by Tamara Leigh
Misbegotten
Tamara Leigh
This one is for the belle of North Carolina— my mother, Zola. You taught me life, inspired me with your strength, showed me the power of persistence, and shared the wisdom of your years. But of all these, your love is the greatest gift of all.
1
England, Spring of 1348
He hated the waiting. It made him feel like a vulture circling above an animal that has yet to drag its last breath. But that was what he did— waited for his brother to die so the promises made him would finally be fulfilled.
Heaving a sigh of disgust, Liam swiveled on his heel and strode back toward the opposite end of the great hall. In the past quarter hour, he had paced this same stretch more than a dozen times, scattering the rushes until he had worn a path down to the flooring. Now he did so twice more: past the hearth and stairwell, past the trestle tables and benches stacked against the wall, past the raised dais upon which the lord's high seat awaited him. ..
He halted. Patience, he reminded himself. What were a few hours compared to the past six years? By the morrow, Maynard would take the death pall and all would be as it should have been from the beginning. Liam, bastard-born of Montgomery Fawke, would attain his rightful place as lord of Ashlingford. A baron.
He closed his eyes on the thought. Though he'd shouldered the responsibility of the barony all these years, the title had belonged to his young half brother. But it was Liam who oversaw the immense demesne, supervised the accounts, met the needs of his brother's people, and managed to keep Maynard himself in funds enough to satisfy his excessive way of life. All would be different now, Liam vowed. Never again would anyone control his destiny. . .
"William."
Deep in thought, Liam had not heard his uncle approach. He turned and looked across at the man who refused to call him by the name given him by his Irish mother. A man who was of the holy church and yet had doubtless known more women than had Liam.
Ivo stood at the base of the stairs, his priest's vestments creased from hours spent praying for his nephew, his gaze as accusing as when he had this noon arrived at Ashlingford. "It gnaws at you, doesn't it?" he said.
Liam stared hard at him.
"I speak of all the waiting, of course," Ivo added, though no explanation was necessary.
Although there was truth in what he said, Liam's anger flared at this man's baiting of him. But it was of no different from usual. There had never been and would never be any liking between him and his uncle, Ivo having long ago made known his hatred of his bastard nephew. For the priest there was only Maynard.
"What is it you want?" Liam asked.
"I come from Maynard."
Liam waited for him to continue, but when he did not, asked, "He is dead?"
As if his were a secret that might change the course of the world, an uncommon light entered Ivo's eyes. "You must be patient, my son. 'Twill happen soon enough."
Suspicion merged with anger. "Then what have you come for?" Liam snapped.
Ivo crossed his arms over his chest. "The baron has refused confession and the taking of the Last Sacrament until he has spoken with you. He asks that you attend him at once."
As Maynard had earlier denied him entrance to his death chamber, Liam's suspicions grew. What more was here to talk about that had not already been discussed? What provisions that had not already been made? What knowledge that had yet to be imparted? Something pleasing to Ivo, he concluded, which could only mean all was not as it should be. "I will follow," he said.
With a nod, his uncle lifted his robes and mounted the steps.
Liam watched him go, and only when the stairway stood in its own shadow did he stir. Praying that it would all be over soon, he took the stairs two at a time to the first landing and strode down the corridor and into the chamber.
Instantly, Maynard's gaze fell upon him. "Liam." He spoke barely above a whisper. "Come."
As Liam stepped forward, he glanced at the woman who sat beside Maynard's bed. With her gnarled hands pressing a bunched kerchief to her eyes, she wept. Emma had been with Maynard since his birth. As his wet nurse and later his nursemaid, she had known him better than Anya, his own mother—and had certainly loved him more. However, in spite of her loyalty to the legitimate son, she was always kind to Liam, which was more than most had been.
