Kitabı oku: «Fulk The Reluctant», sayfa 5

She looked up toward the solar. The keep would still belong to Fulk, who might not share its potential, as the earl’s other lackeys would have done. It was almost as though the earl had placed both his enemies into one pot.

Chapter Six

Fulk woke to the faint scent of mint, the only trace of Jehanne’s presence the previous night.

But the herb’s aroma also reminded him of hot nights and warm seas, of dewy, kohl-ringed eyes and veiled faces….

Fulk blinked away the erotic images, and instead studied the complex weave of the faded red and gold bedcurtains. After a moment, he sat up and thrust them aside. A milky sunbeam had found its way through the wooden slats at the window, and now seethed with dust on its way to the floor.

At the thought of his last encounter with Jehanne he shook his head. What in hell had possessed him? I can be very convincing. Lord God. He had smiled, knowing full well how it would affect her. Or how it affected most women. Fulk groaned inwardly. He was not treading lightly, nor taking steps to remain disentangled from this woman and her miserable keep.

And whose fault was it?

Hers. Hers entirely. He wanted nothing to do with her. Not with her, her haunted eyes, her eloquent, chewed-upon hands, nor her lithe, hungry body that cried out to be touched—Fulk’s groan turned into a growling yawn.

He stretched and went to the window seat. Pushing open the shutters he looked out upon the tidy village, fields and white-clad forest now under his protection. The rising mist caught the sun and diffused its light, veiling the harsh reality of lingering disease and starvation below.

Just what he needed—more responsibility, when worrying about Celine was already an all-consuming occupation.

An energetic rap sounded at the door, adding to his foul mood. “Come.”

Malcolm entered sideways, glancing left and right, checking for potential assassins behind the bed curtains and the door, as was his wont.

“I am quite alone, Hunterson.”

“In your present state, Fulk, any number of malefactors could be hovering, daggers at the ready, and you would pay them no heed.” Malcolm stepped to the window. “’Tis a lovely dawn.”

“Aye. And with the coming of this day the yoke of Windermere falls securely about my neck. I will never get free of this place. It is a pit of quicksand, I know it.”

“Why should you wish to be free? ’Tis every man’s dream handed to you gratis, both lady and land.”

“Nay, Malcolm. I have already paid too dear for it—with every last one of my books, and to buy what? A ransom in fine horseflesh and foodstuffs. Land and warlording are not how I had thought to live my life. And now I’ve been tethered to the likes of a mermaid. She will take me down with her, to depths beyond my capacity, until I drown in a sea of tears.”

“What rot! This is what comes of your bookishness, Fulk. You wax morbidly poetic instead of forging ahead.” Malcolm sat opposite him and propped one booted foot on the window ledge.

“Leave me alone. I am unwell.” Fulk leaned his aching head against the cold stone of the embrasure.

“Lovesick, you mean.”

“You are the plague that ails me.”

“Nay, Fulk. I know what cure you will be needin’, right quick.”

“Not another word. Why don’t you find out if the girl intends to show me round, or if I should look for the bailiff?”

“Ah, ’tis ‘the girl’, now. You’re so pitifully transparent, Fulk. You cannae hide your longing behind such disrespectful forms of address.” Malcolm waggled an elegantly gloved and beringed finger at Fulk.

God have mercy on me should I strike the man dead. Sometimes Fulk would like to have forgotten that Malcolm was of noble blood, and related to the Viking Earls of Orkney. He gazed at his friend’s grinning, feral face.

“You, Hunterson, tread upon thin ice. And if my goodwill means aught to thee, you had best retreat to shore.”

The Scot paled a shade but his voice ground out low and steady. “You’re a bloody fool. Treasure in your grasp and you would toss it aside over a dead man.”

“Watch yourself, sir.” Fulk’s heart lurched with regret. As ever, he was tortured by the image of Rabel, dying. Rabel, drowning in his own blood. “You know what I mean.”

“Aye, Fulk, I do. But you are that blind, if true love were to clout you o’er the head, you would fight it off instead of embracing it.”

“I cannot concern myself with love. I must find Celine a refuge, to keep her safe from the Hurler. I thought of bringing her here, but this place is not yet stable.” And, he did not add, there were far too many men about. One look at his sister was often enough to bring lovelorn suitors crawling to him, begging for her hand. But none that he cared to have as a good-brother.

Malcolm did not reply.

Fulk stared at his friend. His silence was heavy. Full to bursting. “Oh, Lord. Nay, Malcolm. Not you, too. Not Celine. You have never even spoken to her!”

The Scot’s eyes only burned more intensely.

Fulk stood. Blood roared through his chest and into his head. Nay. Such a thing could never be. Celine was fragile. Delicate. Not a maid for the likes of Hengist, nor even for Malcolm, wild and fierce as a northern gale. While his honor and bravery were unimpeachable, his passions ran too hot.

Fulk could not think of a single man of his acquaintance who would be suitable for his sister. It would only be a matter of time before she fell into the clutches of some unscrupulous varlet, if she were not close by that Fulk might guard her himself. Even were her dowry intact, the search for a properly civilized groom might take a long time.

Malcolm rocked on the balls of his feet. “You will not stand in my way, Galliard. Not you nor any man.”

“I will protect her at all costs. Even against you.”

“Nay, Fulk. My heart is set and no turnin’ back.” Malcolm took a belligerent stance, his thumbs hooked through his sword-belt.

Fulk took a deep breath. “I will see you dead ere I allow you to cause her an instant of pain.”

Malcolm raised his chin. “And I would see to my own demise should I ever be guilty of harming her.”

A terrible surge of deadly anger threatened to engulf Fulk. He struggled for control, shoving at the crimson wave until it began to subside. “Ah, Mac Niall. But to have you as good-brother? Who could imagine it and not tremble at the thought?”

