by Tamara Leigh
He was only guessing, she knew, but he had guessed right. She had known Liam's touch, though not as Ivo implied. Raising her chin, she said, "Believe what you wish, Father Ivo. Now good day." She rose from the bench and started toward the door.
"Understand this, Lady Joslyn," he called after her. "If your wanton behavior continues—and William's— you will leave me no choice but to appeal to the bishop for relief."
She turned back around. "What is it you are threatening?"
"I threaten naught." He clasped his hands together. "I am simply telling you what I intend to do if you do not cease with William."
"You will go to the bishop?"
"I will."
"And tell him what?"
As if the battle were his, Ivo smiled. "What has gone between you and William, of course."
"You do not know what has gone between us," she said, her dislike of this man growing stronger with each passing moment. "You only believe you do."
Ivo's nostrils flared. "I know that you have lain with your husband's brother," he said. "Your brother now, Lady Joslyn. A sin for which punishment is due."
What punishment would he call for? she wondered. A flogging? The humiliation of being pilloried for all to scorn? Worse, a far-reaching pilgrimage of penance that would see her torn from Oliver?
Refusing to give in to fear, Joslyn shook her head.
"Nay, Father Ivo, you are wrong. I have not lain with Liam Fawke, and if you speak such to the bishop"— There was only one thing she knew that might deter him—"I will myself seek an audience with him that he might be advised of how holy his holy man really is."
Ivo's eyes narrowed. "I do not know what you speak of, Lady Joslyn."
"Aye, you do. The raid, Father Ivo."
Something flashed in his gaze—alarm?—but he hid it behind scorn. "You refer to my use of the sword," he said, though there was question in his voice.
Joslyn refused him an answer. Let him ponder whether it was the letting of blood she referred to or his being the one responsible for the raid—or both— she thought.
"Sometimes circumstances dictate unusual measures," Ivo said, in an obvious attempt to prod a response from her.
"As they do now," Joslyn said. "And now that we understand each other, I bid you good day." Half expecting him to call her on her threat, she turned away. But he let her go.
Joslyn returned to her chamber, and only when the door was closed behind her did she release her breath. Though time would tell whether or not Ivo regarded her threat as real, one thing was certain— she had this day made herself an enemy.
Thornemede.
Liam stood on the threshold looking into a hall that might once have been preceded by the word
"great" but was now so utterly decrepit it was little more than a hovel.
"And this I am lord of," he murmured.
"It does not get any better, does it?" Sir John asked, referring to all else they had seen of Thornemede this past hour.
All else but the fairly impressive number of sheep that had grazed the fields, Liam thought. Here was wool that could be exported, and the profits would begin to fill the barony's empty coffers—but only just. As for the rest of Thornemede, the two villages they had paused at on their way to the castle had been sparsely peopled, and those who had come out of their homes to receive them had seemed dismal and dejected. Most of the fields they passed had long been without the turning of a plow, the majority of the roads were in disrepair, and the rest of the castle was no better than this hall.
With its stinking moat, crumbling outer wall, inner buildings that looked near to collapsing, and the waste of humans and animals everywhere one stepped, Thornemede was worse than even he had imagined it could be. Too, though it was still occupied by the servants and retainers of the departed baron, it appeared that as many as half had left in search of another lord to pledge their services to.
Had they gone from the barony before Sir Robert had carried them the message of who their new lord was, Liam wondered, or afterward? In the next instant, he chastised himself for asking so foolish a question. As no attempt had been made to put order to Thornemede in anticipation of his arrival, it could not have been more clear that he was as unwelcome here as he had been at Ashlingford as a child. It didn't matter, though; he would bring every last one of Thornemede's people back. Still, anger coursed through his veins.
Damn King Edward to hell, he silently cursed, and damn himself for having allowed vengeance to sway him to the king's proposal. Then, suddenly, he laughed at the folly of it. As before, his destiny was another's, just as he had vowed it would never be again. Liam Fawke, bastard of Montgomery Fawke, was baron of Thornemede—lord of the thorn, lord of naught.
