LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance (30 page)

“A’right.”

“Then take yourself to the kitchen and tell Cook I said you could have a treat.”

“Uh-huh.”

Joslyn halted before Emma and noted her high color. “Emma?” Receiving no response, she shook her shoulder.

The woman opened her eyes. “I do not know what…” She swallowed hard. “I feel so warm, my lady, and all of me aches as if I were beaten.”

“Have you…swellings?”

“Nay, my lady. Just a fever. I am sure it will pass in a day or so.”

If only Joslyn was as certain. “Will you let me feel beneath your arms?”

Emma frowned. “You do not believe me?”

“I know you would not lie. ’Tis just that we must be certain.”

The woman nodded and lifted an arm.

Joslyn’s seeking fingers found nothing. “The other,” she said, and moments later touched the small mass in the armpit.

“’Tis tender,” Emma rasped, the eyes she flew to Joslyn’s begging for another explanation.

Struggling against tears, Joslyn set a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I am sorry, dear Emma. We must get you to Belle Glen.”

The woman dropped her head against the chair back. “’Tis my due. For all the lies.”

“Mama, is Emma gonna be all right?”

Joslyn swung around, and seeing Oliver had not moved from the bed, said more sharply than intended, “I asked you to go belowstairs.”

“I feel bad too. And hot.”

His thready voice etching the words across the inside of her skull, Joslyn gripped the back of Emma’s chair to keep her buckling knees from dropping her to the floor.

Not my boy,
she silently entreated.
Dear Lord, not my Oliver.

“He cannot be with fever,” Emma gasped. “’Tis just all the sweets he ate at the nooning meal.”

A sob burst from Joslyn.

“Mama?” Oliver croaked.

Though she longed to fling herself across the chamber, snatch him up, and run as far away as she could, it would terrify him—and be in vain. She bowed her head, drew deep breaths.

“Thirsty,” Oliver said.

Forcing a smile that felt so taut she thought it would snap, she stepped to the bed, lowered to the mattress, and swept a lock of golden hair off his brow. And felt the heat of him. “What would you like to drink, my love?”

He clutched his wooden toys against his chest. “Honey milk. Real cold.”

She jerked her chin. “I will get it for you, but first let me move you onto a pillow, hmm?” She slid her hands beneath his arms, and as she pulled him up the bed and onto her pillow, her seeking fingers found no masses. But as much as she wished to revel in their absence, it was too costly a hope, one that would cause her to soar so high she would be unprepared for the plummet into despair. She must check the groin. Later.

“Am I very sick, Mama?”

“Just a little, but you will be fine. Now I will fetch your honey milk.” As she moved toward the door, she looked at Emma.

Though the woman had turned her head to the side, tears streamed her face as she silently cried out a grief Joslyn knew was more for Oliver than herself.

Joslyn made it through the corridor and halfway down the stairs before turning to the wall and sliding to her knees. “Why?” she gasped, refusing to give in to the tears burning her eyes lest Oliver saw their traces and knew her fear. She must be strong.

“What have I done to deserve this, Lord?” she whispered. “What sin is so great Oliver must—”

Liam,
a voice taunted.

“Dear Lord, punish me. My life, not Oliver’s.” It was the most natural thing to pray—to add her desperate prayers to the thousands and thousands of prayers she knew were seeking God’s ears and heart this moment—but would it move Him? Would it stop the great sickness from burying Oliver as others’ prayers had failed to keep loved ones above the cold earth?

She slumped back on her heels.

“My lady? Is it your son?”

She looked to the servant who hovered a dozen steps below. “Aye, and Emma.”

Sorrow shone from the woman’s eyes. “You would have me send for men to bring them down?”

So they might be taken to Belle Glen. “First I need honey milk.”

“I will fetch it, my lady.”

“And something for Emma.”

The woman nodded. “I am sorry, my lady.” She hurried down the stairs and out of sight.

“’Tis an ugly place to die,” Emma murmured past cracked lips.

“Are you thirsty?” Though loath to leave the vigil she had kept at her son’s side since their arrival at Belle Glen on the day past, Joslyn was the only one left to tend Emma and Oliver. Father Warren and the two friars who had outlived the third were ministering to those in the other houses.