Standing alongside Ivo, Liam looked down at his brother's pitifully battered body stretched out on the bedclothes. Though it was he who had carried Maynard up to the donjon and laid him upon his bed, the physician had immediately ordered everyone from the chamber. Liam had not had time to see what injuries lay beneath his brother's tunic, but he knew they would be the death of him.
Maynard's collarbone jutted out at a peculiar angle, and where the left side of his lower rib cage ought to have been, there was only a depression, the bones having broken inward. However, it was neither of these injuries that drained the life from him, but deep bruises covering nearly his entire abdomen. Maynard was drowning in the blood of his torn internal organs.
"I am dying," he rasped, the hint of a drunken slur still on his tongue. "But you know that, don't you?"
Liam looked at Maynard's beautiful face. The golden hair was tarnished by dirt, the skin drained of color by the stalking of death. Though he knew better than to feel compassion or pity for this man with whom he'd shared only a father, emotions lurched within him. "I know," he said.
It seemed an effort, but Maynard smiled. "I thought it would be me burying you," he murmured. Thought I would . .. outlive you."
Liam reflected on his brother's reckless life. Maynard had lived as if he would never die. "And then not have had to keep your vow to me," he said.
"Ah, you know me well."
"I do."
"Will you—" Maynard broke off as pain engulfed him. However, by the time the physician reached his side, it had abated. Waving the man away, he asked, Will you take a wife now, Liam?"
"I will." Though Liam had intended to wed before this time, the affairs of the barony had always been too pressing. Also, in the back of his mind had been the possibility that Maynard might go back on his word—that he might marry and produce an heir after vowing he would not. But now, intentional or otherwise, it appeared he had kept his side of the bargain, in exchange for Liam's years of managing the barony, which had abundantly financed Maynard's ventures and exploits, Ashlingford would become Liam's. Of course, there was still the matter of Ivo's secret. . . .
Will she be Irish?" Maynard asked. With a snort of disgust, Ivo shook his head. So now it was Maynard's turn to bait him, Liam thought. Although it would have served him better all these years to have turned his back on his mother's people—to have used William, the English form of the name his mother gave him, and refused association with the Irish—he had not. Nevertheless, it was true that the woman he married would be of the English side of him, for Ashlingford needed a lady of that noble blood. "Nay,” he said. "I will marry English.”
"At least in that hope Maynard may rest in peace," Ivo muttered.
It took every bit of Liam's will to keep his fists at his sides and not set upon the holy man.
"That is good," Maynard said. "Thin the Irish out of your line." Though long ago he had learned to keep his mouth closed on his loathing for Liam, now that he was dying he dared where normally he never would.
Liam clenched his fists tighter, the muscles in his hands straining as he fought to control the temper he was well known for, a temper foretold by the red of his hair. "I am pleased that you approve," he said.
Maynard let his lids close a moment and then dragged them back open. "How is your head?" he asked, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.
Liam needed no reminder of the blow Maynard had dealt him across the bac
k of his skull when the younger man had come to steal from the barony's coffers last eventide, no reminder at all. Upon regaining consciousness he had felt such an explosion of pain he had nearly been blinded by it—and still the swelling throbbed fiercely. "I will live," he said.
Maynard smiled and beckoned. "Bend near me, brother. I have something to tell you."
Ivo shifted restlessly and turned his face away.
Still, Liam could see the upward tug of his mouth—triumphant—and he rubbed the chain of his crucifix between his fingers as he always did to curb his impatience. Aye, here was what the priest had been waiting for, Liam realized: the secret revealed.
Feeling a tightness in his chest, Liam leaned near his brother.
"Closer," Maynard whispered, the stench of drink upon his breath.
Liam ground his teeth together and turned his ear to his brother's mouth.
"I have won, you bastard," Maynard said in a rasping voice. "'Tis not you who will gain Ashlingford, but my son."
The words knelling through him, Liam slowly straightened. "The barony is more rightfully mine than any of the misbegotten sons you have sown on village women," he said. "Should you try to name one of them heir, I vow to petition the king for the baronage. And he will not deny me, Maynard."
