Fulk The Reluctant. Elaine Knighton

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      “He is a churl to forfeit.”

      “Oh, no doubt he has a good reason. But we shall not hear of it. He has a beautiful way with words but never speaks of himself.”

      “Well, I have no desire to learn anything more about him.” This was not entirely true, but Jehanne felt it necessary to close the subject of Galliard. Even as she awkwardly gathered her skirts to leave, the earl’s men brought him nearer.

      Folk heaped abuse upon him, hurling both insults and objects. He appeared completely disinterested, as though dishonor were a mantle he wore lightly. She wondered if during her own shameful march earlier she had looked half so detached.

      Nay, not that…empty was a better word for how Fulk seemed. He looked drained of all feeling. And yet somehow, she knew he was not.

      Already forgetting her previous declaration, Jehanne asked, “Why do any of you have the least regard for a such a knight?”

      The Creature gaped. “How can you ask that? Just look at him. A magnificent animal, like none other! But even that is as nothing compared to being alone with him, up close. May the devil take him.” She tossed her hair. “Besides, he is no knight. He walked away when the king wanted to honor him with knighthood. Needless to say, since then Fulk has been out of favor.”

      Jehanne took pause at this stunning revelation. That anyone might refuse knighting, and from a king, no less, was incomprehensible to her. As for him being an animal, magnificent or otherwise, that was merely a characteristic he shared in common with most men.

      Why would anyone want to be alone with something so big and unpredictable? And certainly not…up close…as the Creature so delicately termed it. With a shudder, Jehanne continued to slip past the seated women. She had glimpsed Fulk’s broad shoulders as he passed, and his barbaric, outrageously long hair. Black and wavy, it hung nearly to his belt. Such an affectation!

      She firmly told herself she had no desire to look further upon such a travesty. If he were a knight, he did not deserve his spurs, so it was just as well he was not. She made her way to the steps leading down the side of the gallery. “Good day, ladies, I—”

      Jehanne fell silent at the sight of her father striding toward her across the practice field, fury in his every movement.

      “My lady,” Lioba began in an urgent whisper.

      “Go ahead to our pavilion, Lioba. Stay out of his way. I will be all right.” But Jehanne’s mouth went dry as she hurried alone to meet Sir Alun. He caught her arm, twisting it in a painful grip and pulled her along, faster than she could walk.

      “Willful, obstinate female!” Her father stopped and whirled about to face her, his blue eyes snapping with rage. “You have insulted the Earl Grimald yet again! But this time you’ve gone too far.”

      He drew back his raised hand. A hard hand, she well knew. Jehanne’s knees wobbled but she forced herself to hold still. Concentrating on the hot summer whine of the cicadas in the trees, she tensed her legs. A passing couple stopped to watch. Glancing at them, Alun drew a shaky breath before lowering his arm. “What am I to do with you?” he hissed.

      Jehanne opened her eyes as far as she could. Never would she let her lord father see her weep. Not as long as she lived. She had already failed him, by not being the son he had desired so much.

      But had she been, that son would never break down before his sire. It was the least she could do to spare him further anguish—short of marrying Grimald. “Let me be your right arm, Father.”

      “Be silent. No more tourneys. By the Rood, I regret having ever put a sword into your hand!”

      Jehanne stared at him, her sense of betrayal complete. Her father, the perfect knight, had himself brought her to this. For years he had encouraged her to act the part of a lad, so he might avoid the ugly truth of her sex. Now that she had honed her martial skills as befit any son and heir, he wished her to abandon them and use her womanhood—or rather, for the earl Grimald to use her womanhood.

      “Aye, well you might, my lord. For he will never touch me. One of us will die first.” With these words she braced herself for the blow sure to follow. But Alun’s fist remained at his side.

      “We are going home. I will deal with you there.”

      Jehanne breathed her relief in spite of her despair. Home. Windermere. The place she loved more than anyone or anything.

      Chapter Two

      Three months had passed. In the earl’s private chapel, caught between two Danish guardsmen, Fulk stopped struggling and stared at Grimald as he approached along the nave. The earl’s smug, rapacious expression was smeared on his face like a handful of lard.

      Fulk wanted to throttle him with his bare hands. The humiliating memory of the mêlée had burned deep into Fulk’s heart. I should have knocked him from his horse. And then his head from his shoulders. At the time, however, his conscience had prevailed.

      When he had seen the earl’s saddle go awry, Fulk had halted, to allow Grimald to recover his seat. But instead of continuing the course, Grimald had accused Fulk of cutting his girth before the contest, and bullied the heralds into granting him the win.

      And of course all thought Fulk had forfeited because of the earl’s lethal lance-tip. Fulk had spent the remainder of the summer and all autumn still unransomed while the others had long been freed. He had not been held in chains, but his honor—such as it was—bound him just as tightly. He could no more flee than if he had signed a blood oath to stay.

      Grimald had taken Fulk’s precious horses, plus the cache of arms he had won over the years, and still insisted they were not enough to buy his freedom. Fulk had refused to part with his few books.

      They were dearer to him than gold, and now were all he had left for his sister’s dowry, but in any event such things were relatively worthless in the earl’s view. It had become apparent that the earl wanted something more, something Fulk truly could not afford—a piece of his soul, or of what little remained.

      Grimald took a single step closer, and the small sound echoed in the freezing, vaulted chamber. “Hengist, here, tells me you stood up to him the other night. That you tried to stop him from seeing justice done to a common criminal.” Grimald stroked his chin. “Why did you interfere? That flea-bitten village of Redware Keep has nothing to do with you, except as your disinheritance.”

      Fulk did not appreciate the reminder of his father having disowned him. The English lands would now pass to his sister.

      “The place means nothing to me, but the people do.” Fulk’s anger flared, and he jerked his upper body.

      The Danes levered his hands higher behind his back, until he felt his shoulder joints start to separate. He took a deep breath and willed himself to relax.

      The earl tilted his head. “Tsk. You love the people. I am grateful that Hengist has no such problem.”

      Fulk’s stomach tightened. Thick and greasy, Hengist the Hurler stood to the earl’s right. He smiled at Fulk and nodded, his angelic curls making a parody of his cunning face.

      Grimald smiled, too. “He is an obedient knight. And so shall you receive adubbement and be sworn to your duty, Fulk, so СКАЧАТЬ