Fulk The Reluctant. Elaine Knighton

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СКАЧАТЬ stride of a man in his prime, but hesitant and unsteady, as though he no longer knew his way around his own keep.

      “Father!” A chill crept along Jehanne’s limbs. Give Windermere to the Church? She could not believe he would carry out such a threat. Apart from that, he seemed unwell.

      A fever had come to the village with a passing tinker. Father Edgar had taken to his bed, many others were ill, and already a few elderly folk had died. Alun, proud and stubborn, would never allow her to help him if he ailed. And she, hurt and bitter, did not much feel like insisting.

      But he was strong as an ox. To put up with such a daughter he had to be, as he frequently reminded her. As if to prove the point, Alun waved her away without turning around, and trudged up the steps to his solar.

      Jehanne drew a deep breath. He did not understand. No one did. Aye, Jehanne the Iron Maiden believed in the ideals of knighthood. They were what she had clung to in her efforts to please her father, to make up for her failure in not having been born male. But it was all for naught.

      The long hours spent with javelin and bow, sword and buckler, horse and hounds, everything she could think of to prepare herself to defend Windermere once her father grew old—all wasted. He wanted her to toss her inheritance to a man obviously unworthy, otherwise that man would not be doing the earl’s bidding.

      Fulk the Reluctant.

      Jehanne’s fingers tightened on the edge of the trestle table, and she set her jaw. She had refused the earl and paid dearly for it. She would not give up now and wed Fulk.

      She still had time to prepare. Jehanne called her dogs, a pack of ever-hungry lurchers, and made for the armory.

      Dawn topped the tree-clad hills, sending a bright shaft of sunlight into Fulk’s eyes. His company of mercenary lancers, tired from the long journey the day before, moved slowly about their duties in the encampment. Fulk swung his sword to and fro, loosening his muscles, his breath creating puffs of white in the chill air.

      “It has been too long since you’ve borne arms, lad.” Malcolm relaxed against the shoulder of his skewbald palfrey. “You’ll be a lamb for the young lady’s slaughter.”

      Fulk stopped swinging. “I have forgotten nothing of combat, Mac Niall. Especially with women.”

      “Aye. Naught but the fact that you could have been your king’s champion, you could’ve had any baroness or countess or princess you cared to crook your finger at.”

      “Stow it, Malcolm. Those days are long gone, and you of all people should know better than to remind me. Besides, I have had every baroness, countess and princess—”

      “I meant to wed, and be landed thereby. But I suppose this place’ll be as good as any.” Malcolm merely yawned when confronted by Fulk’s glare. “Och, I do hate to see so much muscle wasted turning the pages of books. Sharpening quills, now that takes special skill with a blade, I must admit. But you’ll need a mountain of feathers to get fit for battle.”

      “Malcolm, I refuse to fly into rages just to provide you entertainment. And should you doubt my skill with a sword, meet me on trodden ground, and we shall see who bests whom.”

      “’Tisnae worth the bother,” Malcolm said, futilely shoving his abundant, dark-red hair back from his brow. “Nay, I’d rather wait until we meet Sir Alun and his wee daughter, and you can meet her on trodden ground. How far off is Windermere?”

      “Another day, if the ford is clear. The sumpter horses and wains will slow us a bit, but as the lanes are not knee-deep, we should make right good time.” Fulk slammed his sword into its scabbard, and still fuming, headed for the picket line.

      Windermere did not lay in the direction he would go, had he a choice. There was all the world to explore, knowledge to discover. A thousand places where he could happily spend his life as a scholar. Even were he not in this situation, though, Redware still clamored for freedom.

      Fulk pushed his dreams back to the place where he kept them hidden. He mounted his newly purchased horse, a stout Frisian of good blood, and let the sight of the splendid beast soothe his heart.

      The destrier’s hooves crunched through the waning rime of ice in the muddy lane.

      “I thought you didnae want a charger that cost twenty years’ wages.” Malcolm affectionately slapped his own palfrey’s thick neck as he rode beside Fulk.

      “I will not trust even these miserable remnants of my life to an inferior animal. The stallion is grand, and better schooled than I expected.”

      The Frisian tossed his great head as if in agreement with Fulk’s high opinion of him.

      “But God’s eyes, Malcolm, I’ll never find the like of my books again. It breaks my heart.”

      “Aye, a bloody fortune in books tied up in a pair of nags and a pack of mercenaries. Still, I believe ’tis a leap in the right direction. Now you may start entering tournaments again, once you have charmed the lady Jehanne out of her armor, and make up some of your losses.”

      Fulk gave Malcolm a withering look. “Neither prospect appeals, Mac Niall. Besides, as you have so gallantly pointed out, I am out of practice. I will do what I must to keep Redware intact and Celine out of Hengist’s hands, but not one thing more.”

      “You should find her a proper and grateful husband, right quick, then. Save yourself a realm of heartache.” Malcolm stared straight ahead between his horse’s ears as he said this.

      Necessary though it was, Fulk’s stomach lurched at the thought of little Celine wed. To anyone. “Her dowry, too, is on the hoof, between this one and my new courser. She can’t inherit Redware unless she marries or comes of age.”

      He cleared his throat, and glanced again at the Scot, whose eyes had narrowed into the typical, over-vigilant gaze the man had, which missed nothing.

      “There. See the birds flushing, beyond that rise?” Malcolm pointed. “’Tis trouble, coming at a gallop.”

      Malcolm was probably right, as ever. “Then I should go meet it. Embrace it. The devil curse Lexingford, pig’s arse that he is,” Fulk growled. He glanced down at his helm, hanging from his saddle. It could stay there. “Malcolm, kindly keep the men in good order.” With a touch of Fulk’s spurs the stallion bounded forward.

      The countryside was cold, but not bleak, for even the gray stubble in the fields gleamed in the sun, and where the villeins had furrowed, the black earth put forth a rich smell. Beyond the uneven stripes of plowed and fallow land the forest loomed, dark even in winter, the trunks and branches interlinked and woven like basketwork.

      There were few villages this far north, and towns were even more rare. The keep of Windermere lay at the southern tip of the lake from which it took its name, in the Cumbrian Mountains, two days’ hard ride from Scotland. At a crucial point along the River Leven it was possible to cross at a bridge maintained by the FitzWalter, if he allowed passage.

      Fulk thought of this, and other problems that might be presented to a man attacking the hold of Sir Alun. Especially a man who did not want bloodshed. There was only one course, and that was to wait outside until they surrendered. A slow, painful way, but at least it left the choice of life up to the defenders.

      Up the road ahead a rider neared, the strange СКАЧАТЬ