LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance

by Tamara Leigh

He shook his head.

  She feigned a pout.

  Oliver laughed and wrapped his arms around her legs.

  Joslyn hugged him, thus ending their morning ritual.

  “Hungry,” Oliver said as he emerged from her embrace.

  Joslyn swept her gaze over the chamber. “First we must find our clothes.”

  “Emma put ’em there.” He pointed to the iron-banded chest at the foot of the bed.

  She lifted the lid. To the right lay a small stack of boy’s clothes, to the left an assortment of women’s garments. “These do not belong to us. Do you know what Emma has done with ours?”

  “Washin’ ’em, but she said we could wear these.”

  “Very well.” After dressing Oliver, she chose the simplest of the gowns, which was more lavish than anything she owned—cut of a rich, pink samite, colorful beads sewn around its neck, fitted sleeves dotted with gold buttons elbow to wrist, and a length of sheer pink fabric seamed into the left shoulder to drape the back and catch a breeze.

  A one-winged angel, Joslyn mused and lifted the gown above her head. But as she started to draw it on over her chemise, something hit her brow and dropped to the floor.

  She lowered the gown and located the object among the rushes.

  “What is it, Mama?”

  “A coin.” One that would buy far more than a trinket from a vendor. Of gold and good weight, it could keep a person well for some time. “Curious,” she murmured.

  Oliver stepped near. “Where’d it come from?”

  “If I did not know better, I would say it fell from the sky.”

  He looked to the ceiling. “Did it not?”

  “More likely ’twas caught in the folds of the gown.”

  He blew out a breath of disappointment.

  Joslyn ruffled his hair. Thinking she would give the coin to Liam when she saw him, she placed it in the clothes chest and finished dressing.

  “A’most forgot,” Oliver said as they walked the corridor toward the stairs. “Papa’s dead.”

  She halted and stared after him as he continued on. “Oliver!”

  He popped his chin over his shoulder.

  “I must needs speak with you.”

  “I am hungry.”

  “’Twill take only a moment.”

  He trudged back, and she bent and brushed the hair out of his eyes. “Who told you your father died?”

  “Unca Liam.”

  She tensed further. It was for her to reveal his father’s death, not Liam Fawke’s. And she had intended to just as soon as Oliver and she were settled at Ashlingford. “What did he tell you?”

  Oliver scratched his nose. “Papa fell off his horse an’ died.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Papa’s in heaven.” He pointed toward the ceiling. “A war’r for God.”

  Joslyn’s breath caught. Though she trusted Liam would not say anything hateful about his departed brother in Oliver’s presence, never would she have expected him to speak such kind words. “You are sure your Uncle Liam said that?”

  “Aye, but he does not want to be my papa.”

  She forced a smile. “You asked him?”

  “Uh-huh, but jus’ gonna be my friend.”

  Though she resented Liam’s interference, she was touched by the light in which he had cast Maynard.

  “We eat now, Mama?”

  “Aye.”

  He scurried toward the stairs, and she followed him into the hall.

  The great room was empty except for two servants who spread fresh rushes and Oliver who stood at its center looking lost. As at Rosemoor, the simple morning meal was served at the breaking of day. For the luxury of sleeping an extra hour or two, they would have to seek their meal in the kitchen.

  “This way,” Joslyn called.

  Oliver trailed her down a corridor. “Ooh,” he breathed when he entered the room. Eyes bright, he looked from servants to worktables to cavernous fireplaces where cauldrons hung by hook and chain.

  How humble Rosemoor was compared to Ashlingford, Joslyn once more noted.

  “Seems a sweet child,” said a kitchen maid whose back was turned to the door through which Joslyn and Oliver had entered.

  “Aye, not like his father,” another said.

  The woman kneading dough at a nearby table snorted. “Too young to tell. More ’n likely, the boy will prove worthy of that one’s blood.”

  They spoke of Oliver. But rather than retreat as Joslyn was inclined to do, she stepped forward. There would be no better time to assert herself as mother of the heir.