Slapping his palm to the outerwork of the donjon, Liam repressed his mock mirth and said, "Ah, but as King Edward attested, 'tis of stone and sturdy."
Sir John arched an eyebrow at him.
Looking behind to the dozen Ashlingford men he had chosen to accompany him to Thornemede, Liam saw concern in their eyes. Very likely they thought him building to the Irish in him, he mused, and were steeling themselves for the eruption of his anger. But he was in control—or nearly so.
As the men were his for only a short time ere he must return them to Ashlingford—and Sir John to Duns Castle—Liam decided it was time to put them to use. But first there was one thing he needed to tend to: the children. Lowering his gaze to where the three stood uncertain at the bottom of the steps, he forced a smile. Then he looked to the squire who stood nearby. "Take them into the garden," he said, and added, "providing there is one."
"And if there is not, my lord?"
"Occupy them. Just do not bring them into the hall until I am finished."
The squire nodded, and gestured for the children to follow him.
Had he made a mistake in bringing them? Liam wondered. Though they had only known village life, Thornemede was hardly any better than the wattle-and-daub house they had been fostered in these past years, and certainly less hospitable. Something, though—a need to be certain they were cared for as they deserved to be—had made him bring them with him to Thornemede.
Venting a harsh sigh, Liam stepped into the hall. "Let us be done with it," he said, and strode forward. Ignoring the curious servants who peered at him from the far end of the hall, Liam headed for the clutter of tables and benches that were strewn with knights and men-at-arms. A few had dragged themselves awake amid the commotion of bustling servants, but the others persisted in the bowels of drunken sleep.
Liam seized hold of one man's shoulder and rolled him off his bench. With a thud that shuddered the floorboards, the large man fell to the mildewed rushes. Whether he was a knight or a man-at-arms, was impossible to tell, for there was no longer any distinction between the two classes.
His groan far outweighing the complaining of his companions, who were similarly being awakened, the man forced his lids open. "Whaddya want?" he demanded, his words a drunken slur.
"On your feet!" Liam ordered. "Now!"
The man frowned. "And who might ye be?"
"I am Lord Liam Fawke," Liam said, the title feeling strange upon his tongue. "Baron of Thornemede."
The man's gaze turned insolent. "Ah, the bastard Irish," he said, too drunk to worry what his punishment might be for speaking aloud his loathing.
"On your feet!" Liam repeated.
After a long moment, the man heaved himself onto his side and stood to a height that bettered Liam by several inches.
"What is your name?" Liam asked.
As the great man folded his arms across his chest, the movement caused him to sway, first right, then left. "Gunter Welling," he said, and braced his legs farther apart in an attempt to steady himself. "I am captain of the guard of Thornemede."
"You will address me either as Lord Fawke or as 'my lord/" Liam reminded him.
"Will I?"
"You will—or suffer the consequences."
Gunter arched a bushy eyebro
w. "That so?"
He was drunk, Liam reminded himself. "Are you challenging me, Welling?" he asked.
The man smiled. "Ah, but I know my place, Fawke. What I'm wonderin' is: Do you know yours?"
A murmur went around the hall as Thornemede's retainers speculated on the price the soldier would pay for his belligerence.
Knowing that how he handled this man would set the pattern for his rule of the barony, Liam stepped nearer Gunter. "I am your lord, Welling," he said. "That is my place. However, if you wish to challenge me, I would be more than willing to teach you a lesson in humility." He rested his hand upon his sword hilt.
Gunter followed the movement, and though his jaw moved from side to side he said no more.
"I thought not," Liam said. "I will give you a quarter hour to gather your guard in the outer bailey, Welling, and for every one that is absent I will take it out of your pay. Am I understood?"
Gunter's eyebrows descended, but whatever his feelings, he did not speak them aloud. Instead, he stepped past Liam, called to the men-at-arms who had gathered across the hall, and walked outside.
