LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance (8 page)

“With your permission, Your Majesty, I decline your generous offer.”

Edward’s eyebrows rose. “If ’tis not an offer but a command?”

“I would ask that Your Majesty not make it so.”

The king considered him. “We will allow that.”

Ivo’s sigh was surely heard by all.

“So tell us, Sir Liam, what would entice you to accept our offer?”

Liam nearly declared there was naught that would move him, but a voice that spoke in the language of revenge whispered that here was a means of putting Ivo in his place. As for Lady Joslyn…

Do not,
he silently countered.
Ask permission to leave and do not look back.

But already he looked back—and saw Ivo rejoicing, seated in the lord’s high seat, presiding over the great hall, emptying the coffers, making a ruin of Montgomery Fawke’s legacy.

Pride be cursed, revenge be had!
He would accept the proposal and deprive his uncle of the power he lusted after. And the lady? She would be deprived of his absence.

“What concessions?” the king pressed.

The negotiation could not have progressed better had Liam declined Edward to gain such. “Though it has the name, Thornemede is hardly a barony, Your Majesty.”

“Its castle being of stone and sturdy, it can be rebuilt,” Edward said, though he certainly knew that was not what Liam referred to.

“What of the monies required to do so? ’Tis my understanding Thornemede’s coffers are weighted by naught but dust.”

Edward slowly nodded. “The lands are rich. They will produce again. And there is wool.”

Providing the sheep had not been slaughtered to feed mouths left hungry by poor crops. “Until then?”

“Very well,” Edward said. “If you accept our proposal, we shall issue a writ exempting you from taxes for three years—time aplenty to turn Thornemede profitable.”

Not enough. Knowing he would prick the king’s ire, Liam said, “Surely Your Majesty is aware it will take more than that to restore Thornemede.”

Edward’s nostrils flared. “What do you ask, Sir Liam? That we finance the barony for you when there are others who would pay us for the privilege of gaining it for themselves?”

“Not Your Majesty, but Ashlingford. One tenth of its receipts for my service to that barony.”

“One tenth!” Ivo moved toward the dais. “’Tis robbery!”

“Stand away, priest,” the king ordered.

Ivo jumped back. “Your Majesty, surely you can see the harm that would be done Ashlingford if this vengeful man is allowed to return. And to take such a large portion of the receipts! You cannot do this.”

“Can we not?” Edward spat. “Though you appear to have forgotten,
Father Ivo
, we are the king. We do as we please.”

“Of course, sire.” Ivo’s eyes darted left and right as guards on both sides advanced. “’Tis just that—”

“It matters not to us whether you take your leave of our hall on your own legs or you are carried from it.”

The priest pivoted, hastened to a side room, and slammed the door behind him.

The king drew a breath that settled him back in his chair. “One tenth,” he murmured and steepled his hands, then looked up as if calculating the impact that percentage would have on his revenues. “Very well, but only after our taxes have been satisfied.”

It was more than Liam had hoped for. “Then, if it pleases you, Your Majesty, I accept your proposal.”

Edward leaned forward. “We would have given more, Sir Liam.”

“More, Your Majesty?”

“We know your worth. So ’tis we who have won.”

Then this had been but a game. In less than half an hour the king had assured both his revenues and his amusement.

Beginning to regret his revenge-driven decision, Liam said, “With your permission, I will take your leave, Your Majesty.”

“Regrets?”

Too many to number. “I have accepted your proposal, Your Majesty, and so it will be.”

“So it will.” Edward waved him away. “Your leave is granted.”

Liam looked one last time at Lady Joslyn and told himself he was not disturbed by the fear in her eyes. It was, after all, the least owed him. Doubtless, once she moved past it, she would prove difficult. But if she tried to interfere with his management of Ashlingford, the woman would learn he was now lord to her lady, even though only by way of duty to his king.

Liam bowed to Edward, and with John at his side, strode back across the hall.

“Sir Liam,” the king called.

Liam halted before the doors held wide by two attendants, turned.

“We will expect you in our hall for dinner. Do not disappoint us.”

Not a request. Holding close his resentment, Liam said, “I would be honored.”

