by Tamara Leigh
"Uh-huh. But why?"
"Because there are some who might wish to take from us what is hidden here. We don't want that, do we?"
Vigorously, Oliver shook his head. "Uh-uh," he said, then asked, "What's in the box, Unca Liam?"
"Coins, Oliver. Money that will one day be yours when you are a grown man."
Oliver's eyebrows shot up. "Lotsa money?"
"Aye."
After a thoughtful moment, Oliver said, "Emma's got money too. I seen it."
"I'm sure she does," Liam said. What little came the woman's way, she had always been careful to hold on to. "Now, have I your word that this secret shall remain between only us?"
"Uh-huh. Promise."
Liam ruffled Oliver's hair, then reached beside him and lifted the stone. Under Oliver's intense scrutiny, he fitted it into place.
"If anything should ever happen to me," Liam said as he stood, "you may tell your mother of our secret." It was actually good that Oliver had come upon him, he thought, for till now he had entrusted no one with the location of Ashlingford's wealth.
Oliver frowned. "What's gonna happen to you, Unca Liam?"
Straightening, Liam pushed the bed back into place. "Naught that I know of, but if your mother should need coin and I am not here to give it to her, I wish you to bring her to this chamber and show her the stone. Will you do that for me?"
Oliver nodded. "You not leavin' again, are you, Unca Liam?"
There was such concern in his eyes that Liam felt as if he were betraying the boy. Still, there was little he could do. He had to leave. Bending down, he said, "I'm afraid so. My own barony needs tending to."
Oliver looked down. "But you promised," he mumbled.
Liam cupped a hand over his shoulder. "Promised?"
Oliver's eyes were filled with tears when he looked up. "My story, Unca Liam . . .'member?"
He hadn't—and felt like an unfeeling fool. "Ah, about the bear."
Oliver nodded, hope replacing the tears in his eyes.
How he wanted to keep his word to him, Liam thought. But he couldn't. "I'm sorry, Oliver," he said. "If I could, I would stay and tell you the story, but I cannot. I must leave today."
"Don' want you to go," Oliver said. Lowering his head, he stared at his hands. "Want you to stay."
"I will be back, and when I return, I'll tell you the story, hmm?"
From beneath his sweeping lashes, Oliver regarded Liam a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he stepped forward and put his little arms around him. "A'right, Unca Liam," he said, trying very hard to be brave.
Feeling nearly as awkward as that first time Oliver had inched his way onto his lap, Liam was slow to respond. But then he wrapped his arms around the little boy.
"Love you, Unca Liam." Oliver spoke into Liam's chest.
Liam felt his heart opening, after having been closed a very long time. "I love you too, Oliver," he said.
The little boy pulled back. "And my mama?" he asked, his eyes growing wide. "You love her too?"
Not sure whether or not it was true, but knowing the boy needed it affirmed, Liam nodded.
Oliver beamed.
Liam scooped him up and settled him in the bend of his arm. It was time to leave. "You will wave me away?" he asked as he crossed the chamber.
"Aye." Oliver draped an arm around his neck. "Till I can't see you no more."
Liam smiled. Out in the dim corridor, he pulled i he door closed and went down two floors to the great hall where he found the Thornemede knights awaiting him.
"Where is your mother?" Liam asked.
"With Cook," Oliver said. "Why?"
"I should also bid her farewell, don't you think?"
Oliver nodded.
Halfway across the hall, Liam was stopped by the appearance of Emma.
"I was wondering where you'd gotten to, Oliver," she said, wagging a finger at him. "Found your Uncle Liam, did you?"
"Aye, an' he told me a secret."
Liam tensed.
"Ah," Emma replied. "Then you know you cannot tell it, don't you?"
"Can't tell." To demonstrate, Oliver pressed his lips tightly together.
Emma chuckled. "Come, my boy." She reached to lake him from Liam. "No doubt your uncle has some i asks to tend to ere he rides for Thornemede."
The old woman was a godsend, Liam thought, as he handed Oliver into her arms, for now he could have a few minutes alone with Joslyn.
