by Tamara Leigh
"Do not," Ivo snapped.
Swinging her gaze back to him, she found he had turned his attention to the men beyond her.
"They are coming," he informed her.
As he seemed in no hurry, it must mean the Ashlingford knights had just noticed them atop the knoll, Joslyn thought. Ivo had time to do with her what he wished.
"They cannot help you," he murmured. "You know that though, don't you?"
But could she help herself? Joslyn wondered, still finding naught in the situation that might save her. "It would have been in vain to try to outrun you," she said. "I knew you would kill me either way."
Ivo stared at her a long moment before beckoning her closer.
Fighting down the urge to spur her mount past him—a gesture even more useless now than when there had been distance between them—Joslyn guided her palfrey alongside his destrier. s:l 310 TAMARA LEIGH
Ivo bent near her, fanning her with breath made fetid by strong drink. "Even I know you do not give up so easily, Joslyn. Let me see what you've hidden beneath your mantle."
Wondering how long ago he'd partaken of the alcohol, what effects it yet had on him, and how she was going to use it to her advantage, Joslyn stalled for time. "Why do you not just kill me?" she asked.
Ivo unsheathed his dagger. "You will not die this day," he said. "As I told you, I must have the money that is due me, and I can hardly lay my hands on it with you dead—at least, it would be less convenient to do so."
Of course. "Then you will hold me for the money," Joslyn said.
He looked up from fingering the honed blade of his dagger. "The bastard comes on this day or the morrow, does he not?"
"You know he does."
Ivo chuckled. "That I do. It could not have worked out better, really, for otherwise there would be the delay of sending for him." Suddenly, he frowned. "He will give me the money, don't you think, Joslyn? What I mean to say is, does he like it well enough between your legs that he will pay to have you returned to his bed?"
Joslyn nearly denied that she and Liam had been together as Ivo believed but, knowing it would be futile, refused him an answer.
He sighed. "Aye, William will give me the money, and when I have it..." He left the rest unspoken.
He would kill her, Joslyn knew, just as he would have that night in the garden had he secured the gold and Emma's writings. She swallowed. The only comfort was that she had more time than she'd believed. But what to do with it?
"Come, come, do not be modest," Ivo said. "Open your mantle for me."
As Joslyn bent her head to part the woolen garment, she grazed her chin on the brooch that held it closed at the neck, its spiked pin pleated through the thick fabric. In the next instant, she knew what to do. True, the brooch was not much of a weapon, but it was certainly unexpected. Although she had intended simply to open the mantle for Ivo to inspect her person, she unhinged the brooch, pulled the pin free, and pushed the garment off her shoulders.
Whether or not Ivo thought it unusual that she revealed herself in such a manner was impossible to tell, but when next he spoke, it was as if he thought nothing of it. "How fares Oliver?" he asked, as he looked her over.
It was no idle conversation, Joslyn realized, the sarcasm having slipped from his voice. He truly was interested. "He is well," she said, catching the first sounds of the Ashlingford knights as they neared. "Just turned three." Lowering her hand to her side— out of Ivo's sight—she turned the pin of the brooch upright.
"A year nearer to becoming the baron of all this," Ivo murmured. "Is this what you were thinking to stick in my back?" He lifted her meat dagger from its sheath. "This dull thing?"
"If I could, I would use it to cut your heart out," Joslyn replied, revulsion weakening her composure.
However, as Ivo's attention was once again captured by the advancing riders, he hardly seemed to notice. "Ah, here they come now. A bit late, wouldn't you agree?"
From the sound of hooves, Joslyn gauged that the Ashlingford knights were near enough to help her— providing she could evade Ivo's dagger.
"Come onto my destrier," Ivo ordered, thrusting a hand toward her. "Now."
Nay, she was not going with him—at least not alive. Feigning compliance, she turned her body toward him and lifted her arm as if she meant to take his hand. However, before he could see what was in her own hand, she reached over and planted the pin in his destrier's backside.
