by Tamara Leigh
The old woman shifted from foot to foot. "Are you not hungry, my lady? I am sure Cook can find you something to eat that will keep you till nooning."
Joslyn shook her head. "Are they your writings?" she asked. "Those Ivo wanted?"
Emma clenched in her hand the one she had yet to burn. "Do not concern yourself, my lady," she said, her voice harsh with strain.
Joslyn was not normally one to pry, but something told her that whatever Emma had used to check Ivo's behavior was not inconsequential and involved more than the two people who had been privy to it. "Tell me, Emma," she implored. "Surely there is no harm now that Ivo is dead."
As if fearing Joslyn intended to snatch the parchment from her, Emma stepped back. "Nay, they are no longer of any use—to me or anyone else," she said, her breathing turned quick and shallow. "As Ivo wanted them so badly, I thought I would ... I would send them to hell with him."
Clearly, the woman was overwrought. Realizing she was responsible for the state Emma was working herself into, Joslyn conceded. "Very well. Tis yours to do with as you think best. I will not try to stop you."
Emma searched her face a long moment, as if she thought Joslyn meant to trick her. Then, with a bit of color returned to her cheeks, she crumpled the parchment into a ball and threw it into the fire. Instantly, it caught, and as the yellow flames licked up around it, turning it black, it slowly opened itself like a flower in spring bloom.
"Your secret is safe," Joslyn said.
"Aye," the old woman whispered, her gaze unwavering upon the charred remains. "As it should be."
The silence that followed was heavy—as if of grief and mourning—but Joslyn knew Emma did not lament the loss of Ivo. Mayhap the loss of something else, but not the false priest.
"Where is Oliver?" Joslyn asked.
"With his uncle in the fields," she replied. "As he wanted so badly to go with him, and 'twas such a beautiful day, Liam said he could."
Though the fields were not a safe place for children—especially when the plows were upon them— Joslyn knew Liam would not allow any harm to befall Oliver. Assured, she turned toward the kitchens, but then looked back around. "Join me?" she asked.
"Nay, methinks I will go rest now," Emma said.
"Are you ill?" Joslyn asked.
The old woman shook her head. "Just weary."
It had been a long day without Liam, made even longer when the Ashlingford men finally returned from working the demesne lands to sit at table for the evening meal. In the clamor that followed, there had been no time for Joslyn to speak to Liam—hardly enough to catch his eye, but when finally he looked her way he had offered her a tired smile. It was something.
Throughout the tedious ritual of supper, Joslyn had done her best to listen to Oliver's jovial accounting of the oxen, which he claimed were ten times as big as his uncle's horse, and the plows that "chewed up the dirt." Though her love for her son had not diminished with the new love blossoming for Liam, Joslyn felt divided. Despite Oliver's sparkling eyes and small face aglow with excitement, she had sought out Liam where he'd sat half a dozen down from her.
Now, though, she finally had him to herself in her chamber. Lifting her head from his shoulder, Joslyn propped her elbow beneath her and leaned across his body. "Liam," she whispered, "are you awake?"
Her words were met by silence, but just as she in ted to lie back down, he spoke. "I am. Are you?"
She smiled. "Only if this is not a dream."
Reaching up, he brushed the backs of his fingers down the side of her face. "I wonder that myself," he said.
His admission surprised her. She turned her head and pressed her lips to his palm. "What do you feel for me, Liam?" she asked. There. She had risked the question.
It was not light enough for her to read his expression, but she felt him stiffen. "I care for you, Joslyn," he finally spoke.
He cared, but did he love? "Is that all?" she asked.
Again he was silent. Then, rolling onto his side, he pulled her beneath him. "Nay, it is not," he murmured before dropping his head and closing his mouth over hers.
He did love her! Joslyn rejoiced with her body as she returned kiss for kiss, caress for caress, and, shortly, the sweet thrusts that made her cry out. More intense than before, Liam made aching love to her until she had thrice scaled the heights he held himself back from, and only then did he allow himself release.
