Misbegotten Page 3
"If you promise to keep your teeth to yourself, boy," Sir John said, "you may share my saddle with me."
Oliver stilled, and after a long silence of weighing the merits of remaining beneath the man's arm against those of being allowed to sit on the exquisitely worked saddle, he nodded agreement.
As the child was settled between Sir John's thighs, Liam said, "So this filthy little urchin is Oliver."
The boy jerked his head up, giving Liam his first real look at him. "I am not little!" he declared, his fear replaced by bright-eyed outrage.
Liam needed no more confirmation that the child was Maynard's. Cleaned, his hair would be as golden as Maynard's had been, and visible beneath the layers of dirt he bore the same distinctive forehead and jaw as had the generations of Fawkes before him. True, the coloring of his eyes was given him by his mother, but their shape was unmistakably Maynard's—and Liam's.
Suddenly, Oliver's outrage slipped away. His jaw dropping wide, he pointed a finger at Liam and declared, "The bad man, Mama!"
The bad man . . . ? Liam glanced down at Joslyn. However, she averted her gaze.
"He will not hurt you, Oliver," she assured him.
The boy mulled it over a moment, then asked Liam, "Will you hurt my mama?"
Something about his childish concern dragged a smile from Liam. "Nay, Oliver, I am not the bad man your mother thinks me to be. I am your Uncle Liam, the brother of your father."
Oliver cocked his head to the side. "My father?"
"This really isn't necessary, is it?" Joslyn interjected.
Liam ignored her. "How old are you, boy?" he asked.
Thoughtfully, Oliver raised a hand before his face, uncurled one finger, a second one, chewed his bottom lip a moment, then thrust his hand toward Liam. "One . . . two," he said. "See?"
Liam sought Joslyn's gaze. "Let us go inside."
Her eyebrows arched. "Surely you do not expect me to welcome you into my father's home?"
His tolerance nearly spent, Liam leaned down from his mount so she could better feel his words. However, the scent wafting off her surprised him into speechlessness. Instead of the rank odors of an unclean body, she smelled of earth and wood and, beneath that, a hint of roses. Rosewater, he thought, which meant she had recently bathed.
Remembering himself, he looked into her indignant eyes. "If you would prefer, I will simply take Oliver up before me and continue on my way," he said, though he had no intention of doing such a thing. Not only would it be unwise to have tales of abduction following him to London, but he must first verify the boy's claim on Ashlingford—that Oliver was, indeed, legitimate born.
"Of course not," Joslyn said quietly, his threat taming the defiance out of her.
"Then to the manor?"
Grudgingly, she nodded.
Liam urged his destrier around, but in the next instant checked the animal's progress and leveled his gaze on the men riding toward him. Sir Gregory and, ahead of him, Ivo.
Insufferable priest! The past two days of hard riding should have tired the man who was twenty years older than Liam, but Ivo had kept pace the entire way. Thus, in order to take Rosemoor without his uncle's interference, Liam had been forced to trickery.
After Ivo had gained them entrance into the village in the name of the church, Liam had set Sir Gregory on him, and in the ensuing fray he and the rest of his men had ridden on the manor.
Clearly angered at having been left behind, Ivo dragged his horse to a cruel halt and turned to his bastard nephew. However, he did not utter the words pressing at the back of his colorless lips as he must have wanted. Instead, he cursorily searched the small gathering before him and a moment later eyed the unlikely woman who stood alongside Sir John's mount. "Where is your mistress, girl?" he demanded. Liam smiled.
Raising her chin again, Joslyn said, "You are mistaken, Father. I am—"
"Lady Joslyn Fawke," Liam finished for her. "Maynard's widow."
The disbelief rising on Ivo's face offered a rare glimpse of the usually arrogant, self-assured man.
"And here is Maynard's son," Liam continued. "Oliver Fawke."
Recovering from his momentary surprise, Ivo looked to the unkempt boy. However, in spite of the boy's appearance, some of the harshness drained from the priest's eyes. "Maynard's son," he murmured.
"And who are you?" Joslyn asked. He was a long time in pulling his gaze from Oliver.
