LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance

by Tamara Leigh

  “Did you not hear me, Lord Fawke? The plague has come.”

  He looked to the knight. Liam had known the disease would reach them but had prayed for more time. “I heard you. What know you of it?”

  The knight sank back in his chair. “There is not much to tell. Not yet. Two days past, word reached Settling it came in through Melcombe Regis at Dorset on a ship bearing a man stricken with it. Within days, a local died.”

  “Only one.”

  “Nay. Several others followed, and still more.”

  “How many?”

  “At least a score.”

  As told by the silence, everyone in the hall was aware of what this meant. Of those the plague struck, few survived. And those it passed were left with the loss of loved ones. It was mercilessly unbiased, not caring whether one was noble or peasant, male or female, adult or child.

  Thus, preparations must be made—a physician found for Thornemede, more clerics to ease the dying, designated areas of quarantine, increased food supplies.

  “’Tis God’s wrath come upon us,” Ivo declared. “Retribution for our sins.”

  A dozen pairs of eyes swung to the priest, imploring guidance from a man incapable of guiding himself. Liam nearly laughed. Strange how fear so easily led astray those who were usually shrewd. They might as well appeal to the devil for salvation.

  Ivo looked around. His dour face lit, and something that looked as if it wished to be a smile pulled at his mouth. Unaccustomed to so much attention, he basked in his new role. “Sinners have brought this on themselves.” His gaze lingered on Liam and Joslyn before moving to the others. “They anger God with lies and deceptions, greed and lust. Wickedness!”

  Though it was the same view the Church embraced, that the plague was poured out by God’s hand, Liam knew Ivo spoke more to him and Joslyn than the others.

  “God will smite them all with the festering ill.” Ivo looked heavenward. “Like leaves in autumn, sinners will fall dead until His earth is cleansed of every last one—man, woman, and child.”

  The murmur of men went around the hearth, followed by the weeping of women servants—most loudly, those with children.

  Though Joslyn would not look at Liam, he saw tears in her eyes. “Is it not your duty to counsel hope, priest?” he demanded.

  Ivo draped his wrists over the chair arms and leaned back. “You would not have me lie, would you, William? ’Tis true what I speak. The dead will pile so deep there will not be enough ground in which to bury them.”

  Liam was not sure what angered him more, the fear with which Ivo sought to infect all or his air of superiority as he reclined in the lord’s high seat.

  “Are you a sinner?” Ivo demanded of a serving maid.

  The woman nodded.

  “Have you children?”

  “Two, Father.”

  Ivo slammed his palms on the chair arms. “Repent and mayhap God will spare your pitiful existence. And your children.”

  The woman fell to her knees beside him, and as she mumbled incoherently, the priest looked around the others and settled on Joslyn. He stared at her, and she stared back, though the weight of his gaze and the accusation there must have made her long to look away.

  “Are you a sinner, Joslyn Fawke?”

  The muscles in Liam’s fists strained. Ivo knew his bounds, and he had just come up against them. Certainly he would not cross them.

  Her eyes widened, but she did not answer.

  “Aye, you lust for the forbidden.” Ivo pointed at Liam. “The ill-gotten one, your husband’s own brother.”

  Liam hurtled forward, and Ivo screeched and lurched back in the chair.

  Grasping Ivo by the neck of his robes, Liam dragged him up out of the high seat and flung him to the floor.

  Ivo must have feared his life was forfeit, for he played the priest no longer. Leaving his holiness among the rushes, he scrambled onto all fours, leapt to his feet, and pulled a long dagger from beneath his robes. “Come, swine!” He slashed the air.

  Eschewing his own dagger, Liam stepped forward, ducked Ivo’s thrust, and countered with a blow meant for his uncle’s middle. Quick on his feet, Ivo sidestepped. Quicker, Liam swung to the right and delivered an elbow to his uncle’s gut.

  The priest sucked a breath and stumbled back. “Send you to hell!”

