LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance (18 page)

She returned her gaze to the plowman who wore a hood, its ties flapping against his chest as he thrust the plow ahead of him. A perspiration-darkened tunic clung to his broad shoulders, followed the contours of his muscled torso, tapered down past his hips, and molded to thighs whose muscles strained with each step.

Liam. Once more stirred by dangerous awareness, she averted her thoughts to the question of why he did the work of a commoner when it was not expected of a lord. Would she ever understand him?

Wishing she did not care to make sense of him—more, that this curious facet did not so appeal—she urged her mount forward.

Liam would not have looked up had the man leading the oxen not brought the beasts to a halt and the workers lowered their clubs to take notice of the lady riding toward them.

“Almighty,” he muttered. He had departed the castle early for just this reason. Following a restless night filled with remembrance of Joslyn, he had come straight to the fields. Now, destroying what little peace he found, she was here. And he knew what brought her.

He released the plow handles, rubbed an arm across his perspiring brow, and propped his soiled hands on his hips.

Slowing her horse to a walk, she called, “I would speak with you, Lord Fawke.”

When she was near enough for her amber eyes to be of note, he said, “I trust ’tis a pressing matter that brings you to the fields.”

Much too lovely in a vivid pink gown, she halted a short distance away. “It is.”

He looked over his shoulder. “Take the plow, Henry.”

The thickset man tossed his club aside and started forward.

Aware he appeared as much the commoner as the others, Liam strode across the unbroken ground and halted alongside Joslyn’s mount.

She looked down on him, but not with the distaste many a lady would. And neither was her face drawn with anger as expected. Was that curiosity shining from her eyes?

Wishing she were the unbecoming waif she had presented at Rosemoor when she had been the one who wore dirt, he asked, “What is this pressing matter?”

She glanced at the workers. “May we speak elsewhere?”

Though the plow was moving again, Liam knew Joslyn and he were an object of interest. If not that plowing required close attention lest a worker fall peril to it, this place would suffice.

He held out a hand. “Your reins.”

She laid the leather strap across his palm, and as he led her toward the wood, his mind went ahead to the icy stream where he could refresh himself.

“This will do,” Joslyn said as they neared the trees.

“Nay, a bit farther.”

“Lord Fawke, in the absence of an escort, it would be unseemly for me to enter the wood with you.”

She had cause to be worried considering all that had passed between them, but if she was going to take him from the field, he would use the time well.

“No more unseemly than you seeking me out in the field rather than awaiting my return.”

She said no more, and upon reaching the stream, he dropped the reins, strode to where the water ran shallow, and sank to his haunches. “Speak to me, Lady Joslyn.”

“You had no right.”

True, but that was before Ivo had answered a question Liam had meant to evade. He tugged off the hood plastering the hair to his head, tossed it aside, and plunged his hands in the stream. “No right?” he said, purposely obtuse.

“To tell Oliver of his father’s death. It was for me to do.”

Liam splashed water over his face and head, relished the shock of it against his heated skin.

“Lord Fawke, why did you tell my son of his father’s death?”

He could accept the blame. After all, he was responsible for not having anticipated that, in showing Oliver his father’s solar, the boy would ask uncomfortable questions. But if Joslyn was to seriously consider his warnings about Ivo, she needed to know the truth.

He looked around. “I explained it to him, my lady, but you are wrong to assume I revealed it.”

She frowned. “Father Ivo?”

He returned to his bathing and, without regard for her presence, dragged off his tunic. Bared to the waist, he scooped water over his shoulders and chest.

“I shall go now, Lord Fawke.”

His body’s heat dissipating, the perspiration and dust rinsed away, he stood. “That is all you wished to speak with me about?”

Face flushing further, she pretended an interest in the reins. “I thank you for being gentle in telling Oliver of his father’s death. Of course, I was surprised to learn Maynard is in heaven. A warrior for God.”

“To be honest would have been cruel.” When she allowed his remark to pass, he said, “Why did you not tell him Maynard had died?”

She looked sideways at him and down again. “I thought it best we first settle at Ashlingford. It was not…pressing.”

