by Tamara Leigh
“Just weary. Straight through my bones.”
The day had been long without Liam and Oliver, made longer when the Ashlingford men returned from working the demesne lands to sit at table for the evening meal. Amidst the clamor, Joslyn found no time to speak to Liam—hardly enough to catch his eye, but when he did look her way, he smiled.
Throughout supper, she listened to Oliver’s accounting of the oxen, which he claimed were ten times as big as his uncle’s horse, the plows that chewed up the dirt, and the men, including his beloved uncle, who had put their backs into the hard work.
Not until Joslyn put Oliver to bed did she find the opportunity to be alone with Liam. Rising from her son’s pallet, she turned to the man she had felt watching her from the doorway and crossed her chamber. In the corridor, she closed the door and went into his arms.
He kissed her, and when he pulled back, she said, “You are leaving again.”
“I must.”
“How long?”
“Winter comes. With the harvest in and cereal crops soon to be sown, there will be little occasion for me to journey to Ashlingford. ’Twill likely be spring ere I am needed here again.”
She ached over the long, lonely winter ahead. “But you will come, will you not?”
His silence said otherwise. “I can make no promises. Much depends on when the plague arrives.”
And there was little hope it would not. Almost daily tidings were delivered of its merciless creep—more and more its sweep—across England.
She laid a hand on his jaw. “I will wait for you. And pray for you. And love you across the distance.”
Once again, he denied her the speaking of those same words, but she was certain they were in his parting kiss.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Princess Joan was dead.
As with most talk of the plague, her death was spoken of in hushed tones in those places not yet touched by the darkness, including Thornemede. But in Dorset where the dread sickness raged, the passing of the daughter of King Edward and Queen Philippa was certain to be told by voices loud with hysteria. After all, if those believed to be nearest God were not spared, what hope for the common man?
Liam pushed a hand through his hair. Now he better understood the reason Queen Philippa had yet to answer his missive. It would be some time before she arose from her mourning to do so. If ever.
Though he had been heading for Thornemede’s smithy when he overheard news of the princess’s death, he turned now to one of those who spoke of it.
The merchant stood on the opposite side of a table his goods were laid out upon, several women servants his audience. “Plague took her this past August while she was in France.”
“In France?” Meg breathed.
“Aye, journeyin’ to wed the son of the king of Castile.”
Three months then, Liam counted. Though news was wont to travel slowly throughout England, he was surprised it had taken so long for something of such import to reach Thornemede.
“Lord Fawke!” the merchant called. “There is something I can show you?”
Liam started to decline, but a brooch among the pieces of worked metal caught his eye. He lifted it to catch the light. It was simple, made special only by delicate petals fashioned of silver that enfolded four rubies. Roses.
“’Tis lovely, aye?” the merchant prompted.
Liam unhinged the pin, closed it.
Had Joslyn replaced the one lost in her escape from Ivo during the six weeks since Liam had last been at Ashlingford? In the next instant he abandoned such ponderings. Until he had word from the queen, it would not do for him to send Joslyn gifts. He set it down. “Aye, lovely.”
“I will make you a good price, my lord.”
Liam shook his head and turned away. And there stood Gertrude. He should have known she would be near. Though Michael and Emrys had taken to adventuring, the little girl was never far from Meg.
She gave a dimpling smile perfected these past months, quite effective when she wished to sit on his knee before the fire, ride on his shoulders, or search his trencher for a tasty morsel.
“You would like something?” he asked.
She slid her hand into his. “Over here, Uncle Liam.” She tugged him to where another merchant displayed leather goods. Peering over the table’s edge, she tapped the toe of a small goatskin slipper dyed red.
“Do you think they will fit, Gertie?”
She looked to her feet shod in plain brown slippers, nodded.
Liam picked up the goatskin slippers. “If I buy these for you, what think you I should buy for Michael and Emrys?”
“Michael wants a dagger like yours.” She touched Liam’s scabbard. “Emrys wants a belt.”
“How do you know that?”
She shrugged. “Just do.”
Liam looked around and located Michael standing before the merchant whose table was laid with weapons. Farther down, Emrys was doing his best to make a man’s belt fit his boy’s waist. “I see,” he said and looked to the stout woman behind the table.
She gave a gap-toothed smile. “Slippers for yer little girl, my lord?”
His little girl… “Aye.”
The woman named a price.
He countered with an offer of half—still more than their worth.
The woman tried again, but he held firm and soon was helping Gertrude don her new slippers. With the proud little girl skipping behind him, Liam crossed to where Michael stood hopeful. He purchased a blunt-edged dagger for the boy and bought Emrys a belt that had to be looped twice around his waist to stay up.
“When I am grown, still it will fit,” Emrys said, having refused the merchant’s offer to shorten it for him.
“That it will,” Liam said.
After the brothers admired each other’s treasure, they trotted off.
“Can I have a ride, Uncle Liam?” Gertrude asked.
“I have work to do now, but later, hmm?”
She nodded, too content with her red slippers to beseech him to change his mind.
