LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance (22 page)

He tossed the reins to a waiting squire, and leaving his curses in the mud sucking at his boots, took the steps two at a time. Inside the keep, the porter handed him a towel.

Liam wiped his face as he strode toward those seated around the hearth, all having fallen silent upon his entrance—Joslyn, Emma, Ivo, knights, men-at-arms, and servants.

“Unca Liam!” Oliver emerged from between his mother and Emma and ran forward.

Liam briefly caught Joslyn’s gaze before she turned back to the fire. But he saw enough to know of her distress. Had Ivo learned what had happened between them this day? Had he furthered his threats?

Liam sought his uncle and saw the priest sat beside Emma. In the next instant, he faltered over what had not been evident upon his entrance—Ivo’s attempt to fill the lord’s high seat that had been brought down from the dais.

Almighty! He had no right!

“You came back!” Oliver cried.

Telling himself it was not the time to speak against Ivo’s brazen claim, Liam focused on the little boy. A moment later, Oliver flung himself at Liam’s legs.

“You have grown.” Liam tousled his hair.

Oliver tipped back his head. “Lots. How come you all wet, Unca Liam?”

“While I was out fighting that bear again, it started raining.”

His eyes widened and he jumped back. “Did you win?”

“I did.”

Oliver beamed. “Wish I coulda seen it.”

“Mayhap next time.” Liam began toweling his hair.

“Mama said to thank you for my stick!”

Determinedly, Liam turned his thoughts from the night he had entered her chamber to leave it for the boy and had seen Joslyn sleeping. “I am glad it pleases you.” He put the towel over his shoulder and continued to the hearth where he saw one of the knights was a bedraggled Sir Gregory, also recently out of the rain.

Having received the man’s missive earlier in the week stating he was healed of the wounds acquired during the attack on their journey to Ashlingford, and announcing that during his stay at Settling Castle he had won the hand of the lord’s middle daughter, Liam had not expected the knight to return to Ashlingford so soon.

“You are back from Settling,” he said, savoring the fire’s warmth.

A chill shook Sir Gregory. “I arrived but an hour ere you, Lord Fawke.”

As at Thornemede, each time Liam heard his name linked with the title he had long awaited, he felt an urge to look behind—as if he would see his father there. He lowered into the chair a servant brought him. “Unless you catch your death of cold, it appears you will live.”

Those gathered around the fire exchanged glances—except for Ivo, who fingered his crucifix. Wondering at the grimness hovering over all, Liam started to demand an explanation, but Joslyn said, “Emma, would you take Oliver up to bed?”

“Of course, my lady.”

Oliver groaned. “’Tis not dark.”

“Soon it shall be.” Joslyn held out her arms. “Now a hug, and off you go.”

Oliver glanced at Liam.

“Do as your mother says,” he backed the boy’s mother, though Ivo would not like it.

Oliver gave a hefty sigh, accepted her hug, and said to Liam. “Tell me a story?”

“Not this eve.”

“When?”

“The morrow’s eve, hmm?”

“A’right.” The boy followed Emma up the stairs.

“Now I would know why you all look as if someone has died.”

Sir Gregory leaned forward. “It has come, my lord. The plague is in England.”

Liam’s first thought being for Joslyn, he looked at where she sat across from him and saw fear in the eyes she fixed on the fire. Doubtless, she imagined losing all that was dear to her—Oliver.

“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 take 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?”