Because Oliver had known so little of his father he could not possibly feel great loss? Likely. But though Liam was tempted to know more of the exact nature of Joslyn’s relationship with her husband, he determined he would not press her to speak there. Instead, he asked, “What did Ivo tell you about Maynard’s death?”

Keeping her gaze averted, she said, “That he rode from the castle drunk and took a fall from his horse.”

“What else?”

“He said…” She shook her head. “It does not matter.”

Liam strode forward. As he neared, a breeze lifted a sheer length of material from her shoulder, causing it to wave behind her and present a sharp contrast against the black of her hair. And remind him of one he did not care to be reminded of.

He halted alongside her, eyed the many folds of the skirts draped over her mount, and forced his thoughts away from Lady Anya who had last worn the gown. “It does matter,” he said gruffly. “Tell me.”

She flew her gaze to his as if for fear of looking too near upon his bared chest. “He said that though you did not kill Maynard, you are as responsible as if you had.”

As expected. “You ought to be on your way,” he said and pivoted.

Joslyn stared after him. Why would he not defend himself? Surely he knew his uncle cast him in the worst light. “Is it true?” she called.

He snatched up his tunic, dragged it on, and tossed over his shoulder, “Return to the castle.”

She knew she should keep to the saddle, but she dismounted and closed the distance between them. “I am done thinking the worst of you, Liam Fawke.” When he did not turn, she lifted a hand toward his shoulder, snatched it back. To touch him could lead to further rejection and humiliation like that to which she had subjected herself on the balcony of the king’s palace and on Settling Castle’s wall.

She drew a deep breath. “Though I feared one day you would come to Rosemoor, I now know my fears were unfounded, that what Maynard said of you were lies. Pray, Lord Fawke, tell me of his death so I may put it to rest.”

He turned and grasped the sleeve of her gown. “How came you by this?”

Then he recognized it as belonging to Maynard’s mother. “As my own garments are being laundered, Emma delivered it and others to me. It does not fit well, but she says it can be altered.”

“If you need gowns, they will be made new.”

Though she knew Lady Anya had been instrumental in securing Ashlingford for her son, was Liam’s anger so great toward the woman he could not bear to look upon her garments? “I am sorry it offends you.”

He dropped his hand from her. “Suffice it to say, had Anya Fawke been born a man, it would have been difficult to tell her apart from Ivo.”

That explained some of it. “I shall return the gowns to Emma.” She clasped her hands before her. “Now will you speak to me of Maynard’s death?”

He snatched up his hood, crossed to an immense gnarled oak, and sat back against it.

Joslyn followed but remained standing, and after some moments he said, “Each time Maynard returned to Ashlingford, we argued. It was the same the last night he rode out from the castle.”

“You argued about money?”

“Aye, he wanted more.”

“For gambling?”

“Of course. There was a game in London he wished to join.”

The same that had delayed her father’s return to Rosemoor? “You refused him?”

He studied the hood he held, then tilted his head back against the tree. “Maynard was named the heir of Ashlingford. Thus, he had a right to its profits.”

“But?”

“Not to the extent his habit depleted the coffers. I would not—could not—allow him to reduce Ashlingford to the state it was in when I returned to manage it.”

“What happened?”

His eyes turned distant. “Maynard drank heavily at supper and cursed me for treating him like a child. But he agreed to what I proposed—a generous sum, though he said it was not enough. As I filled his purse, he struck me.”

Joslyn frowned. Maynard had been a good-sized man, but he had not been as large as Liam. She could not imagine him landing a blow to his brother.

A wry smile lifted Liam’s mouth. “From behind. With a fire iron.”

She sank her teeth into her lower lip, shamed by the dishonor of the one who had fathered her son. But then, he had not been honorable in other things.

“When I roused, he had gone from the castle.”

“With all the barony’s money,” Joslyn concluded.

“That which was in the one chest. Had he known where I kept the other, he would have taken that as well.”

“Did you give chase?”

“I should have, but I was weary of dealing with him. And though I knew funds could prove scarce in the months ahead, there was enough to manage the barony until the next harvest. It seemed best to deal with him later.”

