LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance (7 page)

“Thus, Your Majesty awarded the barony to my husband,” Joslyn murmured.

“We did. As Montgomery Fawke wed Lady Anya months after Sir Liam’s birth, and Maynard was born in wedlock and was noble both sides of him, it seemed the right decision.”

Was that regret in King Edward’s voice? “You do not believe it now, Your Majesty?”

The king’s brow furrowed. “Maynard failed us. In under a year, Ashlingford’s revenues dropped to half, much quarreling arose between the vassals and villagers, and word was that its lord fast emptied his coffers with gambling and cavorting.”

The weight that had begun to settle on Joslyn’s shoulders made itself more comfortably uncomfortable as if to stay a long while. Maynard’s gambling was no lie, and after they had wed, she had heard of his appetite for women.

“When we made known our great displeasure,” the king continued, “your husband convinced his brother to return to Ashlingford and manage the estates.”

Then he had not been forced to turn over management of the demesne as she had been told. All she thought she knew of her husband and his relationship with his brother crumbling, she clenched her hands in her skirts.

“Now the question is, Lady Joslyn, what would entice Sir Liam to aid the brother he believed stole his birthright?”

The answer came readily, and yet she could not believe Maynard would have agreed to such terms. Unless—

“We know you have hit on an answer, Lady Joslyn, so humor us by speaking it.”

Feeling Father Ivo’s gaze like a chill wind across her cheek, she said, “Your Majesty is thinking that in exchange for Liam Fawke’s aid, Maynard did promise him the barony.”

The king chuckled. “Certes, that is what you are thinking. And you may be right, since ’tis what the Ashlingford knights attest to, though not until two days past had we heard of it.”

So what to believe? That Liam Fawke gathered false witnesses to gain Ashlingford? Or her husband had made a promise he had not meant to keep?

“Even were this true,” Father Ivo said, “as William is illegitimate, he can have no legal claim upon Ashlingford, especially now there is Oliver.”

“Perhaps.”

The priest gasped. “Surely you do not seriously consider awarding the barony to William!”

King Edward landed his hands hard on the chair arms and sat forward. “Surely we do,
priest!
”

Though Father Ivo must have longed to send up a cry of greater protest, he pressed his lips tight and closed a hand over his crucifix.

Joslyn was tempted to walk away, to surrender all to Liam Fawke and return with Oliver to the security and comfort of Rosemoor, but Father Ivo’s words returned to her—it was not her decision to make. And though it seemed quite possible Maynard had tricked his brother, she could not be certain of it.

“What of my son, Your Majesty?” she ventured. “He is the legitimate issue of Baron Maynard Fawke.”

The king drew a long breath, sat back. “You were married by special license?”

“We were.”

“Why do you think your husband did not wish it publicly known he had wed you?”

“He said he feared for the life of any child born of our union—that his brother might seek his heir’s death to gain the barony for himself.”

“Hmm. We find that difficult to believe.”

Should she tell him how Liam Fawke had ridden on Rosemoor? That he had threatened to steal Oliver away? She drew her thoughts up short. He had frightened her, and that was all.

“Convince me we should confer the barony upon your child, Lady Joslyn, and we will.”

She lifted a shoulder, dropped it. “I know not what else to say, Your Majesty, except that on his deathbed, my husband named Oliver his heir and Father Ivo bore witness to it.”

“I did,” the priest concurred.

Edward tilted his head to the side. “The child is but two years old.”

Father Ivo stepped forward. “Three come summer, Your Majesty.”

“Two, three… He will long be a child, incapable of managing a barony as vast and vital as Ashlingford.” The king narrowed his lids at Joslyn. “Do you propose to oversee Ashlingford yourself, Lady Joslyn?”

It had not occurred to her. She could read, write, and compute numbers that allowed her to assist with her father’s books, but Rosemoor was tiny compared to Ashlingford.

“Until Oliver comes of age and responsibility,” Father Ivo said, “I shall manage the estates for him, Your Majesty.”

“You? A man of God?”

 
“A man of God, but also of Ashlingford. Though much of my life has been spent doing the work of the Lord, I am a Fawke and know the barony well.”

