Misbegotten Read online

  She nodded. "A prayer, Father?"

  He stepped forward to grant her request, but Ivo's next words denied it. "We must leave at once," he insisted. "Let us mount up and be gone from here." Taking the reins from Bartholomew, he gained the saddle as easily as any well-trained knight.

  Though annoyance flickered across Father Paul's face, he acceded to the other priest's wishes. "When you are gone, I will speak prayers for you and Oliver before the altar," he assured Joslyn.

  "I thank you," she said, She walked past him and put Oliver into Carle's arms. Turning aside Bartholomew's offer to assist her in mounting, she gave the bundle to him, put a slippered foot into the stirrup, and settled herself atop her palfrey. Once her belongings were secured to the back of her saddle, Carle passed Oliver up. Unfortunately, it jostled the child out of his sleep.

  "Mama?"

  "Hush, little one," she soothed, "you are dreaming."

  "I am?"

  "Um-hmm."

  With a sigh, Oliver nestled against her side and slid back into sleep.

  Pulling the blanket and her mantle more closely around him to protect him against the chill of the night ride, Joslyn looked up at Ivo. "We are ready," she said.

  "Open the gate," he ordered.

  With a grunt, Bartholomew pushed one of two large doors outward.

  Immediately, Ivo's horse surged forward and passed through the portal.

  Joslyn would have followed, but Father Paul stepped to her side and covered her hand with his. "God be with you," he said, "but beware a man who makes his life in the shadow of the church."

  She frowned. "Father Ivo?"

  "Tis not only Sir Liam who covets what belongs to another."

  Though Joslyn would have liked to hear more, the priest turned and walked away.

  There was nothing left to do but to follow Ivo and mull over the priest's warning. She urged her horse forward.

  "Godspeed, my lady!" Carle called after her. "Godspeed," echoed Bartholomew.

  Liam stood on two thresholds—that of the chamber Joslyn shared with her son and that of an anger which rivaled what he had felt when Maynard revealed his deceit.

  The Lady Joslyn and her son were gone, and they were not alone. Gone with them was Ivo.

  Among the first to awaken, Liam had immediately noticed his uncle's absence. As Ivo was not partial to rising before late morning, Liam had known something was amiss and had wasted no time in raising the alarm. His knights scattering, he had come above-stairs to confirm the reality of his suspicions: During the night, Ivo and Joslyn had stolen Oliver from the manor. Undoubtedly their destination was London, where they would seek an audience with the king to plead the child's right to Ashlingford.

  Thwarted yet again. "God almighty!" Liam shouted. What stupidity to think Ivo could be kept in his place by soldiers with half the priest's experience. What foolishness to believe Joslyn would not endanger her child for a barony. What—

  Something among the rushes caught Liam's eye. Interrupting the richly deserved self-condemnation, he crossed the small chamber and bent beside the bed to pick up the object: a top. He'd had one himself, at Oliver's age, and then passed it on to Maynard after growing too old for it. He still remembered . . .

  Shaking his head, Liam broke the memory into a thousand pieces and turned toward the door. However, something made him pause—something in this place that wafted to his senses and teetered on the fringes of his knowing.

  Frowning, he turned back to the bed. Though the covers were in slight disarray, he knew Joslyn had not slept there last night. More likely she had sat propped against the pillows, waiting for Ivo to come for them.

  Breathing the air, Liam caught the faint scent again. Curiosity momentarily replacing anger, he lifted the sheet to his nose: roses, just as when he'd leaned down from his destrier and smelled them upon her. However, this time it was not earth and wood mingled with the flowers, but the sweet smell of a woman. A woman who had defied and deceived him.

  Dropping the sheet, Liam strode to the door. It was time to ride.

  5

  "You wish to know how Maynard died?" a soft voice asked.

  Having thought herself alone in the chapel, Joslyn started with surprise. "Father Ivo?" she said.

  "Aye, 'tis I, child."

  Unclasping her folded hands, Joslyn looked toward the lit candles whence his voice issued. "I thought myself alone," she said, meeting his gaze among the flames.

