thank you.”

  It was a hilt he knew well, though it no longer fit his hand as it had when he was a boy proud to leave behind wooden swords.

  “It was Maynard’s when he was a boy,” she said, and he realized all of him had stilled, that even the breath in need of replenishing after the battle did not move his shoulders. “’Tis to be Oliver’s when he is of an age to train at steel.”

  He looked up.

  She moistened her lips. “I know not how to use it, but when I left Rosemoor, I thought…”

  “You thought to protect your son from me.”

  She opened her mouth as if to deny it, then sighed. “I did not know you then.”

  Meaning she believed what he had told on the day past, that no matter his longing for Ashlingford, Oliver need not fear him? He wanted that. Too much.

  He slid the sword in its scabbard and swung away. “Follow, Lady Joslyn.”

  “This one is alive!” a knight called as they exited the wood.

&n
bsp; “One of the knights will assist you in mounting,” Liam said and motioned for Joslyn to continue to the road. As she moved past, he veered toward the Ashlingford knight who stood over the first attacker Liam had put through with a sword.

  Certain the man would soon prove as mortal as the others, Liam lowered to his haunches. “Who hired you, man?”

  Cradling his belly, the brigand turned his ashen face to Liam. “The devil. You…know him, do you not?”

  Certes, he knew Ivo. “I am sure I do, but why do you not tell me the name by which he slithers among men?”

  “You would like that, eh?”

  “More than you can know.”

  “What be my reward?” The man’s eyes sparkled with the irony of pocketing something of which he would have no use amid the flames.

  “A grave. Else left as pickings for the beasts of the wood.”

  The man’s lids closed. “I will think on it.”

  “Do not think too long, for death is here. And most impatient.”

  The brigand narrowly opened his eyes, nodded.

  But the breath of what he intended to say was stolen by the dagger that laid open the great vein in his neck.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “God would not prolong his suffering,” Ivo said as Liam lunged upright to face the one who had quietly come alongside him. “’Tis merciful to speedily deliver a dying man from his tortured end.” He wiped his crimson-edged blade. “Did I not teach you that, William?”

  Liam roared and drew his blade, but John gripped his sword arm. “Think well, my friend!”

  Liam stared at his father’s brother whose smile taunted beneath a wavering gaze. After all that had happened this day he was to think when his time was better spent ridding himself of this foul, wretched being who dared call himself a priest?

  “Do you shed his blood, the Church will be upon you,” John rasped.

  Let them be upon him. Let them drag him down. They could take naught from him that was not already given to a child made of the detestable Maynard. He did not care—

  He drew a sharp breath, looked around, and met Lady Joslyn’s wide-eyed gaze where she sat atop her mount. He did not care, and yet he did.

  Though what the king had tossed to him under the table were only scraps compared to Ashlingford, it was something. More, perhaps, he hated that his brother’s widow should witness further atrocity, especially one that those who did not know Ivo would name heinous.

  He filled his lungs, nodded. As John loosed his hold, Liam lowered his sword. “’Tis not finished, uncle. By all that I am, you will account for this day.”

  Outrage bloomed on Ivo’s face. “You think me responsible?”

  “I know it.” Liam pivoted before he could lose the control he gripped to the point of pain.

  “You dare accuse a holy man of making death on God’s people?” Ivo shouted.

  Liam swung around. “One bathed in the blood of those he himself slew can hardly be called holy.”

  Ivo’s nostrils flared. “Look to the noblemen who lost Thornemede to a whoreson. There you will find the one who devised this.”

  Liam moved his gaze to the Ashlingford knights and in their faces saw they also believed Ivo was responsible. Telling himself to be content with that, he resumed his stride and glanced at his bloodied forearm. The gash was wide but not deep, the bleeding having all but stopped. He fingered his jaw. It would require stitches, and there would be scarring to evidence this day he had been meant to die.

  He mounted his destrier, and as the others gained their saddles, summoned a young knight.

  “My lord?”

  “We will pass the night at Settling Castle to tend our injuries. As you appear to have fared better than the rest, ride to Ashlingford and instruct them to prepare for our arrival, then continue to Thornemede and inform the castle folk their new baron arrives a sennight hence.”

  “I will do it. Anything else, Lord Fawke?”

  Wondering when he would become accustomed to his new title, Liam said, “That is all.”

  With a press of his heels and a slap of the reins, the knight set off.

  Though Liam intended to ride past Joslyn, the sight of Oliver still hugged to her made him rein in alongside her. “Frightened?” He jutted his chin at the boy.

  As if it was not to be believed he had a care for her son, surprise flickered in her eyes. “I would not allow him to see,” she said low. “Yet ’tis as if he did.”

  Liam did not know why he cared. Because this little stranger was also his nephew? “He heard it,” he said, “and that is also a terrible thing. Too, he assuredly felt your fear, and it has become his own.” He started to urge his mount forward but remembered what he carried in his pouch and dug it out. “Boy, I have something for you.”