It was a beginning, Liam thought. Though the captain of the guard did not like him, he would come to respect the new lord of Thornemede.
And now for the knights.
16
How much longer would Liam keep himself from Ashlingford? Joslyn wondered as she entered the hall with Oliver fast asleep in her arms. It was nearly two weeks since he had left, and though she had thought he would have returned by now, he continued to manage Ashlingford through a messenger sent daily between the two baronies. Although Joslyn would admit it to no one, his absence made her feel almost empty.
Suddenly, Emma appeared before her. "Come, let us sit and talk a moment/' she suggested.
Joslyn allowed the woman to guide her across the hall to a padded bench before the hearth. Gratefully, she sank down upon it and settled Oliver against her shoulder. During the past three hours, they had explored every building, corner, and crack of the outer bailey, and now she was tired.
Emma smiled. "Wore you thin, did he?"
Joslyn returned the smile. "And himself. My father says he is much like I was at his age."
Emma raised an eyebrow. "I was thinking he reminded me of Liam, though the boy was a bit older than Oliver when I first came to Ashlingford."
Joslyn would not have expected such a comparison. "Oliver does not remind you of his father?" she asked.
"Aye, a bit, but as a child Maynard was more quiet than Oliver—more into himself, though not in a bad way, mind you. He just did not have the confidence of Liam."
Which Emma also saw in Oliver. "Why do you think that is so?" Joslyn asked, though she guessed it was as Liam had told her: their father had preferred the misbegotten over the legitimate son, which neither Anya nor Ivo had allowed Maynard to forget.
Emma sighed. "Ah, lady, there is much you will never know of Ashlingford—that you do not need to know."
Feeling the woman's withdrawal, Joslyn leaned toward her. "I have waited patiently these past weeks for you to tell me something of the Fawkes. I hardly knew the man I married, and now what I thought I knew of him has come to naught. All he told me were lies. I beseech you, help me, that I may come to understand who it was that fathered Oliver."
"Of course you need to know," Emma conceded, "but just as important as knowing who sired a child upon you, I will tell you so that when the castle folk begin wagging their tongues about Maynard you will understand what it was that made him so."
She paused a moment before beginning her tale.
"Maynard was a sweet child—in that, very like Oliver. Unfortunately, his father did all but ignore him from the day he was born. You see, it was Liam whom Montgomery Fawke loved, and it was as if in loving his misbegotten son he had no love left for any other. Not his wife, Anya, and not Maynard."
There was pain in what Emma said—a deep pain, Joslyn realized.
"Maynard sensed it," she continued, "even when he was too young to understand it. So, he turned to Liam for affection."
"Liam?" Joslyn repeated. It was hard to believe Maynard would ever have looked to his hated brother for emotional support.
"Aye, there was a time when the two brothers cared for each other—when the innocence of childhood was theirs to hide behind, but then they grew up."
Huddling closer to the fire, Emma turned her gaze to the flames. "From the day Maynard was born, Anya worked to keep him from Liam—to draw a distinction between the legitimate and the illegitimate so there would never be a question as to who was the rightful heir of Ashlingford. Then, when Maynard turned two and began attaching himself to Liam, she forbade him to go anywhere near his older brother. That did not stop him, though, nor did Anya's punishment when she caught them playing together. Maynard's need for love was that strong."
"But what of his mother's love?" Joslyn asked. "And Father Ivo? He seems to have cared greatly for Maynard."
Emma glanced at her, and looked back at the fire. "Anya did not love Maynard," she said, a bitter smile drawing her mouth tight. "To her, he was little more than a means of taking Ashlingford from Liam. As for Ivo"—she paused a long moment—"he treated
Maynard as if he were his own son, but Ivo did not know how to love him. And like Anya, he was always more concerned with Maynard as heir than as a child in need of love and affection."
Joslyn felt she had come to know Maynard better these past weeks than ever before—first through Liam's telling of his death, and now through Emma's telling of his early life. "It must have hurt him deeply."
