LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance (27 page)

“Come onto my horse.” He thrust a hand at her. “Now.”

Feigning compliance, she turned her body toward him, lifted an arm as if to take his hand, and thrust the pin into his destrier’s backside.

The animal’s response was violent, giving her barely enough space to dig her heels into her palfrey’s sides. Fortunately, the smaller horse responded quickly, carrying her away from the rearing beast and Ivo’s dagger.

A shout brought her head around, and she met the false priest’s wide-eyed gaze where he clutched at the destrier’s neck in an attempt to remain astride. She had bettered him again, and he found it incomprehensible.

Then he was falling, screeching and flailing, going silent and still the moment he hit the ground. Perhaps he would have risen again had the destrier veered left rather than right when it came back to earth. But without regard to where its hooves landed, be it earth or flesh and bone, it galloped opposite Ashlingford’s men and stomped into the ground the one who had commanded him.

As Joslyn’s escort drew around Ivo, she turned her palfrey back.

“You are unharmed, my lady?” Sir Gregory asked as she neared.

She nodded and looked to Ivo who lay sprawled at a peculiar angle.

He yet lived, but it was out of dying eyes he gazed up at the world, something vital having broken or burst in his body.

Moving his gaze to Joslyn, he managed a twisted smile. “Look what you have wrought, lady.”

She had. Though she had but defended her life, it sickened her. “You gave me no choice.”

“But death, Joslyn? Am I deserving of this?”

She drew a deep breath. “I will not say you are deserving, but there is good in it. Never again will you do another harm.”

He closed his eyes a moment. “Do one thing for me,” he rasped. “When Oliver is old enough to understand, tell him I cared for him. That what I did was to secure his future. Will you, Joslyn?”

Strangely, Ivo had seemed to genuinely care for her son, but she did not believe he had done all manner of evil for any other than himself. “I will not put that burden on my son’s shoulders.”

His nostrils flared. “It should be you here, not me.”

And might have been.

Head alarmingly light on her neck, Joslyn was grateful for the horse beneath her. Had she been standing, her knees might have given way.

One of the knights dismounted, drew his dagger, and stepped to where Ivo lay. “’Tis merciful to speedily deliver a dying man from his…” He frowned. “What did you call it, Father Ivo?”

Knowing what the knight intended, Joslyn turned her mount aside.

“Tortured end?” the knight mocked. “Is that it, Father?”

Ivo longed to spit on the man he stared up at through narrowed lids. As evidenced by the knight’s taunting, he had been present when Ivo had spoken those words after taking the life of the brigand who had nearly exposed his scheme to William. Ironic. Still, it was nothing compared to the irony that he shared this end with Maynard. But he supposed it was as it should be. Father and son.

He saw the blade’s descent, strangely did not feel its slice. Then he was falling through beautifully warm darkness—praying it would not turn fiery.

“My lord, make haste!”

Liam swung toward the man-at-arms who appeared on the threshold of Ashlingford’s hall, then strode back and stepped outside into the day he had ridden out of minutes earlier.

Amidst a cold wind that threatened an early winter, he considered the portion of outer bailey visible through the inner wall’s open portal.

Five rode there, among them Joslyn, head bent against the wind, hand clasping her mantle at the throat. As Liam descended the steps, he saw a sixth rider, a robed figure draped over the back of Ivo’s destrier.

The false priest had returned to Ashlingford, and from the flaccid lie of his body, he was dead. Had he set upon Joslyn, earning death at the hands of the knights? Was she hurt?

The last question resounding through him, he quickened his stride, and not until she guided her horse into the inner bailey did she lift her head. Though relieved she appeared well, he did not like the distant look in her eyes.

“Lord Fawke,” Sir Gregory called.

Liam faltered. He longed to go to Joslyn, but under the circumstances, it would set more tongues wagging. Better for both their sakes he first acknowledge the dead that was of his blood. He changed course and halted before the horse that had been Ivo’s prized and abused possession.

The animal rolled its eyes and sidestepped as if in preparation for a violent retreat.

Liam took hold of its bridle. “’Tis over, boy.” He set a hand on the animal’s jaw. After a lifetime of ill-treatment, Ivo would never again plague either of them.

