Free LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance by Tamara Leigh

Oliver—”
    “Do you argue with us, Lady Joslyn?”
    She looked to her hands. “Pray, forgive me.”
    He grunted, then called, “Sir Miles, see that a chamber is prepared for the lady.”
    “A chamber?” Joslyn gasped. “Your Majesty, I do not require—”
    He glowered, and as she silently cursed the power of men, he said, “I have further business to attend to, Lady Joslyn.” He reached for one of several parchments on the table beside him, unrolled it, and began to read.
    “Your Majesty.” She bowed, stepped from the dais, and followed Sir Miles from the hall.

    The queen.
    How did one decline such a summons? Or perhaps the better question— could one decline? Regardless of the answer, Liam was tempted to send the lovely lady in waiting back to her mistress with only an apology that the knight who had twice lost his bid for Ashlingford could not accept an audience with Philippa. But no matter the seriousness of the offense of rejecting her summons, no matter the longing to retreat like a beaten dog who wants only to be alone with his wounds, he owed the queen. And he owed her much.
    “You know there is only one answer, aye?” It was John who leaned near, raising eyebrows high above eyes that beseeched Liam not to risk the wrath of a king who loved his queen well despite the occasional indiscretion.
    Liam returned his attention to the beautifully composed woman waiting on his answer. “I thank you for delivering the message, Lady Justina. You may tell Her Majesty I am honored to meet her in the garden.”
    She curtsied, said crisply, “Sir Liam,” and glided toward the staircase.
    “Had we only been quicker on our feet, eh?” John said with an impishly slanted smile that was usually easy to return. But not this day. The knight sighed. “I leave you to it, my friend. When the queen has had her say, you will find me outside with coin aplenty to drink away the day.”
    Though soaking his misery in tankard after tankard of ale held little attraction for Liam, who knew by way of his brother and others how ineffectual and destructive such a course was, the dim and din of an alehouse appealed. There being too many years ahead to dwell on his loss, just for this day he would welcome the distraction.
    “I pray I will not be long in joining you,” he said and went in search of the garden.
    Not unexpectedly, the queen kept him waiting, but having a use for his walk among lush foliage and flowers so vibrantly colored it nearly hurt the eyes, he tried not to begrudge Philippa every minute-long second of every hour-long minute.
    It was time best used to compose himself. And that began with reaching inside Liam Fawke. Like a blind man with arms extended and hands splayed, patting and groping at familiar places made unfamiliar amidst the collapse of walls and passages that had stood for years, he must find his way through the rubble of his brother’s treachery. No difficult thing to do had he no care for his future…his life…his soul…but achingly hard were he to retain a semblance of his father’s son and honor his hard-earned knighthood. If…
    He halted beneath an ivy-covered arbor, closed his eyes, and lifted his face to the narrow beams of sunlight penetrating the dense leaves. “If,” he murmured and felt his mind tread the rubble and feel its way toward the gapingly black passageway he had last approached when Ashlingford was first stolen from him.
    What harm to step over the threshold from which he had been yanked back seven years past? What loss to fathom the breadth and depth of that darkness?
    More, what gain? Certes, Ivo and Maynard had gone before him and, for all their forging, had twice taken Ashlingford from him, this last time for a child who was ages from being sword worthy. Was God so unsympathetic He would fault a sin-born mortal for doing unto others as they did unto him?
    Vengeance is not yours, spoke the faith sown into him from birth that persisted even when little was produced amidst