Kitabı oku: «Fulk The Reluctant»

“How dare you force me abed? Get out!”

“Nay, lady. We both shall stay, and you will obey. The quicker you cooperate, the sooner you may leave.”

“Fool! You know not what you are up against. You will never break me. No man has.” Jehanne bit her lip at her own outburst. No man had broken her, but never had she spoken thus to one and not regretted it.

As he sat next to her, Fulk radiated heat and strength. Yet there was something more, she felt safe in his proximity. What an absurd idea.

Fulk leaned on one palm, his gaze boring into her. The firelight bounced blue sparks off his hair, and he seemed to fill her whole field of vision. “I have no wish to break you,” he purred, a whisper of steel in his voice. “But bend you I will, and if it takes till summer, so be it.”

Praise for Elaine Knighton’s debut

Beauchamp Besieged

“Sensational plot turns…gritty but vivid picture Knighton paints of medieval times.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Rich details create a strong sense of place in this debut.”

—Romantic Times

“Raymond de Beauchamp is the sort of hero not easily forgotten. He is tortured, brooding and a slave to his passions.”

—The Romance Reader’s Connection

“A definite must-read for those who enjoy a good medieval tale.”

—Romance Reviews Today

DON’T MISS THESE OTHER TITLES AVAILABLE NOW:

#711 TEXAS BRIDE

Carol Finch

#712 THE DUTIFUL RAKE

Elizabeth Rolls

#714 WEST OF HEAVEN

Victoria Bylin

Fulk the Reluctant
Elaine Knighton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

To my mom and dad,

who have always been there for me, no matter what….

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Prologue

A tournament in France, 1230

Fulk de Galliard, the undisputed champion of that day’s mêlée, lay facedown in the dust and wept like a child. Beside him sprawled his elder brother, his eyes still open to the hot sky. Proud, bold Rabel—witty and sarcastic and now utterly dead.

It had not been one of their usual arguments, for Fulk had thrown the first blow. A single, fatal blow.

Fulk raised his head and met his lord father’s terrible, wounded eyes. He held up his bloodied right fist. “Cut it off,” he begged.

The count shook his head slowly. “I will do nothing for you. You are an abomination…you are my son no longer.”

Fulk sat up, wrenched his dagger free and sawed the blade against his wrist. If his father would not rid him of the offending hand, he would do it himself.

“Stop!” The count kicked the bloody weapon from Fulk’s grasp. “I leave you to the mercy of Rabel’s comrades.”

As Rabel’s body was carried from the practice grounds, the grim knights surrounded Fulk. He took a deep breath, but made no effort to defend himself. They laid into him with their fists and the flats of their swords. Fulk never uttered a sound. He took the beating as though he were made of stone.

But before the blackness took him, he had one last coherent thought. I hope they’ve killed me.

He eased his eyes open. It was dark. Freezing. Then he remembered. Rabel is dead. And if the pain and misery and cold were any indication, Fulk was not.

A pity. Rain spattered against his face. From the smell, he knew he lay in a mixture of mud, blood and horse dung. And would no doubt remain there, for the slightest attempt to move produced screams of protest from his limbs.

A squelching noise grew louder, accompanied by the sputtering of torches. Ah. They had come to finish him off. A good thing, and high time. He relaxed into the muck.

“Fulk…dearling, mon pauvre ami! What have they done to you?”

Fulk suppressed a groan and shut his eyes against this fresh humiliation. The beautiful Lady Greyhaven, his friend and advisor, arrived to rescue him. God bless her. And curse her.

She barked orders. “Come, get him onto the litter! Gently, gently now!”

Silk whispered across his brow, and the scents of violet, lavender, rose and musk came to him. Fulk reopened his eyes. The hands that lifted him were many, but did not belong to men-servants.

Women. Fully a dozen of them. Dazzling gifts from God and yet the bane of his life. And all gazed at him with loving adoration.

“We know it was an accident, Fulk, everyone—”

“Shh! He needs a bed, bath and bandages, not talk!”

“God, he weighs as much as a horse!”

“Aye, you would know, Clothilde!”

“Ah, Fulk, with the good Lord’s grace you will be well in no time….”

