Fulk The Reluctant. Elaine Knighton
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from his hand and pulled the garment back over her raw shoulders. She would suffer no man’s gaze. Shivers began to wrack her body. “And you think it just?”
Edgar’s shiny face drew into hard, unforgiving lines. “A woman must obey her betters. You should be ashamed. Especially since you have been given this lesson before, yet you force your father to go to such lengths to correct you, over and over—”
“I have done nothing wrong.”
“Have you not? In your arrogance you have defied not only your lord father but both the earl and God Himself. Expect no comfort from me.”
Jehanne stepped away, her eyelids stinging. She lifted her chin and straightened her back. “So have I learned, Father. I will take no comfort. Not from you, nor from any son of Adam.”
Fulk knelt before the altar. The slate floor bit into his knees and the warm weight down his back was absent, for the deacon had indeed cropped his hair. He had been in the same spot for six hours, according to the great candle flickering to his right. And with each hour his simmering rage burned hotter. No peace came with his prayers, nor were they answered. Nothing happened that he might forego his fate. The guards set to watch him seemed drowsy, but lowered their pikes at him each time he eased his position in the slightest.
The chapel doors crashed open and Fulk jerked to attention, as did the Danes. A wave of icy air washed over him. A babble of murmurs and footsteps approached, including the click of a big dog’s toenails.
“Out of the way, Deacon! Nay, Fulk’s been at this long enough. I need him now. An excess of piety is not good for a knight—not one in my service. Hah!”
Fulk looked up. The heavy tread of the Earl of Lexingford preceded an even heavier hand upon Fulk’s shoulder.
“Galliard, it is time. Arise.”
It took Fulk a moment to force his numb legs to move beneath him and support his weight. He turned to face Grimald. Behind him were a half dozen of his favorites, waiting restlessly, like curs for a tidbit. A brindled mastiff skulked at the earl’s left, to his right stood Hengist. The knight’s lips twitched into a sneer when Fulk met his pale eyes.
Grimald looked Fulk up and down with a speculative, venomous gaze. “You need no more prayers. For the challenge I’ve set you, no amount of divine supplication will be of aid. Only brute strength and healthy lust will see the task completed.”
Sweat trickled down Fulk’s back. Whatever was in store, there would be no reprieve. No escape from a life of carnage, now that knighthood was upon him.
A snap of noble fingers brought attendants scurrying forward. Grimald twirled a pair of silver spurs about one thick finger, then tossed them onto the floor. “Get down again.”
Fulk hesitated, and the pikemen encouraged him with jabs to his ribs. He sank back to his aching knees, fists clenched at his sides. With a clang of steel Hengist drew his sword. Fulk threw a questioning look to the earl. If this was a trap meant to end in death, Fulk would make damn certain he did not die alone, vows or no vows.
Then, from the silent exchange between Hengist and Grimald, Fulk knew why the knight was present. Not for murder, but purely for Fulk’s humiliation. To be given the accolade by a lord of rank increased the status of the recipient.
Therefore the earl had brought one of the stupidest, most churlish knights alive to perform the ceremony in Fulk’s case. It was fitting, in a way, Fulk thought, because even had he wanted the honor, he did not deserve it. He bowed his head slightly, and braced himself for Hengist’s blows.
The flat of the blade pounded Fulk’s right temple, then the left. He swayed as red burst into his vision. With each breath he steadied himself until he could see again, and thanked God the Hurler’s aim was true.
The earl raised one hand. “Sir Fulk, I charge thee with the high purpose of our lord king: go to the hold of Windermere and wrest it from the hands of the traitor and conspirator against the crown, Alun FitzWalter. Relieve said Alun of his undeserved life. And take his devil of a daughter to wife.”
“Wife!” Fulk could not believe he had heard aright. “I thought you had an agreement with her father—”
“Not anymore. Just make her wish she had said yes to me when she had the chance. And make doubly certain that the revenues from Windermere flow into my hands.”
Fulk choked as the revelation sank in. Windermere. Sir Alun…the Iron Maiden. Unthinkable. He would not become another Hengist. A hired killer, a defiler of women, and in this case, a madwoman.
He waited for Hengist to sheath his sword, but instead the knight sidestepped, so the blade’s cold edge pressed against Fulk’s neck.
He held himself utterly still.
The earl leaned down, his hot breath at Fulk’s cheek. “Listen well, Galliard. I have forgotten nothing of what your father did to me. And what the father owes, so shall the son pay. Or the daughter. Just as will Alun’s.”
Not for the first time Fulk cursed his late father’s barbed wit. Grimald must have been nursing his hatred for years, letting it fester. So shall the son pay.
And the daughter? Alun’s alone, or did he also mean his own sister…Celine? Fulk swallowed the fury that rose to stifle him. Now was not the time, nor was a church the place. He nodded, and the sword edge nicked his throat, sending a warm rivulet down his chest. Still smiling, Hengist resheathed his weapon.
The earl briefly thrust a piece of parchment before Fulk. “Here is the king’s warrant. Dispose of Alun quickly and make certain the wench is humbled for her effrontery. The crown wants a secure succession at Windermere, so see that you get her breeding straightaway. If you survive, you will be a hero in the eyes of all the men she has refused. The maiden of iron-clad virtue, conquered at last.” Grimald’s laughter sounded as out of place in the chapel as a raven’s cawing. Fulk remained silent. He had thought Sir Alun FitzWalter to be the earl’s ally and loyal to the king. He had not heard of any treachery, but nor did he take interest in political intrigues. The pit of his stomach burned. Damn Grimald for dragging him here to be made chief fool in a farce like this.
“Overjoyed at the prospect, are you?” The earl beamed. “She cannot possibly find fault with a great strapping fellow like you, especially once you’ve sped up her inheritance. Do the ladies not swoon at the prospect of being bedded by Fulk the Reluctant?”
Upon hearing that name spoken aloud, Fulk forced himself to breathe, slow and deep. But his heart hammered and he ground his teeth. One of the leering courtiers shrilled, “Oh, most assuredly, my lord. He’s a veritable stallion, methinks. Just look at his flowing black mane!”
The others howled with laughter at Fulk’s rough-shorn state.
Fulk swung his gaze toward Lexingford’s sniggering lackeys, and their merriment died away. The earl slapped his back.
“You see? Fulk plans to vanquish Alun with but a single malevolent glance, so he need not risk himself in swordplay—except with the girl. Who knows what’s under her tunic? She may have bigger ballocks than does he.” Grimald guffawed and clouted Fulk again.
With an effort Fulk resisted the urge to grab Grimald’s arm and twist it off at the shoulder. Apparently there was only the one child of Alun’s, but Fulk knew nothing of her beyond her wild reputation and his own observation that she was headstrong and witless. Carefully he kept his voice low. “Lexingford, what is the name of Sir Alun’s daughter? And does she know of her father’s treachery?”
“What she knows matters not. She is called Jehanne, and she has embarrassed me. Whatever she claims, you damn well better bring the little bitch to heel. Capture Windermere, keep the girl under control and I shall give you your freedom.”
Grimald backed away a step. “We leave you to contemplate your good fortune.” He strode down the nave toward the doors, his retinue in tow. Before exiting, the earl paused. “Oh, and Fulk? The lady Celine. Where is she, these days? My people cannot seem