"You think I speak of those dirty little whelps?" his brother said scornfully. "I assure you I do not."
Liam felt something drop out of him. Was it his soul? "Who?" he demanded.
With a long-drawn sigh, Maynard closed his eyes. Ah, I am enjoying this immensely," he murmured. One of the few pleasures left me."
Speak," Liam ordered.
Liam!" Emma reproved, past her sobbing. "Your brother lies dying, and you—"
He will die the sooner, by my hands, if he does not tell me. Who, Maynard?"
Opening his eyes, he met Liam's gaze. "My legitimate son," he said.
Though he knew it to be the truth the moment it was spoken, Liam repeated, "Legitimate?" Maynard laughed, but only for a moment before he overcome with a hacking cough. Finally, the spasm subsided, leaving his pallid face flecked with drops of blood. "So you see," he said, "you have given yourself for naught. Six years of your life. And I thank you for every one of them, brother."
Liam felt as if turned to stone. For naught. Without his knowledge Maynard had wed some woman and produced an heir, a legitimate son who would claim all that should be Liam's. A fury so deep it threatened to consume every last particle of his being spread through him. It poured into his angry fists, gripped his heart, filled his belly, and tightened every muscle in his body. In that instant he might have killed both Maynard and Ivo, had there not been the English in him to cool his blood.
How could this have happened without his knowledge? How had he not been alerted to what his brother intended? There had been no reading of the banns to announce Maynard's marriage—at least not anywhere near Ashlingford.
Liam grabbed the thread of hope dangling before him. As church law decreed that a marriage between a man and a woman from different parishes must be publicly announced in both, Maynard's marriage might yet be declared void and his son illegitimate. However, the fragile thread snapped with his next thought. No doubt Maynard had purchased a special license to allow him to be wed without announcing it beforehand. And the substantial amount required to buy such dispensation would have been doled out, unwittingly, by Liam.
Thinking Ivo must have been involved, Liam turned to him. "You knew of this?"
The flush of embarrassment creeping up the priest's neck and stealing into his cheeks said otherwise. Though he had long prided himself on bring indispensable to Maynard, his nephew must not have confided in him about his marriage— worse, had not enlisted him to help work the decepcion.
"It surprises you I did it on my own, does it not?" Maynard asked.
Liam looked down at him.
His brother chuckled past a gurgling in his throat. I am not the fool you think I am, Liam. Of course, you may continue on at Ashlingford to serve my son as you have served me."
Liam's deadly emotions rose again. "Where is the gold you stole from me last eve?" he demanded.
Maynard shifted his gaze to Ivo, then back to Liam. "Stole?" he repeated. "From you? As baron of Ashlingford, I took naught that was not already mine."
Fighting to hold back his Irish temper, Liam asked again, "Where is it?"
Maynard affected a frown of uncertainty, then with effort patted a searching hand across his waist. Fancy that. . . gone," he said.
Ivo knew where it was, Liam knew. Recognizing that if he stayed any longer he would make good his threat upon Maynard's life—useless as it would be— he pivoted and strode toward the doorway.
"His name is Oliver," Maynard called to his back.
Liam halted but did not turn around.
"Oliver Fawke," Maynard said with smug satisfaction. "He will be three years old at summer's end."
Dragging in air, Liam asked, "And your wife?"
"She is Lady Joslyn of—" Maynard broke off as another bout of coughing assailed him.
Liam waited.
"Of Rosemoor," Maynard finished.
This explained why Maynard's marriage had gone unnoticed. Rosemoor lay far to the south, so any reading of the banns—had they been read—would not have reached Ashlingford, nor would word have reached the barony. Especially as Maynard had not wished it.
Needing to hear no more, Liam continued from the chamber.
"Do you not want to watch me die?" Maynard asked, but in the next instant choked on his own mockery.