“Stop thinking of yourself, Pierrette, for I am certain that is your main worry—”

Fulk could bear it no longer. “For the love of God—my dear ladies—spare me your concern.”

“Fulk, be quiet.” Lady Greyhaven briskly bound his wrist with a cloth, laid his hand over his chest and covered him with a heavy blanket. “Allez! To the chateau!”

She is a commander worthy of any fighting force, Fulk thought fuzzily. Why did she have to come? The merciful thing would be to simply let him die. But he was too weak to do anything but submit, as blessed oblivion reclaimed him.

Chapter One

England, 1237

“With all due respect—a pox upon thee, milady!” The young man’s voice cracked with indignation.

Fulk de Galliard wiped his sweaty forehead in the crook of his arm and glanced up from examining his charger’s legs. Bryce, squire to the Duke of Warrick, was not normally given to cursing women. But then again, women were not usually found in the combatants’ waiting area, especially at such a throat-parching tournament as this.

The apparent object of the lad’s ire stood out of sight, on the off-side of the great-horse he attended. All Fulk could see was a pair of small, well-shod feet, their soft leather boots wrinkling at the ankles—with bronze spurs strapped thereon.

In a grim tone “milady” responded, “Squire, you made a promise, and now it must be kept. Else look well to your own arse, for I will not be denied.” The small feet broadened their stance.

After a moment’s hesitation, Bryce gave a resigned sigh and held out the charger’s reins.

A gloved hand took them. “Many thanks, sir. I will care for him well. Rest easy, the duke will forgive us.”

“You, perhaps, but not me.” The squire sounded close to despair.

The young woman stepped into view. Garbed in a dusty crimson overgown, her skirts hiked into her belt, she led the restless white stallion away. Her thick plait of hip-length, sun-bleached hair swung to and fro as she walked, and with each confident stride, steely gleams escaped from beneath the uplifted folds of her kirtle.

She wears a mail shift? Fulk stared and wondered what to make of such a beguiling spectacle.

“Oh, Lord! I am dead!” Bryce groaned as girl and beast disappeared into the noisy confusion of the tournament grounds. “She has as good as stolen the duke’s finest tourney horse. Why do I allow her to do this to me?”

“Why, indeed?” Fulk released his own mount’s near front hoof, satisfied that none of the nails on the cleated shoe were loose. “Take the animal back. She is but a lass, after all.”

The squire shook his head. “Sir, she has a veritable armory under her gown, for that, sir, was the Iron Maiden of Windermere.”

“Ah.” Fulk had heard of this golden-haired virago, who fought like a man and rode the hills heading a pack of armed young women. He did not approve of such goings-on. It was bad enough that men had to shed blood in the pointless and ignoble causes of their lords.

Women should have the good sense not to follow suit, but here was an obvious exception. “What is her intent?”

Bryce put a hand to his brow. “She means to fight in the mêlée, on my lord’s charger.”

“It is obvious the lady is deranged. If she is not slain, the horse might be.”

“Aye, she must be stopped. She is a menace to all good men.”

Fulk could not help but smile. He had never yet met a woman who was not, in one way or another.

The squire brightened. “If anyone can do it, ’tis you, Fulk de Galliard. I shall recommend you to my lord duke as soon as I recover from the beating with which he shall no doubt honor me.”

“Leave me out of it. If I do well today, this will be my final tourney, for I’ll have my sister’s dowry in hand at last.”

And high time, for Celine, fully ten and seven, was as comely and graceful a maid as ever lived. Once Fulk saw to her marriage he would be free of these endless, exhausting feats of arms.

“Ah, the Lady Celine.” The squire’s expression grew dreamy.

Fulk narrowed his eyes at Bryce. “My young friend, do not form a single carnal thought with her name upon your lips.”

“Em, nay, I would not dare.” The young man pointed at a sudden commotion. “Oh, the saints have smiled upon me after all.”

He dashed off in the direction of the thoroughfare, where the duke’s stallion trotted loose, creating havoc among the ale and pasty vendors, scattering musicians and jugglers. The charger allowed the squire to catch him, and as if to hide, jammed his great head under his captor’s armpit.

