Majesty.”
The king’s eyebrows jerked. “Lest you forget, we determined that, and it was not proved. It was decided.” He looked back at Joslyn. “Speak to us, my lady. Give us cause to find in your son’s favor.”
Pushing aside the questions clamoring to be answered, she moistened her lips. “Your Majesty, it was my departed husband’s greatest desire that our son succeed him as Baron of Ashlingford. As I heretofore understood it, Liam Fawke has no claim upon the barony.”
“Ah, but ’tis said your husband promised it to him—made him his heir.”
She startled, told herself it was a lie. Maynard had wed her specifically for the getting of an heir. And that she had given him.
Father Ivo threw his hands high. “Never have I heard such, and I would not believe it had I. ’Tis a lie sown by the grasping William.”
“Is it?” Edward lifted a parchment from his lap. “A dozen men of good standing signed this petition. Each attests to knowledge of a pledge made by Maynard Fawke to Liam Fawke six years past.”
Six years, Joslyn mulled. Two and a half years before Maynard wed her. Might he have made such a pledge? If so, he had changed his mind.
“The signers state that your nephew agreed he would leave no legitimate heir. Thus, should his death precede his brother’s, Liam Fawke would become Baron of Ashlingford.”
Father Ivo made a sound of protest. “Nonsense!”
Seeing clouds gather in the king’s eyes, Joslyn took a step forward. “Your Majesty, just as I was unaware there had been a question of my husband’s succession as Baron of Ashlingford, I am unaware of this pledge he is said to have made to his half brother. Ever Maynard intended that our son be his heir.”
The king transferred his glower from the priest to her. Blessedly, his expression lightened. “Seven years past, we received a petition similar to this, and it fell to us to determine which brother had the strongest claim. What your husband did not share with you is that their father named the eldest his heir and furthered his choice by seeing Liam Fawke trained up to become Baron of Ashlingford.”
Then it was no surprise the man believed his claim was superior to Oliver’s.
“And we would have accepted him if not that his right to Ashlingford was challenged on the grounds he was baseborn.”
“Is he not?”
The king shrugged, but not with his shoulders—his mouth. “Montgomery Fawke long claimed to have wed a common Irishwoman hours before she spent her life on birthing their son. Though none challenged him while he lived, upon his death, Father Ivo and Maynard’s mother disputed the legitimacy of the firstborn son. And made a good case of it. Montgomery Fawke was betrothed to Lady Anya at the time he claimed to have wed the Irishwoman, the required banns to announce his marriage beforehand were not read, and the priest said to have performed the ceremony could not be found to bear witness.”
“Thus, Your Majesty awarded the barony to my husband,” Joslyn murmured.
“We did. As Montgomery Fawke wed Lady Anya months after Sir Liam’s birth, and Maynard was born in wedlock and was noble both sides of him, it seemed the right decision.”
Was that regret in King Edward’s voice? “You do not believe it now, Your Majesty?”
The king’s brow furrowed. “Maynard failed us. In under a year, Ashlingford’s revenues dropped to half, much quarreling arose between the vassals and villagers, and word was that its lord fast emptied his coffers with gambling and cavorting.”
The weight that had begun to settle on Joslyn’s shoulders made itself more comfortably uncomfortable as if to stay a long while. Maynard’s gambling was no lie, and after they had wed, she had heard of his appetite for women.
“When we made known our great displeasure,” the king continued, “your husband convinced his brother to return to Ashlingford and manage the estates.”
Then he had not been forced to turn over management of
The king’s eyebrows jerked. “Lest you forget, we determined that, and it was not proved. It was decided.” He looked back at Joslyn. “Speak to us, my lady. Give us cause to find in your son’s favor.”
Pushing aside the questions clamoring to be answered, she moistened her lips. “Your Majesty, it was my departed husband’s greatest desire that our son succeed him as Baron of Ashlingford. As I heretofore understood it, Liam Fawke has no claim upon the barony.”
“Ah, but ’tis said your husband promised it to him—made him his heir.”
She startled, told herself it was a lie. Maynard had wed her specifically for the getting of an heir. And that she had given him.
Father Ivo threw his hands high. “Never have I heard such, and I would not believe it had I. ’Tis a lie sown by the grasping William.”
“Is it?” Edward lifted a parchment from his lap. “A dozen men of good standing signed this petition. Each attests to knowledge of a pledge made by Maynard Fawke to Liam Fawke six years past.”
Six years, Joslyn mulled. Two and a half years before Maynard wed her. Might he have made such a pledge? If so, he had changed his mind.
“The signers state that your nephew agreed he would leave no legitimate heir. Thus, should his death precede his brother’s, Liam Fawke would become Baron of Ashlingford.”
Father Ivo made a sound of protest. “Nonsense!”
Seeing clouds gather in the king’s eyes, Joslyn took a step forward. “Your Majesty, just as I was unaware there had been a question of my husband’s succession as Baron of Ashlingford, I am unaware of this pledge he is said to have made to his half brother. Ever Maynard intended that our son be his heir.”
The king transferred his glower from the priest to her. Blessedly, his expression lightened. “Seven years past, we received a petition similar to this, and it fell to us to determine which brother had the strongest claim. What your husband did not share with you is that their father named the eldest his heir and furthered his choice by seeing Liam Fawke trained up to become Baron of Ashlingford.”
Then it was no surprise the man believed his claim was superior to Oliver’s.
“And we would have accepted him if not that his right to Ashlingford was challenged on the grounds he was baseborn.”
“Is he not?”
The king shrugged, but not with his shoulders—his mouth. “Montgomery Fawke long claimed to have wed a common Irishwoman hours before she spent her life on birthing their son. Though none challenged him while he lived, upon his death, Father Ivo and Maynard’s mother disputed the legitimacy of the firstborn son. And made a good case of it. Montgomery Fawke was betrothed to Lady Anya at the time he claimed to have wed the Irishwoman, the required banns to announce his marriage beforehand were not read, and the priest said to have performed the ceremony could not be found to bear witness.”
“Thus, Your Majesty awarded the barony to my husband,” Joslyn murmured.
“We did. As Montgomery Fawke wed Lady Anya months after Sir Liam’s birth, and Maynard was born in wedlock and was noble both sides of him, it seemed the right decision.”
Was that regret in King Edward’s voice? “You do not believe it now, Your Majesty?”
The king’s brow furrowed. “Maynard failed us. In under a year, Ashlingford’s revenues dropped to half, much quarreling arose between the vassals and villagers, and word was that its lord fast emptied his coffers with gambling and cavorting.”
The weight that had begun to settle on Joslyn’s shoulders made itself more comfortably uncomfortable as if to stay a long while. Maynard’s gambling was no lie, and after they had wed, she had heard of his appetite for women.
“When we made known our great displeasure,” the king continued, “your husband convinced his brother to return to Ashlingford and manage the estates.”
Then he had not been forced to turn over management of
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