“You think yourself more capable of managing it than Sir Liam?”

“I do.”

The king’s mouth twitched. “Did you not assist Maynard in managing the demesne ere Sir Liam returned to it?”

Color crept into the priest’s face. “Only in keeping the books, Your Majesty. My nephew did not consult me on matters of great import. He was stubborn that way.”

“Yet he allowed the half brother for whom he had no liking to make those same decisions for him.”

“I—”

King Edward held up a hand. “We have made our determination.”

Joslyn caught her breath. Then he had decided Liam Fawke was more suited to the title than a child figurehead and a priest. Thus, Oliver was not to have what his father had bequeathed to him. However, more than regret over the king’s decision, she felt relief it was he who denied her son his inheritance. Now Oliver and she could return to a life that placed neither of them in danger.

The king motioned forward the man who had earlier delivered Joslyn and Father Ivo into the great hall. “Summon Sir Liam.”

Dread flew through her. She had known Maynard’s brother was in the city but had not thought she would have to face him in the king’s presence. To be exposed to his mockery as he was titled Baron of Ashlingford would be unpleasant.

As the king’s man crossed to a door opposite the one Father Ivo and she had entered through, King Edward said, “Come, Lady Joslyn, stand by our side.”

She ascended the dais, and clasping her hands before her, silently vowed she would remain impassive no matter how Liam Fawke gloated over his victory.

“You have judged us wrong,” the king murmured.

“Your Majesty?”

“Patience, Lady Joslyn.” He moved his gaze past her to the man emerging from the side room.

Liam Fawke.

CHAPTER SIX

He knew her the moment he laid eyes on her, and it surprised him.

Standing to the right of the king, chin high, hands clasped at her waist, Joslyn Fawke looked every bit the noblewoman she had not been at Rosemoor. As if by a divine hand, she was transformed from unremarkable, begrimed, and ill-mannered to singular, flawless, and genteel. But though the disagreeable woman of three days past surely dwelt behind her eyes, he was certain no contentious word would pass her lips in the king’s presence.

Previous to his summons, Liam had been fairly confident King Edward would not steal the barony from him a second time, even if only to ensure Ashlingford’s revenues remained high, but his confidence shifted as if built on sand.

“Attend us, Sir Liam,” the king called.

Liam fixed his gaze on Edward and, as he traversed the hall with John on his heels, silently prayed that regardless of the wiles Lady Joslyn had worked on the king, they would not see her son named Ashlingford’s heir.

Acknowledging his uncle with a stiff nod, Liam halted alongside him and began to move through the formalities of introduction and veneration. Throughout, he strove to ignore the woman at the king’s side—and failed, his gaze drawn to her time and again.

“Are you with us, Sir Liam?”

“I am, Your Majesty.”

“There is something you find interesting about Lady Joslyn?”

Liam cursed himself, forced a smile. “Not interesting, Your Majesty. Surprising.”

“In what way?”

“The lady’s appearance is wholly different from our previous encounter.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her stiffen.

The king leaned forward, and with much interest, said, “Tell, Sir Liam.”

Joslyn
had
spun Edward around her finger. If he awarded Ashlingford to Oliver, would she lie with him this eve?

Liam glanced at her, and seeing her eyes were wide with offense, said, “It would not be gentlemanly of me to carry tales, my king. Suffice it to say this lady is much improved over the one I met at Rosemoor.”

Edward smiled. “So she is at her best for us?”

Liam considered her flushed countenance, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, her hips embraced by a jeweled belt, her black, gold-tipped slippers peeking from beneath her skirts. “Most certainly, Your Majesty.”

The king chuckled and sat back on his throne. “Then to business.”

As this day would decide the rest of his life, Liam reminded himself of the control he must keep regardless of what was said.

“Sir Liam, we have considered your petition for hereditary rights over Ashlingford, and yours is a defensible claim. But as there is much to consider with a barony the size of Ashlingford, ours is not a decision easily arrived at.”

Then the decision was made, meaning Edward would entertain no further argument. But what had he decided? To award the barony to its rightful heir or to one barely capable of wiping his own nose?