"I am Father Ivo," he finally said. "Maynard's uncle."
"Ivo?" Joslyn echoed.
Liam heard the hope in her voice. Clearly, Maynard had told her of his beloved uncle, and in him she now saw a possible ally. More than possible, Liam knew. If need be, Ivo would defend Oliver's right to Ashlingford all the way to the papacy.
The anger in Liam surfacing again, he barked, "We will continue this inside," and spurred his destrier forward.
At the manor steps, he was met by uncertain, hand-wringing servants and the handful of men he had ordered to position themselves there in the event of trouble. But trouble would not come from the manor, he saw, as he looked behind him. It would come from the villagers, who were now massed on the road Liam and his men had taken. Their weapons implements such as Joslyn had tried to use against him, they came to ensure that all was well at their lord's manor.
"Lady Joslyn," Liam called to her as she neared, "go to your people and tell them naught is amiss. Instruct them to return to their homes."
The rebellion that flared in her eyes smoldered in the next instant. As Sir John still had possession of her son, she had no choice but to do as she was told. To Oliver she said, "The knight has a fine horse, does he not?"
He nodded with enthusiasm. "Bigger'n A-papa's."
"Aye, much bigger than your grandfather's horse. Do you think you can watch him while I go down the road to talk to the villagers? I shan't be long."
A tiny frown gathering between his eyes, Oliver looked back at Sir John. "You not a bad man?" he asked.
With a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, the knight shook his head.
Oliver looked back at his mother. "A'right," he agreed. "I watch the horse."
Sending Liam a warning look, Joslyn started toward the road.
Liam glanced at Sir Gregory, who'd so recently served him well, and only then noticed the bleeding cut tracing the man's cheekbone. No doubt Ivo's nasty dagger had done that, though surely his uncle would have preferred to pierce the young knight's breast than the trivial flesh of his face. "Sir Gregory," he said, "accompany Lady Joslyn."
Joslyn halted, but though she must have wanted to say something quite badly, she drew herself stiffly erect and continued on as if she went alone.
3
Liam Fawke's eyes.
They were the first Joslyn saw when she stepped into the hall. They bored through her and then shifted to the knight who had accompanied her down the road to speak with the villagers.
Disquiet shuddered up her spine. She had heard it said a fine horse could make a man, but such was not the case with Maynard's brother, for even without his great destrier beneath him, he was an imposing presence. Not that he was unusually tall. It was just that his broad shoulders coming out from beneath the mantle, and the muscled legs defined beneath the material of his chausses, set him so far apart from the others.
Hating every inch of him, Joslyn began searching for her son. However, she did not have to look far—only down. The little boy stood in Sir Liam's shadow, his eyes fixed on the man towering over him.
Though the desire to call him to her was strong, Joslyn quelled it and walked forward with as much dignity as was possible in her soiled gardening attire. On her heels, Sir Gregory followed—no doubt to report on her conversation with the villagers. How Joslyn wished there had been some way to alert her father's people as to what had truly transpired, but fear for Oliver's well-being curbed her tongue.
Liam Fawke had not won, though, she told herself as she spotted Father Ivo where he stood warming himself before the hearth. F
rom Maynard she knew of the priest's staunch loyalty to her husband, and though he had been surprised by her appearance, in his eyes had been the promise of an ally.
"Mama!" Oliver exclaimed.
Ignoring Liam, Joslyn stepped to her son and gratefully accepted the small hand he slid into hers. Lord, but it felt wonderful. There had been a moment when she feared she might never touch him again. Bending down, she asked, "Did you tend the knight's horse well?"
He bobbed his head up and down, "Unca Liam let me touch his sword!"
Joslyn flinched at the affectionate title of "uncle" he so innocently bestowed on one who sought to steal his birthright—one who might even have murdered Oliver's father in order to do so, she reminded herself. "Is that so?" she asked.
"Aye, an' his dagger too."
Although she felt Liam's eyes on her again, she continued to ignore him.
"He's a great knight," Oliver continued.
Joslyn raised an eyebrow. "Is that what he told you?"