The horse thief too had been caught. A defiant, unapologetic thief, if her expression and demeanor were to be believed. A tall, daunting knight propelled her from behind. One of his huge, gauntleted hands clamped the back of her slender neck. Only a father could maintain a look of such fury while handling a maid as fair as she, Fulk thought. But what manner of daughter behaved thus? He decided it was unkind to watch her humiliation, though by all appearances she was not perturbed. She held her head high, wincing now and again. Fulk knew exactly what such a neck-grip felt like, and had to admire the girl’s fortitude, despite the sad evidence of her addlepatedness.

“It would seem the lady has surrendered to her parent.”

“She drives Sir Alun mad, she does.”

“So I gather.” Fulk paused, not quite ready to turn back to his horse, after all. The maiden’s thick, padded underjacket did not completely hide her subtle curves, and the lithe grace of her walk was all the more apparent for the lack of skirts.

Women. He never tired of looking at them. This one was certainly an eyeful, and probably more than a handful.

Or two, he amended, as she straightened her shoulders.

At this sign of resistance her lord father shoved her forward, and she stumbled. Fulk’s chest tightened. No matter the provocation, a man of worth did not treat a woman thus, be she sane or otherwise. He had certainly never found it necessary. But he could not upbraid the girl’s own sire, Sir Alun, Baron of Windermere.

“Beware that one, Galliard,” Bryce cautioned. “The Iron Maiden is an angel on the outside, and hellfire within. She might even try your sweet temper. Of course, chances are the lady will never be breached, so ’tis moot.”

Fulk shot the young man a quelling look. Sweet temper, indeed. If he only knew the effort it took to make it appear thus. But the lad needed a lesson in manners.

“I might suggest, Bryce, that you do not gossip about women. Especially ladies who have favored you with an intimate experience, but also those who have not. That would no doubt include all in attendance here, as well as the rest of Christendom and beyond.”

The knights and other squires within earshot chuckled.

Bryce’s grin faltered and he turned away in silence.

“Best not to cross tongues with Fulk de Galliard, he’s quicker’n the likes of you.”

Fulk looked up and nodded to his friend, Malcolm Mac Niall, a man alongside whom he had faced death more times than he cared to recall. Dark and hard as weathered oak, the Scot sauntered over and made a seat of an upturned bucket.

Fulk regretted his cutting words. He had long suffered the cruel wit of his brother Rabel, who had taken his example from their father, God rest them both. As ever, at the thought of them, Fulk’s heart took an instant leap of grief and fury.

As ever, he soothed his pain with images of beauty. Rose petals on clean linen. Soft, white skin flushing pink beneath his hands. Shy smiles and ever-willing arms—and legs—opening to him. And now a new vision, of a fair, fiery lass with tangled, dark-gold tresses…

Fulk shook his head. The mêlée loomed ahead, and every detail of his equipment must be in order. He could not allow himself to be distracted by such an unlikely tidbit. Satisfied his stallion’s legs were cool and tight, his bridle leathers uncracked, and every buckle snugged to perfection, Fulk’s glance strayed to the contingent of Earl Grimald of Lexingford, his deadliest opponent in the upcoming fray.

“A plague on them and those tubs of lard they call horses,” Malcolm growled, his big hands engulfing a pitcher of ale.

“Aye. Grimald’s beasts eat better than we do.” Fulk frowned. The earl and his pack were of grave concern.

Malcolm took a swig of the brew and smoothed his moustache with precise fingers. “There’s the man to watch.”

A big knight, known as Hengist the Hurler, busied himself with the girth on the earl’s saddle. Hengist had a penchant not only for knocking heads, but for tossing them out of their owners’ reach.

The blond knight looked up, and seeing Fulk’s gaze upon him, straightened abruptly. Something glinted in his hand, then vanished into the folds of his tunic. Hengist stared at Fulk, hot menace slowly congealing in his ice-blue eyes.

Stifling an ugly urge to free the Hurler from his no doubt unsatisfactory existence, Fulk grinned and winked. The knight turned red and looked about to advance, but Fulk led his own horse away at a leisurely pace. There was no need to start the fight any earlier than required.

In the raised pavilion with the other young ladies, Jehanne of Windermere tipped her head and squinted against the glare of sun on steel, the better to view the dozens of knights and great-horses parading past.

