by Tamara Leigh
"For now." Emma's soft voice reached Joslyn's ears.
"You old bitch," the man said louder. "I ought to—"
"Aye, do it, Ivo. Do it and let me watch from heaven your descent into hell."
Fear shot up Joslyn's spine. Ivo had returned. Lord, how had he gained the castle walls without being seen? Had Emma let him in?
"Heaven?" Ivo scoffed. "You are no more destined there than the Irish bastard is."
"And you think you are? You delude yourself, dear
Ivo, for 'tis the devil who will take you, not the Lord. And I pray God it will be soon."
A slap upon flesh resounded through the garden. Though Emma made no sound, Joslyn knew Ivo had struck her. Anger firing her, she seized hold of the door handle.
"I am tired of your blackmail, you—" Ivo's voice broke off as the door creaked wide and slammed against the inner wall.
"Do you lay another hand to her, I will call the guard," Joslyn warned as she stepped out into the moonlight.
"Ah, Lady Joslyn," Ivo said, his shadow breaking from Emma's as he stepped forward. "I was thinking what a pity it would be if I did not see you ere I departed."
Joslyn hurried down the path toward him.
"Nay, Lady Joslyn," Emma called to her, "return to the donjon! Ivo is now leaving."
It was a warning Joslyn should have heeded, for a moment later Ivo lunged forward and caught her to him with a blade in hand. Pressing it to her throat, he put his mouth to her ear and said, "You have failed me, Lady Joslyn, but more, you have failed your son. Do you know the price of failure? God's price?"
Joslyn strained to free herself. "Let me go, false priest!" she demanded.
He tightened his arm around her. "You are spending far too much time with that bastard between your legs, my dear," he said. "Why, I could swear it was he who just spoke out of your mouth. False priest indeed."
"Release me!"
His lips touched her ear. "But I am not done with you," he said.
Repulsed, Joslyn raised her foot high. "Aye, you are," she said, and stamped down on his instep.
A gust of breath expelled from Ivo's mouth, followed by the curses of an ungodly man. Then the point of the blade pierced Joslyn's skin.
She cried out with the pain. Was it the great vein he had cut? she wondered frantically as she felt blood trickle down her skin. Would her life be severed from her as Ivo had severed it from the brigand Liam had attempted to coax the truth from all those weeks past?
"Release her, Ivo," Emma commanded, appearing beside them, "else I swear you will see no more of your precious coin."
"As meager as you dole it out, I cannot say that worries me, Emma."
"I will give it all to you," she said, turning desperate. "Release her and I will fetch it now. I swear."
He sighed. "How sweet your pleading to my ears, Emma. Do continue."
She gripped his arm that still held the blade against Joslyn's neck. "And the writings. I will give those to you as well."
"The writings?" he repeated. "But you told me they were elsewhere, Emma." He tut-tutted. "Now what am I to believe?"
A myriad of questions eclipsing her pain, Joslyn waded through the puzzle that was being spoken around her. The coin. Was it that which Maynard had stolen from Ashlingford? If so, how had it come into the old woman's hands? And what writings did she speak of? Joslyn had thought Emma did not know how to write.
"Fetch them," Ivo said. "The coin . .. and the writings."
"And you will release Lady Joslyn unharmed?"
"Always looking for assurances, aren't you, fool woman?"
Emma nodded. "Always."
He chuckled. "Aye, I give you my word."
Turning toward the donjon, Emma hurried down the path.
"Your word!" Joslyn scoffed. "You will slit both our throats once you have that which you seek."
"As I said, the old woman is a fool." He lifted his head and called across the garden. "Hurry, Emma. I grow impatient."
"Nay!" Joslyn cried out. "Do not, Emma. He will—" Unexpected light straining into the garden stole the rest of her words.
"What goes?" a gruff voice demanded from the doorway. Sir Hugh.
As Ivo wrenched Joslyn around to act as his shield, Emma let out a cry of dismay and stumbled to a halt before the steward and Father Warren, who stood behind him.
"Ivo!" Hugh said, recognizing him even in the shadows.
"The old hag has something to retrieve for me," Ivo said. "Let her past, and when she returns I will be on my way."