Tears gathering in her eyes, Emma bent her head as if to hide them.
"You loved him, didn't you, Emma." It was more statement that question.
A tremble went through the older woman. "I did. At my own breast I nursed him to walking. My days were his days, my nights his. Hardly was he ever out of my sight, except when I allowed him to steal away with Liam. He was my boy, and I loved him as if he were mine to call 'son.'" A fat tear slid off her lashes and dropped to her lap. "I had thought my love would be great enough that he would not miss his mother's or his father's, but it wasn't—though methinks it might have been had Anya and Ivo only let him be."
Drawing a deep breath, Emma wiped her eyes.
"Worshiping Liam as he did," she continued, "'tis likely Maynard would have been content to walk in his brother's shadow evermore had he not heard every day what Liam had stolen from him and would steal when their father died. More and more time he began to spend with Ivo in study, and by the summer of his seventh year I had lost nearly all of him. A year later, I was to him no more than a woman who served him, and Liam an obstacle in his path to the barony."
Emma covered her face with her hands. "I tried/' she mumbled, "but I could not bring him back."
Joslyn's heart went out to her. Sliding nearer, she put her free arm around the woman's quaking shoulders. "You cannot blame yourself," she said. "Some things only God can undo, and when He leaves them be, it is only that something better will come of the bad."
Emma looked up at her. "He was not evil, my lady. 'Tis true that many were the terrible things he did as he grew into a man, but he was not evil. I swear. Not my boy."
"I believe you," Joslyn said.
Emma eased against her.
Oblivious to Emma's revelations, Oliver continued to sleep against his mother as she sat silent beside the older woman.
"Is it true Maynard promised Ashlingford to Liam in exchange for his management of the estates?" Joslyn asked, though in her heart she already knew the answer.
Emma sighed. "Aye, he did, not only in my presence but before all his knights."
Relieved, yet not, Joslyn looked down into Oliver's face. He was so beautiful, she thought, his cherub cheeks rosy, his lashes long and sweeping— so utterly innocent of the treachery that had won him what should have been another's. What would he say to all this if he were old enough to understand? If he were old enough to have made the
decision himself whether or not to take up the barony of Ashlingford?
Joslyn looked into Emma's eyes. "Then Ashlingford should be Liam's," she concluded, "not Oliver's."
"It should always have been Liam's. Never should King Edward have bestowed it upon Maynard." "But he did."
Emma nodded. "He did, and it was a mistake. More mistake than you can ever know, Lady Joslyn."
But she did know, Joslyn thought. "I have been told that before Maynard called Liam back to Ashlingford, he had nearly laid the barony to ruin," she said.
"Aye, ruin. Were it not for the winnings Liam brought with him from the tournaments, 'tis uncertain what would have become of Ashlingford."
"He put his own money into the barony?" Joslyn asked with disbelief.
"And why would he not?" Emma said. "After all, he believed it would one day be his."
Then the money Maynard had time and again taken from Ashlingford had not been his to take, Joslyn realized. Liam could have refused him outright—and perhaps should have.
As if knowing what thoughts ran through Joslyn's head, Emma said, "I have not lied to you, lady. I spoke true when I told you that Liam and Maynard once held great affection for each other. True, it died in Maynard, but never did Liam stop caring for his brother."
It all made sense now, Joslyn realized. Though Liam had expressed little more than contempt for his brother, pain had shone from him when he had talked of Maynard's death. "He blames himself for who Maynard became," she said, "and for his death."
"Liam?"
Joslyn nodded.
A small smile drifted onto Emma's lips, replacing the sadness that had been there before it. "You two have been talking, eh?"
Joslyn's defenses went up, but then she reminded herself it was Emma she spoke to, not Ivo. "Some," she said.
Emma's smile grew larger. "That's good, though it surprises me he would say anything to you—that he would say anything to anyone. With the exception of that anger of his, Liam is not one to let his feelings be known."
Yet he had let them be known to her, Joslyn thought. What was she to make of that?