Bright pennants and banners hung as limp as her own spirits in the still summer air. The grass of the tourney grounds had turned to yellow stubble, the noise and heat were stifling, and dust prevented her from clearly seeing any subtleties of technique the combatants used in the contests.

Not that such things mattered anymore. Hot anguish and bitter shame seethed within her. She had been so close to joining in the mêlée. Her father had dragged her off. But even that was not the worst of it. If not for him, today she would have fought her enemy—her suitor—the Earl Grimald. Aye, she might have slain him—or wounded him so he would have no need of a bride. Even if she had died instead, it would have been an honorable death, with sword in hand.

Forever free.

Jehanne squeezed wads of her fine linen gown in her fists and bit her lip. Lioba, the eldest of her handmaidens, sat beside her, frowning in concern.

“What’s wrong with you, milady?” One violently red-hued curl escaped Lioba’s coif as she leaned closer.

Jehanne released the crumpled fabric from her damp hands. “I am hot. You’ve tightened the side lacings of this infernal gown so I can scarcely breathe.”

“Aye, you cannot run far when you cannot draw air into your lungs. There are other ways to best the Earl Grimald, Jehanne, besides meeting him in combat. Even in marriage, there are ways.”

Jehanne stopped the protest that sprang to her lips. Lioba was good at reading her mind, but even she did not fully understand. She did not want to merely best the Earl Grimald. She wanted him gone from her sight, her mind, her life. But he had spun his web, tight and fine. She was trapped. And the last honorable means of escape had been denied her this day.

A soft peal of laughter emerged from a fashionable damsel seated beside her. Aye, why not this vapid maiden? The girl, jesting with one of her ladies, seemed quite an impossible creature. Such creamy skin, with suspiciously convenient touches of rose at cheeks and lips. Her hair gleamed in rivers of flaxen silk. Demure and graceful, she dimpled whenever a passing man of prowess acknowledged her.

What a lot of wasteful effort, just to be a proper lady.

The beautiful creature noticed Jehanne’s scrutiny, and a wrinkle formed between her thin, pale brows. Jehanne returned the Creature’s cold look with a polite smile. “Have you a favorite for the mêlée?”

“I do.” She leaned forward, all coyness gone as she looked.

Jehanne followed her gaze, until it collided with one of the combatants, coming their way on a snorting, blood-bay horse. The man’s surcoat was a plain blue, his outdated, flat-topped helm was unadorned, and his shield bore innumerable scars.

The modesty of the rider’s accoutrements served only to emphasize the grandeur of his stallion. The big man handled the restive animal with admirable calm.

The chatter of the surrounding women died down. Putting her own misery aside, Jehanne looked about, baffled at the variety of expressions on the ladies’ faces. Many were excited, wringing their hands, others blatantly lovelorn, and a few were plainly angry.

“Who is that?” she blurted.

As he approached, the fair damsel’s knuckles whitened on the railing. “Fulk de Galliard. Fulk the Reluctant, you goose!”

Jehanne’s jaw tightened. The lady was fast becoming intolerable. Then the object of so many eyes halted directly before them. No one spoke, no one moved. Galliard sat his massive charger and appeared to survey the ladies through the eye slits of his helm.

Jehanne stared. Never had she seen a lone man command the complete attention of so many women at once. But he did not lower his lance to receive any of the trembling, fluttering wisps of silk being offered him.

The heat rose in her cheeks. She felt his gaze as surely as if he had touched her skin. This—Fulk—looked at her. Her. The least likely of these worthy noblewomen to attract a man’s attention, and no doubt the one least desirous of it. Jehanne had never yet given a knight her token, and she was not about to start with him.

His eyes gleamed from within his helm, then, in a brief, elegant movement of his hand he managed to salute the group of ladies as one before cantering away to join the fight. Sighs, strangled squeals, and sharp, indignant inhalations were the result.

“How is it that he cannot choose from among such a peerless group?” Jehanne took her seat again.

The lady smiled. “Oh, but he has chosen. The trouble is that he keeps on choosing.”

“Fickle, 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 sighed. “You are the innocent, aren’t you? He has forfeited. And no one can ransom Fulk de Galliard, the earl will want a fortune for him.”

“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 help me. You may have refused your spurs from the king, but you will not refuse me. I shall make something of you yet.”

