Fulk The Reluctant. Elaine Knighton

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СКАЧАТЬ is he?”

      Another beauty, dark and glowing, raised her voice. “Ah, lady, with Fulk, it is more like generosity. He sacrifices himself upon the altars of our womanhood….”

      At the melting look in the young lady’s eyes, Jehanne had to smother a snort of scorn. “Is he named the Reluctant because he won’t be faithful to any one of you?”

      “Nay, not that. Some call him a coward because he is circumspect in battle. But we know better. Fulk is a sinfully dangerous man…and we adore his mystery.” The Creature shivered. “You will see.”

      Indeed, as Fulk approached the fighting arena, a mixture of boos, hoots and wild cheers arose from the crowd grouped along the edge of the field. Whether nobles, grooms, cutpurses or ale-wives, all had an opinion of Fulk the Reluctant—and all stayed out of his way.

      Jehanne’s throat constricted and her heart pounded. How she would have loved to be a true knight, even if only for one day. To be resplendent and glorious and please her father by bringing honor to the house of FitzWalter. To live all the virtues of chivalry Sir Thomas had taught her in his endless stories of ancient kings and days of valor long past. And today, she might have become part of one of those tales….

      No doubt Fulk the Reluctant was one of the new breed. Lusting after idle women and their riches. Squandering his might. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching hoofbeats, which slowed and came to a stop. Jehanne did not turn her head to see who it was. From the rush of fear and revulsion that swept her, she knew, even as she prayed she was wrong.

      “Lady Jehanne?”

      Her heart sank at the familiar, gravelly voice. She tried to regain her composure, but her stomach only knotted tighter. Facing him at last, she could only manage, “My lord?”

      Grimald, the Earl of Lexingford. Lord Grimald, the blight on her existence. In a full harness of exquisite, double-linked mail, he halted his sleek tourney horse near the gallery, a small army of squires and guardsmen forming a phalanx at his back. “Enjoying the spectacle?” He made the question sound like an accusation.

      “Indeed I am.” Jehanne avoided the earl’s searing stare. Grimald’s single-minded obsession with her—or rather, with Windermere, the estate she would inherit, was beyond frightening.

      One way or another, the earl always got what he wanted.

      Grimald drew himself taller as he sat his horse. “You, too, find Fulk the Reluctant irresistible, I suppose?”

      “Certainly not.”

      “Honor me, then.” He shoved his lance-tip toward her. Not a tournament head, pronged to diffuse the impact of a strike, but a regular war lance. Sharp and deadly.

      Jehanne took a deep breath. She thought of saying she had given someone else her token. But telling falsehoods was not the way of a knight. Nor the daughter of a knight. She stood, her hands clutching the railing. “Nay, I will not.”

      The words hung naked and unadorned in the air, with nothing to soften their insult. Grimald purpled, from his beefy neck to his gray-streaked hair. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Ah, mais oui. Jehanne, the Iron Maiden. You’d rather challenge a man to fight than lie with him and become a woman.”

      Jehanne felt her cheeks burn at his crudity. But the earl’s statement was perfectly true. He eased the lance forward until its point just touched between her breasts, but she did not retreat.

      She met his gaze. “I would rather lie down and be a dog than become your woman.” A deadly silence fell, and Jehanne bit her tongue. To speak thus was not chivalrous, even if it were the truth. But so be it.

      Grimald withdrew his lance. “Dog, eh? The proper term for you, I trow, is bitch.” He snatched his black horsetail-plumed helm from his squire and spurred his mount toward the mêlée.

      The young woman beside Jehanne fanned herself with a delicate, blue-veined hand. “Just what do you have that he desires so much?”

      Jehanne studied her own hands, small and calloused. Of course no man would want her for herself. But nor did she want any man. “I have Windermere, lady. The best fief in all of England.” With some satisfaction at the girl’s surprised expression, Jehanne forced herself to watch the fighters churning in the dusty field below.

      A blare of trumpets marked the start, and with a roar the charges began. The brightly caparisoned horses flew at each other, lances clashed against shields, swords rang, men bellowed and fell.

      Squires led riderless horses away, wounded knights were borne out of danger on litters or staggered off, supported between friends. Some collapsed, overcome by the heat and dust in their airless helms.

      If a man died in the course of a tournament he ran the risk of suffering excommunication—the Pope’s penalty for such senseless slaughter. With a pang Jehanne wondered if the ruling would apply to a woman who died in a tourney. Which would she choose, damnation or Grimald? The difference was but slight, she decided.

      As she watched, Jehanne could not help but appreciate Fulk de Galliard’s style. He fought with unusual precision, rapidly unseating or disarming his opponents, but leaving none of them incapacitated. The small crowd of prisoners he had amassed waited in the shade for him to finish and come discuss the terms of their ransoms, as befit the demands of chivalry.

      The mêlée drew to an end. Two champions had been chosen to finish the fighting on behalf of the exhausted opposing sides. Fulk and Grimald, with lances lowered, their mounts heaving. Winner take all. Fulk seemed unhurt, Jehanne thought.

      Her stomach clenched as she remembered Grimald’s lance-tip. She wondered whether the heralds had allowed it, or missed it. But, considering the earl’s power, he could get away with most anything.

      This man, Fulk, could not mistake the lethal lance-point. She held her breath. What if he slays Grimald? Her heart thudded faster. It could happen…. Fulk’s powerful horse danced beneath him, then leaped forward, as if still fresh. At the same instant Grimald’s charger lurched into motion. The earl listed to the left in his saddle, arms flailing, and Jehanne knew exactly where Fulk should aim. One blow to Grimald’s right shoulder would send him flying.

      What happened next brought everyone to their feet, as Fulk lived up to his dubious name. Grimald neared, and Fulk stood in his stirrups, calling something out to his opponent. He threw down his lance, reined to a halt and raised his right hand as if in surrender.

      Shame on Fulk’s behalf stabbed Jehanne, that he would dishonor himself thus in public, apparently only to save his own skin. But she could not hear his words over the noise of excited onlookers.

      Grimald slowed, stopped, and nudged his opponent with his wicked lance-tip. Fulk leaned toward the earl as if speaking to him, and the heralds started to approach them.

      Grimald shouted, the heralds shouted back, but in the end Fulk dismounted. The earl’s knights seized Fulk’s horse and weapons, and paraded him toward the women’s gallery. Fulk’s prisoners were now the earl’s, and Fulk himself numbered among them.

      A sense of helpless rage toward this useless knight filled Jehanne’s being. He had thrown away his chance, failed himself, and though he knew it not, her as well. She stood and gestured toward him. “Why has he disgraced himself thus?”

      The Creature СКАЧАТЬ