Misbegotten

by Tamara Leigh

  "What is it you want of me, my son?" Father Paul asked.

  "There is the question of who stands to inherit my brother's estates."

  Folding his hands before him, the priest nodded toward the tables. "I believe it would be Oliver."

  Joslyn saw a muscle jerk in Liam's jaw. He was not pleased. "Then the child is legitimate born?" he asked.

  Joslyn leaped up. How dare Liam Fawke suggest her son had been born out of wedlock, that she had lain with Maynard without having first spoken vows! However, before she could voice her resentment, Father Ivo gripped her arm and urged her back down.

  "It matters not," he whispered.

  She drew a shaky breath. He was right, of course. There was naught to be gained in going against Sir Liam again. At least not yet.

  "Of course Oliver is legitimate," the priest said. "Tis Lady Joslyn we speak of, sir, not a common trollop."

  "When was she wed to my brother?" "The year of our Lord 1344," he said. "The end of autumn, was it not, Lady Joslyn?"

  Clenching her jaw so tight it made her teeth ache, she nodded.

  “Aye” the priest continued "There were leaves upon the ground and a storm in the making. I remember it well.”

  “Was the marriage recorded?"

  “Certainly. No marriage or birth in Rosemoor goes unwritten. By my own hand it was inscribed in the church docket.”

  “And the banns were read prior to the ceremony?"

  The priest shook his head. "Nay, a special license was obtained to forego the reading."

  Whatever coursed through Liam's mind, it boded no good for Joslyn and Oliver. Eyes narrowing and nostrils flaring, he said, "I would see the license and the church docket."

  "I do not lie, Sir Liam," Father Paul objected, "and neither am I so old I cannot remember."

  "I will see them."

  Though the man of God looked near to arguing the matter, he drew a calming breath and nodded. "They are at the church. If you like,. I will show you."

  Liam looked around at his uncle. “Do you come?"

  Father Ivo rose. "It surprises me that you would even ask, William."

  For a moment, Joslyn foundered over the calling of his nephew by another name, but then remembered Maynard mentioning his brother's refusal to take the English form of Liam. "William." She mouthed the name and tried again to fit her tongue around it. Nay, not at all fitting for the man she had these past hours come to loathe and fear. Liam Fawke would never be William. Looking up, she was startled to discover him watching her—no doubt having seen her play over the name he refused.

  "Lady Joslyn," he said, "I would ask that you remain inside the manor until my return."

  It was more than a request. It was an order that would undoubtedly be enforced by his men. "And if I do not?" she asked, daring where Father Ivo would have warned her not to.

  His gaze narrowing, he said, "You are free to move about the manor."

  She simply could not help herself. Standing, Joslyn grasped either side of her skirt and bowed low. "I am most grateful, sir knight," she said. "Your thoughtfulness is beyond measure."

  A deep silence met this mocking reply, followed shortly by the sound of boots over the floor. Glancing up from her obeisance, Joslyn watched Liam stride from the hall. Then he was gone, leaving the two priests and her to stare at the empty space he left behind.

  Straightening, Joslyn shifted her attention to Father Ivo, expecting him to admonish her again for goading Liam. However, all he did was frown hard at her before following his nephew.

  Meeting Father Paul's reproving gaze, Joslyn said, I tried, Father, but still it came." "As it always does," he said, his eyes reflecting memories of past mischiefs. Then he turned and left her and Oliver to be the only occupants of the hall

  4

  They were prisoners in their own home, Joslyn realized as she stepped from the wooden tub and into the towel her maid held for her. But what would Sir Liam's return from the church make them? With verification of her marriage to Maynard and Oliver's legitimacy established, what would he do?

  Though when he had ridden on the manor she had believed murder to be his intent, having thought on it this past hour, she realized it had been an irrational fear. If misfortune befell them— especially so soon following Maynard's death—it would be too obvious who had done the deed. Sir Liam would gain naught and might well lose his life. She sensed Father Ivo would make certain of that.

  "You may go," Joslyn told the maid as she slipped her arms into the sleeves of her robe. "I will put Oliver to bed myself."

  "Very good, my lady." Gathering Joslyn's and Oliver's soiled garments, the woman left.