Sir Hugh's eyes narrowed.
"Pray, Sir Hugh," Emma pleaded. "He will kill I ,ady Joslyn, do you not allow me to bring him what he asks for."
Pushing past the steward, Father Warren stepped down into the garden. "How can you threaten death, garbed in the raiments of the holy church?" he demanded.
"Ah, so the little priest is returned to Ashlingford," Ivo said with a sneer.
Ignoring the taunt, Father Warren demanded, "Unhand Lady Joslyn."
"And if I do not?"
"Tis the bishop you will answer to for your ungodly behavior."
Ivo chuckled derisively. "You think me a fool to believe you will not go to him anyway? Nay, Father Warren, I am not leaving without that which belongs to me. Fetch it, Emma."
A long silence followed, and then Sir Hugh finally said, "Bring him what he asks for."
His words caused Ivo to relax his hold on Joslyn a bit, but it was enough for her to take advantage of it. Spinning around, she brought her knee up into his groin.
Ivo's tormented cry split the air a moment before he lurched backward.
Released, Joslyn jumped back from him.
"Bitch!" Ivo groaned, his face contorted with pain.
"You are a disgrace, Father Ivo," Joslyn said, hating him more with every breath she took. "A pestilence upon the church. A degenerate. A—"
"Lady Joslyn," Hugh called to her, "stand back!"
Aye, it was foolish what she did, she realized. At any moment Ivo could recover sufficiently to attack her again. However, the warning came almost too late.
Having dragged himself upright, Ivo lifted his dagger and charged her.
But Sir Hugh reached Joslyn first. Thrusting her aside, he swept his weapon in an arc before him. An instant later, he was rewarded by Ivo's yell of pain.
It all happened too suddenly for Joslyn to determine the extent of the priest's injury, but she glimpsed his stunned face a moment before he turned and ran.
Sir Hugh gave chase. He turned out of the garden, shouting to alert the guards of the intruder in their midst.
Joslyn would have followed if not for Emma and Father Warren's sudden appearance at her side.
"My lady, are you well?" the old woman asked.
Joslyn touched the wound at the side of her neck. "I am. Fortunately, 'twould seem Sir Hugh is as deft with a dagger as he is with those numbers of his."
Emma cupped a hand beneath Joslyn's elbow. "Come. I will tend to your cut," she said.
Joslyn shook her head. "I will await Sir Hugh's return."
As if the old woman knew it was an argument she could not win, she dropped her hand.
The steward reappeared shortly to an audience swelled by the ranks of household servants, who had come out of the donjon to discover the cause of the commotion.
"You have captured him?" Joslyn asked.
Sir Hugh looked regretful. "I am sorry, my lady. I le has escaped."
"Escaped?"
"He scaled the wall ere I or the any of the men-at-arms could reach him." "But he was wounded." "Aye, I cut his arm, but not deeply." Fearful, Joslyn said, "He will return."
"Not if he is found. I have sent a dozen men-at-arms after him."
Joslyn's relief was fleeting. They would not find him, she knew. With Liam, perhaps, but not without him.
"Let us go to the kitchens and I will tend your wound," Emma said again.
For the first time, Joslyn looked across at the servants, who mad
e no attempt to hide their concern for her. They cared, she realized, joy momentarily supplanting pain and fear. Somewhere along the way they had come to accept her, which meant they would one day accept Oliver as their lord. "You may all return to your beds," she said.
As they drifted out of the garden, Joslyn returned her gaze to the old woman. "We should talk," she said.
Emma nodded. "We should."
"How is it you had the coin, Emma?" Joslyn asked.
"The coin?" Sir Hugh repeated.
As he was trusted by Liam, Joslyn had asked him— and Father Warren, as well—to remain while she and Emma spoke.
"The coin my husband stole from Ashlingford ere he died," Joslyn explained. It felt bitter on her tongue to call Maynard that.
"And 'tis you who had it, Emma?" Hugh asked, sudden interest in his voice.
The old woman put the lid on the salve she had applied to Joslyn's wound. "Still do," she replied. "Most of it. Tis what Ivo came for."