Selfish Maynard who, when her father could not pay his gambling debt, had demanded Humphrey Reynard’s only daughter in marriage—half the debt settled upon consummation, the other half upon the birth of a male child.

How Joslyn had rejoiced when the midwife raised up the babe and showed it was a boy. Her duty done, her father’s debt settled, she had welcomed Oliver into her arms and heart with the blessed knowledge that never again must she receive Maynard in her bed—a vow she had extracted the night he had come to her to settle the first half of the debt.

She looked back at the man who watched her. “And so he met his death.”

“Aye, he strayed from the road—assuredly the drink in him—and went down in a ravine. Somehow he managed to climb out and walk back to within sight of the castle.”

Recalling the priest’s comment that Maynard had died in his arms, Joslyn asked, “Was it Father Ivo who found him, Liam?” and inwardly winced at once more addressing him with the familiarity of a loved one.

The flicker in his eyes told he noted it as well. “Nay, I did. He was halfway to death when I carried him up to the solar.”

Touched with more sorrow than expected, she asked, “He died shortly thereafter?”

“He did not. He lingered until Ivo was summoned to bear witness to the existence of his heir. Your son.”

Joslyn stepped nearer. “I am sorry.”

“Why? Because Oliver is indisputably legitimate? Because he prevailed over one as common as he is noble?” Blessedly, the bitterness in his voice was not as thick as when he had stood before the king.

“I can do naught about it,” she said, “but I now know you were cheated, that Ashlingford should have been yours.” She looked to her hands. “As I know you were not responsible for Maynard’s death.”

He laughed. “But I am responsible—in part.”

She snapped her chin up. “How?”

After a long silence, he said, “Our father favored me, the son gotten on the common Irishwoman he married. After my mother died birthing me, he wed Lady Anya, to whom he had been betrothed for years. But though she and others wished him to send me to live among his tenants, as is common with illegitimate children born of nobles, my father asserted my legitimacy and raised me in the castle. Even when Anya finally bore him a son, he refused to send me away. His great error was that he did not hide his preference for me—that he loved me as he never loved Maynard. And Anya and Ivo made certain my brother knew it well.”

Liam pushed a hand through his hair. “Eventually, it turned Maynard to drinking and gambling, and for that he is dead. Thus, my part in it.”

Looking from his hard-set jaw to his hands clenched on the hood, Joslyn felt what she fought not to feel. As Queen Philippa had said, his had not been an easy life. True, he’d had his father’s love, but with it came the burden of costing Maynard love and earning Liam hatred and resentment.

Joslyn sank to her knees, set a hand on his arm, and before he could cut her with angry words, entreated, “Do not say I cannot feel for you. I wish…” She moistened her lips. “I wish you free of your pain.”

The sharp gleam in his eyes softened, and in a resonant voice, he said, “How do you propose to free me, Joslyn?”

Though she sensed danger in being so near and touching him, she ignored the voice that warned her to move away. “I know not all of what has gone before me, but it cannot be your fault Maynard drank and gambled. The blame lies with him, Anya, Father Ivo, and your father. Not you.”

As he leaned toward her, the muscles of his arm flexed beneath her hand. “Is this guilt, Joslyn?”

For having birthed Oliver? Nay, if it was guilt, regret would follow, and never would she feel such for her son. He was all the good of Maynard. “Not guilt.”

“Then what is it you feel for me? What makes you care?”

Heart beating fast, she lifted her hand from him and clasped it with the other. What
did
she feel for him? Compassion? Pity? Love?

That last shaking her, she lowered her gaze. Of course she did not love him. How could she? It was attraction she felt. Only that.

He lifted her chin. “What, Joslyn?”

Fearing that if she examined the answer too closely she might confess to something more damaging, she said, “Compassion. That is what I feel for you.”

He lowered his eyes to her mouth, and in a voice whose caress raised the fine hairs on her arms, said, “I would rather you desire me.”

She did, as he knew from her response on the wall. She wanted more of his kisses. More of his touch. More of what her husband had not made her feel.

Shame flushing her, she lowered her lids. Maynard was not entirely to blame. After all, she had consented to become little more than a brood mare, wed and bedded to make the son who had stolen what was twice promised to Liam.