  "One is never alone in the house of the Lord, Lady Joslyn."

  A shiver of disquiet stole up her spine. Wishing father Ivo would come out from behind the candles that made him appear so sinister, she rose from where she had spent the past hour of evening kneeling in prayer. "Of course not," she said.

  "You are fearful. I felt it the moment I entered His sanctuary."

  "Have I not cause to be?"

  He inclined his head. "More cause than you know, lady." Which he obviously intended to make known to her here.

  Their day-long ride to London having been made nearly without pause, Joslyn had not had the chance to inquire further into Maynard's death. However, now that they were settled in the manor of an acquaintance of Father Ivo's, she hoped finally to learn of the role Liam Fawke had played in his brother's death. "Tell me of Maynard," she invited.

  Stepping from behind the candles, the priest's face turned familiar again. "Do sit, Lady Joslyn."

  Though she would rather have stood, she lowered herself back to the bench.

  Without hurry, Father Ivo walked forward and sat down beside her. "It is true that my nephew—your husband—was not without sin," he began. "As you know, he drank far too much and was loose with his coin."

  As she had known too well, Joslyn reflected. "But I tell you now, Maynard was driven to it." "Driven to it?"

  "Aye, William shamelessly encouraged his brother's drinking and gambling, for the drink kept Maynard vulnerable, while the need for betting money humbled him into begging it from his own coffers. This gave William power over the barony of Ashlingford, you see, power he still hungers for."

  Joslyn had heard the same story from Maynard during the few times he had come to Rosemoor before the marriage. Beaten down by his brother, he had been forced to turn over the management of the estates to him. And each day that passed had seen more and more taken until all that remained to

  Maynard was a worthless title. "I have never understood why Maynard did not appeal to the king to have his brother removed," she said.

  "You ask that after meeting the bastard?"

  Aye, Liam Fawke riding across the green toward her had certainly struck fear in her, Joslyn admitted to herself, but could not even the king subdue him?

  "He is a dangerous man, Lady Joslyn," Ivo said. "Why else would Maynard have kept Oliver a secret from him?"

  He had said he feared for his son's life, but all the more reason to have dealt with his illegitimate brother. "What of Maynard's death?" Joslyn asked.

  "As I told you, though William did not kill Maynard by his own hand, he is as responsible as if he had." Ivo paused a moment before continuing. "Ere Maynard died, he told me that he and William had had an argument the night before, which started Maynard drinking. It was about money. William withheld it from Maynard when every last coin of it was his." He shook his head. "Too much drink in him to think right, Maynard called for his destrier, and, rather than challenge him, William allowed him to ride out into the night with his blood full of drink. Always William could drive him to act rashly."

  "What happened?"

  "Shortly after leaving the castle, Maynard was thrown from his horse into a ravine, and though he climbed out of it and returned to Ashlingford on foot, his injuries were mortal."

  Now Joslyn understood. Not by Liam Fawke's hand but through his devices. Still, though her fear of the man was certainly well founded, she could not help but conclude that Maynard was also to blame for his death. After all, he had been a man of twenty-and-six years, fully grown and responsible f
or his own actions.

  With a glimmer of tears in his eyes, the priest looked down at his hands. "Some hours later he died of inner bleeding. In my arms." The unmistakable pain in the last words he spoke strained his voice so it was hardly recognizable.

  Father Ivo had truly cared for his nephew, Joslyn knew. He had been the one person Maynard had been able to depend on. Moved to feel for her husband as she had not while he was alive—but more, for this man who had loved him—she said, "I am so sorry."

  Father Ivo looked at her. "The one who should be sorry is William," he said, his anger flickering back to life. "He stole your husband, and more: the father of your son."

  Husband . . . father. . . . Inwardly, Joslyn sighed. Neither of those things had Maynard been. However, there was little to gain in revealing to the priest the truth of her marriage. Not knowing what else to say, she rose to leave.

  "The bastard will pay one hundredfold for what he has done!" Father Ivo shouted, his words drenched in vengeance.

