LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance (24 page)

Trying to calm her pulse that sped from their brief contact, Joslyn busied her hands with straightening her hair veil. “The rats are getting into the grain.”

“You thought you would chase them out?”

She smoothed her skirts. “With the sacks away from the wall, they have fewer places to hide. ’Tis how I kept them from Rosemoor’s stores—that and with the aid of several cats.”

His eyes lowered to her mouth. “A good thought, but you need not do it yourself. I will send men to aid you.”

Wondering if he meant to kiss her, she hastened to add, “We will also need more cats.”

“I am sure they can be found.” He drew a thumb across her cheek and showed her the smudge she had worn. “You work too hard, Joslyn.”

Having believed Liam’s intentions quite different, she would have laughed had realization not tripped over her. “You are leaving.”

“I am.”

“But you have been here little more than a day.”

“Aye, but if word of the plague has not yet reached Thornemede, it will soon. I am needed there.”

What she wanted to say was that he was needed here too, but that was selfish. “Night nears. Can you not leave in the morn?”

“Nay. I should have departed hours ago.”

Better this way, she told herself. The more distant he was, the less likely she would further her sin.

“I will return within a fortnight. Should you need to send a message, do so through Sir Hugh’s man.”

“I shall.”

Liam took a purse from his belt and gave it to her. “Sir Hugh sleeps now. When he awakens, give him this. It will cover the month’s expenditures.”

From its weight, it held a good deal of coin. “I will give it to him.”

Liam considered her, and she grew uncomfortable amid the silence, then he said, “You are frightened.”

She gripped the purse tighter. “We have not a priest to lay to rest any who…die.”

“I have told Sir Hugh to send for Father Warren. Once he learns Ivo is gone, I am certain he will return.”

She forced a smile. “I thank you.”

He caught up her hand. “Promise me something.”

The tenderness in his eyes made her heart convulse. “Liam?”

He bent his head near. “If you allow the people of Ashlingford to know the depth of your fear, their own fear will be greater. You are their lady now, and in the months to come they will look to you when their faith wavers. As much as for Oliver, you must be strong for them. Can you promise me that?”

“For Oliver and the people of Ashlingford, I will be strong,” she agreed and could not keep from adding, “And for you.”

A smile moved his mouth. “Do you love me, Joslyn?”

That was how it sounded, but how did it look? Was it all over her face? Though tempted to admit it, to do so would make the forbidden harder to resist. However, neither could she outright deny it. “How can I?” she murmured.

Her heart squeezed hard as what seemed disappointment worked across his face. But then he said, “Indeed,” and stepped back. “Do not forget your promise.”

Liam looked back. It was something he did not do when he rode from Ashlingford—perhaps a superstition of his Irish forebears coursing through his blood—but the urge was too strong to refuse.

He picked out the keep rising above the castle walls. From her chamber did Joslyn look out across the land to where he and his men rode? Or was she yet in the cellar crying as he had feared she might do?

An ache at his center, he turned his mount toward Thornemede.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The plague entered England from the south, where most of those who had left Thornemede before Liam had claimed lordship of the demesne had gone. Now they eagerly returned to the barony in hopes of escaping the dread sickness.

But they would not evade it. Steadily, the plague worked its way northward, and when it reached Thornemede, the difficulty would be in holding people to the land when fear tempted them to flee farther north.

In the meantime, Liam kept them occupied in the fields. The land having been neglected, there was much plowing to be done to increase the yield. Then there were the villeins’ own small plots and the communal village strips to be tended. The crops would be small, providing scarce sustenance throughout the coming winter, but the people would not starve, for Liam would provide what they could not. He had made them that promise and would keep it even if it meant spending his last coin.

He laid aside his quill and read through the missive he would dispatch to Sir Hugh. Since the steward reported all progressed well at Ashlingford, Liam had decided against returning when he had said he would. He would remain at Thornemede another week until Lammas, the day that marked the beginning of harvest. This way he could assure those recently returned to the barony were settled in and knew their places. As his father had taught him, always it was better to assert authority sooner rather than later.