As she had hoped, the animal's response was immediate and violent, giving Joslyn barely enough space to dig her heels into her palfrey's sides. Fortunately, the little horse responded quickly and carried her out of reach of the great angry beast and Ivo's sweeping dagger.
Hearing a shout, Joslyn looked over her shoulder and for a brief moment met Ivo's gaze, which was filled with disbelief and rage: She had bettered him a second time, something he found incomprehensible. He clutched the destrier's neck as it surged sideways in an attempt to escape the pain. However, finding no relief, the horse lunged back onto its hind legs and pummeled the air. It was Ivo's undoing. Though he struggled to hold on, the destrier wanted to throw him off, and a moment later succeeded in doing so.
Only when Ivo hit the earth did Joslyn halt her palfrey and pull it around. From the distance she had gained, she watched and waited for him to rise. But he did not— even when the Ashlingford knights surrounded him.
Had the destrier thrown him far and hard enough to break his body? Was he dead? Though Joslyn would have preferred to go nowhere near him again, she urged her mount forward.
"You are unharmed, my lady?" Sir Gregory inquired as she came alongside him.
She nodded and then looked upon the man who lay sprawled at a most peculiar angle on the ground.
Though Ivo was not dead, he gazed up at the world with dying eyes. Something vital had broken in his evil body. Pulling his gaze from the sky, he looked from one knight to the next until he came to Joslyn. Then he managed a twisted smile. "Now look what you have wrought," he said, his voice strained.
In that instant, Joslyn realized she had indeed killed him. Although she had only been defending her life, in her bid to escape she had laid the ground for all this. She felt sickened. Never would she have believed that she would be responsible for the death of another. "You gave me no choice," she finally replied.
"But death, Joslyn? Am I truly deserving of this?"
Drawing a long breath, she raised her chin. "At least you will not be able to hurt anyone ever again."
He closed his eyes—rested them—and then looked at her again. "Do one thing for me?" he whispered.
She said nothing, waiting to hear his request.
"When Oliver is old enough to understand, tell him I loved him. That it was for him I did what I did—to secure his future. Will you do that for me, Joslyn?"
Ivo loved Oliver? Joslyn was shocked at the thought that this man loved anyone other than himself. True, he had seemed to care somewhat for Oliver, but never would she have called it love. And how could she put the burden of those things Ivo had done on her son? She shook her head. "I am sorry, Ivo," she said, "but I will not do that for you."
His nostrils flared. "Whore," he cried in a hoarse voice. "It should be you here, not me."
And might have been. . . . Her stomach soured, her head beginning to spin as her entire body was overcome with weakness, Joslyn was grateful for the horse beneath her. Had she been standing, she was sure her knees would have given way.
In the silence that followed Ivo's taunt, one of the knights dismounted, drew his dagger, and stepped to where Ivo lay. For a long moment, he stared down at him, and then he said, "Tis merciful to speedily deliver a dying man from his . . . " He paused to ponder the rest of it. "What was it you called it, Father Ivo?"
Knowing what was to be done, Joslyn pulled the reins left and urged her palfrey around. She had seen enough for one day.
"Tortured end?" She heard the knight continue his mockery. "That's it, isn't it, Father?"
Th
e knight's words echoed through Ivo's flickering mind as he looked up at the man who stood ready to dispatch him to what he belatedly prayed would be heaven. Ah, yes, how could he have forgotten? This knight had been present not so long ago when Ivo had spoken those words himself—having severed the life of the brigand who intended to expose his scheme to William. Ironic, wasn't it?
However, it was naught compared to the irony of this fate he shared with Maynard, who had also met his end being thrown from a horse. It was as it should be, though, he conceded. Father and son.
He never felt the blade. One moment he was following its descent toward him, and the next he was dropping through an inky blackness that was one moment comfortingly warm and the next turned fiery.
* * *
"My lord, make haste!" a man-at-arms called to Liam.
Liam turned to face the anxious man who stood on the threshold of Ashlingford's hall. Then, without asking what it was he was being called to witness, he strode back the way he had come and stepped into a day he had just ridden out of.
