LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance (5 page)

“I did it, Mama!” Oliver cried as his wooden top careened across the floor from which he had cleared the rushes.

“My, but you did. All by yourself.”

He grinned.

Realizing she had given him too little attention these past hours, she set the needle on the table and went to him.

As they watched, the top whirled toward the rushes, grazed the bordering pieces, corrected its course, and moved back onto the bare floor where it began to lose momentum.

“Quick, Oliver! Spin it again ere it falls.”

He cornered the wobbly toy as if it were a beast to be tamed, whipped it with his stick, and set it to spinning again—away and beneath the bed.

He groaned.

Joslyn ruffled his damp hair. “Fetch it and you may try once more ere I put you to bed.”

His scrubbed cheeks plumped like shiny apples, and he dropped to his hands and knees beside the bed.

She would have to tell him about his father. Though Oliver knew of him, he had not
known
him. Only twice had Maynard come to see his son—following his birth and when Oliver attained his first year. Thus, he knew only of his father’s existence, which was not much less than Joslyn had known of Maynard.

She sighed. If only she could grieve for her husband, shed tears for the man who had fathered her son. However, as Liam Fawke had guessed, there had been nothing to their relationship beyond Oliver. But as she once more breathed in shame, she caught the sound of light tapping.

Crossing the chamber, she called, “Who goes?”

“Father Ivo,” his whispered voice slid through the door’s seam.

He had returned from the church, meaning Liam Fawke had as well.

“May I enter?”

She glanced at her robe, then to where Oliver’s searching made him oblivious to their caller. The priest had said he would come to her this eve, but surely they could talk as well on the morrow. “I prepare for bed,” she called.

“It cannot wait, Lady Joslyn.”

“But—”

“Make haste, someone comes!”

Knowing it would not do for him to be caught outside her door, she opened it.

With a rustle of robes, he slipped in. As she closed the door, she met eyes that gleamed with an appreciation she had never seen in Father Paul’s.

“Why, you are not without comeliness, lady!”

She pulled her robe closer about her and nodded at the tub. “’Tis quite the miracle a soak and scrub can work.”

“Indeed.”

Uncomfortable with his scrutiny, she walked to where Oliver stood wearing a frown. “Will you try it again?” She nodded at the top he had retrieved.

He pointed at the priest. “Why he here?”

“Father Ivo has come to speak with me. It will not take long.”

Though she expected him to ask why, he considered the man a moment longer, then bent to his top.

She turned to Father Ivo. “The docket is in order?”

“As expected.”

“And Sir Liam? What had he to say?”

“Naught.” He lowered into a nearby chair, without invitation and ignoring propriety that should have seen her seated first.

Remaining standing, she asked, “Then?”

He steepled his hands before his face. “You know you can trust me, aye?”

All she knew was that Maynard had trusted him—but only to a point, for he had not revealed his marriage to his uncle. “I know you were loyal to my husband.”

“As I will be to you, lady.”

“How?”

“I offer you the protection of the Church. With me, Maynard’s son will be safe.”

As if Oliver were not her son as well. “Safe from your nephew?”

Father Ivo snorted. “William is no more nephew to me than I am uncle to him.”

“You are his father’s brother.”

“Maynard was my nephew.” His mouth twitched as if with great emotion. “William is misbegotten, and that is all.”

From what Maynard had told her and what she had seen this day, she should not be surprised, but she was taken aback. What had Liam Fawke done to deserve such loathing? “Is he responsible for Maynard’s death?”

“He is.”

She swayed, wished she had seated herself. Had she been foolish in reconsidering the threat Maynard’s brother presented? “But if he killed his brother, why—?”

The priest thrust upright. “I did not say he killed Maynard, but he is as responsible as if he had.”

“I do not understand.”

“Mama?” Oliver came alongside her.

Noting his rumpled brow, she forced a smile. “Are you ready for me to tuck you in?”

He shook his head. “One more time, please.”

“Just once.”

When he retreated, she said, “Tell me, Father Ivo.”

After a considering silence, he said, “As William will soon come searching for me, it will have to wait.”