Glancing back, Liam settled his gaze on his brother's writhing body. "You are already dead," he said, and strode down the corridor toward the stairs.
"You bas—" The groan that broke Maynard's words ascended to a high-pitched wail.
Liam tried not to hear it, not to care that his brother was in the throes of death, but still it made him falter. Standing before the stairs, he bent his head and clenched his fists at his sides. He would not think of the brother whom he had once felt great affection for, he told himself. He would not dwell on the one who, as a child, had revered him. Only the Maynard of this last day would he ever again allow in his mind: Maynard the man. And never would he mourn him. Never.
With the sounds of his brother's final groans resounding off the stone walls, Liam forced himself to descend the steps and start across the great hall. However, on reaching the doorway, a silent beckoning caused him to halt his stride. Knowing what it was, he resisted but in the end looked over his shoulder and settled his gaze on the elaborately carved high seat that only the lord of Ashlingford could fill. It awaited him—as it had for more than six long years. And the wait was not yet over.
Feeling betrayed and betrayed again, Liam stepped outside into a sunless spring afternoon that bit him with its chill wind. As he looked across the bailey to the land beyond that should have been his, he did not at first see the gathering at the base of the donjon steps. However, their murmurs dragged him from the mire of what should have been and what was.
"The baron is dead," he announced, knowing that if Maynard's life was not over in this moment, it would be in the next.
The murmur swelled to a din, though not because the castle folk suffered great loss at the death of their lord. They were merely surprised. Although during the first twenty years of his life Liam had numerous times had to prove himself past his Irish blood, it was to him these people had grown loyal, him they regarded as their lord, not the philandering baron of Ashlingford.
Liam drew a deep breath. Nay, his bid for the barony was not finished. This was his destiny. It belonged to him, and he would not so easily hand it Over to the child Maynard had made in order to steal it from him.
Descending the steps, he called for his men and then strode along the path that opened before him. On all sides he was besieged by questioning eyes, but he met none of them. Soon enough they would learn of Maynard's deathbed disclosure.
In the outermost baile
y, a half dozen men on his heels, Liam shouted for horses and provisions. Then, still saying nothing of his intentions, he headed for the smithy.
"Sir Liam!" a familiar voice exclaimed. "What commotion is this?"
Liam's thoughts jerked to a halt. Swinging around, he looked at the man who was guiding his mount into the bailey.
Sir John offered him a grin, swung himself down from his destrier, and tossed the reins to his squire.
Liam had forgotten that the knight, being vassal and keeper of the lesser castle of Duns, had been expected this day to discuss his accounts. But no longer did it matter. After sending his men on to the smithy with orders that their weapons be sharpened for travel, he strode to where John stood picking at the lingers of his gloves.
"Surely you are not leaving," the knight said. "We've business to discuss and ..." He trailed off as his gaze settled on Liam. "Something is amiss?"
"Maynard is dead."
Leaving the glove dangling from the end of his hand, Sir John said, "Dead? Good God, Liam, how?"
"Rode his horse into a ravine last eve."
"But how can that be? He was as capable a rider as any."
Liam raised an eyebrow.
Understanding, the knight answered his own question with as much disgust as he'd always had for the baron of Ashlingford. "Drunk."
Liam nodded.
"You found him?"
“Nay, he climbed out of the ravine and walked the distance himself."
As if he referred to a horse, John asked, "Did he linger long?"
Liam refused himself the image of his brother lying postrate and broken on the bed. "Long enough."
With a knowing nod, John said, "Gave you a time of it, did he?" He returned his attention to the removal of his gloves. "Well at least 'tis over with. Ashlingford is now truly yours, Liam—I suppose I shall henceforth have to call you 'lord.'"
There was only one whom Liam trusted more than this knight—his steward, Sir Hugh—but still he collared the expression of his rage. Eventually, it would have to be released, but not now. "Ashlingford is not mine” he said. "Yet."