"Unca Liam wants me to wave him away," Oliver protested. "Don' you?" He looked back at Liam.
"When I am ready to leave," he said. "Soon."
Stepping past them, Liam walked from the hall into the kitchens. However, Joslyn was nowhere to be seen among the haze of heat hanging over the large room. "Where is the Lady Joslyn?" he asked.
"Gone below, my lord," a kitchen maid answered.
"Aye, and in quite a dither," Cook added.
Liam frowned. "Something is amiss?"
The cook scowled. "Only what she makes it to be. Imagine, gettin' upset over the leavin's of a rat." He nodded to a sack of flour poured out onto a nearby table. "You'd think she'd never seen 'em before."
It was commonplace for rodents and insects to find their way into the stores of the cellar, but Liam could understand Joslyn's concern. Though no one truly knew how the plague spread, one thing was certain: Where there was uncleanliness, and an abundance of rodents to feed on the filth, the plague took the most lives.
Turning away, Liam left the kitchens and descended the steps to the cellar. He heard Joslyn before he saw her, her breathing heavy as if she labored. Skirting barrels of untapped ale, he found her among the sacks of grain.
"Joslyn," he said as he advanced on her, So intent was Joslyn on restacking the sacks away from the wall that she did not hear Liam or sense his nearness as she usually did these days. However, the next time he called to her she heard him. Flushed from exertion, she swung around. "I did not hear you come down," she said.
Liam lifted the sack she held from her and, in doing so, brushed his fingers across her forearms. "You ought not to be lifting these," he said, and laid the flour atop the new pile.
The brief contact caused Joslyn's pulse to accelerate. Trying to calm it, she busied her hands with the veil on her head, which had slipped sideways. "The rats are getting into the grain," she said.
"And you thought you would chase them out?"
Joslyn smoothed her hands down her skirts and looked up at Liam. "With the grain away from the wall, they have no place to hide. 'Tis how I kept them from the stores at Rosemoor—that and a dozen cats, of course."
Liam's eyes drifted to her mouth. "A good thought," he mused, "but you needn't do it yourself. I will send some men down to help you."
What did he intend? Joslyn wondered. To kiss her again? "We will also need more cats." She spoke far too quickly.
His gaze steady on her mouth, he nodded. "I'm sure they can be found." Then, to her surprise, he lifted a hand and brushed his thumb beneath her bottom lip. "You are working too hard, Joslyn," he said, showing her the dark smudge she had not known she wore on her face.
Having believed Liam's intentions quite different from what they had turned out to be, Joslyn nearly laughed at herself—and might have anyway, had she not been swept with sudden realization. "You are leaving," she said.
He lowered his arm back to his side. "I am."
"But you have been here hardly more than a day."
"Aye, but if word of the plague has not already reached Thornemede, it will soon. I am needed there."
What Joslyn wanted to say was that he was needed here too, but that would not do. Instead, she pretended a calm she did not feel. "Night is nearing. Can you not leave come morning?"
He shook his head. "I should have left hours ago."
Gone so soon. . . . But maybe it was better, Joslyn told herself, for otherwise her sin might be all the greater.
"I will return in a fortnight," Liam said. "Should you need to send me a message, you may d
o so through Sir Hugh's man."
"I will," Joslyn said, though she could not imagine what she might need to apprise him of.
Liam lifted a purse from his belt. "Sir Hugh sleeps now," he said. "When he awakens, I would have you give him this."
Joslyn accepted the purse from Liam.
"For the month's expenditures," Liam explained.
She looked down at the purse. From its weight, it held a good deal of money. "I will give it to him."
There followed a long silence, broken only when Liam finally spoke. "You are frightened."
Joslyn sighed. Never had she been much good at hiding her feelings. Tilting her head back, she met his gaze. "Do you realize we do not even have a priest to lay to rest those who will die?" she asked.
Liam nodded. "I have told Sir Hugh to send for Father Warren. Once he learns Ivo has gone from Ashlingford, I am certain he will return."
