LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance (6 page)

Bartholomew swung open one of two large doors and Father Ivo urged his horse forward.

Joslyn would have followed, but Father Paul stepped to her side.

“God be with you, my lady. And beware a man who makes his life in the Church’s shadow.” In answer to her frown, he added, “’Tis not only Sir Liam who covets what belongs to another.”

She would have liked to hear more, but he turned away. Touching the hilt beneath her mantle, Joslyn rode into the dark with one who did seem to know the shadows well.

Liam stood on two thresholds—the chamber Lady Joslyn shared with her son and anger that rivaled what he had felt when Maynard had revealed his deceit.

The lady and her son had departed Rosemoor, and not alone.

Among the first to awaken, Liam had noted his uncle’s absence. Since Ivo was not partial to rising before late morning, the alarm had been raised. As Liam’s knights scattered, he had ascended the stairs to confirm what he knew. During the night, Ivo and Lady Joslyn had stolen Oliver from the manor, their destination surely London, where they would seek an audience with the king.

“Almighty!” Liam shouted. What stupidity to think Ivo could be contained by men-at-arms with half the priest’s experience. What foolishness to believe Lady Joslyn would not endanger her child to gain a barony.

Something among the rushes catching his eye, he interrupted his richly deserved rebuke and crossed the chamber. From beside the bed, he retrieved a top. He’d had one when he was Oliver’s age and, as with many things, he had passed it to Maynard once he grew too old for it. He had taught his little brother to—

He jerked his head, breaking the memory into a hundred pieces. But as he started to turn toward the door, he caught a scent. Though there were impressions upon the bedclothes, Lady Joslyn had not slept there on the night past. She had sat against the pillows waiting for Ivo to come for her son and her.

Curiosity edging aside anger, he lifted the sheet toward his face. Roses, just as when he had leaned down from his destrier and smelled them upon her. But this time it was not earth mingled with flowers. It was the sweet smell of a woman—one who had deceived him.

It was time to ride.

CHAPTER FIVE

“You would know how Maynard died?”

Joslyn suppressed a gasp, looked toward the lit candles whence Father Ivo’s voice issued, and met his gaze past the flames. “I thought myself alone.”

“One is never alone in the house of the Lord, child.”

A shiver stole up her spine. Wishing he would come out from behind the candles, whose flickering light made him appear sinister, she unclasped her prayerful hands and rose from the kneeler.

“You are fearful,” he said. “I felt it the moment I entered His sanctuary.”

“Have I not cause to be?”

“More cause than you know, my lady.”

Their day-long ride to London having been with few pauses, Joslyn had not had a chance to inquire further into Maynard’s death. But now that they were settled in the manor of an acquaintance of Father Ivo’s, she hoped to finally learn of the role Liam Fawke had played.

“Tell me of Maynard.”

He moved out from behind the candles. “Sit, Lady Joslyn.”

Though she preferred to stand, she crossed the small chapel to the nearest bench.

Father Ivo followed and sat beside her. “It is true my nephew—your husband—was not without sin. He drank too much and was loose with his coin.”

As well she knew.

“But I tell you, Maynard was driven to it.”

“How?”

“William encouraged his brother’s drinking and gambling. The drink kept Maynard vulnerable, while the need for money humbled him into begging it from his own coffers. Thus, William gained power over the Baron of Ashlingford.”

Joslyn had heard the same from Maynard when he had come to Rosemoor before they had wed. Beaten down by his brother, he had been forced to turn over management of his estates. And each day that passed had seen more taken from him until all he retained was his title.

“I have never understood why Maynard did not appeal to the king to have his brother removed.”

Father Ivo scoffed. “You say that after meeting the knave?”

Liam Fawke riding hard across the green had struck fear in her, but surely the king could subdue him.

“He is a dangerous man, Lady Joslyn. Why else would Maynard have kept Oliver hidden away?”

He had said he feared for his son’s life, but all the more reason to have dealt with his illegitimate brother. “What of Maynard’s death?”

“As told, though it was not by his own hand William killed Maynard, he is responsible. Ere my nephew died, he told me William and he had argued over money the night before. Though every last coin belonged to Maynard, William withheld it.” Father Ivo shook his head. “It started Maynard drinking. With too much wine in him to think right, he called for his horse, and rather than challenge him, William allowed him to ride out into the night. Always he drove Maynard to behave rashly.”