He led her back to where Meg waited alongside the merchant’s table.
The woman took the little girl’s hand. “Come, child, we’ve pastries aplenty to stick fingers into.”
“Oh, can I?”
“Aye, but you must not tell your uncle I allowed it.” Meg grinned at him and led Gertrude away.
Once more, Liam’s eyes were drawn to the brooch.
“’Tis a good weight, my lord, and the rubies are of good quality.”
Liam ran a thumb over the gems. “’Tis Ashlingford you go next?”
“Aye, on the morrow.”
Liam handed the brooch to him. “Deliver this to Lady Joslyn Fawke for me.”
The merchant nodded. “I shall, my lord. Any word you would have me carry with it?”
“Only that ’tis from the Baron of Thornemede.”
It was the first she had heard from Liam in all these weeks.
She hurried to the keep, ascended to her chamber two steps at a time, and closed the door. When she laid back the folds of leather, a silver brooch set with four rubies blinked at her as if with awakening eyes.
“Oh,” she breathed and lifted it into the dusky light of an overcast day.
From the Baron of Thornemede, the merchant had said when she had wandered to his table following the purchase of spices, candles, and other household items. There had been no message accompanying it, but none was needed.
She removed the brooch Emma had given her and wove the pin of her new brooch through the folds of her mantle.
These past weeks, the loneliness of Liam’s absence had often made her question what he felt. Here was her answer. The brooch was beautiful, but its true beauty lay in the love that had caused him to purchase it for her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It came like the dark of the dead of night, and by morning a score of villagers stood outside the castle gates waiting to be admitted.
As the men and women were ushered
into the hall, Joslyn sent Oliver abovestairs with Emma. It was the day they had dreaded, and now that it was upon them, it was time to keep the promise she had made Liam—to be strong.
“’Tis come,” a woman blurted. “God’s fist has descended.”
Sir Hugh leaned forward. “Describe it to me, woman.”
“This past eve the marks came upon my husband. First the swelling, now all of him is covered with sores and he is heated somethin’ terrible.”
“How many more afflicted?” Sir Hugh looked to the others.
“My boy.” A man old enough to be a grandfather wrung his hood between his hands. “He ain’t gonna die, is he? He be my only boy, ye know.”
He might not wish to accept the answer to that, but he surely knew it. Once touched with the disease, it seemed only a miracle could save a victim.
“Your son must be removed from your home,” Sir Hugh said. “All laid abed with the plague are to be taken to the old village of Belle Glen.”
Joslyn frowned over the familiar name.
“Belle Glen?” exclaimed the woman who had spoken first. “’Tis burnt out—naught there but ashes.”
Now Joslyn understood why the name was known to her. It was where Maynard had hidden the coin.
“This past summer, Lord Fawke had several buildings erected to house the sick,” Sir Hugh said.
Father Warren stood. “I will be there to minister to the people, as will the good friars.” He nodded to three robed men across the hall, whom Liam had sent to Ashlingford two months past. “And the physician will tend the sick.”
“’Tis as Lord Fawke has spoken,” Joslyn said, looking from one face to the next, then beyond to the gathered servants. “If we are to survive, as much as possible we must continue as if this disease is not with us—removing our ill to the sick houses as soon as the first symptoms appear and resuming our tasks.” It was asking much, for it was said the plague took two to three months to run its course. A long time to live among death and pretend one was untouched by it.
“But how do we know removing them will make a difference in whether or not the rest of us live?” asked another.
“We cannot be certain,” Sir Hugh answered, “but there is good cause to believe there will be more deaths if they remain among us, whereas lives may be saved if the sick are taken to Belle Glen.”
All told, five cases of the plague had sprung up overnight. The villagers, far from calm, returned home to convey their loved ones to Belle Glen.
Standing in her chamber peering out the window, Joslyn watched Father Warren’s progress across the inner bailey to the outer, where two horses were saddled. Behind the priest trudged the physician, a man who had spoken no word throughout the meeting.
Though Joslyn did not know him well, having had no occasion to call for him, she sensed something was amiss. It had been more his place to calm the villagers than Sir Hugh’s or hers, but he had remained apart from them.
Would he abandon Ashlingford? Word was that many priests and physicians were fleeing their duty to the dying for fear of being taken with the sickness—especially as they seemed to fall victim to the plague more easily than others.
“Pray, do not go,” Joslyn whispered. Though more and more it was apparent physicians were powerless in combating the plague, they were needed to ease the suffering.
“Mama, when will Unca Liam come again?” Oliver asked.
He sat on the edge of the bed, tossing his top from one hand to the other. He was growing, his baby’s face becoming that of a boy’s, his arms and legs lengthening to the point new clothes would need to be sewn for him. And his mind grasped things that had been beyond him last year.
Lord, she silently prayed, do not let the plague touch my boy.
“Mama?”
“I do not know when your uncle will return.”
He sighed. “Been a long time.”