Afterward, with her backside fit to Liam's front where he curled himself around her, Joslyn hugged to her the knowledge that he loved her—his body having spoken it even if he could not.
"How long will you be gone?" she asked, knowing they had only these last hours before dawn ere he left again for Thornemede.
"Winter comes," he said. "With the harvest in and the cereal crops soon to be sown, there will be little occasion for me to journey to Ashlingford. Twill likely be spring ere I am needed here again."
Joslyn could not imagine the long, lonely winter months that lay ahead. "But you will come, won't you?" she asked.
His silence said otherwise. "I can make no promises, Joslyn," he told her at last. "Much depends on when the plague works its way here."
"Will we be together again like this?" she asked, telling herself that even if it was the last time, she must be content that at least they'd had this much.
"We should not be together like this now," he reminded her.
Forbidden.
"I know."
Curving an arm more tightly around her waist, Liam murmured into her hair, "Sleep now." Then, her question left painfully unanswered, he settled back upon the pillow.
The still of night enveloped them once again, and Joslyn closed her eyes, but her thoughts were too restless to allow her to sleep. As she lay awake beside Liam, one after the other she relived the memories made since he had first ridden on Rosemoor Manor. In each she saw how she had drawn nearer and nearer him until her fear of him had turned to love—a love so deep it filled her completely. Yet it hurt. She fervently wished there was some way they might spend the rest of their lives together. But it would take a miracle, and, sadly, these days God seemed not in the mood to grant any.
She sighed and shifted to settle more deeply against Liam. "I do love you," she whispered. "I will always love you."
24
Princess Joan was dead.
As with most talk of the plague, her death was spoken of in hushed tones in those places that were not yet touched by the darkness. However, in Dorset where the dread sickness now raged, the passing of the daughter of King Edward and Queen Philippa was certain to be told by voices loud with hysteria. After all, if those so near God were not to be spared, what hope had the common man?
Arresting his stride in the middle of the outer bailey, Liam pushed a hand through his hair. Now he better understood the reason Queen Philippa had yet to answer his missive. No doubt it would be some time ere she rose from her mourning to do so.
Though he had been headed for Thornemede's smithy when he overheard news of the princess's death, Liam turned instead to the one who had spoken of it.
The merchant was standing on the opposite side of the table his goods were laid out upon, the women servants his captive audience. "Tis true." he said. ' Twas this past August while she was in France that the plague took her."
"In France?" Maeve breathed.
The man nodded. "Journeyin' to marry the son of the king of Castile, she was."
Liam counted: three months. Though news was wont to travel slowly throughout England, he was surprised it had taken so long for something of such import to reach Thornemede.
Noticing Liam where he stood back from the others, the merchant straightened. "Ah, Lord Fawke." I le raised his voice in greeting. "There is something I can show you?"
Liam was about to decline when something among the pieces of worked metal caught his eye: a brooch. Stepping forward, he lifted it to catch the light. It was simple, made special only by delicate petals fashioned of silver that enfolded each of
four rubies. Roses.
"Tis lovely, isn't it?" the merchant said.
Liam turned it over, unhinged the pin, and closed il again.
He wondered if Joslyn had replaced the one she'd lost in her bid to escape Ivo during the six weeks since last he had been at Ashlingford. In the next instant he abandoned such ponderings. Until he had his answer from the queen, it would not do for him to be sending Joslyn gifts. "Aye, lovely," he agreed, setting it back down.
"I will make you a good price, my lord," the man said.
Liam shook his head and turned away from the table. However, the appearance of Gertrude in his path broke his stride. He should have known she would be nearby, for though Michael and Emrys had taken to adventuring, the little girl was never far from Maeve's skirts. She smiled at him—a dimpling smile she had perfected these past months. It was effective whenever she wished to sit on his lap before the fire, ride on his shoulders, or search in his trencher for a tasty morsel.
"You would like something?" Liam asked.