Joslyn stared at Liam Fawke’s retreating back. When the doors closed, so great was her relief at having him go from sight that she nearly reached to the back of the king’s throne to keep from folding over herself.

“Ashlingford is your son’s,” Edward said. “What have you to say, Lady Joslyn?”

Struggling to maintain a composure this day’s revelations had weakened, she said what was required of her. “I am grateful, Your Majesty.”

He studied her. “We are not so sure.”

The deep breath she drew shuddered into her lungs. “I worry for the safety of my child—that he shall be often exposed to one who hates him, sire.”

“Sir Liam does not hate your son.”

Her composure gave way, and she dropped to her knees beside him. “With all that was told this day, he has yet more reason to wish ill upon Oliver—to do him harm. Pray, Your Majesty, grant him Thornemede, but do not send him to Ashlingford.”

Mouth softening, Edward reached forward and cupped her chin. “Lady, for good reason your departed husband and his uncle earned Sir Liam’s wrath, not an innocent child.”

Something about the king’s touch made her long to pull back, but lest she offend, she remained unmoving. “I would like to believe that, but I cannot.”

He slid his thumb across her jaw in what seemed a caress, then drew his hand back. “We would not jeopardize your son, lady. Look elsewhere for your enemies.”

Guessing she was dismissed, she stood.

The king pushed back a lock of blond hair that had crept over his brow and moved his gaze down her figure. “You will, of course, join us for dinner.”

She inwardly groaned. Not only had she assured Oliver she would be away a short time, and already it was beyond that, but she had no desire to pass more time in the king’s company, especially when that company was to include Liam Fawke. “I thank you, Your Majesty, but Oliver—”

“Do you argue with us, Lady Joslyn?”

She looked to her hands. “Pray, forgive me.”

He grunted, then called, “Sir Miles, see that a chamber is prepared for the lady.”

“A chamber?” Joslyn gasped. “Your Majesty, I do not require—”

He glowered, and as she silently cursed the power of men, he said, “I have further business to attend to, Lady Joslyn.” He reached for one of several parchments on the table beside him, unrolled it, and began to read.

“Your Majesty.” She bowed, stepped from the dais, and followed Sir Miles from the hall.

The queen.

How did one decline such a summons? Or perhaps the better question—
could
one decline? Regardless of the answer, Liam was tempted to send the lovely lady in waiting back to her mistress with only an apology that the knight who had twice lost his bid for Ashlingford could not accept an audience with Philippa. But no matter the seriousness of the offense of rejecting her summons, no matter the longing to retreat like a beaten dog who wants only to be alone with his wounds, he owed the queen. And he owed her much.

“You know there is only one answer, aye?” It was John who leaned near, raising eyebrows high above eyes that beseeched Liam not to risk the wrath of a king who loved his queen well despite the occasional indiscretion.

Liam returned his attention to the beautifully composed woman waiting on his answer. “I thank you for delivering the message, Lady Justina. You may tell Her Majesty I am honored to meet her in the garden.”

She curtsied, said crisply, “Sir Liam,” and glided toward the staircase.

“Had we only been quicker on our feet, eh?” John said with an impishly slanted smile that was usually easy to return. But not this day. The knight sighed. “I leave you to it, my friend. When the queen has had her say, you will find me outside with coin aplenty to drink away the day.”

Though soaking his misery in tankard after tankard of ale held little attraction for Liam, who knew by way of his brother and others how ineffectual and destructive such a course was, the dim and din of an alehouse appealed. There being too many years ahead to dwell on his loss, just for this day he would welcome the distraction.

“I pray I will not be long in joining you,” he said and went in search of the garden.

Not unexpectedly, the queen kept him waiting, but having a use for his walk among lush foliage and flowers so vibrantly colored it nearly hurt the eyes, he tried not to begrudge Philippa every minute-long second of every hour-long minute.

It was time best used to compose himself. And that began with reaching inside Liam Fawke. Like a blind man with arms extended and hands splayed, patting and groping at familiar places made unfamiliar amidst the collapse of walls and passages that had stood for years, he must find his way through the rubble of his brother’s treachery. No difficult thing to do had he no care for his future…his life…his soul…but achingly hard were he to retain a semblance of his father’s son and honor his hard-earned knighthood. If…

He halted beneath an ivy-covered arbor, closed his eyes, and lifted his face to the narrow beams of sunlight penetrating the dense leaves. “If,” he murmured and felt his mind tread the rubble and feel its way toward the gapingly black passageway he had last approached when Ashlingford was first stolen from him.

