LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance

by Tamara Leigh

  He rolled onto his back, extended his arms with imaginings of being laid out on the cross, and stared at the beams overhead.

  Since Joslyn’s threat to carry her tale to the bishop was possibly real, he had already decided against enlisting the man to seek her punishment and William’s—at least until he had firm evidence. Thus, Emma had gained little with her own threat, though it was maddening that Joslyn had sought the woman’s aid.

  Groping for his crucifix, Ivo closed his eyes on the assurance that when the time was right—and surely it would be soon—he would have his justice.

  The embers turned ravenous, shooting flames up from their dying depths to lap at the ivory parchment. Aroused, the fire crawled around the edges of the document and jumped and flickered across the writing.

  As Liam watched, he considered the contents of the missive that had been delivered to him. It had been written by Ashlingford’s steward, Sir Hugh, who kept Liam informed of the goings-on at the barony.

  This day’s news did not surprise, considering Ivo had weeks ago forced Father Warren out of his position as castle priest, but it angered him. The thought of Ivo claiming the lord’s solar was nearly enough for Liam to call for his destrier, but he would not. No worse mistake could he make than to leave Thornemede now. He would return to Ashlingford, but not before his lordship here was more secure.

  The fire having expended itself on the document, it fell back to the embers, danced on the surface, and withdrew beneath the red glow.

  Liam stared at the fragile, blackened sheet. Gone was all evidence of his correspondence with the steward. Though they communicated regularly, it would not do for others to know Ivo was more a matter of discussion than the state of the demesne. And not just that the false priest had moved into the lord’s chamber.

  Since Maynard would have told Ivo where he had hidden the coins stolen the night he had ridden into the ravine, Liam’s uncle would eventually retrieve them. Thus, per Liam’s instructions, Ivo was followed when he left the castle. Unfortunately, naught had come of the few times he had ridden out. But surely he could not resist much longer—unless he had laid hands on the money without anyone’s knowledge.

  For this reason, Liam had ordered a search of Ivo’s belongings, which was the last item addressed in the steward’s report. No coins were found.

  And so the vigil continued.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sensing she was no longer alone, Joslyn looked up from the dirt she spread with her hands to the one who leaned in the doorway.

  Liam’s gaze was so intense her breath stopped. Was he remembering the same as she?

  She sank back on her heels. Though a month had passed since he had left Ashlingford, it seemed twice that, and she had begun to wonder if he intended to forever manage Ashlingford from a distance. But he had come back, giving rise to emotions she feared to linger over.

  He straightened and strode into the keep.

  Wondering why he had sought her here if not to speak with her, she stared at the emptiness he left behind, then rose from among the flowering bushes and traversed the stone-laid path that bent its way through the garden.

  So intent was she on Liam’s return she nearly collided with the cook as he exited the kitchen. She stepped back. “Forgive me.”

  A fortnight past, he had only glowered at her, but since she had begun overseeing the meals, he more often looked upon her with a glimmer of a smile. As he did now. “G’day, my lady.”

  She inclined her head. “Since Lord Fawke has surely brought men with him, you will need to add to the nooning meal. Mayhap salted fish, onion tarts, and…what do you think of spiced pears?”

  “We have not pears till the morrow, my lady.”

  “Apples?”

  “Aye, we’ve those. I shall see to it after I gather my herbs.” He continued past her.

  Joslyn found Liam in the great hall. With his back to her where he stood before the table on the dais, he reached for the leather-bound ledger open before the steward, pulled it toward him, and bent his head to it.

  “’Tis all there, my lord,” the steward said. “As the king decreed and the far column reflects, I have deducted from the total receipts the tenth to be paid to you after taxes are satisfied.”

  “’Tis a goodly sum.”

  Joslyn knew she should go abovestairs and make herself presentable, but since Liam had already seen her in her gardening attire, she moved toward him. “You have returned to us, Lord Fawke.”

  He looked around. “You thought I would not?”

  “I had begun to wonder.”