“I should be thirsty,” Emma said, “so I suppose I am.”

“I will bring you drink.” Joslyn once more wiped the wet cloth across Oliver’s flushed brow and straightened. Though he was in a fever, he finally slept. All through the night and into the morning he had tossed and turned, then kicked and flailed as the boils appeared on his body. “I shall return in a moment,” she said, though she knew he did not hear her.

She moved to the table between the two pallets and filled a cup for Emma. But the woman took only a sip of the liquid.

“You should drink more,” Joslyn urged.

“That is enough.” Emma turned her head away.

Joslyn returned the cup to the table, then picked up the small pouch containing the powders. It was time to scatter them again. She walked to the fire pit, filled her cupped palm, and cast the powders on the flames. Their light leapt higher, and a caustic odor filled the air.

“Lord, no more heat,” Emma groaned. “’Tis torture.”

Joslyn hastened to the woven shutters and opened them. The air gusting in was hardly fresh, mixed with the stench wafting from the surrounding sick houses, but more so than the air within the wattle-and-daub house. Chilled by it, she retrieved her mantle and pulled it around her shoulders. As she opened the pin of the brooch to push it through the material, she paused over Liam’s gift.

It was all she had of him. Likely all she would ever have of him. It would be unbearable to lose Oliver, and all the more so if she had not the comfort of Liam’s arms to give her something to live for.

Of course, God might not make her suffer too long for her sins, allowing her to be afflicted by that which sought to take Oliver from her.

Gripping the brooch so hard it hurt, she leaned back against the wall and tilted her face up. She was tired, not from the sleepless night spent mopping Oliver’s and Emma’s brow and whispering soothing words, but from emotions she had yet to release.

But not so tired you cannot pray,
a voice whispered.
Gain your knees, Joslyn. Bow your head. Talk to Him until you have no more words. And mayhap He will spare Oliver and Emma.

Doubt crowded in, but she dropped to the floor, lowered her chin, and prayed as she could not remember ever praying.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“There is much death here,” Ahmad said as he drew his mount alongside Liam’s.

Assailed by the stench rising from the village’s blackened remains that was worse than Liam had heretofore experienced, he nodded. “’Tis the reason I brought you.”

“If your holy men are receptive, I will instruct them,” the Arab reminded Liam that what he accomplished here would be effective only if his prescribed ministrations continued once he returned to Thornemede.

As Liam dismounted, Father Warren and a friar exited the nearest sick house.

“Lord Fawke! What do you at Belle Glen? You should not be here.”

For that, he had left his men at Ashlingford after receiving news of Oliver’s and Emma’s affliction. “Where is Lady Joslyn?”

“In the far house with her son and Emma.” The man nodded over his shoulder.

Entering the house ahead of Ahmad, Liam’s gaze fell first on Emma, where she lay on the nearest pallet with her face turned to the wall as if she slept. Oliver was on the far pallet.

Mantle askew, black hair tousled down her back, Joslyn knelt beside him and spoke softly. “Mama’s here. Hush, my darling.”

The strain in her voice made Liam ache. Certes, she believed she would lose her son, but if anyone could send the sickness out of the little boy, it was Ahmad.

Oliver whimpered, kicked beneath the sheet drawn up over him, moaned. “Hot. Hot.”

Though Liam’s shadow grew large on the wall before Joslyn, she did not look around. Either she believed it was one of the holy men who came or she was oblivious to anything beyond her son. Likely the latter.

“Hush,” she soothed, patting a wet cloth over his face. “Hush, my love.”

Oliver’s groan ended on a sigh.

“Joslyn.”

She jerked her head around. Skin so pale it appeared bloodless, eyes so sorrowful there was little amber to them, circles beneath so dark they resembled smeared ash, she looked like one whose mourning had already begun.

Though Liam longed to pull her up into his arms, he did not think she would welcome it. Not now. “I have brought someone to help Oliver and the others.”

She stared at him.

Wondering if she was reachable in whatever place she had retreated inside herself, he bent, gently gripped her shoulders, and turned her to him. “Did you hear me?”

Her gaze wavered. “What do you here?”

He nodded over his shoulder. “I have brought someone to help Oliver.”