What harm to step over the threshold from which he had been yanked back seven years past? What loss to fathom the breadth and depth of that darkness?

More, what gain? Certes, Ivo and Maynard had gone before him and, for all their forging, had twice taken Ashlingford from him, this last time for a child who was ages from being sword worthy. Was God so unsympathetic He would fault a sin-born mortal for doing unto others as they did unto him?

Vengeance is not yours,
spoke the faith sown into him from birth that persisted even when little was produced amidst poor soil and drought—and in the presence of fire, naught.

Resenting its tireless efforts to impose on him morals by which others did not live, Liam embraced remembrance of Maynard’s taunting.

Six years of your life for naught, Brother
.
And I thank you for every one of them.

He is gone
, faith meddled again.
The price of ill worked on you and others is paid in full.

Not by Ivo, Liam silently argued and, once more rebuked for vengeance, muttered, “Not vengeance. The righting of wrongs. Justice.”

But where does it stop once he has been made to pay?

That last argument, less welcome for being more his own and calling to memory the innocence of Oliver Fawke, once more breathed into him a lesson taught during his knighthood training.

As is your calling before God and man, protect those weaker of body and mind.
Sir Owen of the Wulfriths, hand heavy on Liam's shoulder, had brought his gaze level with the squire's.
Be worthy of your name, Fawke.

As ever, the reminder of the honorable man who had gifted his half-common son his name had eased Liam's ire enough to turn ear, eye, and thought to the situation.

He had looked from Sir Owen to the boy newly arrived at Wulfen Castle to begin his knighthood training. Considerably smaller than Liam, though of a like age, the boy had defiantly glared at the one whose Irish blood he had mocked before all
—
and for it gained a bloodied face that would have been the least of his injuries had Sir Owen not pulled Liam off.

To once more prove himself worthy of his name, Liam had kept watch over the runt. When the boy continued to turn foul words and fists on others regardless of their size or age, Liam had interceded, though only when confrontations turned dangerous. Thus, he had protected the weak, and since the one he watched over made few friends, the boy was as often the victim as the aggressor. But gradually he had gained control over his angry impulses and turned to Liam for aid in becoming the warrior expected of him. Though of smaller stature than his peers, a warrior he had become, among the finest to be knighted alongside Liam. And no better friend had Liam than John.

Acknowledging the wisdom and faithfulness of Sir Owen, Liam accepted he should not—could not—step into the darkness to which he had nearly succumbed seven years past. No matter the wrong done him, he would honor his father’s name. No matter how difficult Lady Joslyn and Ivo made the charge given him by the king, he would administer Ashlingford for his father’s grandson. No matter the ruin of Thornemede, he would take that barony in hand and become the lord its people needed.

“My word I give, the word of a Fawke,” he said low, then opened his eyes upon the beauty man’s hands had forced on nature and found another beauty moved across it—Edward’s queen, Philippa, the woman whose kindness and understanding had yanked him back from that dark threshold seven years ago. And she came without her ladies, for which Liam was grateful.

Having caught his eye, she smiled.

He forced a curve onto his own mouth, and when she halted before him, bowed low. “Your Majesty.”

“Arise, Lord Fawke.”

Lord, though not of Ashlingford, and he did not doubt the king’s beloved consort knew it.

He straightened, and Philippa searched his face long before saying on a sigh, “So, my wonderfully Irish knight, you are wronged again.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

As seemed more and more habit, Joslyn paced—over a rug so plush it felt like spring grass, past an ornately draped bed, between vibrantly upholstered armchairs, and ever back again until her plan was as formed as it could be in her circumstances.

She would go to Oliver, more to assure herself he was safe from the vengeful Liam Fawke than to keep her word to her son she would soon return. Were she assured Father Ivo kept watch over him, she would not defy the king, but she had no word from Sir Miles whom she had asked to inquire into the whereabouts of Maynard’s uncle. God willing, she would return to the palace before her absence was noted—and Edward’s anger fell upon her.