  He returned his attention to the steward. “I would like to compare last year’s receipts to this year’s. And the year before.”

  “Now, my lord?”

  “Now.”

  Sir Hugh stood. “I will collect the ledgers.”

  When the man’s footfalls faded, Liam turned to Joslyn where she halted before the dais, leaned back against the table’s edge, and crossed his arms over his chest.

  Now she saw the fatigue around his eyes and in the grooves alongside his mouth. Was it the weight of Thornemede upon him?

  “’Tis good to know my absence was noted,” he said.

  Certain he implied she had missed him, pained by how much, she raised her chin. “Oliver speaks often of you. He quite likes his uncle.”

  His mouth turned up slightly. “And you?”

  Surprise fluttering her lashes, she struggled to maintain her composure. “You must know you are always welcome at Ashlingford, Lord Fawke.”

  He searched her face, then looked to her soiled gown. “We have been here before, have we not, Lady Joslyn?” The bit of a smile on his lips moved into his eyes. “Yet this time you have no rake to fend me off.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “Nor have I need to.”

  “I am pleased to hear it.”

  She moved her gaze to his jaw. The scars crossing it were less smooth than she had expected considering a fine needle had stitched the gashes closed. “Your jaw has not mended well.”

  “It has not, but I am content with the absence of infection. You find it unsightly?”

  “Nay!” she exclaimed lest he think her of such shallow depth she was only moved by outward beauty. “I do not look at you only with the eyes. I—” She snapped her teeth closed.

  “What, Joslyn?”

  She knew what—that she looked at him with the heart as she should not. But she said, “’Tis not too unsightly.”

  All light upon his face vanishing, he said, “As well you know, you torment me.”

  She nearly stepped back. “I do not understand.”

  “Aye, you do. Even if you will not own to it, ’tis the same for you. And nearly you spoke it.”

  Averting her gaze, she said, “It is wrong.”

  He stepped forward and lifted her chin. “I hoped if I stayed away it would find its end, but I cannot move about in day nor lie down at night without thought of you.”

  It pained her to repeat what he had said in the wood, but she asked, “You think once will end your want?”

  His laughter was clipped. “’Tis what I would have, but I do not believe it.”

  Hope flickered though her. Might Liam love her as she—

  She squeezed her fingers into her palms. It was the closest she had come to admitting to herself that she loved him. A foolish thing to do. “Your uncle believes we have lain together and threatens that if we do not cease, he will tell the bishop and seek our punishment.”

  As Liam stared at the woman he could not put from his mind, disquiet replaced longing. “How did you answer him?”

  “I denied it, and though it was not Christian of me, I warned that if he carried the lie to the bishop, I would myself seek an audience and reveal the truth of the brigands’ attack.”

  Then she accepted what she would not when he had told it was his uncle’s coin that had paid for the attack. “That will stop him only so long, Joslyn.” He dropped his hand from her and
turned away. “Ever he seeks to take what is mine.” As the words left him, he realized that somewhere between their first meeting and this, he had come to think of her as his and count her a loss alongside Ashlingford. It seemed he did have something of a heart left in him.

  He looked around and saw from her wide eyes and softly parted lips that she knew it as well. He sighed. “I want you, Joslyn, but ’twould be foolish to tempt the Church’s wrath. All Ivo needs is proof, and if we provide it, he will go to the bishop regardless of your threat. My uncle will rest only when he is dead—or has rid himself of me and gained control of Ashlingford.”

  She shook her head. “I have learned much these past weeks, but still I do not understand why he hates you so.”

  Liam motioned to the bench. “Yet more to explain.”

  She seated herself to his right, keeping several feet between them.

  “I told you my father wed my mother, legitimizing my birth, but I did not tell the circumstances under which he did so. Were he to remain heir of Ashlingford, he could not wed a commoner, most notably one of Irish stock. My grandfather would not have tolerated it. Thus, my father determined he would keep my mother as his leman and wed his betrothed, Lady Anya. But my mother loved him too much to become only that to him—to share him with another. In her ninth month of pregnancy, she fled the barony, and though my father tried to deny his feelings, he relinquished his claim on Ashlingford to seek her out and wed her.”