Though the wind was cold with the threat of an early winter, Liam hardly had time to acknowledge it before his gaze was drawn to the portion of outer bailey that was visible through the open portal of the inner wall.
There rode five, among them Joslyn, with her head bent against the wind and her hand clasping the neck of her mantle closed. A moment later, Liam realized there were six, if one included the robed figure draped over the back of a destrier being led by a knight. Ivo's destrier.
Thinking he imagined it, or that perhaps he had not yet awakened from last eve's sleep and this was but a dream, Liam stood rooted to the landing outside the donjon. But it all was too clear to be conjured by his mind, the wind too piercing and the sounds of horses and men too sharp to be illusory. Ivo was returning to Ashlingford, and from the flaccid lie of his body he could not be anything other than dead.
Liam's thoughts leapt to Joslyn. What had she to do with this? he wondered, as he hurriedly descended the steps. Had Ivo set upon her, thus earning himself death at the hands of one of the knights? Had she been hurt?
As she entered the inner bailey, Joslyn eased Liam's worries by lifting her head and looking straight at him. However, though she did not appear to be injured, there was a distant look in her eyes.
"Lord Fawke," Sir Gregory called to him, drawing in his reins before the donjon.
Though Liam wanted only to go to Joslyn, the knight's voice reminded him that there was first something he needed to do: acknowledge the dead that was of his blood. He stepped past the knight toward the destrier that had been Ivo's both prized and abused possession.
Nervously, the great horse rolled its eyes at him, then sidestepped as if preparing itself for a more violent retreat.
"It's over, boy," Liam murmured. Over for both of them. Although after the years of persecution it seemed hardly possible, Ivo would plague neither of them again.
Liam looked past the horse's head to the body hung over the saddle. Blood matted the dark hair that fell forward to cover his uncle's face, but there was something more to his death than that, Liam instinctively knew. "Ivo," he whispered as he looked upon his uncle's stillness. No answer was forthcoming, nor was one expected.
Knowing the destrier awaited its unburdening, Liam began loosening the knots of the rope that held his uncle to the saddle. Then he lifted Ivo onto his shoulder. "Sir Gregory," he said as he carried his uncle past the knight. "See that the horse is penned and then return to the donjon straightaway."
"Aye, my lord."
"And the rest of you as well," Liam said to the other three.
There was a murmur of assent.
Liam lowered his uncle to the ground at the base of the donjon steps, then straightened to look down upon him. Ivo's face was gray, its color having flowed out through the slit in his neck to stain the front of his priestly robes dark red. The last of him had flowed out with it, Liam knew, but what circumstances had led to the unholy man's leaving himself vulnerable to another's blade?
Feeling watched on all sides, Liam looked up the steps and saw that Father Warren, Sir Hugh, and Emma had come out from the donjon to discover what had disturbed a day already vexed by too much wind.
"Father Warren," Liam called to the priest.
The man met his gaze, lifted his flapping robes, and hurriedly began his descent. One step up from Ivo, he paused to look more closely upon the dead man; then he turned to Liam. "I am sorry, my son."
If he were truly sorry, he would certainly be the only one, Liam thought. "I am not," he replied. "See that my uncle is given a proper burial."
"Where would you have me bury him, my lord?" Father Warren asked.
"He is still a Fawke," Liam said, "and should be buried as one. Lay him beside Maynard."
The priest leaned near him. "Maynard's mother is already on one side of him," he reminded Liam in a low voice. "What of . . ." His gaze, drifting to where Joslyn was mounted, spoke the rest for him.
Liam could not imagine Joslyn ever taking her pi ace beside Maynard. She did not belong anywhere near him, and he would not allow it. "Lay Ivo alongside his nephew," he said again.
Father Warren inclined his head.
Swinging around, Liam strode toward Joslyn, who had just dismounted. Continuing to hold her mantle closed, she walked toward the donjon with eyes cast down.
Liam intercepted her as she put her foot to the first step. "What is it?" he asked, cupping a hand beneath her elbow.