It was something, at least. Joslyn forced a smile. "I thank you."
Frowning, he searched her face long and hard, then reached forward and caught her hand in his. "Promise me something, Joslyn," he said.
Stirring softly—uncertainly—she looked into his eyes, to find a tenderness there she would not have thought possible had she not seen it for herself. What did it mean? "Aye?" she asked.
Liam bent his head near hers. "Promise me you will be strong," he said. "Do you allow the people of Ashlingford to know your fear, their own fear will be that much greater. You are their lady now, and in the months to come they will look to you whenever their faith wavers. You must be strong for them—and for Oliver. Can you do that for me?"
Realizing her love for him was far greater than her fear, Joslyn nodded. "For you, I will do it."
Emotions flickered in the depths of his eyes. "Do you love me, Joslyn?" he asked.
She knew she ought to be ashamed to have such a question put to her, but it seemed a natural thing for him to ask. She nodded.
Drawing a deep breath, Liam leaned forward and pressed his lips to her brow. "Do not forget your promise to me," he said, and turned away.
Liam looked back. It was something he'd never done when riding away from Ashlingford—no doubt a superstition of his Irish forebears that ran through his blood—but the urge was too strong to deny.
Did she watch him? he wondered as he picked out the donjon rising above the castle walls. From her chamber did she look out across the bailey to the land beyond where he and his men rode? Or was she still in the cellar crying the tears he had known she would cry?
Feeling an ache deep in his center, Liam turned his mount toward Thornemede.
20
The plague had entered England from the south, where most of the people who had left Thornemede had gone. Now they eagerly turned their feet north to Thornemede again, in hopes of escaping the dread sickness.
But they would not escape, Liam knew, for the plague was steadily working its way northward, and it was only a matter of time before it reached them. When it did, the difficulty would be in holding people to the land when they wanted to flee farther north.
In the meantime, Liam kept the villeins occupied in the fields. Because they had been neglected, there was a great deal of plowing to be done if the yield of the land was to increase. Then there were the villeins' own small plots and the communal village strips to be tended. The crops would be small, Liam knew, providing scarce sustenance throughout the winter to come. Still, the people would not starve, for Liam would provide for their needs. He had made them that promise and would keep it even if it meant spending every last coin he had left.
Liam laid aside his quill, and read through the missive he intended to send to Sir Hugh. The steward reported that all was progressing well at Ashlingford, so Liam had decided against returning when he had said. He would instead remain at Thornemede another week, to Lammas, the day that marked the beginning of harvest. This way he could assure himself that those who had recently returned to the barony were settled in and knew their places. Always, he felt it was better to assert his authority sooner than later.
Liam rolled the parchment, added some melted wax, and pressed it with his signet ring to seal the document closed. Then he called to Sir Hugh's messenger, who had sat patiently this past half hour awaiting his response.
The man hurried to Liam's side and left the hall moments later.
Liam stood and in that moment felt an ache in every limb. Though he had always prided himself on knowing the land as well as those who worked it for him, never had he toiled so hard in his life. With nearly every daylight hour spent in the fields, either supervising the work or doing it himself, there was hardly time to sleep. And he could not rest now.
He stepped out of the donjon and into the uncertain sunlight of a day that wished to rain but could not quite squeeze the moisture from its scattered clouds.
They had been fortunate these past weeks, Liam reflected. Whereas other parts of England continued to suffer unusually heavy rainfall, by the time the clouds converged upon this region, there was usually not much rain left in them. Had there been, the coming harvest would assuredly be one of rot. As Liam was depending on the grain he could purchase from Ashlingford to fill his stores for the coming winter, the weather was as much a concern for Thornemede as it was for the other barony.
With another six hours remaining of daylight, Liam struck out across the bailey.
"My lord." A woman acknowledged him as she approached.
It was Maeve, the woman he had selected to care for Maynard's children. Of a kind and generous nature, she had accepted them as if they were her own and they had taken equally to her—especially little Gertrude.