She chewed her bottom lip a moment, then stepped forward and slipped her hand into his. "Over here, Uncle Liam," she said, tugging him left to where another merchant displayed various leather goods. Peering up over the edge of the table, she quickly found what she was looking for and tapped a finger to the toe of one of a pair of small goatskin slippers that were dyed red.
"Do you think they will fit, Gertie?" Liam asked.
She looked down at her feet, shod in plain brown slippers, studied them a moment, and nodded.
Liam lifted the slippers from the table. "And if I buy these for you, what think you I should buy for Michael and Emrys?" he asked.
She knew without thinking on it even a moment. "Michael wants a dagger like yours, sire." Fleetingly, she touched Liam's scabbard. "And Emrys—he wants a belt."
"How do you know that?"
She shrugged. "Just do."
Looking around, Liam searched the bailey and soon located Michael, who stood before the merchant whose table was set with various weapons, and Emrys farther down, doing his best to make a man's belt fit his boy's waist. "I see," he said, then turned his gaze to the stout woman behind the table.
She offered him a gap-toothed smile. "Slippers for yer little girl, my lord?" she asked.
His little girl, Liam mused. "Aye," he said. The woman named a price.
Liam countered with an offer of half what she asked—still more than their worth.
The woman tried again, but Liam held firm and soon was helping Gertrude in donning her new slippers. With the proud little girl skipping before him, Liam crossed to where Michael stood hopeful and purchased a blunt-edged dagger for him. Then he bought Emrys a belt that had to be looped twice around his waist in order to fit.
"When I'm all grown up, it'll still fit," Emrys said, having refused the merchant's offer to shorten it for him.
"Aye, that it will," Liam said.
Michael admired his brother's belt and ran his fingers over it, and they both trotted off.
"Can I have a ride, Uncle Liam?" Gertrude asked, reminding him that she had remained behind.
"Later, hmm?" he said. "I've work to do now."
She nodded, too content with her red slippers to beseech him to change his mind.
He led Gertrude back to where Maeve waited alongside the table of the first merchant
The woman took Gertrude's hand. "Come, little one," she said. "We've pastries aplenty to stick our fingers into."
"Oh, can I?" the little girl cried.
"Aye, but you mustn't tell your Uncle Liam I allowed it," Maeve said, grinning at him over her shoulder as she led Gertrude away.
Liam's attention was drawn again to the brooch.
"It is of good weight, my lord," the merchant said, "and the rubies are of the highest quality."
Picking it up again, Liam ran his thumb over each gem. "Tis Ashlingford you go to next?" he asked.
"Aye, my lord. Ashlingford on the morrow."
With a nod, Liam handed the brooch to the man. "Deliver this to Lady Joslyn Fawke for me," he said.
The merchant beamed. "I can do that, my lord. Any word you would have me deliver with it?"
Liam did not think long on it. "Just tell her 'tis from the baron of Thornemede."
It was the first Joslyn had heard from Liam in all these weeks. Her heart beating with wonderful excitement, she hurried to the donjon and ascended to her chamber two steps at a time. After closing the door behind her, she paused to eye the pouch she clutched and guess a moment as to its contents, then she dropped into the nearest chair and laid back the folds of leather.
She gasped. Blinking up at her as if with awakening eyes was a silver brooch set with rubies—four of them—each made as a rose. Beginning to smile, Joslyn lifted the brooch into the dusky light of an overcast day.
From the baron of Thornemede, the merchant had told her. When she had gone down to the bailey to purchase spices, candles, and other household items, she had not gone anywhere near the man's table. Thus, he had sought her out to deliver Liam's gift to her. There had been no message to accompany it, but none was needed. Liam's thoughtfulness spoke clearly enough.
Joslyn held the brooch close to her heart for several minutes. Then, removing one Emma had given her, she pushed the pin through the folds of her mantle.
In the past few weeks, the loneliness caused by Liam's absence had more than once made her question what he felt. Now Joslyn had her answer as she stared down at the brooch. It was beautiful, she thought, but the love behind it was its true beauty. She sighed. Whether he admitted it or not, he did love her.