  “Then Ivo would have become your grandfather’s heir.”

  “Aye. For a fortnight, he abandoned his vestments and held dearly to the only thing he ever wanted.”

  “But your father returned.”

  “He found my mother the day before I was born, and they wed in haste. The birthing proved difficult, and hours after I was delivered, she died in my father’s arms.” Having witnessed Montgomery Fawke’s unending sorrow, Liam was gripped with his father’s grief. “To right the wrongs done my mother, he returned to Ashlingford, determined I would one day succeed him.”

  “His father restored him as heir?”

  “Aye. Knowing Ivo was not fit to hold the title, he offered to set aside the second son, providing my father wed Lady Anya.”

  “But he could not have been pleased to learn you were your father’s heir. If he would not allow him to wed a commoner, surely he would have refused you.”

  Liam nodded. “He would have. Thus, not until after the old man’s death a year later did my father make known I would be baron after him.”

  “And Anya hated you for it.”

  Liam remembered her vicious words, pinches, and slaps. “No more than Ivo—until she gave my father a second son whom she believed had the greater right to Ashlingford, being noble both sides of him.”

  Movement in Joslyn’s lap drew Liam’s gaze, and he saw her hands held fistfuls of skirt as if to keep from reaching to him.

  “Though never will I regret Oliver,” she said, “I am sorry he is the instrument of Maynard’s deceit and that I secured his right to Ashlingford.”

  Liam moved nearer and covered her hands with his. “Still there would have been Ivo. Still the king would have found in your son’s favor. Though difficult to accept, mostly I have, Joslyn. And I ask your forgiveness for believing ill of you, that you wed Maynard only for gain.”

  She drew a strident breath, looked down.

  Liam smoothed back the dark hair falling over her brow, lifted her chin, and lowered his head.

  Sweet, he thought as her lips parted. Like the first day of spring after a cruel winter.

  Ignoring the warning they should not do this, he deepened the kiss, and she turned into him. How he longed to learn every curve and hollow of her, to make her his in truth—

  “My lord?”

  The voice found no fit where Joslyn and he were headed, and he pulled back and stood.

  Sir Hugh was near the bottom of the stairs. Though not easily addled, his discomfort at coming upon them was obvious. Flushed from his shaved pate to the collar of his tunic, he looked anywhere but at them.

  Silently cursing himself, Liam glanced at Joslyn who had also risen and whose face evidenced alarm. It was a fool thing to have kissed her, especially here where the chance of being discovered was great. Fortunately, Ivo had not discovered them.

  “Worry not,” he said to her and strode across the hall. “Sir Hugh, I trust you will be discreet about what you have seen.”

  The man raised an eyebrow. “I have seen naught, my lord. I know not what you refer to.”

  “I am mistaken, then.” Liam nodded at the ledgers the man held. “I wish totals month by month and a comparison across the last three years.”

  The steward stepped off the stairs. “I will figure it, my lord.”

  “And now I have other matters to attend to.” As Liam strode from the hall, he looked to Joslyn and saw she stood with her back to him, affecting interest in the tapestry behind the high table.

  Though he longed to further reassure her none would know what had passed between them, he lengthened the stride that delivered him outside. Away from temptation.

  Fool, fool! Joslyn silently chastised as she hastened from the hall, ascended the stairs, and entered her chamber. Oliver napped there, and Emma dozed in a chair beside the hearth, ever near as if the little boy filled an empty part of her.

  Joslyn stepped to the window and, leaning into its shallow embrasure, glimpsed Liam as he crossed the inner bailey and went from sight.

  “I am in love,” she whispered. It had to be that elusive thing she had only heard spoken of. Never had she felt this way about another—a oneness, as if Liam would always be with her, even were he absent, even if he never felt deeply for her.