“What, a pillager? A slayer of innocents? That is all knighthood has come to mean.” Fulk met Grimald’s gaze, letting all his loathing for the man burn through his eyes.

The earl’s grin widened. “You will cooperate fully, Galliard. Else your precious village will burn to the ground. I command it and I command you. Do you understand?”

“Aye.” Too well.

“Good. Deacon!” The earl pointed at Fulk. “He looks like a wild animal with that long hair. Cut it off. I would have him properly humbled, come the morn.”

The cleric paled. “B-but, my lord, I believe his hair is part of a penance—”

“Cut it! Or perhaps, Deacon, there is something of yours you wouldn’t mind having snipped, eh?” Grimald grinned at the man, then stalked out the door.

Fulk’s hatred chilled within his breast, and the icy shards pierced his heart. For seven years he had thought to keep the pain of Rabel’s death fresh by letting his hair grow, as did his seemingly endless sorrow. But he did not need long hair to remind himself of the beast he was. Fulk looked at the deacon, who stood before him, trembling, his mouth agape.

“Do not distress yourself, friend. I will not seek vengeance from you when this is through, you have my word.”

The deacon smiled weakly and nodded, sweat dripping from his chin. Fulk closed his eyes. He would not go after the cleric.

He’d go after Grimald.

Jehanne hesitated, winced, then limped over the threshold into Windermere’s dim chapel. She drew her hood lower to hide her throbbing face. The damp stone floor never gave way to warmth, no matter the season. This winter was proving exceptionally difficult, in more ways than ice and snow. Father Edgar, stingy with candles at the best of times, puttered in a gloomy corner.

“Father, I—” Jehanne swayed and closed her eyes as a sparkling, black tide of dizziness raced toward her. She breathed deep, willing it away, and put her hand to the wall to steady herself. Fighting the pride that bade her keep silent, she swallowed her tears.

“What is it?” The priest kept his broad back to her.

Jehanne ventured nearer, hugging her mantle tight, though the pressure of the rough wool made her bruises ache and her stripes burn anew. “I would ease my heart, and seek thy wisdom.” Her voice was yet hoarse, so she cleared her throat.

Father Edgar turned, and narrowed his eyes. “’Tis not yet a year and you’ve come for absolution?”

Jehanne nodded, stung by his sarcasm. Why did he make it harder? He knew only desperation would bring her to him for confession before Easter, still months away.

“Tell me.” He motioned for her to sit on the steps of the altar.

“I prefer to stand.”

Edgar’s thick, tawny brows drew together. “So that’s the way of it, eh? Yet again?” The priest peered at her face, and she saw a flash of sympathy in his eyes. “Mother of God!”

It was all Jehanne could do not to hide behind her hands. She knew she must look bad, but to cause Father Edgar to call upon the Virgin…

He caught the edge of her mantle and jerked it aside. She was all but naked in her thin shift. Held in place by her own sweat and blood, it clung to her in tatters.

The priest swallowed, then licked his lips. “Behold what you have brought upon yourself.”

In an agony of embarrassment Jehanne snatched the cloth 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 to find her.”

Fulk swallowed. She was with Lady Greyhaven, near the Scottish border. Grimald knew Fulk would never intentionally reveal her whereabouts. So he hedged. “Why do you ask?”

“I want to send someone to collect her…for safekeeping. I have a certain bridegroom in mind—Sir Hengist, a man known for his great prowess. After all, he is already in charge of Redware. And in light of today’s events, who would be a more fitting addition to the great knights of the house of Galliard?”

Hengist bowed to Fulk, his mocking air turning the courtesy into an insult. Fulk leveled a stare at the big knight. The bloody Hurler and Celine, his pure, innocent sister? Never. He would not allow so much as Hengist’s shadow to fall upon her.

Grimald smiled. “Of course, should you make quick work of Alun, I shall leave the choice of Celine’s husband up to you.”

So he had a chance, before Grimald ferreted her out. “I will not fail her, my lord.” Fulk’s words emerged as a growl. He might as well snarl, he felt like a chained animal. He caught a whiff of anger from Hengist at his and Grimald’s agreement. Fulk bowed low as the earl and his retinue left. The doors slammed shut.