In the lighted kitchen room, Joslyn noticed for the first time the flushed imprint of Ivo's hand across Emma's face. It was faded somewhat, but as it was still visible, she knew he must have struck her hard.
"How did you come by the coin?" Sir Hugh asked.
Emma sighed. "I've a terrible penchant for listening when I should not. When I knew Maynard had fallen from his horse and was dying"—she paused to swallow hard—"I went directly to him. As I approached his chamber, I heard him and Ivo talking about the coin. I stood without until Maynard told Ivo where he had hidden it."
"And where was that?" Sir Hugh asked.
"In the chapel of the old village."
Joslyn frowned. "The old village?"
It was Father Warren who answered her query. Aye. A score of years past, a fire went through the village of Belle Glen and burnt all to the ground save the chapel. Even though it was fired as well, the walls remained standing."
"Where in the chapel, Emma?" Hugh pressed.
She looked past Joslyn to where he sat. "Under the floorboards beneath the altar."
"Of course," he murmured, then said, "The chapel is not far from the ravine Maynard fell into."
"And when Ivo rode immediately to Rosemoor with Liam, you went to the chapel and retrieved it yourself," Joslyn concluded.
"I did," Emma admitted, "and would eventually have returned it to Liam, had I not seen a better use for it."
"Protecting Liam and me," Joslyn said knowingly.
Emma closed her lids briefly over her weary eyes. “God will not reward me for it," she said, then looked back at Joslyn, "but that is what I did. I could not allow Ivo to carry tales to the bishop of sins you had not committed. He is an evil man, Lady Joslyn. Every day that passes he grows closer to the devil and farther from God."
"Where is the coin?" Sir Hugh asked.
"Sewn into the hems of Lady Anya's old gowns," Emma said. "That is where you will find it." She turned to bandaging Joslyn's throat.
Until now, Joslyn had completely forgotten the coin that had struck her brow the day she had donned one of Anya's gowns. Emma must have overlooked it when she had emptied the hem for Joslyn to use the garment.
"What of the writings, Emma?" Joslyn asked. "What were you referring to?"
Emma's laughter was dry. "That is an old piece of our past," she said. "Far too old to mention."
"But important enough that Ivo wanted it."
Emma shrugged. "Not only is Ivo ungodly, he is a superstitious old fool."
"Still, I would know," Joslyn pressed.
Standing back, Emma surveyed her work, then nodded. "That should do," she said.
"Emma." Joslyn tried again.
The old woman shook her head. "I am sorry, my lady. That remains between Ivo and me."
Joslyn knew she was meddling, but whatever the writings consisted of, they had seemed as important to Ivo as the money had been—perhaps more.
Sir Hugh scraped his stool back. "I must prepare a missive to send to Lord Fawke straightaway," he said.
"Whatever for?" Emma asked. "He is coming on the morrow."
Joslyn shook her head. "Nay, he is not. He sent word that it will be yet another sennight ere he returns to Ashlingford." She looked around at the steward, "You needn't write, Sir Hugh. On the morrow I will myself take word to him of what has happened."
"You?" he asked.
"Aye, if he will not come to Ashlingford, I will go to Thornemede."
"Nay, lady, if Ivo is not found this eve, he may still be out there on the morrow."
"Then I will need a sizable escort, won't I? Would you arrange it for me?"
"The baron will not like this. I am certain he would prefer that you remain at Ashlingford."
"You are right," Joslyn agreed, "but still I am going."
Hugh sighed. "I will arrange an escort for you, lady," he said, and strode toward the door.
"And I must prepare a report for the bishop," I ather Warren announced. "I am sure he will be most interested in knowing how Father Ivo represents the holy church." He stepped down from his stool and followed the steward.
Would it do any good? Joslyn wondered fleetingly. Then she remembered what she had yet to say to the steward. "Sir Hugh!" she called after him.
He paused with his hand on the door. "My lady?"
"I have not thanked you for saving my life. Know that I am indebted to you. If ... if ever there is anything I can do to repay you, you will tell me, won't you?"
He was slow in answering, but when he did, there was emotion in his voice. "That I was given the opportunity to save your life is payment enough," he said. "Tis not often a knight who has taken up books for his living is able to experience again that which made him first turn to the sword."