“What happened?”

“Maynard was thrown from his horse into a ravine, and though he climbed out and returned to Ashlingford on foot, his injuries were mortal.”

Death not by Liam Fawke’s hand but through his devices. But though her fear of him was well founded, Maynard was also to blame. He had been twenty-and-six years aged, fully grown and responsible for his actions.

The priest lowered his chin, and in a voice so strained it was hardly recognizable, choked, “He died of inner bleeding. In my arms.”

He had truly cared for his nephew, had been the one person Maynard could depend on. Moved to feel for her husband as she had not while he lived—more, for this man who had loved him—she said, “I am sorry for your loss.”

He looked up, and though his eyes were moist, fire raged there. “The one who should be sorry is William. He stole more than your husband. He tore your son’s father from him.”

Husband. Father. Maynard had been neither. But this man need not know that. She rose to leave.

“Accursed whoreson! He will pay one hundredfold for what he has wrought.”

Joslyn was stunned to hear a man of God speak thus, especially in a place of worship. “Father Ivo, I know you grieve—”

“You know naught!” He stood and thrust so near she jumped back. “You did not love him, did you, Lady Joslyn?”

Quelling the desire to flee, she said, “As with many a marriage, ours was not one of love.” Though neither was it unusual that such a union was only for the getting of an heir, she did not speak it. In that direction lay the truth of how she had come to wed Maynard. And shame.

Father Ivo swung away, and she hastened to the chapel door, where she paused to look behind.

Facing the altar, hand on the sword at his side, Maynard’s uncle looked anything but a man of God. He looked a man of war—not by the flat, but by the edge.

Joslyn ceased pacing and once more consulted the mirror on the wall. Just as her reflection had startled her earlier, it did so again, casting back a likeness not at all that of the Lady of Rosemoor.

The servant Father Ivo had sent had plaited her black hair on either side of her head, pinned it over her ears, and circled her brow with a metal fillet to hold all in place. Then the plaits had been encased in mesh cylinders attached to either side of the fillet. And that had been only the beginning of the transformation.

Joslyn fingered the belt of jeweled, articulated metal plates draping her waist. Fastened over the fitted undergown, it was revealed through the outer garment’s large armholes that extended from below her shoulders to just beneath her hips.

Proper
court dress, Father Ivo had called the garments he’d had delivered to her after rejecting the ones she had produced to wear for their audience with the king. But to her, these gowns were best described as pridefully extravagant—down to snug slippers whose velvet material was shot through with gold thread and pointed toes capped with gold plate. Never had she felt so pretentious and constrained.

In that moment, she wished Maynard were here, even if full up on drink. Of course, were he, she would not be here. There would have been no cause to ride on London and don insensible clothes, nor to wait two days to be summoned before a king she preferred to know from a distance.

“Ah, Maynard,” she whispered. “Why?”

The door across the room swung inward. “Lady Joslyn Fawke, Father Ivo, His Majesty grants you an audience.”

Heart lurching, Joslyn looked from the king’s man to the priest, who rose from the padded settle he had occupied this past half hour. Though she had expected her father would return to the city in time to be the one to stand with her before the throne, she would have to be content with Father Ivo.

Robes crisp but for the creases of his sitting, he stepped forward. “Come, my lady.”

She retrieved her woolen mantle, draped it over an arm, and allowed him to lead her from the room and into a great hall, the likes of which she had only heard described. A half dozen of Rosemoor’s halls would fit into it, she marveled as she looked upon the splendor.

Hardly noticing the king’s men positioned around the edges, Joslyn absorbed it with such disbelief she felt like a child. Everywhere, rich stuffs covered walls and floor, their brilliant fabrics pleasing to the eye and tempting to the touch. Even the benches and settles were draped with lengths of costly material she could not imagine seating herself upon.

And then there was the man in the high-backed chair of state. The King of England. A frown littering his brow, a foot tapping out impatience, Edward III looked as if he would rather be anywhere but here, listening to the petty arguments of nobles.

As Joslyn and the priest crossed toward the dais, the king shifted and began jiggling a leg. Withholding acknowledgment of their approach, he stared at a place to the left of them. And yawned.

Having envisioned her sovereign as one whose nearness to God transcended such human character, Joslyn determinedly suppressed her amusement and halted alongside Father Ivo where he had come to stand before the king.