  Joslyn was stunned that he, a priest, would speak such words—especially in a place of worship. "Father Ivo, I know you are grieving," she said, attempting to calm him, "but—"

  "You know naught." Pushing to his feet, he thrust so near her she took a reflexive step backward. "You did not love him, did you?"

  Quelling the desire to flee, Joslyn met his gaze. She could not lie. "Nay, as with many a marriage, ours was not consummated out of love. It was for the getting of an heir."

  He stared long and hard at her. Then, without further word, he turned away.

  Eager to take her leave, Joslyn walked quickly to the chapel door, but before exiting, she stole a look behind.

  Facing the altar, his hand upon the hilt of his sword where it hung at his side, Maynard's uncle looked anything but a man of God. He looked a man of war—not by the flat, but by the edge.

  Joslyn crossed the room once more before pausing in front of a large mirror hung on the wall. As her reflection had earlier startled her, it did so again, casting back a likeness that was not at all that of Joslyn of Rosemoor.

  The maid Ivo sent to her had plaited her black hair on either side of her head, pinned it over her ears, and circled her brow with a metal fillet to hold all in place. If that were not extravagant enough, the woman had then attached mesh cylinders to either side of the fillet and therein encased the plaits. And that had only been the beginning of the transformation.

  Lowering her gaze, Joslyn fingered the belt of jeweled, articulated metal plaques draped about her hips. Fastened over the fitted undergown—the coat hardy—it was revealed through the large armholes of a velvet outer garment that extended from below her shoulders to just beneath the line of her hips. Court dress, Ivo had called the garments; he'd had them delivered to her after rejecting the gown she had produced to wear before the king. But to Joslyn they were more simply described as excessive. Never had she felt so proper and pretentious, or so constrained.

  She sighed. If not for Maynard's death, all this would be unnecessary. It would have been he who installed Oliver as his heir, not she. Never would she have had to ride on London with Liam Fawke in pursuit, never would she have had to don such uncomfortable wear, and never would she have had to wait two days to go before a king she would have preferred to know from a distance.

  "Ah, Maynard," she whispered. "Why?"

  The door across the room swung inward. "Lady Joslyn Fawke, Father Ivo." The king's man addressed them. "His Majesty will grant you an audience now."

  The moment had arrived.

  Her heart lurching in her chest, Joslyn turned to where Father Ivo rose from the padded settle he had occupied this past half hour. Though she had hoped her father would return to the city in time to stand with her before the king, it was not to be. Thus, she would have to content herself with the priest.

  His robes crisp but for the creases of his sitting, Ivo stepped forward and put a hand beneath her elbow. "Come, my lady."

  Clutching the woolen mantle folded over her arm, she allowed him to lead her from the room and into a great hall the likes of which she had only before heard described.

  Why, a half dozen of Rosemoor's halls would fit into this one, she marveled as she looked upon the spacious splendor. Mayhap more. And the ornamentation!

  Hardly noticing the king's men positioned around the edges, Joslyn absorbed it all with the wide-eyed disbelief of a child. Everywhere, rich stuffs covered walls and floor, their brilliant fabrics pleasing to the eye and tempting to the touch. Even the benches and settles were draped with lengths of costly material she simply could not imagine seating herself upon.

  Joslyn might have lost herself deeper in the grandeur had her gaze not fallen next upon the man seated in the high-backed chair of state.

  The King of England, Edward III.

  He looked positively bored. That was the first thing she noticed about him. His handsome head propped on one hand, a leg swinging to and fro, he looked as if he would rather be any other place than here, listening to the petty arguments of his nobles.

  As Joslyn and Ivo crossed toward the raised dais, Edward shifted restlessly on the throne, cupped his chin in his palm, stayed the swinging of the one leg, and began tapping the foot of the other. Though he must surely have known of their presence, all the while he stared at a place far to the left of him. And then he yawned.

  Having heretofore envisioned the king as one whose nearness to God transcended such human character, Joslyn nearly laughed, but in the next instant she reminded herself of the seriousness of the situation. Suppressing her amusement, she halted alongside Father Ivo where he'd come to stand before the king.