"Nay, Sir John told me." He pointed to a man who stood nearby—the same who'd snatched Oliver from his flight toward the woods and taken him onto his horse.
"I see," Joslyn murmured. As she straightened, out of the corner of her eye she saw Liam turn to Sir Gregory.
"Thirsty, Mama," Oliver said, his voice loud enough to make it impossible for Joslyn to hear Sir Liam's exchange with his man.
It mattered not, though, for there was naught the knight could report that might anger Liam Fawke, Joslyn assured herself. Turning, she motioned one of the servants forward. "Clare."
"Aye, my lady?" Clare asked.
"Bring some honey milk for my son," Joslyn said. Then, remembering she was the lady of her father's house, she added grudgingly, "and ale for the men."
"It has already been sent for—the ale, I mean," Clare said, "but I will fetch the honey milk."
"Sent for?"
"Aye, Sir Liam called for it."
Of course. Resentment rolling through her, Joslyn leveled all of it on the cur's back. "Fine."
"Hungry, too," Oliver piped up.
It was early for supper, but Joslyn could see no reason not to have it over and done with. "Tell Cook to prepare some cold meats and cheeses," she ordered the serving girl, "and to warm some bread. Then find ·»m cone to help you move the tables and benches out from the walls."
"Aye, my lady. Anything more?" "Nay, that is enough."
With a bob of her head, Clare turned and started back across the hall.
Although the thought of a bath beckoned mightily to Joslyn, she decided that a washbasin would suffice until this eve, when she could linger in the tub. "Let us go wash ourselves and change our clothes/' she said to Oliver, "and when we are finished, you will have your drink—"
"Clare," Liam called to the girl.
Grinding her teeth, Joslyn looked over her shoulder at where he stood.
The girl offered him a pretty smile. "Aye, my lord?"
"You may tell Cook not to hurry, The ale will suffice until the lady has had her bath." Liam's gaze flicked to Joslyn, dismissed her, and returned to Clare.
“Very well, my lord."
Joslyn's control snapped. "Nay, Clare, tell Cook to prepare the meal with all speed," she said. "My son and I are hungry."
The girl was startled, but seeing something in her mistress's face that she had not seen before, she nodded and scurried toward the kitchens.
Joslyn hardly noticed the quiet thatfell over the hall as she stared at Liam and silently dared him to countermand her. In fact, for the longest time it seemed they were the only two in the room: the Irish bastard and the defiant widow.
Staring across the three strides that separated him from Joslyn, Liam's annoyanceebbed as something uninvited stirred in him. As unbecoming and filthy as Joslyn was, he felt a peculiar oneness with this lady, who was not placid and proper as she should have been, and who was certainly not as cold as he'd first believed. She was unlike any English lady he had ever known. Indeed, she seemed to have a bit of the Irish in her.
That last thought made Liam smile . . . and smile wider. Throwing back his head, he laughed the first laugh he had enjoyed in as long as he could remember and was soon joined by his men.
A moment later, the arrival of servants bearing pitchers of ale caused the din to subside.
"And what is it you find so amusing, Sir Liam?" Joslyn demanded.
Liam quaffed his tankard of ale before answering her. "Tis amusing that Maynard would choose you for a wife when he professed to so hate spirit in a woman," he said, "and yet you could not be more like my mother, whom he hated."
Though he had not meant it as an insult, she took it as such. "The difference is, Sir Liam" —she spoke between set teeth—"Maynard married me. Unlike your father, who refused to wed your mother. My son is legitimate. Unlike you. And Oliver is the heir of Ashlingford. Again, unlike you."
Silence descended, expressions froze, and tankards hung on the air like drops of steel dew.
Had Liam not earlier had the laughter to temper his sudden surge of anger, he knew he would surely have erupted, but he once again repressed what was inside him. "Are you finished, Lady Joslyn?" he asked.
If she feared him—which she should have—she did not show it. "Quite," she said. Then, something catching her eye, she shifted her gaze to the hearth.
Liam looked around in time to catch the slight shake of Ivo's head, a warning that she had gone too far. The man knew him well. Joslyn would be wise to heed his counsel.