  The child turned his face out of his mother’s shoulder, blinked at what Liam reached to him. “’Tis the top A-papa made for me, Mama!”

  “So it is.”

  Oliver scooped it from his hand. “Have you my stick too, Sir Liam?”

  “I fear not, but another can be made.”

  Clasping his toy to him as if it were his dearest possession, he looked up. Joy dissolving, he breathed, “Ooh.”

  Uncertain whether it was with awe or fear the boy regarded the mace-torn jaw, Liam berated himself for allowing the child to witness what his mother had tried to shield him from. Having himself loved tales of beasts as a child, hoping Oliver was as intrigued, he said, “I’ll not wrestle that bear again.”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “’Twas a bear?”

  “It was, and a bigger one I have yet to meet.” Liam glanced at Joslyn. Rather than reproach, relief bounded from her eyes.

  “Tell me, Sir Liam.”

  Hearing the knights draw near, Liam said, “Mayhap this eve. Now we must ride.”

  “I wanna hear it.”

  “This eve,” Joslyn said firmly.

  “Now!”

  “But a few more hours, Oliver,” Liam intervened where he should not. “Then I shall tell you all.”

  Discontent lowered the boy’s brow, but he said, “Promise?”

  Liam forced a smile. “My knightly vow I give.” Then, wondering why he made promises to this child who had taken Ashlingford from him, he gathered his reins.

  “Lord Fawke!”

  “My lady?”

  Joslyn’s smile was weary, but lovely. “I thank you.”

  He inclined his head and urged his destrier ahead of her.

  Joslyn was certain she would never forget Oliver sitting cross-legged on the pallet as he took in Liam’s tale of the bear come out of the wood to challenge the worthiest of knights, and how her son slowly inched near his uncle until he was tight against his side.

  Liam had exchanged a look of disquiet with Joslyn before resuming his tale. And now the recipient of words that made little boys dream of becoming heroes stopped fighting the lowering of his lids and slumped against his uncle.

  She stepped forward, but Liam shook his head, eased Oliver down onto the mattress, and drew the blanket over him. This, the man she had feared, the one she had been told would murder her son…

  Liam turned to where she stood beside the large bed she would share with their host’s daughters this eve.

  Inwardly wincing over his brightly swollen jaw and the many stitches closing up the flesh, she said, “It was a wonderful story, Lord Fawke. You are good with him.”

  He opened his mouth as if to respond, paused as if to think better of it, then said, “There was a time I was good with Maynard.”

  Then animosity had not always existed between the brothers?

  “A time he was as fond of me as I was of him.” He jutted his chin toward her pack in the corner of the room, its length witness to what lay within. “Just as that sword was Maynard’s ere it was Oliver’s, it was mine ere it was Maynard’s.”

  “Oh.” The word jumped from her. “I did not know.”

  He smiled grimly. “Of course you did not. By the time
Maynard gifted it to your son, he had too long hated me to mention it—mayhap did not even remember I had gifted it to him.” He strode to the pack, and leaving the scabbard within, drew out the sword and bent his head to it.

  Joslyn followed and watched as he traced the trough down the center of the blade.

  “What happened between you?” she dared.

  He angled the sword toward candlelight, ran a thumb beneath the cross guard. “Maynard grew up.”

  She stepped nearer. “That cannot be all of it.”

  He shrugged. “We were parted when I was sent to Wulfen Castle to be trained into a knight worthy of being our father’s heir. Once and twice a year, I returned home for a sennight, and each time the distance between us enlarged until Maynard rejected what Ivo and his mother called the Irish whoreson.”

  Joslyn hurt for him, as well as Maynard, who had surely succumbed to the hatred of those who had filled the void left by his older brother.

  Liam turned the sword toward her and tapped the blade beneath the cross guard. “Here—my initials made into his, whilst we were yet brothers.”

  Joslyn had never looked near enough on the sword to notice the marks, but she saw the small, deeply etched L and F, and that the L had been made into the right leg of the more lightly etched M.

  She lifted her chin, and seeing they were as near as they had been on the balcony when he had rejected what he believed was her longing for him, stepped back. “I am sorry both Maynard and you lost a brother.”

  “As was I.” He returned the sword to its scabbard. “And now propriety demands I go belowstairs.”

  She longed to know more, but they had been absent too long. “I will follow.”

  When he was gone, she tucked the bedclothes around Oliver, who sighed, narrowly opened his eyes, and in a thick voice said, “I like him, Mama.”

  “Lord Fawke?”

  “Unca Liam. Do you like him?”

  “Of course I do.” More than she should.

  He smiled, snuggled into the mattress, and closed his eyes.

  Wishing she could stay with him, she pressed a kiss to his cheek and turned away.