  "Your Majesty, the Lady Joslyn Fawke and Father Ivo," the herald announced.

  Together, Joslyn and Ivo bowed before the king, a much-practiced exercise Ivo had insisted that Joslyn master to perfection.

  "Arise," Edward said in a bored voice.

  Irritation shot through Joslyn as she straightened, for the king still had not looked at them. All that bowing for naught.

  After a long moment, Edward shifted again, plucked at the thick pie of his velvet tunic, and finally turned his gaze on Ivo. There it rested briefly before moving to Joslyn. And suddenly light came into his eyes. A slight smile unfolded on his lips as he perused her twice over; then he straightened on his throne and stilled his restless movements.

  "Lady Joslyn Fawke," he said, almost questioningly.

  She dipped her head in acknowledgment.

  His smile was wider when she looked up, but then, as if remembering himself, he cleared his throat. "Ashlingford, is it?" he asked.

  "Aye, Your Majesty," Ivo answered, a queer tightness in his voice.

  Obviously, he was as displeased by the king's appreciation of her as she was uncomfortable with it, Joslyn thought. For all her misgivings about the priest, his concern for her well-being was reassuring.

  King Edward leaned forward, his gaze steady upon Joslyn. "I have reviewed your petition for the acknowledgment of your son as heir to his father's holdings," he said, "as I have also reviewed Sir Liam Fawke's."

  He expected a response from her, but before Joslyn could formulate one, Ivo prompted, "And your determination, Your Majesty?"

  Irritation flashed across the king's brow. "I have not yet made one."

  "But Your Majesty, 'tis clearly Oliver Fawke who has the rightful claim to Ashlingford," Ivo protested. "He is of his father's loins, legitimate born, whereas William Fawke is a bastard—"

  "That he is," King Edward interjected, almost as if the circumstances of Liam's birth were of little consequence to him.

  "He seeks to steal the child's birthright," Ivo continued.

  It becoming increasingly clear that Ivo was not being well received by the king, Joslyn hastily interceded. "Your Majesty, it was my departed husband's greatest desire that our son, Oliver, succeed him as baron of Ashlingford. Liam Fawke has no legitimate claim to the barony."

  "Ah, but 'tis said it was promised to him, l
ady."

  Promised to him? Joslyn faltered over that. Whatever did the king mean?

  "By whom?" Ivo demanded.

  The king arched an eyebrow at him. "By your nephew, Maynard, of course."

  Ivo threw his hands into the air. "What lies does William tell now? Never have I heard such before, and neither would I believe it had I."

  "No less than a dozen men of good standing have signed this petition," Edward said, lifting the parchment from his lap, "each attesting to knowledge of the pledge made by Maynard Fawke to Liam Fawke six years past. Each stating that Maynard agreed he would leave no legitimate heir when he died and that his brother would succeed him."

  "Your Majesty, 'tis utter nonsense," Ivo said.

  Seeing the clouds gathering in the king's eyes, Joslyn stepped forward. "I do not understand, Your Majesty. What pledge do you speak of?"

  "Seven years past, a similar petition was brought before me," he began, settling back upon his throne as if the telling might take some time, "though it was to determine whether Liam Fawke or his younger brother, Maynard, should succeed as baron."

  This had not been part of the story Joslyn's husband had poured out to her. Never had he told her his succession had been questioned. The news could not have been more disturbing.

  "You see," King Edward continued, "their father had named Liam as his heir, but Father Ivo and Lady Anya, Maynard's mother, challenged the elder son's claim based on his illegitimacy."

  Understanding opened up within Joslyn. It was no wonder Liam believed his right to Ashlingford stronger than Oliver's. Perhaps it was. "But you awarded the barony to Maynard."

  "I did. As he had been born in wedlock and was of noble birth both sides of him, it seemed the right decision."

  Hearing the regret in his voice, Joslyn prompted, "And it was not?"

  The king frowned. "Maynard failed me. In less than a year, Ashlingford's revenues dropped to less than half, there was much quarreling among the vassals and villagers, and word was that its baron was fast emptying the demesne coffers with his excessive gambling and cavorting."