Echoes reverberated in the chapel, slowly settling into silence, like dust on a coffin. The bastard. Fulk’s resolve hardened, cold and deadly. He would do the earl’s bidding. Up to a point. Take the keep, aye, he would find a way, if it meant protecting the king’s interests, and obtaining an adequate dowry for Celine. But nothing, and no one, would make him take a woman against her will.

Chapter Three

The practice field at Windermere was empty but for a few of the household warriors, walking their steaming horses over the chopped turf. Jehanne turned her face to the winter sunlight of late afternoon, and closed her eyes. Once more she visualized the target, saw herself hit it full center.

Gripping her lance, she put her horse into a gallop. She leveled the shaft at the proper angle over her mount’s withers and aimed for the small disc at the end of the quintain’s arm. A squeeze of her legs brought a final burst of speed from her horse as she approached impact.

Jehanne braced herself, her weight in her stirrups, and with a crack the lance slammed the target. The spiked ball swung behind her, close enough for her to feel it catch a few hairs from her plait.

Sir Thomas crossed his arms and shook his grizzled head as she trotted up to him. She thumped the lance-butt to the ground. “What? What, sir, am I doing wrong? I hit it, did I not? For the twentieth time in succession?” Weariness tugged at her limbs. For all her skill, she had to practice twice as hard as the men to keep up.

The master-at-arms looked up at her, his blue eyes surprisingly clear in his seamed face. “Jenn, it is not the hitting of anything you must perfect. Truly, you beat the quintain in fine form, and are faster than ever I was, even in my prime. Nay, ’tis the look in your eye of late.”

“What look?”

Sir Thomas took the lance from her. “You’re angry at your father, lass. I know it is hard to accept, but you are full-grown now. Were you his son it would still be your duty to marry when he wished it. What can you hope to gain by putting it off?”

Jehanne looked down at her hands, then out over the expanse of lake and field and forest that comprised Windermere. The motley green and orange hues of foliage still clung like tattered flags to the trees. The browns and grays of jutting rock were more subtle, but just as beautiful. The long, shimmering lake, the crown jewel of Windermere, reflected every color of both earth and sky, even as the mist gathered to shroud it for the night.

“I love this place, Thomas. I don’t want to give it to a stranger. No one will care for it as I do, nor protect the land and villeins. These suitors the earl sends—upon his orders every one of them would bleed the fief dry within a few winters. I cannot let that happen.”

“But, lass…”

To Jehanne’s dismay, the old knight paused to swipe at his eyes and leaned on her lance for support.

“Sir?” Dismounting, she hurried to him.

“You have suffered, Jenn. I cannot bear to see it go on.” Thomas’s voice broke.

“Oh, Thomas.” Jehanne could barely speak past the closing of her throat, and put her arm around his shoulders. “You are like a father to me. I wish you were, in fact,” she whispered.

The old man pulled away. “Do not let me hear you say such a thing again. Sir Alun is hard, but he has more noble blood in his little finger than does that peasant-bred Grimald in his whole body. And you are of that blood. Never take it for granted. There are things that may be learned, and things that one is born to. Part of life is finding out which is which.”

Jehanne smiled sadly and took back her lance. “I was born to this place, Thomas. And it, too, is in my blood.”

After seeing her horse safely into the avener’s care and soothing her pack of boisterous hounds, Jehanne took a rear stairway to her chamber. She did not want to meet anyone. As she slipped into her room, Lioba greeted her with a bowl of steaming water.

“You are wanted below, milady. Immediately. A messenger has come, they need you to read the letter.”

Panic jolted Jehanne as she splashed her still-tender face with the arnica and mint-steeped water. The matter had to be serious, to merit parchment instead of simple memorization or a wax tablet. Lioba helped her peel off hose and tunic.

She dared not defy her father by remaining in men’s clothing before strangers. She slipped into a fresh linen shift, hurriedly donned a loose overgown of russet wool, and snugged it to her hips with a fine, but unadorned leathern belt. Her sweat-dampened hair, still in its plait, would have to do.

Lioba gave her hand a squeeze before she left. Jehanne flashed a smile to the steadfast woman, and flew down the stairs.

Her father’s men nodded to her but shuffled uneasily, glancing away as soon as she met their eyes. She swallowed hard and continued toward the center of the hall.

