Kitabı oku: «Fulk The Reluctant», sayfa 2

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.