Her day made light even if the sun was still shut out by clouds, Joslyn returned to the bailey to complete her purchases.
25
It came like the dark of the dead of night, and by morning nearly a score of villagers stood outside the castle gates waiting to be admitted.
As the men and women were ushered into the hall, nearly every one of them looking fit to panic, Joslyn sent Oliver abovestairs with Emma. It was the day they had all been waiting for with dread, and now that it was upon them, Joslyn knew it was time to keep the promise Liam had extracted from her—to be strong for these people who would one day call Oliver their lord.
"Tis come," one of the women blurted. "God's fist has descended."
Leaning forward, Sir Hugh said, "Describe it to me, woman. How do you know?"
She stepped forward. "This past eve the marks came upon my husband/First the swelling, and now his entire body is covered with sores. He's heated somethin' terrible."
"How many more?" Sir Hugh asked, looking to the others.
"My boy's stricken," a man old enough to be a grandfather said. Wringing his hood between his hands, he asked, "He ain't gonna die, is he? He's my only boy, ye know."
Even the old man knew the answer to that. Once touched by the disease, it seemed only a miracle could save the person afflicted by it.
"Your son must be removed from your home," Sir Hugh said, speaking no lie, but neither stating the obvious. "All who fall ill to the plague will be taken immediately to the old village of Belle Glen."
Joslyn frowned. The name seemed familiar.
The village woman who had spoken first exclaimed, "Belle Glen? But 'tis burnt out. There is naught there but ashes."
Now Joslyn knew where she'd heard it spoken of before, It was the village where Maynard had hidden the money.
"This past summer, Lord Fawke had built there several buildings to house the sick," Sir Hugh said.
"I will be there to minister to the people" —Father Warren spoke up—"as will the physician and the good friars." He nodded to three robed men who stood solemn across the hall. Liam had sent them to Ashlingford two months past.
"Tis as Lord Fawke has spoken," Joslyn said, looking from one face to the next and then beyond to the silent servants. "If we are to survive this plague, we must continue as if it were not with us—removing our ill to the sick houses as soon as the fi
rst symptoms appear and then taking up our tasks again." It was asking much, she knew, for it was said to take two or three months, and sometimes longer, for the plague to run its course. A long time to live among death and pretend one was not touched by it.
"But how do we know that removing them will make any difference in whether or not the rest of us live?" asked the old man who was about to lose his only son.
"We do not." Sir Hugh returned to the conversation. "But one thing is certain: If we keep them among us, there will be other deaths. If they are taken to Belle Glen, we might save lives."
All told, five known cases of the plague had sprung up overnight. The villagers, as calm as could be expected, left the castle to return home and convey their sick to Belle Glen.
Standing in her chamber looking out the window, Joslyn followed Father Warren's progress across the inner bailey to the outer, where two horses were saddled and waiting. Behind the priest trudged the physician, a man who had stood silent throughout the meeting in the hall. Though Joslyn did not know him well, for she'd had no occasion to call for him, she sensed something was amiss. It had been more his place to calm the villagers than Sir Hugh or herself, and yet he had kept silent, as if he were not a part of it.
Would he abandon Ashlingford? Word was that many priests and physicians were fleeing their duties to the dying for fear of being taken with the sickness themselves—especially as they seemed to fall to the plague more easily than others. It was a curious thing if one looked beyond the horror of it.
"Pray, do not go," Joslyn whispered. Though more and more it was apparent that physicians were powerless in combating the plague, their presence was still needed to ease the sufferring.
"Mama, when will Unca Liam come again?" Oliver asked.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, tossing his lop from one hand to the other. He was growing, his baby's face now that of a small boy's, his arms and legs lengthening to the point that new clothes would soon need to be sewn for him. His mind was grasping at things that last year had been quite beyond him. God, she prayed, don't let the plague come upon my little boy!