Liam inclined his head and crossed to the stables, where a squire held his mount in readiness for him. He swung himself into the saddle.
"You would like company, my lord?" the squire asked, indicating his own horse, tethered nearby.
"Nay, I will not be needing you," Liam said. "The remainder of the day is yours." Guiding his mount forward, he proceeded toward the open portcullis and, as he approached, caught the eye of Gunter, the captain of the guard, where he stood conversing with one of his men.
Liam stared at him, and after a moment's hesitation the man nodded his head in acknowledgment of the lord of Thornemede.
It was progress. Though Gunter continued to put up a stubborn fight to maintain his dislike for the Irish bastard now made his lord, every day saw him lose just a bit more ground.
Liam turned his thoughts back to the barony. More time, he told himself. That was all he needed. But would the plague deny him? Walking his horse over the drawbridge, he set off across Thornemede land. His land.
"I am sorry, my lady," Sir Hugh said, upon reading Liam's message that eve. "But 'tis only another sennight, after all."
Beside him, Father Warren offered her his sympathetic gaze.
The priest understood more than the steward what Liam's delay meant to her, Joslyn thought, for just a week past she had sought him out to confess her love for Liam. However, instead of thundering condemning words upon her head as Ivo would have done, he had listened and, when she was finished, assured her that all would come right in the end. What he had meant, Joslyn had not understood, but she had been too relieved by unburdening herself to ask for an explanation.
She sighed. Only this noon she had received a message that her brother, Richard, was returned to Rosemoor. At last, he and her father had set aside their differences that together they could deal with whatever effects the plague might have on the village and manor when it spread there. With this wonderful news in hand, Joslyn had spent the past hours feeling light as a puff of air, but what had lifted her even higher was her belief that Liam was returning to Ashlingford on the morrow. But no more.
Joslyn passed the parchment back to the steward and turned away. What was she to tell Oliver? she wondered. All day long, up until this eve when she had put him down, he had spoken of naught else but the return of his Unca Liam and the bear tale he had wai
ted a "hundred years" to hear. How was she to tell him he must now wait another fifty years—or, in her lime, a sennight? Lord, she herself ached at the thought of waiting yet another week to see Liam again. Another week!
Her feet feeling as if shod in lead, Joslyn mounted the stairs. In the morn, she would break the news to Oliver.
"My lady!" Emma gasped, having appeared without warning upon the stairs above Joslyn.
She should have heard the woman coming, Joslyn knew, but her mind had been elsewhere. "Something is wrong?" she asked, noticing the high color on the old woman's cheekbones and her quickened breathing.
"Naught amiss, my lady," Emma said, looking down to watch her hands as she brushed imaginary lint from her skirts. "I just . . . just thought I would sneak myself something to eat ere bedding down."
How odd, Joslyn thought—not only the rush Emma was in but that she came down to nibble something before retiring for the night. It was not at all like her.
Curiosity and suspicion mingling, Joslyn said, "If you would like, I will join you."
"Of course I would like it," Emma said, "but I can see you are tired." She shook her head. "Nay, Lady Joslyn, you ought to be in bed, not gabbing with an old woman like me."
Joslyn nearly pressed it, but then decided it would only turn Emma's suspicion back on her. "Aye, you are right," she said, continuing up the stairs. "I am quite spent. Good eve, then."
"Good eve," Emma echoed, and descended past Joslyn to the hall.
Once the woman was out of sight, Joslyn paused and turned around. There she waited a long moment—listening—and then started down again.
The kitchens were dark, as was the cellar, when Joslyn went to check the door that led down into it. Had the old woman gone to the garden then? she wondered. What would she be doing outside in the middle of night?
Joslyn's heart sped as she tiptoed farther down the corridor to the outside door, which she found was not seated in the jamb.
She released her held breath. Aye, Emma had left the donjon. But why? Leaning forward, Joslyn placed her ear to the crack of the door and listened. Suddenly, the sound of clinking coins reached her ears. She stilled.
"That is all?" a male voice hissed.