Gangly and fair, her cousin Thaddeus sat in the carved wooden seat usually reserved for her. His full lips curled into a sly smile. Her father stood by, arms crossed, his face stony.

Garbed in green and brown velvet, the messenger approached. “Mademoiselle.” His eyes flicked her up and down, then fixed upon her face. Jehanne recognized the now familiar instant of shock at the sight of her livid scar.

“What are you staring at? Give me the letter.”

The messenger sniffed, then produced a scroll and he slapped it into her palm. The wax which sealed it bore the imprint of Grimald’s signet. Jehanne broke the seal and stared at the letter. The parchment shivered in her hands. The words she struggled to decipher were too awful to fully comprehend.

With a glance to her father, she cleared her throat. “Know ye this, Sir Alun, that insofar as I, Lexingford, have tried to p-prevail upon you, with all good intent and peaceful means, to achieve the purposes of Henry, our lord King, your refusal to c-convince your daughter of the wisdom of his choice forces him to send a lawful body of men, led by Sir Fulk de Galliard, to put an end to this rebellion…” Her voice trailed away. Sir Fulk? The coward was now a knight, on his way to steal her land!

“Is that it?” Anger burnished her father’s handsome face, his eyes a cold, blue contrast to his sun-browned skin.

“It is all that is of note. The earl is ever flowery in his declarations of doom.” Jehanne let the parchment fall from her fingers.

With a swish of silk the messenger scooped it up and rerolled it. “Your reply, sir?”

Jehanne winced at the man’s arrogant tone. He knew nothing of her father. Alun grabbed the scroll from him and menaced him with it as if it were a dagger. “If thine arse were not so obviously too tight, I would send this back to my good friend the earl, permanently lodged between your cheeks, with my compliments.”

The man paled and retreated. Jehanne had little doubt Sir Alun would make good on his threat should the fellow linger. “My lord, he is but a messenger, and honor requires that we allow him to leave unmolested.”

As she expected, Alun redirected his anger toward her. “What will you have me say, then? That my daughter is beyond my control, that she defies me with her every breath, that she shames me before the world? He knows that already.”

Pain gnawed at Jehanne’s heart. A heart that had frozen stiff and numb around the cherished adoration she held for her father.

“Would you have me sacrifice my honor for the venal purposes of the Earl of Lexingford? He has not your best interests in mind. Is this threat not the proof of it?”

“Your idealism ever clouds your judgment, Jehanne. You fancy yourself a knight of old, on some noble quest for truth and beauty. Face it, girl, as I have done. You are a female. You must be wed and under a man’s authority. For your own good, as well as that of Windermere. As much as it hurts me to not have a son, it will hurt me more to know there will be no grandson, either. God help us, you are the last of the house of FitzWalter!”

She was the last legitimate heir, Thaddeus being a bastard in every sense of the word. A derisive snort broke the quiet that followed. Jehanne scowled at the messenger, whose fear had apparently given way to a lurid interest. Manners be damned.

“Get thee gone!” she shouted.

“Wait.” Her father’s voice. Low, controlled and deadly. “Tell the earl to bid Fulk de Galliard to come ahead.”

Once the messenger had scurried away, Alun cut his gaze to Jehanne. “Grimald must be eager to see this Fulk punished, if he sends him here. I shall determine what manner of man he is, and sway his purpose to mine. To that end, you, daughter, shall welcome him, and give him no reason to wreak havoc upon Windermere.

“But take heed. He is the last. If he is still willing after having seen you, and you yet refuse him, I wash my hands of you. I’ll leave Windermere to the Church, to atone for whatever it is I have done to cause God give me so much grief. Even Grimald cannot take it from the bishopric, the way he could from you. I will go on a pilgrimage and you do as you like.”

The ache in Jehanne’s breast built to an unbearable agony. Her hand crept to her dagger hilt. “I know not whether to use this upon Galliard or myself. Please, do not push me further.”

The look Alun gave her was one of rage and pain, of disappointment and exhaustion, but of love she could no longer see a trace. Alun raised his goblet of wine. “May Grimald be damned to hell.” He drained it violently, then headed for the stairs. His gait was not the confident 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.