Fulk The Reluctant. Elaine Knighton
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if she could not uproot the tree, she could whittle away at it.
“Have you looked your fill?” he asked.
Jehanne jerked her back straight. “Aye. More than I can stomach.”
To her mortification, at that moment an audible growl came from her midsection. Fulk’s gaze darkened and he signaled his men with a small movement of his head. Within a few moments she heard the hollow rumble of wains crossing the drawbridge. Curse his efficient hide. He was moving in.
“I have brought thee gifts, my lady.”
“I have no desire for finery, Sir Fulk. You can buy neither my loyalty nor my affection with useless trinkets.”
One elegant black brow cocked upward. “Can I not? Come see.” Removing his gauntlet with his teeth, he offered her his right hand. Jehanne looked at it, then at him and his calm, sure demeanor.
Beneath his courtly manner lurked a devious heart bent on taking all Windermere could give. What little was left, anyway. She clenched her fists and hesitated. Did she dare ignore him? Step past his outstretched palm to reenter the hall?
Fulk decided the matter by gripping her elbow and propelling her toward the gate.
“Unhand me!” Jehanne hated the sensation of her own helplessness against male brawn, and could not wrench herself free before the first wain halted in front of them. She glanced at Fulk over her shoulder and a jolt of fear rippled through her body. Lord God, he was big. He could snap her arm in two as easily as he had her bow.
What manner of woman could have produced an offspring capable of attaining such size? Yet he was perfectly proportioned. Still, he unnerved her. If he were fully human, he could only be the result of some outlandish mixture of—of she knew not what.
Frowning, Fulk released her arm and lifted a corner of the oiled tenting that covered the wain’s crated contents. As the light penetrated, a cacophony of honks and flutters made Jehanne start. Geese. Dozens of them.
She stared at Fulk. Too late, she realized her mouth hung open. She ran to the next wain. Smoked hams, sacks of flour, crocks of butter and honey. Barrels of wine and ale. Dried fish and cakes of salt. Barley and oat-seed…life for her people.
Gratitude eroded Jehanne’s bone-deep resistance. She would prefer to starve, had she only herself to consider. But calculated or not, Fulk’s charity was a godsend, especially for the children. Gritting her teeth, she turned to thank him as courtesy demanded, but he was already overseeing his men as they unloaded the provisions.
The folk of Windermere emerged, gaunt and hesitant. They looked to her and kept their distance, ready to forego the bounty if she said they must. Jehanne closed her eyes briefly, then waved the people forward. With glad cries they hurried to carry the stores inside the keep.
She had rebuffed his messengers all these weeks. She would never have believed any offer of peace in return for opening the gates. Siege armies put their prisoners to the sword. Why should Fulk be any different? He was, though. Unlike any man she had ever met.
Though the words threatened to stick in her throat, she managed to get them out. “Sir Fulk, please accept the thanks of an ungracious woman on behalf of Windermere. Your Christian act puts me to shame. I have allowed my people to suffer far too long.”
Fulk rested one booted foot upon a cask and leaned his elbow on his knee. “Nay, my lady. Had I any true Christian kindness I would have catapulted the hams over your walls weeks ago. But had you a full belly then, your aim would have been even better this day.”
He must have noticed that the arrows in her belt matched the one caught in his shield. Jehanne swallowed and strove to keep her voice light. “It would have made no difference, I’m afraid. I am a poor shot under the best of circumstances.” She would rather he did not know of her considerable skill with a bow.
“Not so poor.” He pulled his mantle aside and showed her his left forearm. A wound oozed red, soaking his sleeve.
Jehanne clapped a hand to her mouth. The arrow had gone right through his shield. Her heart battered her ribs, but pride kept her from running away. No man suffered such an injury without responding in kind. She held her head high, ready to receive whatever punishment he might deal her. His pretense of friendliness was meant only to put her off guard.
Fulk snapped his mantle back over his arm and Jehanne flinched at the sudden movement. The knight’s mouth tightened. “Forgive me, I forgot the sight of blood offends some folk. If you have a cloth, I can staunch it.”
Was the man being sarcastic? “I—I’ll find one,” she stammered. “Come to the hall.”
Jehanne breathed again, but not easily. He was posing, saving his wrath to deliver it later. Tonight, no doubt. In private. She shuddered at the thought of angry hands upon her body…tearing away her clothes, her pride. Apart from her virginity, he would rob her of all honor…of all hope.
And there was nothing she could do to stop him. Hunger and weariness had sapped her. She thought of the battlements. How easy it would be to fall… Nay. That was a coward’s way out. She must somehow endure until her strength returned.
Jehanne led Fulk and his men to her father’s great hall, now stark and echoing. Her father’s warriors had taken their wages in tapestries and silver plate. They had looted the hall and fled during Fulk’s approach, on the heels of the deadly fever.
As she hurried to the chest of linens, shame gnawed deep, that strangers should see her home brought to such a desperate condition. Worse, Fulk assumed he was now lord of Windermere, and of her, too.
He stood near the weeks-old ashes of the fire circle, giving orders to both his people and hers. Her battered pride revived. Anger warmed her anew.
As if he sensed Jehanne’s shift of attitude, Fulk gazed at her from across the hall, his expression unreadable. With a catch in her throat, she found herself staring back instead of preparing to tend his wound. She inhaled deeply and strode to meet him.
Though he towered over her, the fear she expected did not blossom. Nor could she stop looking at him. Witchcraft. Magic. Nothing else explained the unwelcome ache in her heart.
His amber eyes grew opaque, and he pulled the bandages from her nerveless fingers. “Eat and take your rest now, lady. I shall explain my requirements to you later.”
Jehanne did not reply. She could not, without spluttering her indignation. This—sorcerer—had requirements? Windermere belonged to her, and she would forever belong to it. Let him think he ruled, let him imagine that she might comply. Jehanne, daughter of Alun FitzWalter, would win her keep back.
Chapter Five
Fulk stretched, leaned back in his chair, and warily eyed his new acquisition. Lady Jehanne sat rigid and silent before the fire, with a half-dozen sated hounds of dubious pedigree asleep at her feet. In spite of the hour and more formal circumstances, she still wore the heavy men’s tunic and plain surcoat of earlier in the day, her body all but lost in the folds of wool and linen.
A long, untidy fall of hair, the color of ripe barley, twined about her arms and down her straight back. Crowning her head was a circlet of silver, apparently her only concession to the occasion of his arrival. But, resting at a decided tilt, it lent the lady an unexpected air of vulnerability.
Her haughty gaze flicked to his eyes and away again. Her opinion of him was low, indeed. No doubt he would feel much the same, were their positions reversed. Shifting in his seat, Fulk crossed his legs and rested his chin on his palm. What a confusing bundle of contradictions. A mere woman, all alone, yet so bold as to openly defy him. To loose an arrow upon him and wound him, no less.
She possessed a degree of pride, unrelated to vanity, heretofore unknown to him in a female. He was used to women of delicate sensibilities, artful in their allure, soft of voice and skin.
This one was brittle in her righteousness, hardened by her devotion to lofty ideals, but especially to things. Land and cattle,