  Joslyn walked to the table where she had earlier set out her sewing kit. From it she removed the finest of her needles and began to pick at the splinters she'd taken in both palms while wielding the rake this afternoon. Every one of them Liam Fawke's fault.

  "I've done it, Mama!" Oliver cried a few minutes later.

  A wooden top careened across the floor where he had cleared the rushes.

  "My, but you have," she said, "and all by yourself."

  "Aye," he agreed, pride brimming over.

  Realizing she'd given Oliver too little of her attention these past hours, Joslyn set the needle atop the table and went to his side.

  As they watched, the top whirled toward the rushes, grazed the bordering pieces, corrected its course, and moved back onto the bare floor. However, it had lost its momentum. "Quick, spin it again ere it falls," Joslyn prompted.

  Cornering the wobbly toy as if it were a beast to be tamed, Oliver whipped it with his stick and set it to spinning again. Unfortunately, it spun away and beneath the bed.

  Oliver groaned.

  Joslyn ruffled his damp hair. "Fetch it and you may try once more ere I tuck you in."

  His scrubbed cheeks plumping like shiny apples, he smiled and went down on his hands and knees beside the bed.

  She would have to tell him, Joslyn thought. Though Oliver knew about his father, he had not known him. Only once following Oliver's birth had

  Maynard come to see his son, and as the child had been barely a year old, Oliver could not possibly remember the handful of hours his father had spent with him. He knew only of his existence, which was hardly less than Joslyn had known of the man.

  She sighed. If only she could grieve for her husband, squeeze a tear from behind her eye for the man who had fathered her son. But there had been nothing more to their relationship than Oliver. Nothing.

  Lost in her thoughts, it was a moment before she heard the light tapping. "Who goes?" she asked as she crossed to the door.

  "Tis I, Father Ivo," a voice whispered through the doorjamb.

  He had returned from the church, meaning Liam Fawke was likely to have returned as well. "May I enter?"

  Joslyn glanced down at her robe, then behind her, to where Oliver's searching made him oblivious to their caller.

  Thoughtfully, she nipped her bottom lip. Though Father Ivo had told her he would come to her this eve, surely they might talk as well tomorrow. "I am readying for bed," she said. "Can it not wait till the morrow?"

  "Nay, it cannot."

  "But—"

  "Make haste, someone comes," he hissed.

  Knowing it would not do for the priest to be caught lingering outside her door, Joslyn pulled it open.

  With a rustle of robes, Father Ivo slipped in. Joslyn closed the door and leaned back against it, then met Father Ivo's eyes, which gleamed with an appreciation she had never seen in Father Paul's.

  "Why, you are not without comeliness, lady," he said.

  Self-consciously, Joslyn pulled her robe tighter and nodded to the tub of water. "Tis quite a miracle a soak and a scrub can work," she said.

  "A miracle indeed."

  Uncomfortable beneath his continued scrutiny, she walked to where Oliver stood, top in hand and a frown on his face. "Are you going to try it again?" she asked, nodding to the top.

  He pointed to t
he priest. "What's he doin' here?"

  "Father Ivo has come to speak with me. It shan't take long." Though Joslyn expected him to ask why, he surprised her by bending down to work his top again.

  Joslyn turned to face Father Ivo. "The docket was in order?"

  He nodded. "As expected."

  "And Sir Liam? What had he to say?"

  "Naught." He lowered himself into a nearby chair.

  Ignoring that propriety should have seen her seated first, Joslyn remained standing. "Then?" she prompted.

  He steepled his hands before his face. "You know you can trust me, do you not?"

  All Joslyn knew was that Maynard had trusted him—but only to a point, for he had not told his uncle of his marriage. "You were loyal to my husband," she answered.

  "As I will be to you, lady."

  "How?"

  "I offer you the protection of the church. With me, you and Maynard's son will be safe."

  As if Oliver were not her son as well, Joslyn reflected. "Safe?" she repeated. "From your nephew?"

  "Nephew," Ivo scoffed. "William is no more nephew to me than I am uncle to him."

  "You are his father's brother."