Painfully long. Since Liam had sent the brooch, three months had dragged by. “Mayhap he will come soon,” she said but did not believe it. Now that the plague was here, Thornemede would bow to it ere long—if it had not already. Liam would be needed there.
“Mama, why don’t Unca Liam marry you?”
Suppressing her startle, she searched for an answer, but could find none he would understand. “You would like him for a father?”
He dropped his top in his lap. “We could live together and I could play with Michael and Emrys…and that girl too.”
“Gertrude?”
“Uh-huh.”
Joslyn smiled. “That would be nice.”
“He gonna marry you?”
Her smile slipped. “It is not possible, Oliver.”
“Why?”
“I do not understand it myself. ’Tis just the way it is.”
He considered her. “You love Unca Liam?”
To deny it might have ended the discussion, but she could not. “I do.”
Oliver grinned. “He loves you too. Now you can get married.”
She put her head to the side. “How do you know he loves me?”
“I asked him.”
“When?”
He tapped his top. “Long time ago.”
“You are certain he said he loves me?”
Oliver nodded vigorously.
She wished he had said it to her. Of course, it was not as if his profession of love had been voluntary. How else was he to have answered Oliver’s question?
“See. Now you can marry.”
She sighed. “I am sorry, but we cannot.”
The disappointment that lowered Oliver’s mouth hurt her heart. “Am I ever gonna have a papa?”
She wanted to cry. He needed a father, one that Maynard had not been. However, she could not imagine wedding any man other than Liam.
She stood. “We shall see. Now ’tis time we wash and go to meal.”
Mounted at the head of four knights, Liam was moments from putting spurs to his destrier when the villager stumbled over the drawbridge into the bailey.
“’Tis the plague, my lord! My father’s laid down with it—got swellings in his groin and boils about his chest.” The young man thrust a forearm across his sweat-beaded brow. “Methinks my sister has it, too.”
Liam gripped the reins tighter, ignored the murmurings of his knights. He had thought he had a few days in which to ride to Ashlingford and assist Sir Hugh with the sick—and perhaps even journey to the lesser castle of Duns that Sir John reported as being stricken with its first victims. But he could not leave now that the plague had crossed Thornemede’s threshold. He was needed here, and since Sir Hugh’s missive assured him all was mostly under control, he could not leave.
“Are there others?” he asked.
“Don’t know of any more in my village, my lord. What are we to do?”
There could be victims in the villages beyond his. If so, more people would soon arrive at the castle seeking aid and reassurance. “Those stricken must be taken to the sick house without delay. By dusk, a priest and the physician will arrive to care for them.”
He dismounted, passed his reins to his squire, and turned to his knights. “Take this man up with you and return him to his village. All of you shall assist in moving his family.”
They looked uncertain, aware that to come into contact with the plague made them more vulnerable. Meaning Liam would soon know whether or not their loyalty to him had grown strong enough these months for them to brave his orders.
“’Twill be done,” the first knight answered.
The others agreed.
Liam searched their faces for untruths, but though they reflected misgivings, he was fairly confident they would obey.
As they rode from the castle, Liam looked to the captain of the guard where he stood before the open portcullis and, noting unease in the hard features, inclined his head. Gunter did the same, and Liam entered the keep. He ascended the stairs three floors to the rooftop, where Ahmad knelt on his prayer rug.
The Arab spoke low in his own lan
guage, and Liam translated his words into God is great, having heard it often since the man’s arrival at Thornemede a month past.
Ahmad’s recitation continued, then he lowered his head, spoke more prayer, and resumed his upright position. Further words, next the act of complete submission. Prostrated, his forehead, hands, knees, and toes all in contact with the ground, he thrice repeated a line of prayer and sat up again.
Liam had paid well to bring Ahmad to Thornemede after his search for a competent English physician proved unsuccessful. He only hoped the Arab was as capable as his reputation told.
Ahmad mostly kept to himself, but he seemed to put great thought in the little he spoke, exuding the wisdom of an older man though he could not be more than thirty and five. Most importantly, he had survived the ravages of the plague after treating a multitude of victims—many successfully, Liam understood.
“It has come,” Ahmad said, the accent of his language making his English almost lyrical.
“It has.”
Ahmad stood, rolled his prayer rug, and pushed his feet into the shoes he had removed. “Then it is time. How many?”
“Two.”
“The signs?”
“Swellings, and one has sores.”
“They have been moved to the sick house?”
“They are being delivered there now.”
“Then that is where I am needed.” Ahmad stepped toward the stairs.
“The friars will accompany you,” Liam reminded him, “as well as our priest.”
Ahmad looked around. “As you wish.” He began his descent.
Feeling old, Liam followed and let his thoughts run to Joslyn. It was so long since he had seen her he had begun to feel numb. And now it would be longer. It made him ache knowing how near he had come to being with her again and how much more distant she was now that the plague held him to Thornemede.
As if to attest to the importance of remaining on the barony, more villagers awaited him when he entered the hall, several with tales of further affliction. And it would only get worse in the days and weeks ahead.
He started toward them, but paused when Ahmad beckoned with his expressive eyes.
