Free LADY UNDAUNTED: A Medieval Romance by Tamara Leigh Page A

poor soil and drought—and in the presence of fire, naught.
    Resenting its tireless efforts to impose on him morals by which others did not live, Liam embraced remembrance of Maynard’s taunting.
    Six years of your life for naught, Brother . And I thank you for every one of them.
    He is gone , faith meddled again. The price of ill worked on you and others is paid in full.
    Not by Ivo, Liam silently argued and, once more rebuked for vengeance, muttered, “Not vengeance. The righting of wrongs. Justice.”
    But where does it stop once he has been made to pay?
    That last argument, less welcome for being more his own and calling to memory the innocence of Oliver Fawke, once more breathed into him a lesson taught during his knighthood training.
    As is your calling before God and man, protect those weaker of body and mind. Sir Owen of the Wulfriths, hand heavy on Liam's shoulder, had brought his gaze level with the squire's. Be worthy of your name, Fawke.
    As ever, the reminder of the honorable man who had gifted his half-common son his name had eased Liam's ire enough to turn ear, eye, and thought to the situation.
    He had looked from Sir Owen to the boy newly arrived at Wulfen Castle to begin his knighthood training. Considerably smaller than Liam, though of a like age, the boy had defiantly glared at the one whose Irish blood he had mocked before all — and for it gained a bloodied face that would have been the least of his injuries had Sir Owen not pulled Liam off.
    To once more prove himself worthy of his name, Liam had kept watch over the runt. When the boy continued to turn foul words and fists on others regardless of their size or age, Liam had interceded, though only when confrontations turned dangerous. Thus, he had protected the weak, and since the one he watched over made few friends, the boy was as often the victim as the aggressor. But gradually he had gained control over his angry impulses and turned to Liam for aid in becoming the warrior expected of him. Though of smaller stature than his peers, a warrior he had become, among the finest to be knighted alongside Liam. And no better friend had Liam than John.
    Acknowledging the wisdom and faithfulness of Sir Owen, Liam accepted he should not—could not—step into the darkness to which he had nearly succumbed seven years past. No matter the wrong done him, he would honor his father’s name. No matter how difficult Lady Joslyn and Ivo made the charge given him by the king, he would administer Ashlingford for his father’s grandson. No matter the ruin of Thornemede, he would take that barony in hand and become the lord its people needed.
    “My word I give, the word of a Fawke,” he said low, then opened his eyes upon the beauty man’s hands had forced on nature and found another beauty moved across it—Edward’s queen, Philippa, the woman whose kindness and understanding had yanked him back from that dark threshold seven years ago. And she came without her ladies, for which Liam was grateful.
    Having caught his eye, she smiled.
    He forced a curve onto his own mouth, and when she halted before him, bowed low. “Your Majesty.”
    “Arise, Lord Fawke.”
    Lord, though not of Ashlingford, and he did not doubt the king’s beloved consort knew it.
    He straightened, and Philippa searched his face long before saying on a sigh, “So, my wonderfully Irish knight, you are wronged again.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

    As seemed more and more habit, Joslyn paced—over a rug so plush it felt like spring grass, past an ornately draped bed, between vibrantly upholstered armchairs, and ever back again until her plan was as formed as it could be in her circumstances.
    She would go to Oliver, more to assure herself he was safe from the vengeful Liam Fawke than to keep her word to her son she would soon return. Were she assured Father Ivo kept watch over him, she would not defy the king, but she had no word from Sir Miles whom she had asked to inquire into the whereabouts of