by Tamara Leigh
Liam stared at the empty doorway, pondering what his father had on more than one occasion pondered himself: the bending of Ivo to Emma's will. Though Montgomery Fawke had once suggested that Ivo was taken with Emma, it had been his real belief—as it was Liam's—that the woman was privy to a secret Ivo did not wish told. If so, knowing Emma, Liam predicted she would take it with her to the grave.
Liam sat down on the mattress beside Oliver. "You wish to know about your father?" he asked.
His confusion evident, Oliver said, "Papa's gone?"
"Aye, Oliver, he is gone."
"Why?"
Damn Ivo for putting him in this situation! Had his uncle left it to the boy's mother to tell him, he could now be out upon the land ensuring that all was in order on the barony. "He had an accident," he said, rising above his unease to choose his words carefully. "Your father was riding his horse and fell from it."
"An' died?" Oliver said, though Liam knew he could not possibly grasp the full meaning.
"He did."
"Why?"
Liam wondered at his question. Why had Maynard fallen from his horse? Or why—
"Was it God, Unca Liam?" Oliver asked, his hand creeping onto Liam's thigh.
"God?"
Oliver nodded. "I had a kit-cat an' he died too. Mama said it was 'cause God needed him to guard His gates. Was it God, Unca Liam?"
Liam found himself answering as he would never have believed himself capable of doing. "Aye, God needed a mighty warrior in heaven," he said, "so he called your father to Him."
It seemed exactly the reassurance Oliver needed. "Then that's a'right he died, huh? He's happy there."
Providing it was in heaven and not in hell that Maynard had landed. Liam's thoughts turned dark again. Truly, he could not believe God would be merciful with one such as his brother. However, as if to prove him wrong, Oliver began rolling the top between his hands. He was so like Maynard had been as a boy. So innocent and sweet.
Liam closed his eyes. Maynard had been accepting of his bastard brother when he was too young to know otherwise. In fact, at first he had adored the brother whom he too soon learned to hate.
"You sad?" Oliver guilelessly brought Liam back to him.
Liam opened his eyes, "A little." "Why?"
That one word was nearly enough to push back all of Liam's pain with laughter. Throughout the journey to Ashlingford, he had listened to Oliver ask it over and over again of his mother. Her answers, and her son's persistence, had made him smile when he had not thought a single smile left in him. "I am just remembering your father—my brother," he said.
"You loved my papa?"
Liam was about to lie and tell Oliver he had when he realized it was not a lie. He had loved his little brother, and Maynard loved him. There was no lie in that—only in the years that had followed. "I did," he said.
Oliver nodded, then surprised Liam by asking, "Who gonna be my papa now? You, Unca Liam?"
Liam nearly choked. He a father to Maynard's son? A husband to Maynard's wife? Not only forbidden but impossible. "Nay, Oliver," he said, "but I will be your friend." For as long as the boy was not corrupted by Ivo, he added to himself, but mayhap that would not happen with Joslyn present.
Oliver pondered a moment. "Why?"
Feeling as if the burden of ages was lifted from him—even if only for these few moments—Liam laughed. And Oliver began to giggle.
Ivo wanted to scream. As his gaze followed the old bitch across the hall, he wished her dead with every last particle of his being. She was a curse unto him, having darkened his days from the first, and she would continue to darken them until he found some way to rid himself of her. But once again she had made it impossible for him to seek her end. Dissatisfied with what she already used to control him, she had gone further. Too far.
Opening his palm, Ivo looked at the coins Emma had triumphantly dropped into it and slowly curled his fingers back over them. "Burn in hell, you old bitch!" he rasped.
Instead, it was he who felt the heat. A fire growing in his head, he dropped it back against the wall and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. The wily old hag. Had he known she'd been listening to Maynard's deathbed confession, he would not have been so eager to accompany Liam to Rosemoor. Instead, he would have followed later—after he'd first claimed what was his.