“As you have ever been a loyal vassal, albeit willful at times, and are honorable and just, we are inclined to believe the men who have corroborated the bargain your brother struck with you. However, there is more to consider than a promise made by a desperate man.”

Ivo stood straighter, Lady Joslyn drew a sharp breath, and John muttered, “Dear Lord!”

And Liam…

His blood coursed hard for all the wasted years, its pound resounding between his ears, its throb felt in his throat and hands, its crimson color before his eyes. And for it, he nearly missed the king’s nod to the senior guard—a signal to prepare himself and his men. Edward had not forgotten what Liam was capable of.

“Nobility descends from nobility, Sir Liam,” the king said. “Even could it be proved you are legitimate born, it remains that while one half of you is of your father, the other…” He smiled apologetically. “…is of the common.”

What he did not say was that it was not just any common blood. It was that of the Irish. But though Liam longed to rage over the mark ever upon his brow, by all that was holy, he would not be ashamed of the woman his father had loved.

The king settled his elbows on the arms of his throne. “Though the son of Maynard Fawke is too young to take up the barony, we have decided Ashlingford shall pass to him.”

As Liam stared at the man, the triumph radiating from his uncle made the loss ten-fold worse. And further tempted him to rage as he had done seven years past when the king had first given his birthright to another. It had required four guards to take Liam to the floor and drag him from the hall. How many would it take this day?

Then you are still a rash twenty-two-year-old?
taunted the voice he did not want in his head. But it was there, and it encouraged him to draw a long, slow breath. On its equally slow exhale, he vowed that though he would leave London as landless as he had seven years past, this time he would not do so as the volatile Irishman. He would be the dignified, dispassionate Englishman.

“We are pleased you have gained control of your anger, Sir Liam.”

Liam inclined his head. “And now I beg your leave, Your Majesty.”

“In due course. There are matters yet to be resolved.”

Liam clenched his hands. He needed to be gone from here, to put the breadth of England between himself and those present, especially the gloating Ivo and the woman who had given Maynard the means to triumph. He looked at her.

Her brow was furrowed, but inside she was surely alive with the victory gained over him. A woman worthy of Maynard.

“Do not think we are unaware of your value, Sir Liam. Thus, we have a proposal.”

“Sire?” Liam was surprised he could speak past his constricted throat.

“As we are loath to jeopardize the revenues of the barony, we would see you continue in the capacity in which you served your brother.”

Liam stared.

Ivo spluttered. “B-but Your Majesty,” the priest exclaimed, “I would be honored to manage the estates until the child comes of age.”

“Most generous,
priest
, but ’tis Sir Liam we would entrust with Ashlingford.”

Never had Ivo looked so flustered, and when Liam steered his gaze to Lady Joslyn, he saw her jaw had slackened and color had drained from her face.

Though he had no intention of accepting the king’s proposal—providing it was not a command—he asked, “How am I to be compensated, Your Majesty?”

Edward smiled. “This eve there will come into our hall men who vie for the Barony of Thornemede. You know it?”

Of course he did, though it could hardly be called a barony. Half a day’s ride from Ashlingford, Thornemede had fallen into disuse, its aged baron having outlived his sons and now he, too, was dead. Was this what the king offered? A squandered barony for a thriving Ashlingford twice its size?

“I know Thornemede, Your Majesty.”

“Those who wish it for themselves will eat our meat, swill our wine, and flatter us in all manner of ways, but we will award it to you do you agree to manage Ashlingford for your brother’s son until he is of age.”

Not the barony his father had intended for him. Not the one he had broke sweat upon. Not the one he had bettered ten times over in keeping the bargain made with Maynard.

“True, Thornemede is not as great as Ashlingford,” King Edward continued, “but it is respectable and will support the generations that spring from your loins. And so, a baron you will be, and your son and his son thereafter.”

Liam set his jaw. Let Edward live with the consequences of his decision. The one Maynard had deceived would return to the tournaments he had pursued following Edward’s decree seven years earlier—and should never have renounced. After a year of besting other knights and filling his purse, then packs with winnings so he might one day purchase his own estates, he had accepted Maynard’s offer and poured his earnings into Ashlingford to set aright the misuse of revenues. It would be different this time.