"I killed him, Liam," she said.
He could have asked more than a dozen questions based on that one statement, but his first concern was for Joslyn, whose trembling he felt through her mantle. "Come," he said. "We will warm you before the fire."
She nodded.
By the time they reached the landing, Liam was supporting a good deal of Joslyn's weight, but she pulled away from him when he turned to lift her into his arms.
"I couldn't stand that," she said, and stepped past him into the hall.
Liam let her go. She was hurting, he knew—not only from whatever had transpired this day, but from what had not transpired between the two of them these past months. She still loved him.
"It ends," Emma said suddenly. "Justice is finally done."
And so it was, Liam silently agreed. Still, he could not help but wonder again on the secret the old woman had held so close all these years—what those writings of hers contained. It hardly mattered now, though, he reminded himself, for no more would Ivo have to answer to them. No more need he fear them. It truly was over.
With that last thought, Liam entered the hall and found Joslyn sitting in a chair beside the hearth. Before her was Oliver, hopping from one foot to the other.
"Aye, you may," he heard Joslyn say, "but only one. Do you understand?"
"Uh-huh," the little boy answered. "One tart." Then, intent on the treat that awaited him in the kitchens, he hurried from the hall without noticing Liam.
It was better that way, Liam conceded, for he wanted to talk with Joslyn ere the knights assembled in the hall. Coming to stand before her, he said, "Tell me, Joslyn."
She was a long moment looking at the flames, but when she shifted her gaze to him, he saw that some of the light had returned to her eyes. Oliver had done that. "Ivo caught me out in the open," she said. "As I knew I could not outrun him, I thought to surprise him by going to him willingly."
Liam frowned. "Where was your escort?"
"'Tis not their fault"— she was quick to defend them— "but mine. Wishing some time alone, I rode ahead of them."
"And they allowed it?" Liam exclaimed.
"There seemed no harm in it."
Had there been a table nearby to pound his fists on, Liam knew he would have, for the Irish rose strong in him. "But there was harm in it!" he barked. "God, Joslyn, Ivo could have killed you."
"But instead I killed him," she reminded him, then looked back at the fire.
The small voice calmed Liam. "How did it hap
pen?" he asked.
"My brooch. He never expected it."
Though Liam had seen that she held her mantle closed, too much had occupied his thoughts for him to question the reason she did not use a brooch. "You turned it on Ivo?"
"Nay, on his destrier."
She did not need to say anymore, for Liam could well imagine the destrier's reaction. "The horse threw him." He spoke his thoughts aloud.
She nodded. "Ivo fell wrong."
Then he had died nearly the same as Maynard, Liam realized.
"I did not mean for it to happen," Joslyn continued. "I was only trying to escape."
Were they alone—and they no longer were, with the arrival of three of the four knights in the hall— Liam would have given in to the urge to gather her in his arms. Instead, he said, "You are not to blame, Joslyn. Ivo brought this on himself."
Her smile was grim. "I know that, but still She shook her head.
"Go abovestairs and rest," Liam said.
Standing, she turned toward the stairs. However, she had taken only a step away from him when she looked over her shoulder. "You are not staying long, are you?" she asked.
He wasn't. Couldn't. "I will be here when you awaken." He attempted to reassure her.
Without another word, Joslyn crossed to the stairs and, and as if she were more Emma's age than her own, slowly went up the steps.
When she was gone from sight, Liam turned to the knights, who awaited his pronouncement upon them. They were ready, he saw, each steeled for the anger that was more than due them. "Come forward," he ordered.
They exchanged glances and stepped toward him.
23
She was not alone. Joslyn knew it even before she opened her eyes. She also knew it was not Emma or Oliver in her chamber with her. It was Liam.
Lifting her lids, she peered into the dimly lit room and saw Liam where he sat in the chair beside her bed. Why? she wondered. It was as if he watched over her, and that hardly seemed likely—not after all these months when he had gone out of his way to avoid her.
"Joslyn," he said.
He must have seen she'd awakened. "What are you doing here?" she asked.