  "Maynard was my nephew," he said, his mouth trembling with sudden emotion. "William is a bastard, and that is all."

  Although from what Maynard had told her, and what she'd seen this day, Joslyn shouldn't have been surprised, she was nevertheless taken aback by the priest's vehemence. What had his misbegotten nephew done to deserve such loathing? "Is he responsible for Maynard's death?" she asked.

  His eyes darkened ominously. "He is."

  Joslyn's blood ran cold. Had she been foolishly secure in believing Maynard's brother would not move against Oliver and her? "But if he killed his brother, why—"

  "I did not say he killed Maynard," Father Ivo snapped, coming up out of the chair, "but he is as responsible as if he had."

  "I do not understand."

  "Mama?" Oliver asked, his concerned face materializing next to Joslyn.

  "All is well," she told him, forcing a smile. "Are you ready for me to tuck you in?"

  He shook his head. "One more time, please."

  "One more time," she echoed, and looked back at Father Ivo. "Tell me," she said.

  He opened his mouth as if to do so, but closed it in the next instant. "As William will soon discover me gone and come searching, it will have to wait."

  The thought of Liam Fawke coming into her chamber and seeing her attired in her robe, her hair wet about her shoulders and her feet bare, was disconcerting.

  "I will come for you and Oliver at midnight, after the changing of the guard," Father Ivo said. "Why?"

  "We will seek an audience with King Edward, you and I. Oliver's right to Ashlingford must be secured ere William reaches London and attempts to convince the king otherwise."

  "I do not know that I wish to claim the barony for Oliver," Joslyn said, having spent the past hour dragging the idea back and forth.

  "But of course you will claim it!" Ivo exclaimed. "It belongs to him as Maynard's son."

  "And my son," she reminded him, annoyed that he again disregarded her part in bringing Oliver into the world.

  The priest was silent a long moment, his only movement that of his fingers as he repeatedly drew the chain of his crucifix through them. "Aye, yours and Maynard's," he acceded with a nod. "Of course."

  Appeased yet wary, Joslyn reached out and lightly skimmed a hand over Oliver's bent head. "I fear for him," she murmured.

  Father Ivo stepped near her. "Once the king acknowledges the rightful heir of Ashlingford, we will send William away. He will not be able to touch Oliver, nor will he, knowing that suspicion would fall first on him."

  "Still, I—"

  "What has Oliver if you deny him his birthright?" Ivo demanded, his voice rising. "A meager manor when 'tis an immense barony he should one day rule?"

  Not even Rosemoor, Joslyn thought. It was to her wayfaring brother the manor would pass when her father died. There would be nothing for her son.

  "'Tis not your decision to make," Father Ivo continued more gently, "but Oliver's."

  And he was too young to even care. "But how can Ashlingford be managed without a lord?" she asked. "It will be many years ere Oliver is ready to assume his place there."

  As if this had not occurred to him, Father Ivo contemplated the floor for a long moment. Then he turned, clasped his hands behind his back, and walked across the chamber. At the opposite wall he paused and pivoted. "I will do it," he said finally.

  "You?"

  "If it pleases you, lady, I will manage the barony for Oliver until he is of an age to bear the responsibility himself."

  Joslyn closed her eyes. It was true. She had no right to take from Oliver what belonged to him. Ashlingford was his future. "Very well," she said. "We will accompany you."

  Father Ivo's mouth curved almost into a smile. "Midnight," he said, and walked to the door. "Have you a court gown?" he asked over his shoulder.

  "A court gown?"

  He raised his eyebrows, reminding her of her earlier attire. "You must charm the king, Lady Joslyn, not shock him."

  She nodded. "I have one." At least she hoped it would suffice.

  "Midnight," he said again, opening the door a crack.

  "Father Ivo?"

  He glanced back at her.

  "What of Sir Liam's men? How do you intend to get past them?"

  He closed his hand around the hilt of the sword that looked so out of place against his priestly vestments. "Of the church I may be," he said, "but I am not without resources."

  Then he would shed blood? A holy man? Nay, she could not allow blood on either her or Oliver's hands. Would not.

  As if he read her thoughts, Father Ivo shook his head. "By the flat, not the edge," he said. "No blood will I draw." He opened the door wider and slipped out.