  “If…” she chided. He did feel for her, of that she was certain, but he could never love her. If not for Maynard, it was possible, but as evidenced by her son, her husband was too great an obstacle. Liam was moved by her, but that was all he could ever be. And it was not enough.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Drenched. Village to village, field to field, Liam had attempted to ride away his longing for Joslyn as the sky loosed cool rain. But though his body eased, that was not the only relief he sought. He wanted her gone from his thoughts, the same as he had wanted this past month while apart from her. But as he had failed at Thornemede, he failed now.

  He tossed the reins to a waiting squire, and leaving his curses in the mud sucking at his boots, took the steps two at a time. Inside the keep, the porter handed him a towel.

  Liam wiped his face as he strode toward those seated around the hearth, all having fallen silent upon his entrance—Joslyn, Emma, Ivo, knights, men-at-arms, and servants.

  “Unca Liam!” Oliver emerged from between his mother and Emma and ran forward.

  Liam briefly caught Joslyn’s gaze before she turned back to the fire. But he saw enough to know of her distress. Had Ivo learned what had happened between them this day? Had he furthered his threats?

  Liam sought his uncle and saw the priest sat beside Emma. In the next instant, he faltered over what had not been evident upon his entrance—Ivo’s attempt to fill the lord’s high seat that had been brought down from the dais.

  Almighty! He had no right!

  “You came back!” Oliver cried.

  Telling himself it was not the time to speak against Ivo’s brazen claim, Liam focused on the little boy. A moment later, Oliver flung himself at Liam’s legs.

  “You have grown.” Liam tousled his hair.

  Oliver tipped back his head. “Lots. How come you all wet, Unca Liam?”

  “While I was out fighting that bear again, it started raining.”

  His eyes widened and he jumped back. “Did you win?”

  “I did.”

  Oliver beamed. “Wish I coulda seen it.”

  “Mayhap next time.” Liam began toweling his hair.

  “Mama said to thank you for my stick!”

  Determinedly, Liam turned his thoughts from the night h
e had entered her chamber to leave it for the boy and had seen Joslyn sleeping. “I am glad it pleases you.” He put the towel over his shoulder and continued to the hearth where he saw one of the knights was a bedraggled Sir Gregory, also recently out of the rain.

  Having received the man’s missive earlier in the week stating he was healed of the wounds acquired during the attack on their journey to Ashlingford, and announcing that during his stay at Settling Castle he had won the hand of the lord’s middle daughter, Liam had not expected the knight to return to Ashlingford so soon.

  “You are back from Settling,” he said, savoring the fire’s warmth.

  A chill shook Sir Gregory. “I arrived but an hour ere you, Lord Fawke.”

  As at Thornemede, each time Liam heard his name linked with the title he had long awaited, he felt an urge to look behind—as if he would see his father there. He lowered into the chair a servant brought him. “Unless you catch your death of cold, it appears you will live.”

  Those gathered around the fire exchanged glances—except for Ivo, who fingered his crucifix. Wondering at the grimness hovering over all, Liam started to demand an explanation, but Joslyn said, “Emma, would you take Oliver up to bed?”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  Oliver groaned. “’Tis not dark.”

  “Soon it shall be.” Joslyn held out her arms. “Now a hug, and off you go.”

  Oliver glanced at Liam.

  “Do as your mother says,” he backed the boy’s mother, though Ivo would not like it.

  Oliver gave a hefty sigh, accepted her hug, and said to Liam. “Tell me a story?”

  “Not this eve.”

  “When?”

  “The morrow’s eve, hmm?”

  “A’right.” The boy followed Emma up the stairs.

  “Now I would know why you all look as if someone has died.”

  Sir Gregory leaned forward. “It has come, my lord. The plague is in England.”

  Liam’s first thought being for Joslyn, he looked at where she sat across from him and saw fear in the eyes she fixed on the fire. Doubtless, she imagined losing all that was dear to her—Oliver.