“Your Majesty,” the herald said, “Lady Joslyn Fawke and Father Ivo.”

Joslyn and the priest bowed, a much-practiced exercise Father Ivo had insisted she master.

“Arise,” Edward commanded.

Joslyn straightened and, finding the king still withheld his gaze, felt a snap of irritation. The perfect bow for naught.

The king plucked at the thick pile of his velvet tunic, glanced at Father Ivo, and settled his gaze on Joslyn. Light entered his eyes, and a smile moved his mouth as he perused her. “Lady Joslyn Fawke.”

She dipped her head. “Your Majesty.”

His smile was broader when she looked up, but he eased it and cleared his throat. “Ashlingford, is it?”

“Aye, Your Majesty,” Father Ivo said, his voice tighter than usual, and Joslyn guessed he was as displeased by the king’s appreciation of her as she was discomfited by it. For all her misgivings about the priest, his concern was reassuring.

King Edward leaned toward Joslyn. “We have reviewed your petition for acknowledgment of your son as heir to his father’s holdings, as we have also reviewed Sir Liam Fawke’s claim to the barony.”

Joslyn opened her mouth to respond, but it was Father Ivo who prompted, “What is your determination, Your Majesty?”

The king narrowed his eyes at the priest. “We have not made one.”

“But Your Majesty, none can dispute Oliver Fawke has the rightful claim to Ashlingford. He is of his father’s loins and legitimate born, whereas Sir William is a bas—”

“So some say,” the king sliced through the priest’s words.

Joslyn frowned. Might the eldest son be legitimate? If so, why had Maynard been given the barony?

The priest swallowed loudly. “My nephew, Maynard, was proved to be his father’s heir, Your Majesty.”

The king’s eyebrows jerked. “Lest you forget, we determined that, and it was not proved. It was decided.” He looked back at Joslyn. “Speak to us, my lady. Give us cause to find in your son’s favor.”
 

Pushing aside the questions clamoring to be answered, she moistened her lips. “Your Majesty, it was my departed husband’s greatest desire that our son succeed him as Baron of Ashlingford. As I heretofore understood it, Liam Fawke has no claim upon the barony.”

“Ah, but ’tis said your husband promised it to him—made him his heir.”

She startled, told herself it was a lie. Maynard had wed her specifically for the getting of an heir. And that she had given him.

Father Ivo threw his hands high. “Never have I heard such, and I would not believe it had I. ’Tis a lie sown by the grasping William.”

“Is it?” Edward lifted a parchment from his lap. “A dozen men of good standing signed this petition. Each attests to knowledge of a pledge made by Maynard Fawke to Liam Fawke six years past.”

Six years, Joslyn mulled. Two and a half years before Maynard wed her. Might he have made such a pledge? If so, he had changed his mind.

“The signers state that your nephew agreed he would leave no legitimate heir. Thus, should his death precede his brother’s, Liam Fawke would become Baron of Ashlingford.”

Father Ivo made a sound of protest. “Nonsense!”

Seeing clouds gather in the king’s eyes, Joslyn took a step forward. “Your Majesty, just as I was unaware there had been a question of my husband’s succession as Baron of Ashlingford, I am unaware of this pledge he is said to have made to his half brother. Ever Maynard intended that our son be his heir.”

The king transferred his glower from the priest to her. Blessedly, his expression lightened. “Seven years past, we received a petition similar to this, and it fell to us to determine which brother had the strongest claim. What your husband did not share with you is that their father named the eldest his heir and furthered his choice by seeing Liam Fawke trained up to become Baron of Ashlingford.”

Then it was no surprise the man believed his claim was superior to Oliver’s.

“And we would have accepted him if not that his right to Ashlingford was challenged on the grounds he was baseborn.”

“Is he not?”

The king shrugged, but not with his shoulders—his mouth. “Montgomery Fawke long claimed to have wed a common Irishwoman hours before she spent her life on birthing their son. Though none challenged him while he lived, upon his death, Father Ivo and Maynard’s mother disputed the legitimacy of the firstborn son. And made a good case of it. Montgomery Fawke was betrothed to Lady Anya at the time he claimed to have wed the Irishwoman, the required banns to announce his marriage beforehand were not read, and the priest said to have performed the ceremony could not be found to bear witness.”