  Liam moved in, and Ivo swept the blade again. Liam evaded it, but on the third swing had only enough time to turn his shoulder to it to keep it from his heart. Its point skittered down his arm, opening up his tunic and scoring the flesh beneath.

  A minor wound, but Liam’s anger surged as Ivo raised his dagger to display the blood—and left himself open.

  Liam knocked the weapon from his uncle’s hand, then he was upon him, and they went down among the rushes. Pinning Ivo with his greater weight, Liam closed his fingers around the priest’s neck.

  Ivo strained beneath his nephew and pried at the vise around his throat.

  “Liam!”

  He barely heard Joslyn, the blood pounded so loud in his ears. But she dropped to her knees and gripped his arm. “Do not do this!”

  He shifted his gaze from his uncle’s hideously gaping mouth to her trembling lips.

  “’Twill be the end of you,” she whispered.

  He did not care. What better end to his own life than to free himself—and her—of this devil?

  “Pray, do not.” Her tears began to fall.

  Fearing he would regret allowing Ivo to live, but knowing his regret would be greater if Joslyn witnessed the man’s death, Liam looked back at his uncle whose mouth opened and closed in search of breath. Liam grunted, loosened his hands.

  It was some moments before Ivo drew his first wheezing breath, and as he did so, Liam’s gaze was drawn to the gold, jewel-encrusted crucifix. He seized its chain and wrenched it from his uncle’s neck.

  “Mine!” Ivo cried as his prized possession dangled before him.

  “No longer, Uncle. You are unworthy.” Liam stood, reached to Joslyn, and pulled her up beside him.

  Ivo struggled to sitting. “You!”

  “False priest,” Liam said between his teeth, “as I will no longer tolerate your unholiness, you shall leave Ashlingford this eve.” He turned Joslyn back toward the hearth.

  “I will see you…excommunicated! You have set hand to a holy man once too often.”

  Liam looked back. “Who will bear witness?”

  Ivo gestured at those who watched from the hearth. “Every one of them.”

  Liam considered the castle folk. Were they yet loyal to him? Or perhaps the question was whether or not they would risk furthering the wrath of God, who they believed to be already angry with them. Would they stand loyal to one who was not and would never be their lord?

  They knew what Liam’s eyes asked of them, and though slow to respond, they began dispersing. It seemed they stood with him. Liam prayed it was so—rather, he should pray. Of late, he was far from God.

  “Sir Hugh!” Ivo called.

  Liam looked to the steward who stared at the priest.

  Ivo having made it to his feet, he started toward Sir Hugh. “I require but one witness.”

  “What have you seen this eve, Sir Hugh?” Liam asked.

  The steward shook his head. “Sadly, only a man I thought to be a priest attack a baron of King Edward and cut him. Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I would not believe it.”

  Liam felt Joslyn’s tension ease. The steward enjoyed himself, having suffered Ivo’s scrutiny these past weeks. True, this would be the extent of his indulgence, for Ivo’s money had earned him friends in the Church willing to overlook his transgressions, but it made Sir Hugh smile.

  “Hell bound!” Ivo cursed. “All of you!”

  Liam pushed Joslyn toward the stairs. “Go to Oliver.” As she moved away, he looked back at his uncle.

  Hair strewn across his brow, eyes like pits of tar, his upper lip curled beneath flared nostrils.

  “I give you five minutes to ta
ke what is yours—and only yours,” Liam said. “If you are not then gone, I will toss you out myself.”

  “I will see you dead for this!”

  “I do not doubt you will try.” Liam called for two knights to escort his uncle to retrieve his belongings.

  “’Tis raining!” the priest cried.

  “This is England, Uncle.”

  “But ’tis night. You would not send a man out in such weather with darkness upon him.”

  “I would. Do you wish to take your belongings with you or will you leave them?”

  Ivo spat something foul, then located his dagger among the rushes, wiped its blade on his robes, and fingered the stain of his nephew’s blood. “There will come another time, and it will be the last.”

  “Do not turn your backs on him,” Liam instructed the knights. “I would have no more blood shed this eve.”