The tables and benches having been positioned during the pouring of the ale, Liam strode toward them. "Meal," he said.
With Oliver seated on her right and Father Ivo on her left, Joslyn stared at the food before her. The supper was without flavor, though only because she could not put her mind to it. She was far too preoccupied with this day's events to know what passed her lips, and too fearful of Liam's plans to pay any heed as to whether or not Oliver put anything past his.
Shaking off her troubled thoughts, she looked to where her son had come up on his knees to search out choice morsels from her trencher.
Filthy little urchin, Liam had called him—and it could not have been more true. Oliver had been pleased to sit at table wearing his garden dirt, never before having been allowed to do such a thing.
What would her father say of his grandson if he walked in at this moment? Joslyn wondered. But more, what would he say of his daughter, who had not only allowed it but looked the Urchin herself? He would be horrified, though with S tankard or two of ale in him, he would perhaps find humor in it.
"Lady, I fear you tread too heavily.”
The unexpectedness of the whisper near her ear startled Joslyn. She looked into the mature but still handsome face of Father Ivo. "Pardon?" she asked.
"Do not push the bastard," he said from behind the hand towel he pressed to his mouth. "All will come right if you allow me to prepare Oliver's way."
She glanced to where Liam sat, across the table and three persons down from her. Though his eyes were on the goblet he held, he appeared to be listening to the knight beside him. "How?" she asked.
"Speak no more. I will come to you this eve and explain."
Her thoughts running ahead, a spring of hope beginning to flow, Joslyn nodded.
"My uncle is an interesting man, do you not think, Lady Joslyn?" Liam asked.
She was caught. Hiding her surprise behind a falsely composed face, she looked into his lucid green eyes. "As we are hardly well acquainted," she said, "I cannot say, can I?"
His smile was cutting. For certain he could not know what had been said between his uncle and her, but he knew it was of him. "Ah, but I'm sure you will become close friends," he said. "Don't you agree, Ivo?"
Ignoring his question, the priest stuffed a piece of cheese in his mouth and began chewing it with great thought.
Seeking another path down which to lead Sir Liam, Joslyn asked what she had yet to know. "How came you into the village?"
"In the name of the church, he gained us admittance when we would otherwise have been turned away."
"And had you been turned away?"
He considered her query a moment, then shrugged. "I suppose I would have waited for night and then scaled the walls."
But still he would have come for Oliver. "I see," she murmured, and looked back at her trencher.
Sometime later, Joslyn was again dragged from her thoughts, this time by the arrival in the hall of a man she knew well: Father Paul, the priest who had ministered to the people of Rosemoor for the past twenty or more years and had presided over the vows she and Maynard had spoken. Led forward by one of Liam's men, the rumpled priest looked questioningly about him and seemed relieved to lay eyes upon Joslyn—but only for a moment, before he noticed her dreadful appearance.
Standing, Joslyn took a step toward him.
"Regain your seat, Lady Joslyn," Liam ordered.
She looked across and saw in his eyes a warning—one she badly wanted to defy. However, knowing there was naught to be gained in doing so, she turned back to the bench and slowly lowered herself.
While the priest waited to be told the reason he had been brought to the manor, Liam ordered his men from the hall. Lingering only long enough to gather their tankards of ale and picked-over platters of viands, they complied.
With only Father Ivo, Father Paul, Joslyn, and Oliver remaining, Liam walked around the table.
"Where'd they go?" Oliver asked. "Outside." Joslyn spoke low. "Why?"
"Because ..." Realizing she was about to be drawn into another of his endless queries, she shook her head. "I will tell you later."
With a sigh, he returned to scavenging her plate.
"I apologize for rousing you from your church so late in the day, Father," Sir Liam said, "but I have good reason."
The priest eyed him. "I expect you do. And you are?"
"Sir Liam Fawke. Half brother to Lady Joslyn's husband, who is now departed."
Crossing himself, Father Paul looked past Liam and cast his sympathetic gaze upon Joslyn.
She bowed her head in acceptance of his condolences for a man neither of them had known well.