Liam rolled the parchment, poured melted wax onto its seam, and pressed it with his signet ring to seal the document. Then he called to Sir Hugh’s messenger who, for a half hour, had patiently awaited his response.

When the man departed the hall, Liam stood and felt ache in every limb. Though he prided himself on knowing the land as well as those who worked it, never had he toiled so hard. Nearly every daylight hour was spent in the fields supervising the work or doing it himself, leaving little time for sleep. But he could not rest now.

He stepped out of the keep into the light of a day that wished to rain but could not squeeze enough moisture from its scattered clouds.

They had been fortunate these past weeks. Whereas other parts of England continued to suffer unusually heavy rainfall, by the time the clouds converged on this region, they were mostly empty. Had there been more rain, much of the coming harvest would rot. Since Liam was counting on purchasing grain from Ashlingford to fill his stores for the coming winter, the weather was as much a concern for Thornemede as it was for the other barony.

With six hours remaining of daylight, he struck out across the bailey.

“My lord,” called Meg, the woman into whose care he had given Maynard’s children. Of a kind and generous nature, she had accepted them as if they were her own and they had taken to her, especially little Gertrude.

Liam inclined his head and crossed to the stables, where a squire held his mount in readiness.

“You would like company, my lord?” the squire asked as Liam swung into the saddle.

“I will not be needing you. The remainder of the day is yours to practice at swords and the quintain.”

“Aye, my lord.”

As Liam guided his mount toward the open portcullis, he caught the eye of his captain of the guard who conversed with one of his men-at-arms. After a hesitation, Gunter acknowledged the lord of Thornemede with a nod.

Progress. Though the man persevered in his dislike of the Irishman made his lord, every day he lost a bit of ground.

Returning his thoughts to Thornemede and all that had yet to be done to set it and its people right, Liam prayed for more time. Time the plague threatened to deny him.

“I am sorry, my lady, but ’tis only another sennight.”

Joslyn lowered the missive shared with her, nodded at Sir Hugh, and moved her gaze to Father Warren who sat beside the steward.

The priest offered a sympathetic smile, understanding better than Sir Hugh what Liam’s delay meant to her. Days past she had confessed to him her love for the Baron of Thornemede, but though she had expected condemnation as Ivo would have loosed upon her, he had been kind and assured her he would pray all would come right for her, Oliver, Liam, Ashlingford, and Thornemede.

Just as Joslyn had prayed all would come right for Rosemoor and, this noon, been
 
delivered hope by way of a missive that revealed her brother had returned home. At last, Richard and their father would set aside their differences to face together whatever effects the plague would have on the village and manor. Thus, she had spent the past hours feeling light as air, but what had also lifted her high was the belief Liam would return on the morrow.

She passed the parchment to the steward and turned away. What was she to tell Oliver? All day, until she had put him to bed this eve, he had spoken of little else save the return of his uncle and the bear tales he had waited a
hundred years
to hear. How was she to tell him he must wait another fifty years—or in her time, a sennight? And how was she to hide that she, herself, ached over Liam’s continued absence?

Feet feeling as if shod in lead, she mounted the stairs.

“My lady!” Emma stumbled to a halt upon the stairs above Joslyn, bright spots of color in her cheeks, breath quick.

“Something is amiss?”

“Naught, my lady.” She brushed imaginary lint from her skirts. “I but thought I would sneak something to eat ere bedding down.”

Odd—not only the rush the woman was in, but how anxious she seemed. Concern and curiosity mingling, Joslyn said, “If you would like, I will join you.”

“I thank you, but I can see you are tired and ought to be abed, not gabbing with the likes of me.”

Joslyn nearly persisted, but decided it would make Emma more cautious with whatever she sought to hide. “You are right”—she continued up the steps—“I am quite spent.”

“Good eve,” Emma said and descended past Joslyn to the hall.

Once the woman was out of sight, Joslyn paused and listened long before starting down again.

Sir Hugh and Father Warren looked to her when she returned to the hall. She offered a quick, reassuring smile and continued to the kitchen. Finding the great room dim and deserted, she wondered if Emma had gone to the garden, and if so, what she did outside at night.