  Several of the servants looked up, and those who did not were nudged into noting who had come into their midst.

  “Whatcha makin’?” Oliver said before Joslyn found words to break the silence. He gripped the edge of a table and went up on his toes to peer at the woman kneading dough, the same who had made the derogatory comment about him.

  The maid looked from Oliver to his mother, frowned over Joslyn’s attire, and returned her attention to the child. “Bread.”

  “I taste?”

  Her lids fluttered with surprise. “I would let ye, child, but ’tis not yet baked.”

  “That’s a’right. Like it that way.”

  Her mouth curved a bit. “May he have a pinch, milady?”

  “Only that,” Joslyn said, pleased her son had turned the woman’s bitter mouth into something near a smile.

  “Ye need something, milady?” asked another who came alongside her.

  “Bread and cheese to break our fast.”

  She bobbed her head and moved away.

  Minutes later, Joslyn and Oliver satisfied their hunger beneath the watch of the servants, who tried to hide their curiosity behind their tasks. Hardly a word did any speak, and the few snippets exchanged were too hushed for Joslyn to hear what was said. But it likely concerned her son and her.

  As she popped the last crust of bread into her mouth, Emma entered the kitchen and smiled at Oliver as she crossed to where he perched on a stool beside his mother. “You are near ready, boy?”

  Oliver nodded, looked to Joslyn. “I am full.”

  “You have planned something?” Joslyn asked as Emma set Oliver on his feet.

  “Aye, the little lord and I are going to explore the castle. You would join us, my lady?”

  She would if not that here was an opportunity to seek out Liam and confront him over revealing Maynard’s death. “Mayhap later. I have some things I need to attend to.”

  “Of course, my lady.” Emma stepped back to consider Joslyn’s attire. “Better too large than too small. Thus, I can alter it to fit.”

  Joslyn looked down her front. “It will suffice until my own garments are cleaned.”

  “Aye, but as lady of Ashlingford, you will need more than what you brought with you.”

  “I am sure my father will send our garments soon.”

  Emma looked skeptical, and Joslyn guessed she doubted manor attire would be appropriate here. And perhaps it would not be considering the pink gown was the simplest of those offered her. “Whose garments are these?”

  Emma’s lips thinned. “They were Lady Anya’s.”

  Had Maynard’s mother been as disliked by the castle folk as he?

  “You are most patient, Oliver,” Emma said. “Shall we go?”

  He nodded vigorously.

  The woman closed his hand in hers. “Join us when you are able, my lady.”

  Shortly, Joslyn left the kitchen by way of the back door, stepping out into sunshine tempered by a slight breeze. The herbal garden to her right, the flower garden to her left, she paused to enjoy the sight before continuing out into the bustle of the inner bailey.

  As much a curiosity here as she had been in the kitchen, she walked among people who spoke behind their hands and scrutinized her as if she meant trouble for them.

  Time, she told herself. That is what it will take for us to be accepted. At least, she prayed so.

  She crossed the drawbridge into the
outer bailey and, finding no sight of Liam, approached a man-at-arms. “Know you where I might find Lord Fawke?”

  “He is gone, my lady.”

  She blinked. Surely he would not have departed for Thornemede without first speaking with her. In the next instant, she rebuked herself. He owed her no parting words, could come and go without warning or farewell.

  Still, she asked, “Know you where he has gone?”

  “The fields, my lady. He shall return ere nightfall.”

  She could wait, but then she might not find another opportunity to speak with him alone. “I would like to go to him. Would you arrange it?”

  The man’s eyes widened. “But—”

  “You will accompany me, of course.” Regardless of her station at Ashlingford, it would not be permissible for her to ride unescorted.

  “I must first speak with the captain of the guard, my lady.”

  “Do so, then we shall be on our way.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Riding over lush countryside, often within sight of the river that ran past the castle, Joslyn beheld the beauty to which fatigue had sought to blind her on the day past.