God, but he needed a woman! Any woman would do. Intending to find one, he pushed off the wall, but in the next instant stayed himself with the remembrance of the coins grown warm in his palm. For a moment he was tempted to fling them against the far wall, but he restrained himself with the reminder that though they were few compared to the whole, they were enough to keep him for at least a month—and quite well. His hands trembling with a fury that needed to be spent soon, he dropped the money into his purse and then crossed the hall.
13
They hardly knew him, but still the two children were drawn to where he stood before the fire pit. "Sir Liam/' The older boy greeted him. Liam smiled. "How are you, Michael?" "Very good, sire." "And you, Emrys?"
The four-year-old paused to tug on his chausses, which were torn at the knee. "My leg hurts, sire," he said. "Fell down."
"And how did you do that?"
Emrys grinned. "Chasin' Gertie."
"Why were you chasing her? She's much smaller than you—only two years old."
"She had my ball and wouldn't give it back."
"Ah," Liam said. "You didn't hurt her, did you?"
He shook his head. "Nay, sire."
Liam saw that the little girl who trailed behind the boys looked to have suffered no ill. "And Gertrude," he said. "How are you?"
She gave him a quick smile, then sank her teeth into her bottom lip and averted her gaze to the dirt floor.
Glancing across the single-room dwelling, Liam looked to where the man and woman stood watching quietly. The woman was pregnant again, and from the rise of her skirts around her middle he figured she was likely to deliver within the next month. Inwardly, Liam groaned. These three not included, she already had four children of her own. How was she going to manage with eight?
He looked at each of the three children and saw what he saw whenever he looked at Oliver: Maynard's face in theirs. Here was a portion of the seed Maynard had so carelessly scattered. The misbegotten. Over the past five years, Liam had brought each of them to this family. Michael had been the first, coming here after his mother had died birthing her second child. Then Emrys had come, who lost his mother when she fell beneath the plow. Last, there was little Gertrude. A year ago, her mother had run off with a merchant, leaving her daughter behind.
With a sigh, Liam opened the pouch he held, took out three coins, and pressed one into each of the children's palms. Amid gleeful shouts, he strode across the room and handed the pouch to the man. "Send word if you need more," he said, and left.
Lifting her head from the pillow, Joslyn looked at the morning sunlight streaming in through the window. She had slept the remainder of the day and then the night through, she realized. "Mama."
Twisting her head around, she looked into her son's face where he rested his chin on the mattress. "Would you like to come up?" she asked.
With a shake of his head, he lowered his gaze to the coverlet and began running his fingers over its rumpled surface. "Tis not so big a bed as Papa's," he said.
Though disappointed by his lack of interest in joining her, Joslyn asked, "Isn't it?"
"Nay!" he exclaimed. "Papa's is" —Stepping back, he threw his arms wide— "big as this room."
Joslyn smiled. "Really?"
"Uh-huh."
She lowered her feet to the floor and stood. "You will have to show it to me later." "I will."
Kneeling, Joslyn held her arms out to him. "First a morning hug, and then we will dress and go below-stairs to break our fast."
As expected, Oliver played with her. Lowering his head so she could not see the smile tugging at his mouth, he crossed his arms over his chest and peeked at her from
beneath his lashes.
"Not even a little hug?" Joslyn pleaded.
He shook his head.
Knowing well the response he sought, she sighed heavily and feigned a pout.
With a giggle of glee, Oliver lunged forward and fell against her. Joslyn hugged him tight, thus ending the morning ritual begun six months past.
"Hungry," Oliver said, emerging from her embrace.
As she stood, Joslyn swept searching eyes over the chamber for sight of their clothing.
Oliver pointed to the iron-banded chest at the foot of the bed. "Emma put 'em there," he said.
She walked to the chest and lifted the lid. To the right lay a small, neatly folded pile of boy's clothing, and to the left an assortment of women's garments. She frowned. "These are not ours, Oliver. Do you know what Emma has done with our clothes?"
"Washin' 'em, but we can wear these."
"Did she tell you that?"
"Uh-huh."
Though Joslyn would have preferred their own garments to those of strangers, she really had no choice. They could not go belowstairs scantily dressed as they were.