Disconcerted by the possibility of Liam Fawke entering her chamber and seeing her attired in her robe, wet hair about her shoulders and feet bare, she nodded.

“I will come for you and Oliver at midnight, following the changing of the guard.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“We shall seek an audience with King Edward and, God willing, secure Oliver’s right to Ashlingford ere William reaches London to convince the king otherwise.”

Joslyn drew a deep breath upon which to speak words she sensed would be ill received. “I do not know that I wish to claim the barony for Oliver.”

The priest gave a bark of disbelief, said, “But of course you shall claim it! It belongs to Maynard’s son.”

“
My
son,” she corrected, vexed he once more disregarded her part in bringing Oliver into the world and her sole role in raising him.

For some moments, the only movement about the priest was of his fingers rubbing the crucifix hung from a chain around his neck. “Aye”—he nodded—“Maynard’s son and yours. Of course.”

Though barely appeased, Joslyn said, “I fear for Oliver.”

He stepped near. “Once the king acknowledges the rightful heir of Ashlingford, William will be unable to touch the boy lest suspicion fall upon him.”

“Still, I—”

“What has your son if you deny him his birthright?” Father Ivo’s voice rose. “A meager manor when ’tis an immense barony he should one day preside over?”

Not even Rosemoor. The manor would pass to her wayfaring brother when their father died. There would be nothing for her son.

“’Tis not your decision,” the priest said more gently. “It is Oliver’s.”

And he was too young to decide, let alone care. “But how can Ashlingford be managed without a lord? It will be years ere Oliver can assume his place.”

As if this had not occurred to him, the priest contemplated the floor, clasped his hands behind his back, and crossed the chamber. At the opposite wall he pivoted. “I will do it.”

“You?”

“If it pleases you, lady, I will manage the barony until Oliver is of an age to bear the responsibility.”

She closed her eyes. It was true. She had no right to deny her son his birthright. And Ashlingford would mean a good life for him. “We shall accompany you.”

His mouth curved. “We depart at midnight. Have you a court gown?”

“Court gown?”

He raised his eyebrows, reminding her of her earlier attire. “You must charm the king, Lady Joslyn, not shock him.”

“I have one.” Hopefully, it would suffice.

“Midnight,” he reminded and crossed to the door.

“What of Sir Liam’s men? How will we get past them?”

He closed a hand around the hilt of the sword that was out of place against his priestly vestments. “Of the Church I may be, but I am not without resources.”

Surely a holy man would not shed blood? And certainly she would not allow it done in Oliver’s name.

As if her thoughts were upon her face, he said, “By the flat, not the edge, I vow. No blood will I draw.” He inclined his head, opened the door, and departed.

By the flat? she pondered, then sighed. So long as he did not kill.

Once Oliver was abed, she sorted through the contents of her chest and set aside items for the journey. She had to search to the bottom to find her son’s woolen mantle, and there also she found that which Maynard had brought the second and last time he had visited Oliver. She lifted it out and sat back on her heels.

There was nothing striking about the belt from which a leather scabbard was slung, nor the sword hilt projecting from the scabbard’s mouth. But then, Maynard’s gift to their son had been fashioned for a boy just beginning his training in weaponry.

She slid her fingers over the worn leather and curled them around the wire-wrapped hilt that had first fit her husband’s hand. Maynard had said it was given him upon attaining seven winters, and that when Oliver was of that age, he should have it. Little more than four years away.

She withdrew several inches of the short blade and tested the edge. It was not as sharp as feared, but it would do harm.

As she rose to her knees to return it to the chest, it occurred to her it might be of use. Not that she knew how to wield a sword, but she would feel safer with it upon her person while in the company of one she knew only by way of his kinship with Maynard.

She stretched the belt between her hands. It was not long, but neither was her waist wide. It would fit. And as small and light as the scabbard and sword were, none need know she girded it beneath her mantle.

“Oh, Joslyn,” she whispered, “what would Liam Fawke think if he knew? Would even an Irishwoman dare?”

Regardless, she dared. And unless Maynard’s brother—or any other—tried to harm her son, it would be her secret.