  They motioned for Ivo to precede them up the stairs, but the priest held out a hand. “My crucifix, William.”

  Liam glanced at where it swung from his fist. “I shall have it delivered to the bishop along with a missive explaining how you came to be relieved of it. You now have four minutes.”

  Color deepening, Ivo stepped past and ascended the stairs.

  Liam crossed to the serving maid who had earlier fallen to her knees and offered his hand. When she timidly accepted it, he said, “Do not despair.”

  Though she looked as if she might wail, she nodded.

  Liam called to the steward.

  “My lord?”

  “What think you of a ride?”

  Hugh arched an eyebrow.

  “If Ivo has not already retrieved the coin, he will collect it ere he departs Ashlingford.”

  “Though I am not fond of the wet, I do fancy fresh air.” The man smiled. “What would you have me do if he leads me to the coin?”

  Certain that in Ivo’s state of mind, he would attempt to murder any who confronted him, Liam said, “If he collects it, follow him to his destination, then return to Ashlingford. I will go for it myself.”

  “Aye, my lord.” The man departed.

  Joslyn was kneeling beside Oliver’s pallet, Emma over her shoulder, when the door opened. But she did not fear, certain it was Liam.

  Emma was the first to acknowledge him. “Ivo is gone?”

  “Soon.”

  “’Tis good, but he will return.”

  “I know it. Now I would speak with Lady Joslyn alone.”

  “You think it wise?”

  Wise? Joslyn wondered. What worse could be said of her than what Ivo had flung before the castle folk?

  “Do not fret, Emma,” she said. “It matters little what is thought of me.”

  The woman leaned down and tucked the blanket more deeply around Oliver, then left.

  There was comfort in Liam’s presence, and more so when he drew close. It nearly warmed away the chill that news of the plague had caused to grip her. Drawing a shaky breath, she said, “Will Oliver pay for my sins, Liam?”

  His hand closed over her shoulder. “It is not by God’s hand the plague comes. ’Tis a sickness, that is all.”

  “Then even had I not sinned, my son might still be stricken?” She shook her head. “’Tis of no comfort. I might as well be the sinner I am.”

  He slid his hand down her arm and urged her to stand. “How have you sinned? You have not lain with me as Ivo believes.”

  She longed to go into his arms and put her head on his shoulder, to accept the comfort he offered and, for just a few moments, forget what lay ahead.

  “How, Joslyn?”

  “By wanting you. And if that alone does not condemn me in the eyes of the Church, then by allowing you to touch me.” She squeezed her eyes closed. “Through Maynard you are my brother.”

  He drew her nearer. “There is no blood between us. Aye, you were wed to one with whom I shared a father, but it does not make you of my flesh, nor I of yours.”

  She peered into eyes lit by candlelight—green and deep as they searched hers—and again she longed to lean into his strength and feel his arms around her.

  “As you know, Liam, the laws on consanguinity dictate otherwise. We should not even be in this chamber together.”

  He laid a hand on her cheek. “Such laws were intended for those of close blood ties, such as King Edward and his queen, who are cousins. The irony of it is that though they are truly related—and closely—they were allowed to wed with the pope’s blessing. All it took was enough gold to buy away a law that is now more a means of lining coffers, especially with regard to those related only by marriage. Thus, in God’s eyes, we have done no wrong.”

  Fleetingly, she wondered if it would be possible to buy a dispensation to free her to wed Liam as it had freed King Edward and Philippa. But no good would come of such pondering. “In my fear I am made foolish.” She looked to Oliver. “He is all I have. I cannot lose him.”

  Liam pulled her chin around. “We will keep him safe. I give you my word.”

  A sorrowful smile moved her mouth. “You cannot make such promises. No one knows whom the plague will choose to put in the grave. It might even choose you and me. It could take all of us.”

  With his thumb he traced the bow of her upper lip. “You are right. Still, I shall do all in my power to ensure the sickness does not touch Oliver and you.” He angled his head and kissed her lightly. “Were it possible, I would make you mine,” he murmured and turned away.