She looked past him, but whatever her thoughts of Ahmad in his Arab dress, they did not show on her face. Sinking back onto her heels, she turned to Oliver. “Tell me he will not die.”

Liam had avoided looking close upon the boy, the memory of Michael still fresh, but now he did. His heart—the one he had not believed he possessed a year ago—hurt. Though Michael’s boils had been worse, it was still a terrible thing to behold, especially on one so young.

“Can you tell me that?” Joslyn asked.

“I cannot. All we can do is try to keep him with us.” He cupped her jaw and urged her face around.

She wrenched free, shot upright, and in a voice edged with hysteria, demanded, “What do you care? All you must do is wait, then this will be yours.” She threw her arms wide. “All of it.”

Telling himself it was grief that formed her words, he straightened. “You know that is not what I want.”

“Do I? ’Tis what you have ever wanted. Now, at last, you shall have it.”

Grief,
Liam told himself again as he fought to keep his temper down.

She dropped her head into her hands. “You have won. Maynard and Ivo can no longer thwart you. Ashlingford is yours.”

“Do you really believe that?” he growled. “That I want Oliver to die so I can claim Ashlingford?”

Joslyn looked up, and past her tears saw Liam’s beloved face and the anguish and anger her words carved into it. How she longed to let go of all she held inside, but she dare not. Later, in her great solitude, there would be time aplenty. Now she must keep herself from cracking into little pieces that would render her useless to Oliver. Oliver who yet needed her. Yet.

Liam took her arm and pulled her after him. Outside the house, he turned her to face him. “Tell me,” he said, “is that what you truly believe of me?”

Though she longed to find some corner to curl into—to drag her knees to her chest and bury her face against them and cry out all this pain—she forced her gaze to his.

“Which is it?” he demanded. “Am I beast or the man you love?”

As she stared at him, the emotion she had tried to cage since Oliver had fallen ill freed itself. But here was her sin—loving where she should not. Still, what she had accused him of was false, spoken out of fear and months of unanswered longing.

A tear fell. “Forgive me, Liam. ’Tis sorrow I speak. Terrible, terrible sorrow.”

His face eased, and when he pulled her into his arms, she sagged against him and shook as sobs jerked at her frame.

She cried for Oliver. For all the years ahead he would never see. For the laughter she would no longer hear. For the sweetness of his skin she would no longer breathe. For the little hand in hers she would no longer feel. For the hundreds of questions he would no longer ask. For this one light in her life that flickered so violently it might soon be blown out.

She clung to Liam, and when she finally opened her swollen eyes, found herself cradled against his chest where he sat with his back to a tree. Sometime during her outpouring of grief, he had carried her to this place apart from the sick houses. Away from the dying. And her son.

She sat up. “I must go to Oliver!”

He tightened his arms around her. “He is being cared for, Joslyn. The physician I brought is experienced with the plague. He will know what to do.”

“But—”

“Ahmad cast the sickness from Emrys and several others. Pray, leave him to his work.”

The Arab had saved Emrys? Hope seeped into her. Could he save Oliver as well? Finding reassurance in Liam’s eyes, she eased against him.

He stroked the hair back from her face and brushed moisture from beneath her eyes. “Your tears are a long time coming, aye?”

What seemed an eternity since discovering Emma and Oliver ill in her chamber. “Aye.”

“I would have been here sooner, but it was not possible.” He raised her clenched hand, and only when he unfolded her fingers from the brooch did she realize she held it—could not remember when or how it had come to be in her hand. He lifted it, revealing four rose impressions in her palm, carried her hand to his mouth, and pressed his lips to it. “I love you, Joslyn Fawke.”

She stared.

His mouth curved slightly. “’Tis what you have waited to hear, is it not?”

She had thought her eyes too dry to weep anymore, but the tears surged from whatever well was within her. Liam Fawke had spoken his love to her. Though it could never be openly acknowledged, it was enough. “I feared you would never say it.”

He kissed the inside of her wrist. “A year ago, I would not have believed it possible to say—or feel—such, but for months ’tis what I have wanted to do.”

“Why did you not sooner?”

He lowered her hand to her lap and leaned his head back against the tree. “I could not, and still I should not have.”

She drew back, the better to see him. “Why? You know I love you.”