  By the flat? Joslyn pondered, but a moment later threw the worrisome question off. So long as he did not kill. With no time to waste, she hurried to her chest and threw back the lid.

  The flat of the blade striking the soldier's brow produced no more than a choked protest, and then the man crumpled to the ground.

  Ivo held his sword horizontally, one gloved hand gripping the hilt, the other the end of the blade as he stared down at his victim. Then he dropped to his haunches. Having more of a care for his weapon than the hapless man it had downed, he gently laid the sword aside and proceeded to remove a rope and rag from inside his mantle.

  From the shadows, Joslyn watched as he deftly trussed the man hand and foot, gagged him, and dragged him into the bushes—as if he'd done it many times before.

  "Come," Ivo urged, his voice a harsh whisper in

  the night. Leading the way, he set off across the expanse of moonlit green before the manor.

  Passing by the unfortunate soldier with Oliver fast asleep against her shoulder, Joslyn grimaced. Though no blood had been shed of the two the priest had thus far overwhelmed, each would bear an unsightly swelling in the middle of his forehead and a dreadful throbbing there when he regained consciousness.

  Joslyn felt guilty for the punishment they would surely reap in having allowed her and Oliver to escape. She could not even begin to imagine Liam Fawke's anger.

  Quickening her steps to keep up with Father Ivo, she held Oliver tight for fear she might lose her footing and drop him. But her feet knew well where she trod, even in spots the moonlight failed to reach. Born at Rosemoor Manor, she'd taken her first steps over this same ground, played the games of youth upon it, and, as she'd grown older, daydreamed as she strolled it.

  But the daydreaming was done now, she reflected, as she stepped off the green and onto the road. Maynard Fawke, and now his bastard brother, had stolen that innocence from her. Now she was a widow with a child, about to make an arduous journey to secure a future she did not want. But for Oliver she would do it.

  "Hurry," Father Ivo called over his shoulder.

  T
hough they both wore black mantles to clothe them in the shadows of night, the light of the half moon would reveal them to any sharp eye that might be watching. Great as Joslyn's burden was, bearing both Oliver and a bundle of their belongings, she stretched her stride to match the priest's. Finally, upon reaching the streets of the village that hid them from sight of the manor, Father Ivo slowed.

  "Where are the horses?" Joslyn asked.

  "At the gates. Father Paul will have them in readiness for us."

  She faltered. "Father Paul?" It surprised her that he would become involved in this. Though no one could question his loyalty to her father, he had always been cautious in the extreme. She could not imagine him stealing into Rosemoor's stables to bring forth their horses—and doing so without being caught by Liam's men!

  Ivo read her thoughts. "He does not do it alone," The priest assured her.

  This certainly made a bit more sense, but not wholly, for Father Paul was not one to risk the lives of others either. "I still cannot imagine he would have agreed," she said.

  "He understands the gravity of the situation, Oliver's future hangs on William's whim."

  "Aye, but—"

  "As you will find when we go before the king," Ivo interrupted, "I am a very persuasive man, Lady Joslyn."

  And, as she was quickly learning, nothing like Father Paul. In fact, Maynard's uncle hardly seemed of the church at all. But then, she had been sheltered most of her life and knew little beyond Rosemoor. Mayhap it was Father Paul who was different.

  Through the sleeping village they wound, and at the gates found the priest waiting for them in the glow of a single torch. Beside him stood two villagers, Bartholomew holding the reins to Ivo's warhorse,

  Carle the reins of the dappled palfrey that belonged to Joslyn.

  Father Paul stepped toward Ivo. "All has been made ready," he said, his concerned gaze glancing off Joslyn. "Though I do still wonder if 'twould not be better to await the return of Lady Joslyn's father, that he might deal with this himself. Word has been sent to him of the baron's death, and—"

  "Nay, 'twill be too late when he arrives." Ivo spoke sharply. "Do we not go this night, William will take the child with him on the morrow."

  Though his face continued to reflect uncertainty, Father Paul nodded. "I suppose you are right." He turned to Joslyn. "Should you not meet up with your sire on the road to London, I will send him to you there."