  Joslyn longed to call him back, but she let him go and whispered into the quiet, “I love you.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “He had to know I followed him, my lord.”

  “He made no stops?”

  Sir Hugh shook his head. “Ivo rode directly to the abbey.”

  And even now was likely in audience with the bishop. What would be the result of that meeting? Would the bishop side with the false priest?

  “Return to the keep, Hugh. ’Twas a long night and day.”

  The man made no pretext of declining. Dark smudges beneath his eyes witness to twenty or more hours in the saddle, soaked through by rain that continued to fall, he tramped over dank straw to the stable doors. His departure blew in fresh, moist air that momentarily lightened the smell of horses, then the door whined closed.

  Liam opened the shuttered window and looked out onto the bailey. It was empty of beast and man, all having sought shelter on this second day of rain.

  As news of the coming plague had spread rapidly among the castle folk, then to the outlying villages, Liam guessed many men and women were spending these hours on their knees.

  If the great sickness swept England as it had the Mediterranean lands, and most recently France, they had cause to pray. Far more than the threat of a harvest spoiled by the rot of too much rain, the plague would prove how very mortal man was. But as Liam knew from news of its progress through other countries, once it took hold of this island kingdom, many would become so fatally resigned to death they would use what they believed to be their last days to indulge in debauchery and excess. Others would flee to far-flung areas of England in hopes of escaping it all together. In both cases, the result would be crops that wasted in the fields and cattle left untended.

  Liam could not allow that to happen here. The plague would pass, but not the devastation left in its wake if the villagers stopped living in order to die. Whatever it took, he would keep them working so that when the worst was past they would have something to live for.

  First, areas of quarantine must be established. Many scoffed at the idea, naming it a useless measure, certain nothing would hold back the disease. Others said separation of the sick from the well controlled its spread. But if quarantine failed to prevent sickness, it had another use. Moving plague-stricken victims elsewhere helped keep those who were not afflicted from being paralyzed by brooding over those who were dying. This aided in suppressing panic and holding people to the land.

  Liam wiped a hand across his face wet by the rain slanting through the
window. Though he was confident he could lessen the plague’s impact on Ashlingford, what of Thornemede? In the past month, he had made progress with the folk, especially the villagers with whom he had worked side by side in the fields, but he was not truly accepted as their lord. If the plague struck before he gained their loyalty and trust, all he had achieved might be undone. Worse, his absences while tending to Ashlingford could prove fertile ground for dissension and division, causing irreparable damage to Thornemede.

  He kneaded the back of his neck. If he had refused the king’s offer of the barony and returned to the tournaments, none of this would have fallen to him. He would have started living for Liam Fawke and set a far different course for the years ahead. Years without Joslyn…

  He cursed beneath his breath. Had all gone differently, he would not suffer feelings he had tried to convince himself were desire only—feelings that went deeper and wider than they had with other women. But how deep? How wide?

  Of such depth his days and nights were strewn with memories and imaginings of Joslyn over which he was ever losing his footing.

  Of such width she might always be the standard by which he measured others of her sex—and found them lacking in kindness, compassion, sincerity, wit, and fierce determination.

  Was it possible he had fallen in love with a woman forbidden him?

  “Lord, help me,” he muttered and thrust the shutters closed. He strode from the stables and, at the keep, was once again given a towel. Leaving it draped over his shoulders, he crossed the hall.

  “We depart on the half hour,” he called to the Thornemede knights who warmed themselves with spiced wine before a roaring fire. As he continued to the stairs, he heard his men grumble. Doubtless, none wished to ride on a day of rain fast drawing to its close.

  Liam ascended to his chamber. It was a small room and not well lit, but it was where he had laid his head since childhood—and where he kept Ashlingford’s revenues safe.

  After changing into dry garments, he pulled the bed away from the wall and lowered to his haunches. He loosened blocks of stones, reached into the wall, and dragged out a coin-heavy coffer.