When the horse settled sufficiently, Liam moved to the body hung over the saddle. Noting blood matted the dark hair covering his uncle’s face, Liam loosened the rope binding the body to the saddle and lifted Ivo onto his shoulder.

“Sir Gregory,” he said as he strode past the knight, “see the horse is penned and well tended, then come to the keep.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“And the rest of you as well.” Liam lowered his uncle before the keep’s steps.

Ivo’s face was gray, its color having flowed out through the slit in his neck to turn the front of his robes crimson. What circumstances had led to him leaving himself open to another’s blade?

Liam looked up the steps and saw Father Warren, Sir Hugh, and Emma had come outside.

“Father Warren!” Liam called.

Lifting the skirts of his robes, the man hurriedly descended. “I am sorry, my son.”

Were he truly sorry for Ivo’s passing, he would be among the few. “I would see my uncle given a proper burial, Father.”

“Where would you have him buried, my lord?”

“As a Fawke. Lay him beside Maynard.”

The priest leaned close. “Maynard’s mother is already on one side of him. What of…” He glanced at where Joslyn remained mounted.

Liam could not imagine her claiming the other side of Maynard. She did not belong anywhere near him. “Lay Ivo alongside his nephew.”

The priest inclined his head.

 
When Liam turned, he saw Joslyn had dismounted. Continuing to grip her mantle at her throat, she walked toward the keep’s steps with bowed head.

He intercepted her, touched her shoulder, and felt her quake. “What has happened, Joslyn?”

Her lashes fluttered. “I killed him.”

Unprepared for her words, he said gruffly, “Come, we will warm you before the fire.”

By the time they reached the landing, Liam supported much of her weight, but she pulled away when he turned her to lift her into his arms.

“I could not stand that,” she said and, with a weave in her step, entered the hall ahead of him.

He started to follow, but Emma caught his arm. “It ends,” she breathed. “At last, justice is done.”

So it was. Still curious as to what secret her writings held, he told himself it did not matter now that Ivo would not have to answer to them.

Striding into the hall, he saw Joslyn had taken a chair before the hearth, and before her stood Oliver.

“You may,” his mother said, “but only one.”

“One tart,” he said and hurried toward the kitchen without noticing Liam.

Liam bent down beside Joslyn. “Tell me.”

She shifted her gaze from the flame to him, and he was relieved some of the here and now had returned to her eyes. Oliver had done that. “Ivo caught me out in the open. As I could not outrun him, I thought to surprise him by going to him.”

Liam frowned. “Where was your escort?”

“’Tis my fault. Wishing time alone, I rode ahead of them.”

“They allowed it?”

“There seemed no harm in it.”

The Irish in him rose. “But there was. Ivo could have killed you!”

“Instead, I killed him.” She looked back at the fire.

He drew a deep breath. “How?”

“My brooch’s pin. He did not expect it.”

The reason she held her mantle closed. “You turned it on him?”

“His destrier.”

Liam could imagine the animal’s reaction.

“It threw him and trampled him,” she whispered.

Then he had died the same as Maynard. Or nearly so. “His throat was cut,” Liam said.

She nodded vigorously, more from chill, he suspected, than the need to strongly confirm it. “One of the knights… He said it was merciful to quickly deliver a man…”

“…from his tortured end,” Liam finished, certain the one who had put his uncle out of his misery had been present when Ivo spoke those words after slaying the brigand who would have revealed him.

“Liam”—Joslyn gripped his arm—“I did not mean for Ivo to die. I only wished to escape. I vow it!”

If not for the arrival of three of the four knights, he would have gathered her into his arms. “You are not to blame, Joslyn. Ivo did this to himself.”

“But…” She shook her head.

“You need rest.” He motioned Emma forward.

Joslyn stood, accepted the woman’s arm, and crossed to the stairs where she peered over her shoulder. “You are not staying long, are you?”

He could not. “I will be here when you awaken.”

She looked away.

When she was gone, he strode to the knights where they stood erect in anticipation of an anger due them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Before Joslyn opened her eyes, she knew it was not Emma or Oliver in the chamber with her. It was Liam, here where she longed for him to be.