  Woodruff, fennel, and daisies pushed up through the earth. Birds soaring clear skies plucked out sweet songs upon the air. Hares and other small animals bounded through the grass. And common folk coaxed life from the soil as their children made games of chasing off birds who sought to steal their sown labor.

  Reining in her palfrey, Joslyn watched one of the workers of an immense fallow field tramp toward them.

  “Lord Fawke has been here?” one of her three escort called as the man neared.

  “Aye, and still is.” He pointed to the farthest corner of the field where a handful of workers plowed.

  Joslyn was relieved, having been told at the four previous fields he had gone on to the next. “You may await me here,” she instructed her escort. “I shall not be long.”

  As she rode the perimeter of the field, she searched for Liam’s red hair. But though a fine horse that surely belonged to him stood nearby, there was no sign of its rider.

  She looked worker to worker. One man grasped the handles of the plow, his great body forcing it to follow alongside a strip of land previously turned. He was assisted by another ahead, who drove the team of oxen by whip and bellow, and four behind—two men, two women—who wielded clubs to break up clods the plow cut from the hard earth.

  It was strenuous work, though she knew it only from having watched the villagers of Rosemoor toil in their lord’s fields.

  She returned her gaze to the plowman who wore a hood, its ties flapping against his chest as he thrust the plow ahead of him. A perspiration-darkened tunic clung to his broad shoulders, followed the contours of his muscled torso, tapered down past his hips, and molded to thighs whose muscles strained with each step.

  Liam. Once more stirred by dangerous awareness, she averted her thoughts to the question of why he did the work of a commoner when it was not expected of a lord. Would she ever understand him?

  Wishing she did not care to make sense of him—more, that this curious facet did not so appeal—she urged her mount forward.

  Liam would not have looked up had the man leading the oxen not brought the beasts to a halt and the workers lowered their clubs to take notice of the lady riding toward them.

  “Almighty,” he muttered. He had departed the castle early for just this reason. Following a restless night filled with remembrance of Joslyn, he had come straight to the fields. Now, destroying what little peace he found, she was here. And he knew what brought her.

  He released the plow handles, rubbed an arm across his perspiring brow, and propped his soiled hands on his hips.

  Slowing her horse to a walk, she called, “I would speak with you, Lord Fawke.”

  When she was near enough for her amber eyes to be of note, he said, “I trust ’tis a pressing matter that brings you to the fields.”

  Much too lovely in a vivid pink gown, she halted a short distance away. “It is.”

  He looked over his shoulder. “Take the plow, Henry.”

  The thickset man tossed his club aside and started forward.

  Aware he appeared as much the commoner as the others, Liam strode across the unbroken ground and halted alongside Joslyn’s mount.

  She looked down on him, but not with the distaste many a lady would. And neither was her face drawn with anger as expected. Was that curiosity shining from her eyes?

  Wishing she were the unbecoming waif she had presented at Rosemoor when she had been the one who wore dirt, he asked, “What is this pressing matter?”

  She glanced at the workers. “May we speak elsewhere?”

  Though the plow was moving again, Liam knew Joslyn and he were an object of interest. If not that plowing required close attention lest a worker fall peril to it, this place would suffice.

  He held out a hand. “Your reins.”

  She laid the leather strap across his palm, and as he led her toward the wood, his mind went ahead to the icy stream where he could refresh himself.

  “This will do,” Joslyn said as they neared the trees.

  “Nay, a bit farther.”

  “Lord Fawke, in the absence of an escort, it would be unseemly for me to enter the wood with you.”

  She had cause to be worried considering all that had passed between them, but if she was going to take him from the field, he would use the time well.

  “No more unseemly than you seeking me out in the field rather than awaiting my return.”

  She said no more, and upon reaching the stream, he dropped the reins, strode to where the water ran shallow, and sank to his haunches. “Speak to me, Lady Joslyn.”

  “You had no right.”