Quieting her footsteps, she moved down the short corridor and saw the door that let out onto the garden was not completely seated, meaning Emma had left the keep. Joslyn put her ear to the crack of the door. And heard the clink of coins.

“That is all?” a male voice hissed.

“For now,” Emma hissed back.

“Witch,” the man said louder. “I ought to—”

“Do it, Ivo. Do it and I shall watch from heaven your descent into hell.”

Joslyn’s heart leapt. How had Ivo gained entrance to the castle? Had Emma let him in?

“Heaven?” Ivo scoffed. “You are no more destined there than that Irish whore’s son.”

“And you think you are? You delude yourself. ’Tis the devil who will take you, not the Lord. And I pray it will be soon.”

A slap on flesh resounded through the garden. Though Emma made no sound, Joslyn was certain she was the one struck.

“I tire of your blackmail—” Ivo’s voice cut out as the door whined wide and slammed against the inner wall.

“Do you lay another hand on her,” Joslyn called as she strode into moonlight, “I will summon the guard.”

“Lady Joslyn.” Ivo’s shadow broke from Emma’s. “I was thinking what a loss ’twould be if I did not see you ere I departed.”

She strode down the path toward him.

“Ivo is leaving!” Emma cried. “Pray, my lady, return to the keep.”

Before Joslyn could heed her warning, Ivo lunged forward, snatched hold of her, and pressed a blade to her throat. “You have failed me, my lady.” His foul breath spilled across her face. “More, you have failed your son. Do you know the price of failure? God’s price?”

She strained to free herself. “Loose me, false priest!”

He tightened his arm around her. “Too much time you spend whoring yourself on that misbegotten Irishman. Why, I could swear it was he who spoke out of your mouth.”

“Release me!” She raised her foot high and stamped on his instep.

But he kept hold of her, spilling more stench on her face and curses in her ear. And piercing her skin with the point of his blade.

She cried out. Had he cut the great vein? Would he sever her life as he had done the brigand from whom Liam had been coaxing a confession all those weeks past?

Emma came around the side of him. “Release her, Ivo, else you will see no more of your precious coin.”

“As meager as you dole it out, I cannot say that worries me.”

The woman drew a sharp breath. “Do you release her, I will give all to you.”

“How sweet your pleading.” He grunted. “Continue.”

“And the writings. Those also I will give you.”

“You told they were elsewhere.” He
tut-tutted
. “Now what am I to believe?”

Confusion eclipsing fear, Joslyn waded through the puzzle spoken around her. Did they refer to the coin Maynard had stolen from Ashlingford? If so, how had it come into Emma’s hands? And what writings did she speak of? Joslyn was certain the woman did not know how to put quill to parchment.

“Fetch them,” Ivo said. “The coin
and
the writings.”

“You will release Lady Joslyn unharmed?”

“Ever you seek assurances, fool woman.”

“Ever one must with the likes of you.”

He chuckled. “I give you my word.”

She hastened toward the keep.

“Your word!” Joslyn scoffed. “You will slit both our throats once you have what you seek.”

“As told, the woman is a fool,” he rasped, then called across the garden, “Hurry, Emma. I grow impatient.”

“Do not!” Joslyn cried. “He will—”

Light from the doorway swept across the garden. “Who goes?” Sir Hugh demanded.

As Ivo wrenched Joslyn in front of him, making her into a shield, Emma stumbled to a halt before the steward and Father Warren.

Sir Hugh raised his torch high, shouted, “Ivo!”

“Let the witch pass,” the false priest demanded. “When she delivers what is mine, I will be on my way.”

“Pray, Sir Hugh,” Emma pleaded, “do you not allow me to retrieve what he wants, he will kill Lady Joslyn.”

He would try, Joslyn thought, but he was not likely to succeed, having lowered the blade near her shoulder when he had turned her to face the keep.

Father Warren stepped into the garden. “Garbed in the raiments of the Holy Church, you dare threaten to let blood?”

“So the milk-livered priest is returned to Ashlingford,” Ivo sneered.

“Unhand Lady Joslyn!”

“And if I do not?”

“You shall answer to the bishop.”