After dressing Oliver, she chose the plainest of the gowns—which was still far more lavish than anything she owned. However, as she lifted it above her head to draw it on, something fell to her brow and from there to the floor.
Frowning, Joslyn searched out the object from where it glinted among the rushes, bent down, and retrieved it.
"What is it, Mama?" Oliver asked.
She turned it front to back. "'Tis a coin," she said. But it would buy far more than a pastry from a vendor. Of gold and good weight, it could keep a person very well for at least a month. How curious.
Enthusiasm lighting his face, Oliver stepped nearer. "Where'd it come from?"
Joslyn smiled. "If I did not know better, I would say it had fallen from the sky."
Oliver searched the ceiling overhead. "Did it not?"
"Methinks more likely it was caught in the folds of the gown."
"Oh." He was obviously disappointed.
Joslyn ruffled his hair. Then, thinking she would give the coin to Liam when next she saw him, she secreted it in the clothes chest and finished dressing.
"A'most forgot," Oliver said as they started down the corridor toward the stairs. "Forgot what?" Joslyn asked. "Papa's dead."
Her heart thudded. Halting, she stared after her son as he continued on ahead of her. "Oliver," she called to him, her voice hardly more than a breath.
He looked around. "Hmm?"
"Come, I need to speak to you."
"I'm hungry," he reminded her.
"I know, but 'twill take only a moment."
Obedient, though obviously unhappy about it, he trudged back to where she stood.
Lowering herself beside him, Joslyn brushed the hair out of his eyes and asked, "Who told you your father had died?"
"Unca Liam."
Her muscles clenched. The man had no right to speak to her son of the death of his father. It was her place to do that, not Liam Fawke's. She'd had every intention of telling Oliver just as soon as they were settled at Ashlingford. Joslyn drew a steadying breath. "And what did he tell you?"
Oliver scratched his head. "That Papa fell off his horse, an' that's how he died."
"Anything else?"
"Papa's in heaven." Oliver wagged a finger toward the ceiling. "A war'r for God."
Heaven. A warrior for God. Joslyn found it hard to believe those words had come from Liam. Though she trusted he would say naught hateful of his departed brother to Oliver, never would she have expected him to say kind words about him. "Your Uncle Liam said that?" she asked.
"Aye, but he won't be my papa."
Joslyn forced a smile to her lips. "You asked him to be your papa?"
"Uh-huh, but he jus' gonna be my friend."
Part of her was angry with Liam for his interference, but another part was touched by the kind light he had cast on Maynard.
"We eat now?" Oliver asked.
Joslyn nodded.
He turned and scurried toward the stairs. "Go slowly," Joslyn said. "I will."
Joslyn reflected on what her son had told her as she followed him down the stairs and into the hall. It was empty but for two servants, who were busy spreading fresh rushes, and Oliver, who stood in the middle of it looking lost. As at Rosemoor, the simple morning meal was served at the first breaking of day. For the luxury of sleeping in an extra hour or two, Joslyn and Oliver would have to seek their bread and cheese in the kitchens.
"This way," Joslyn called to Oliver.
He trailed her down a corridor that wafted sweetly of preparations already begun for the noon meal. "Ooh," he breathed as he stepped into the large room behind her.
Looking down, Joslyn saw wonder in his eyes as they went from servants to worktables to cavernous fireplaces, where great iron cauldrons hung by hook and chain.
How humble Rosemoor was compared to Ashlingford, Joslyn thought.
"Seems a sweet child," one of the kitchen maids said, unaware that Joslyn and Oliver had entered the kitchen.
"Aye, not like his father," another agreed.
The woman kneading dough a table away snorted loudly. "Too young to tell. Likely he'll prove himself more than worthy of his father's seed."
They spoke of Oliver, Joslyn realized with dismay. However, rather than retreat as she was inclined to do, she stepped forward, knowing there would be no better time to assert herself as mother of the heir of Ashlingford.
Several of the kitchen maids looked up, and those who did not were nudged into noticing who had come into their midst.
Oliver was the first to break the silence. "Whatcha makin'?" he asked, gripping the edge of the table and going up on tiptoe to peer at the woman who kneaded dough, the same who had made the derogatory comment about him.