  True, but that was before Ivo had answered a question Liam had meant to evade. He tugged off the hood plastering the hair to his head, tossed it aside, and plunged his hands in the stream. “No right?” he said, purposely obtuse.

  “To tell Oliver of his father’s death. It was for me to do.”

  Liam splashed water over his face and head, relished the shock of it against his heated skin.

  “Lord Fawke, why did you tell my son of his father’s death?”

  He could accept the blame. After all, he was responsible for not having anticipated that, in showing Oliver his father’s solar, the boy would ask uncomfortable questions. But if Joslyn was to seriously consider his warnings about Ivo, she needed to know the truth.

  He looked around. “I explained it to him, my lady, but you are wrong to assume I revealed it.”

  She frowned. “Father Ivo?”

  He returned to his bathing and, without regard for her presence, dragged off his tunic. Bared to the waist, he scooped water over his shoulders and chest.

  “I shall go now, Lord Fawke.”

  His body’s heat dissipating, the perspiration and dust rinsed away, he stood. “That is all you wished to speak with me about?”

  Face flushing further, she pretended an interest in the reins. “I thank you for being gentle in telling Oliver of his father’s death. Of course, I was surprised to learn Maynard is in heaven. A warrior for God.”

  “To be honest would have been cruel.” When she allowed his remark to pass, he said, “Why did you not tell him Maynard had died?”

  She looked sideways at him and down again. “I thought it best we first settle at Ashlingford. It was not…pressing.”

  Because Oliver had known so little of his father he could not possibly feel great loss? Likely. But though Liam was tempted to know more of the exact nature of Joslyn’s relationship with her husband, he determined he would not press her to speak there. Instead, he asked, “What did Ivo tell you about Maynard’s death?”

  Keeping her gaze averted, she said, “That he rode from the castle drunk and took a fall from his horse.”

  “What else?”

  “He said…” She shook her head. “It does not matter.”

  Liam strode forward.
As he neared, a breeze lifted a sheer length of material from her shoulder, causing it to wave behind her and present a sharp contrast against the black of her hair. And remind him of one he did not care to be reminded of.

  He halted alongside her, eyed the many folds of the skirts draped over her mount, and forced his thoughts away from Lady Anya who had last worn the gown. “It does matter,” he said gruffly. “Tell me.”

  She flew her gaze to his as if for fear of looking too near upon his bared chest. “He said that though you did not kill Maynard, you are as responsible as if you had.”

  As expected. “You ought to be on your way,” he said and pivoted.

  Joslyn stared after him. Why would he not defend himself? Surely he knew his uncle cast him in the worst light. “Is it true?” she called.

  He snatched up his tunic, dragged it on, and tossed over his shoulder, “Return to the castle.”

  She knew she should keep to the saddle, but she dismounted and closed the distance between them. “I am done thinking the worst of you, Liam Fawke.” When he did not turn, she lifted a hand toward his shoulder, snatched it back. To touch him could lead to further rejection and humiliation like that to which she had subjected herself on the balcony of the king’s palace and on Settling Castle’s wall.

  She drew a deep breath. “Though I feared one day you would come to Rosemoor, I now know my fears were unfounded, that what Maynard said of you were lies. Pray, Lord Fawke, tell me of his death so I may put it to rest.”

  He turned and grasped the sleeve of her gown. “How came you by this?”

  Then he recognized it as belonging to Maynard’s mother. “As my own garments are being laundered, Emma delivered it and others to me. It does not fit well, but she says it can be altered.”

  “If you need gowns, they will be made new.”

  Though she knew Lady Anya had been instrumental in securing Ashlingford for her son, was Liam’s anger so great toward the woman he could not bear to look upon her garments? “I am sorry it offends you.”

  He dropped his hand from her. “Suffice it to say, had Anya Fawke been born a man, it would have been difficult to tell her apart from Ivo.”

  That explained some of it. “I shall return the gowns to Emma.” She clasped her hands before her. “Now will you speak to me of Maynard’s death?”