Fulk The Reluctant. Elaine Knighton

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СКАЧАТЬ you with an intimate experience, but also those who have not. That would no doubt include all in attendance here, as well as the rest of Christendom and beyond.”

      The knights and other squires within earshot chuckled.

      Bryce’s grin faltered and he turned away in silence.

      “Best not to cross tongues with Fulk de Galliard, he’s quicker’n the likes of you.”

      Fulk looked up and nodded to his friend, Malcolm Mac Niall, a man alongside whom he had faced death more times than he cared to recall. Dark and hard as weathered oak, the Scot sauntered over and made a seat of an upturned bucket.

      Fulk regretted his cutting words. He had long suffered the cruel wit of his brother Rabel, who had taken his example from their father, God rest them both. As ever, at the thought of them, Fulk’s heart took an instant leap of grief and fury.

      As ever, he soothed his pain with images of beauty. Rose petals on clean linen. Soft, white skin flushing pink beneath his hands. Shy smiles and ever-willing arms—and legs—opening to him. And now a new vision, of a fair, fiery lass with tangled, dark-gold tresses…

      Fulk shook his head. The mêlée loomed ahead, and every detail of his equipment must be in order. He could not allow himself to be distracted by such an unlikely tidbit. Satisfied his stallion’s legs were cool and tight, his bridle leathers uncracked, and every buckle snugged to perfection, Fulk’s glance strayed to the contingent of Earl Grimald of Lexingford, his deadliest opponent in the upcoming fray.

      “A plague on them and those tubs of lard they call horses,” Malcolm growled, his big hands engulfing a pitcher of ale.

      “Aye. Grimald’s beasts eat better than we do.” Fulk frowned. The earl and his pack were of grave concern.

      Malcolm took a swig of the brew and smoothed his moustache with precise fingers. “There’s the man to watch.”

      A big knight, known as Hengist the Hurler, busied himself with the girth on the earl’s saddle. Hengist had a penchant not only for knocking heads, but for tossing them out of their owners’ reach.

      The blond knight looked up, and seeing Fulk’s gaze upon him, straightened abruptly. Something glinted in his hand, then vanished into the folds of his tunic. Hengist stared at Fulk, hot menace slowly congealing in his ice-blue eyes.

      Stifling an ugly urge to free the Hurler from his no doubt unsatisfactory existence, Fulk grinned and winked. The knight turned red and looked about to advance, but Fulk led his own horse away at a leisurely pace. There was no need to start the fight any earlier than required.

      In the raised pavilion with the other young ladies, Jehanne of Windermere tipped her head and squinted against the glare of sun on steel, the better to view the dozens of knights and great-horses parading past.

      Bright pennants and banners hung as limp as her own spirits in the still summer air. The grass of the tourney grounds had turned to yellow stubble, the noise and heat were stifling, and dust prevented her from clearly seeing any subtleties of technique the combatants used in the contests.

      Not that such things mattered anymore. Hot anguish and bitter shame seethed within her. She had been so close to joining in the mêlée. Her father had dragged her off. But even that was not the worst of it. If not for him, today she would have fought her enemy—her suitor—the Earl Grimald. Aye, she might have slain him—or wounded him so he would have no need of a bride. Even if she had died instead, it would have been an honorable death, with sword in hand.

      Forever free.

      Jehanne squeezed wads of her fine linen gown in her fists and bit her lip. Lioba, the eldest of her handmaidens, sat beside her, frowning in concern.

      “What’s wrong with you, milady?” One violently red-hued curl escaped Lioba’s coif as she leaned closer.

      Jehanne released the crumpled fabric from her damp hands. “I am hot. You’ve tightened the side lacings of this infernal gown so I can scarcely breathe.”

      “Aye, you cannot run far when you cannot draw air into your lungs. There are other ways to best the Earl Grimald, Jehanne, besides meeting him in combat. Even in marriage, there are ways.”

      Jehanne stopped the protest that sprang to her lips. Lioba was good at reading her mind, but even she did not fully understand. She did not want to merely best the Earl Grimald. She wanted him gone from her sight, her mind, her life. But he had spun his web, tight and fine. She was trapped. And the last honorable means of escape had been denied her this day.

      A soft peal of laughter emerged from a fashionable damsel seated beside her. Aye, why not this vapid maiden? The girl, jesting with one of her ladies, seemed quite an impossible creature. Such creamy skin, with suspiciously convenient touches of rose at cheeks and lips. Her hair gleamed in rivers of flaxen silk. Demure and graceful, she dimpled whenever a passing man of prowess acknowledged her.

      What a lot of wasteful effort, just to be a proper lady.

      The beautiful creature noticed Jehanne’s scrutiny, and a wrinkle formed between her thin, pale brows. Jehanne returned the Creature’s cold look with a polite smile. “Have you a favorite for the mêlée?”

      “I do.” She leaned forward, all coyness gone as she looked.

      Jehanne followed her gaze, until it collided with one of the combatants, coming their way on a snorting, blood-bay horse. The man’s surcoat was a plain blue, his outdated, flat-topped helm was unadorned, and his shield bore innumerable scars.

      The modesty of the rider’s accoutrements served only to emphasize the grandeur of his stallion. The big man handled the restive animal with admirable calm.

      The chatter of the surrounding women died down. Putting her own misery aside, Jehanne looked about, baffled at the variety of expressions on the ladies’ faces. Many were excited, wringing their hands, others blatantly lovelorn, and a few were plainly angry.

      “Who is that?” she blurted.

      As he approached, the fair damsel’s knuckles whitened on the railing. “Fulk de Galliard. Fulk the Reluctant, you goose!”

      Jehanne’s jaw tightened. The lady was fast becoming intolerable. Then the object of so many eyes halted directly before them. No one spoke, no one moved. Galliard sat his massive charger and appeared to survey the ladies through the eye slits of his helm.

      Jehanne stared. Never had she seen a lone man command the complete attention of so many women at once. But he did not lower his lance to receive any of the trembling, fluttering wisps of silk being offered him.

      The heat rose in her cheeks. She felt his gaze as surely as if he had touched her skin. This—Fulk—looked at her. Her. The least likely of these worthy noblewomen to attract a man’s attention, and no doubt the one least desirous of it. Jehanne had never yet given a knight her token, and she was not about to start with him.

      His eyes gleamed from within his helm, then, in a brief, elegant movement of his hand he managed to salute the group of ladies as one before cantering away to join the fight. Sighs, strangled squeals, and sharp, indignant inhalations were the result.

      “How is it that he cannot choose from among such a peerless group?” Jehanne took her seat again.

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