There was longing in the words he spoke, as if it was not his choice to post entries and work numbers the rest of his life. Did his true desire lie in the weapons of warfare and the thundering of a horse beneath him? "Still, I am indebted," Joslyn said.
He nodded, opened the door, and stepped out into the corridor, with Father Warren following close behind.
Joslyn looked back at Emma. "I also must thank you for protecting Liam and me."
A wistful expression on her face, Emma lifted a hand and brushed the hair back from Joslyn's brow. "I knew love once," she said, "or at least thought I did. I understand, Lady Joslyn." Then she turned, gathered the pot of salve and strips of linen from the table behind them, and left the room.
Thoughtful, Joslyn extinguished the torches and went up to her chamber. A short time later, she lowered her head to her pillow and lay on her side facing the wall, staring at the familiar shadows. Ere the first light tumbled through the window, she would be on her way to Thornemede to deliver Liam news of what had occurred here this night—but that was not all. She knew it was probably a mistake for her to go, but when her life had hung on the end of Ivo's blade she had known for certain how terrible it would be not ever to have known Liam as a woman. Though the laws of the church sought to keep them apart, just once she would surrender to him, that the rest of her life she would have the memory to pass the lonely years.
Dragging the covers up around her shoulders, Joslyn closed her eyes and for the first time in weeks dropped into sleep without the usual hours of tossing and twisting among the bedclothes.
21
Joslyn Fawke rode at the center of the men, her plaited hair having escaped the covering of her veil. Before her sat the small figure of Oliver.
Lord, what was she doing here? Liam wondered. What had made her leave the safety and comfort of Ashlingford to journey to backward little Thornemede? Surely she did not come only because he had sent word he would not be returning to Ashlingford for another sennight. Or did she? After all, she had admitted to loving him.
Liam slowed his horse as the riders neared.
"Lord Fawke," an Ashlingford knight called to him, "we bring the Lady Joslyn and her son to you."
Keeping his gaze from her even though he knew she sought his,
Liam asked, "And who gave you such orders?"
"I did," Joslyn spoke up, guiding her palfrey forward.
She was lady of Ashlingford, Liam conceded, and therefore no one could prevent her from making the ride. He looked across at her and only then noticed the bandage about her neck.
In spite of his concern, he felt her presence begin to move through him. Her brilliant amber eyes spoke to him of things they should not, and her softly parted lips invited him to taste them. She was more beautiful than the flower she smelled of. And he was the thorn to her rose .. .
God's wounds! Liam cursed himself. It mattered not how long he stayed away from her, still this hunger grew. Taking firm hold of his feelings, he asked, "For what reason have you come, Lady Joslyn?"
Oliver chose that moment to stir in his mother's arms. Lifting his head from her breast, he looked across at Liam, and a moment later reached out to him. "Unca Liam," he said, his small voice roughened by sleep. "I wanna ride with you."
Liam was struck with wonder. Never would he have believed there would come a time when Oliver would reach to him with those same wanting arms he reached out to his mother. Lord, never had he believed anyone would! He looked at Joslyn and, receiving her nod, guided his horse alongside them.
The mere brush of his leg against hers caused the fires to stir within him as Liam lifted Oliver from her. A moment later, small arms went around his neck.
"Missed you," Oliver said. "You miss me?"
Liam could not help but smile. "I did," he admitted.
Oliver drew back. A pleased expression on his lace, he asked, "Gonna tell me my story now?" "Here?" Liam asked. "Now?"
The little boy bobbed his head up and down.
What was happening to him? Liam wondered. He was actually entertaining the thought of relating his tale to a child in the presence of Ashlingford's fighting men. "Very well," he agreed, ignoring the questioning gazes that fell upon him. "I will tell you on the ride back to the castle."
Beaming, Oliver looked past him. "That your castle?" he asked.
"Aye, 'tis Thornemede." 0
Oliver considered it a bit longer, then crinkled his nose. "It's big, Unca Liam," he said, "but why it's not pretty like Ashaford?"
His leg still riding Joslyn's, Liam felt her stiffen. "Tis older than Ashlingford by nearly a hundred years, and it has not been taken care of as it should have been."