Peering around the dimly lit room, she saw he sat in a chair beside the bed. “Why are you here, Liam?”

He leaned forward. “Emma did not wish for you to awaken alone.”

“Where is she? And Oliver?”

“Asleep in my chamber. She thought it best your rest not be disturbed.”

As her son would certainly have disturbed it. How long had Liam sat with her? Hours? Knowing he had watched her sleep, her heart stirred. What had he felt? What did he feel?

He stood. “I will leave you now.”

She searched for something to delay him, but there was only the truth. “I do not wish you to go.” She pushed aside the covers and lowered her feet to the floor.

“I should not have stayed as long as I have.”

She stepped before him. “Do you still want me, Liam?”

He did not answer.

“I know I was your brother’s first, but there is naught I can do—”

He pulled her against him. “Never were you Maynard’s. I was cruel to speak to you as I did.”

“Then you feel for me what I feel for you?”

He momentarily closed his eyes, then set her back from him.

She gripped his arm. “I do not understand why you hold yourself from me, especially now that Ivo cannot harm us.”

“He is gone, but the plague is not. There is much to do and not enough time.”

She stepped nearer. “It takes little time to speak words that would give me hope.”

“Which could prove a cruel hope. Nay, better words not spoken whilst all is uncertain.”

“But—”

“Joslyn, I know what it is like to have something promised you—something you want more than anything else—stolen away.”

Ashlingford. Stolen by Maynard by way of Oliver.

He laid a hand on her cheek. “Trust me in this. What you want is far easier lost when it does not belong to you.”

Would it truly hurt more to have his love and ever be forbidden it? Worse, to possess it and lose it to the plague?

Ignoring the wrong of what she did, she stepped close and slid her arms around his neck. “This day…this night,” she whispered. “Pray, pass what remains of it with me.” She rose and pressed her mouth to his.

He tensed, and she feared he would pull back, but he groaned and deepened the kiss. Then he moved to her ear. “At Rosemoor, your bed smelled of roses—of you. When I lie awake at night, I remember.”

A needful sound spilling from her, she turned her face to his and tempted him back to her lips.

His hands moved up her hips and waist, over her back, and into her hair.

“Love me, Liam,” she whispered.

His mouth broke from hers, hands fell away, and he stepped back.

“Why?” she cried.

Shoulders rising and falling with breath, he said, “Though once I thought to make of you what my father first made of my mother, I will not.” His eyes returned to hers. “You mean more to me than that.”

Those last words so suddenly awakened her, it was as if he had slapped her. But not a painful slap—one that tempted her hand to her heart. Even if it was not love he professed, here was further proof it was something much truer than desire.

“If still you wish it,” he said, “I will pass the night with you, but not as we both want and would regret.”

“How?”

“I would talk—of you and Maynard. Of your marriage.”

This
slap was painful, and she began to shrink into herself. He had to know she had not been loved. But what would he think if she revealed how much she had not loved in return? It would make him question the reason she had wed Maynard. And the answer…

“He did not abuse you, did he?” Liam asked sharply.

“Nay! ’Tis just that I…” She stared into his face that was still handsome though his scarred jaw would forever mark the day Ivo had sought his death. “I fear what you will think of me.”

“What I think of you, Joslyn, is that you shall ever be mine, regardless that you were first Maynard’s wife. And I do not believe there is anything you can tell that will change that.”

She prayed not. Prayed her heart would accept it was enough to love him from across a barony…across a hall…across a table…

“Then I will tell you.”

Once they were settled in chairs before the hearth, a blanket wrapped around her, she began. “You were right in believing I was naught more to your brother than a vessel for the child who would take Ashlingford from you. I knew it ere we wed, so it did not hurt—at least, not as it would have had I loved him.”

“Why did your father agree to such a marriage? Surely he could have found someone who could offer you more?”

“Unfortunately, he is nearly as obsessed with games of chance as was Maynard. After the two met in London over a game of dice, Maynard journeyed to Rosemoor to join my father and others in gambling days and nights away. I played the lady for my father, and it seemed I could go nowhere without your brother’s eyes following me. ’Tis a wonder he kept enough of his mind on the game to win. The following day, my father revealed that upon learning I was without betrothal, Maynard offered for me.”