LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance (17 page)

A scream burned in Ivo’s chest.

Staring after the woman who crossed the hall, he wished her dead. She was a curse unto him, darkening his days from the first, as she would continue to do until he rid himself of her. But once again she made it impossible to seek her end. Dissatisfied with what she had used to control him for years, she had gone further.

Ivo opened his palm, glared at the coins Emma had dropped into it, curled his fingers over them. “Burn in hell, she-devil!” he rasped.

But he was the one who felt the heat. Dropping his head back against the wall, he raised his eyes to the ceiling.

Had he known Emma had listened in on Maynard’s deathbed confession, he would not have accompanied William to Rosemoor. He would have first claimed what was his.

Feeling the coins grow warm in his palm, he was tempted to fling them against the wall, but though they were few compared to the whole, they were enough to keep him for a month. And quite well.

Fists trembling with fury that needed to be spent, he dropped the money into his purse and went in search of a woman to make him forget, even if only for an hour.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

They hardly knew him, but the children were drawn to where he stood before the fire pit.

“Sir Liam,” the older boy greeted him.

“How fare you, Michael?”

“Good, sire.”

Liam moved his gaze to the boy who had seen his fourth summer. “And you, Emrys?”

He tugged up chausses torn at the knee. “My leg hurts, sire. Fell down.”

“How did you do that?”

Emrys grinned. “Chasin’ Gertie.”

“Why were you chasing one much smaller than you? She is but two years old.”

“She wouldna give back my ball.”

“You did not hurt her, did you?”

He shook his head.

Liam considered the little girl who trailed the boys. She appeared to have suffered no ill. “How do you fare, Gertrude?”

She gave a quick smile, lowered her gaze to the dirt floor.

Liam looked across the single-room dwelling to where the man and woman watched. The woman was pregnant again, and from the rise of her skirts about her middle, she would likely deliver within a month.

Inwardly, he groaned. These three not included, she already had four children of her own. How would she manage eight?

He looked at those before him and saw what he did when he looked upon Oliver—his brother’s face. Here but a portion of the children Maynard had carelessly scattered. The misbegotten.

Over the past five years, Liam had brought these three to this family. Michael had been the first, delivered here after his mother died birthing her second child. Then Emrys, who lost his mother when she fell beneath a plow. Last, Gertrude. Her mother had run off with a minstrel a year ago.

Liam removed three coins from his pouch and pressed one into each of the children’s palms.

Amid gleeful shouts, he strode across the room and set the pouch in the man’s hand. “Send word if you require more.”

Joslyn turned her head on the pillow and stared at the window through which sunlight streamed. She had slept the remainder of the day and then the night through.

“Mama.”

She looked to where her son stood on the opposite side of the bed, arms crossed atop the mattress, chin resting on them. “Good morn, Oliver. Would you like to come up?”

He shook his head, ran his fingers over the coverlet’s rumpled surface. “’Tis not as big as Papa’s.”

“Is it not?”

“Nay, Papa’s is…” He straightened and threw his arms wide. “…big as this room.”

She smiled. “Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

She sat up and swung her feet to the floor. “You will have to show it to me.” She opened her arms to him. “But first a morning hug, then we shall dress and go belowstairs to break our fast.”

Oliver lowered his head so she could not see the smile about his mouth, crossed his arms over his chest, and peeked at her from beneath his lashes.

“Not even a little hug?” she pleaded.

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.