The flat of the blade striking the man-at-arm’s brow produced a choked sound of protest, then the one who had not suspected a priest would do such crumpled.

Father Ivo held his sword horizontally, one gloved hand gripping the hilt, the other the center of the blade as he considered his victim. Then he dropped to his haunches. Having more a care for his weapon than the hapless man it had downed, he gently laid the sword aside and removed a rope and rag from inside his mantle.

From the shadows, Joslyn watched as he trussed and gagged the guard and dragged him into the bushes—efficient, as if this was not the first time he had done such a thing.

“Come,” his voice whispered upon the night air, then he set off across the moonlit green before the manor.

Passing by the unfortunate man-at-arms, Oliver asleep on her shoulder, Joslyn grimaced. Though no blood had been shed of the two the priest had overwhelmed, each would bear an unsightly swelling when he regained consciousness.

Knowing Liam Fawke’s anger would be terrible, Joslyn regretted the punishment the men would reap for having allowed Oliver and her to escape.

Quickening her steps to keep up with the priest, she held her son firmly lest she lose her footing. But her feet knew well where she trod, even in spots moonlight failed to reach. Born at Rosemoor Manor, she had taken her first steps over this same ground, played the games of youth upon it, and as she grew older, daydreamed as she strolled it.

But the daydreaming was done, she reflected as she stepped onto the road. Maynard Fawke, and now his misbegotten brother, had taken her innocence. A widow with a child, she was about to make an arduous journey to secure a future she did not want. But for Oliver she would do it. And with God’s aid—and Maynard’s small sword beneath her mantle—they would be safe.

“Hurry,” Father Ivo called.

Though they wore black mantles, the light of the half moon would reveal them to any sharp eye. Despite being weighted with Oliver and their bundled belongings, Joslyn stretched her stride to match the priest’s. Upon reaching the streets of the village that hid them from sight of the manor, Father Ivo slowed.

“Where are the horses?” she asked.

“At the gates. Your priest will have them in readiness.”

“Father Paul?” It surprised that he had been drawn into this. Though no one would question his loyalty to her father, he had always been cautious in the extreme. She could not imagine him stealing into Rosemoor’s stables to gain their horses—more, without being caught by Liam Fawke’s men.

“He does not do it alone,” Father Ivo said as if he once more knew her thoughts.

“I still cannot believe he agreed.”

“He understands the seriousness of the matter, that Oliver’s future hangs on William’s whim.”

“Aye, but—”

“As you will find when we go before the king, I am a persuasive man, Lady Joslyn.”

And as she was learning, nothing like Father Paul. In fact, Maynard’s uncle hardly seemed of the Church. But then, she had been sheltered much of her life and knew little beyond Rosemoor. Perhaps it was Father Paul who was different.

They wound through the sleeping village to the gates where the priest awaited them in the light of a single torch. Beside him stood two villagers, Bartholomew holding the reins to the priest’s horse, Carle the reins of Joslyn’s dappled palfrey.

Father Paul stepped toward Father Ivo. “All has been made ready”—his gaze glanced off Joslyn—“though still methinks ’twould be best to await the return of Lady Joslyn’s father on the morrow and allow him to deal with this.”

“It will be too late when he arrives,” Father Ivo said. “Do we not go now, William will take the child at first light.”

Father Paul sighed, turned to Joslyn. “Should you not meet up with your sire on the road to London, I will send him there.”

She nodded. “A prayer, Father?”

“There is not time,” Father Ivo said and took the reins from Bartholomew and gained the saddle as easily as any knight.

Disapproval shone from Father Paul’s face, but he said, “When you are gone, I shall speak prayers for Oliver and you.”

“I thank you.” She handed Oliver to Carle and the bundle to Bartholomew, then slid a slippered foot into the stirrup and gained her palfrey’s saddle. Once her belongings were secured behind her saddle, Carle passed Oliver to her.

“Mama?” her son murmured.

“Hush, little one. You but dream.”

“I do?”

“Um-hmm.”

He sighed and nestled against her.

Pulling the blanket and her mantle more closely around him to protect against the chill night, she looked to Father Ivo. “We are ready.”

“Open the gate,” he ordered.