The maid looked from Oliver to his mother, frowned over Joslyn's attire, then dropped her gaze back to the child. "Bread," she said.
"I taste?" Oliver asked.
The woman's lids fluttered with surprise. "I would let ye, child, but 'tis not yet baked." "That's a'right. Like it that way." A tight smile squeezed onto her lips. "Ye do?" "Uh-huh."
She glanced at where Joslyn stood watching the exchange. "Tis all right does he have a pinch, my lady?"
"Aye, but just that," Joslyn said, pleased that Oliver had managed to turn the woman's bitter mouth into one almost sweet.
"Ye wished something, milady?"
Joslyn looked to the kitchen maid who had come to stand beside her. "Aye, some bread and cheese for my son and me to break our fast," she said.
With a bob of her head, the woman turned away.
A short time later, Joslyn and Oliver set about satisfying their hunger beneath the watch of the servants, who tried to hide their curiosity behind their tasks. Hardly a word did any of them speak, and the few snippets exchanged were too hushed for Joslyn to hear what was being said. But she didn't really need to, for it was certainly about her and her son.
As Joslyn popped the last crust of bread into her mouth, she looked up to see Emma enter the kitchens.
Smiling at Oliver, the old woman walked to where he sat perched upon the stool beside his mother. "You are near ready?" she asked.
With a nod, Oliver swallowed the last of his mouthful, glanced at Joslyn, and said, "Full."
Wondering what he was ready for, Joslyn brushed the crumbs from his mouth and lifted him down to the floor. "You have planned something?" she asked Emma.
"Aye, the little lord and 1 are going to explore the castle this morn, aren't we, Oliver?"
An eager smile leapt onto his face. "Aye, explorin'!"
"You would join us, my lady?"
Joslyn would have, but in this she saw an opportunity to seek out Liam and confront him on his having told Oliver of his father's death. "Mayhap I will join you later," she said. "There are some things I need to do first."
Emma nodded and stepped back to consider Joslyn's attire
. "Better too large than too small," she mused. "Thus I can alter it to fit."
Joslyn looked down her front. "It will suffice until my own garments are cleaned."
"Aye, but you did not bring much with you, lady," Emma reminded her. "You will need more than what you have brought to be the lady of Ashlingford."
"I am sure my father will send the rest of my garments soon," Joslyn said. "And Oliver's."
Emma looked skeptical, as if she doubted that Joslyn's manor attire would be appropriate for Ashlingford. And perhaps it wouldn't be, Joslyn thought. Though these things fit poorly, they were fashioned of the finest fabric and worked with such detail they had to have cost dearly. In fact, she did not think her entire wardrobe could have cost what this one outfit must have. "Whose garments are these?" she asked.
"They were the Lady Anya's."
Joslyn glimpsed on Emma's face a fleeting emotion she could not identify. Bitterness, perhaps? Dislike? Certainly not regret. Had her husband's mother been as disliked as he? Joslyn wondered. Had there never been peace at Ashlingford?
"You are being most patient, my boy," Emma said to Oliver. "Should we go?"
"Aye, now." He gave her skirts a tug.
Emma looked back at Joslyn. "Do join us when you are able to," she said. Then, taking Oliver's small hand in hers, she started for the door.
"I will see you later, Oliver," Joslyn called after him.
He looked over his shoulder, smiled and said, "Later, Mama."
And now for Liam, Joslyn thought, as she watched the door close behind Emma and Oliver.
Leaving the kitchens by way of the back door, she stepped out into sunshine tempered by a slight breeze. The herbal garden to her right, the flower garden to her left, she paused a moment to enjoy the sight and then continued out into the bustle of the inner bailey.
As much a curiosity here as she had been in the kitchens, Joslyn walked among people who spoke behind their hands and scrutinized her as if she meant trouble for them.
Time, she reminded herself. That was all it would take for her and Oliver to be accepted.
Crossing the drawbridge into the outer bailey and still finding no sight of Liam, she approached one of the men-at-arms. "Do you know where I might find Lord Fawke?" she asked.