“I may have to slit your throat for you one of these nights, and save you the fretting.” Malcolm grinned wolfishly, accepting the truce in his own way.

“Don’t be making promises you will not keep.” Fulk gave his friend a wry look. “Let us not allow women to get in the way of our comradeship.”

“Perish the thought, Fulk. And that of a warm, willing lass in your arms at night. The lady Jehanne is fair to beggin’ for a good cuddle.”

“Oh, indeed, Malcolm, so you have finally noticed. Never mind that, come with me on the tour of Windermere. Give me your worthy opinion.”

“Aye, flatter me, Fulk. You know damn well you cannae do without me.”

“Well do I know, Malcolm.”

With a wink, the Scot slipped to the door. “I’ll order up the horses.”

Fulk strode into the bailey. The sharp, clear air made everything in sight appear unnaturally vivid, whether animal, human or the very stones of the keep. A cold breeze swirled the snow in little eddies over the cobbles.

Already mounted, Jehanne shivered as she waited. Fulk put a hand to her palfrey’s shoulder. “Lady, it is freezing, you need not attend. Send the bailiff in your stead.”

She gazed down at him, her face expressionless. “He is long dead, Sir Fulk. I will warm as we progress.”

In Fulk’s experience a sedate ride in winter was among the most chilling endeavors he knew, but he said nothing. He crossed the ward to his gray courser, held by a hollow-cheeked young man of the keep, who stiffened visibly at his approach.

Fulk circled his beast, noting its shining coat, the gleaming leathers, and the lack of even a shred of straw in its mane and tail. He ran his hand down the animal’s foreleg and tapped its fetlock, leaning slightly against the horse’s shoulder as he picked up its foot. A big ball of snow had collected in the hoof, but once brushed away, the foot was scrubbed clean inside.

“This is a surpassing fine job you have done, lad. Is it love of horses or fear of me that inspires you?” Fulk straightened and met the groom’s eyes, which were nearly popping from his head as he stood, trembling.

The young man hesitated and looked to his lady. Fulk caught their silent exchange. She would protect the lad, no matter his answer. The other servants watched with apprehensive faces.

“B-both, milord.”

Fulk smiled. “What is your name?”

“Corwin, sir.”

“Then, Corwin the Truthful, I charge you with the exclusive care of my great-horse and this courser. You alone shall see to their well-being. That will suit you, am I right?”

Corwin swayed. “Aye, milord.”

The boy was incapable of further speech, but the glow in his brown eyes fairly shouted his happiness. Fulk took the reins.

“Fetch me some butter, lad, then go break your fast properly.”

Corwin trotted away, and Jehanne’s palfrey stamped a hoof, dislodging the snow that had impacted within it. Jehanne gazed down at Fulk, her expression unreadable. “You have won him for life. Ever has Corwin yearned for grand horses such as yours. But what want you with butter? Surely your courser will not eat it?”

“Nay, it will simply make the way easier.”

When the crock arrived, Fulk showed Corwin how to pack the horses’ hooves with the fat to keep snow from balling and impeding the animals’ progress.

“It can save you a nasty fall, and your horse a pulled tendon. It keeps their heels supple as well.”

“It is a waste of food, in my opinion,” Jehanne said.

“You are no longer under siege, my lady.”

“I still feel that I am. And will until you have gone.”

Fulk swung onto the gray. “Tsk, what of our pact of pretense?” He brought his mount to her side. “Would you have them think us enemies?”

The bailey had filled with servants and villagers, apparently come to see their new master, now that they knew he was not about to put them to death.

“Give me your hand,” Fulk ordered softly.

Jehanne frowned at him. “What for?”

Those daggered glances of hers would try the patience of a Beguine, but Fulk kept his voice low. “Have you no experience of courtesy? Give me your hand!”

She thrust her fist toward him. He dropped his reins to take it, and uncurled her fingers with some difficulty. When she tried to pull away he held her hand fast and brought it up to his mouth. Fulk inhaled Jehanne’s scent and looked at her as he kissed the backs of her fingers. Even the leather of her gloves held a trace of mint. Her eyes narrowed and both her scar and the tip of her nose turned pink. With a final squeeze he released her. She scrubbed furiously at her face with her wrist and jogged her horse forward.

What was the matter with the woman? Had no one ever kissed her hand before? She was skittish as an untouched yearling. Fulk had an unbidden urge to gather Jehanne up, take her somewhere warm and private, and get her used to being kissed in a variety of places.

It was obviously what she needed quite desperately. Even Malcolm had seen it. But Fulk quelled the thought and followed her out the gates.

Once they had passed beyond the village and crossed the bridge over the rushing Leven, rolling hills spread in invitation before them. On the forest edge oaks and yews stood guard over brilliant, snowy fields, and the lake mirrored the glowing blue sky.

With a sudden spray of white Jehanne galloped away from Fulk and the rest of the company. From where the lane curved she headed into an open field. Her hair streamed bright behind her, like hammered gold.

“Stay you, Malcolm, please.”

At the Scot’s nod of assent Fulk eased his horse into a canter, keeping Jehanne in sight without coming too close. He did not imagine she had succumbed to a fit of playfulness. Nay, the lady carried a heavy load of sorrow, and no doubt at times it was too much to be borne.

She disappeared over a rise, but the fading plumes of her horse’s breath were still visible. Upon cresting the hill Fulk halted. Jehanne had abandoned her mount and now floundered on foot through the snow, moving toward the deep blue shadows cast by the forest.

“Oyez! Come back!” He hurried forward and came around, cutting off her approach to the wood. Jumping down from his courser, he allowed Jehanne to choose the distance between them. He sensed that she might bolt, should he press her.

“What is the matter, lady?”

Bowing her head, she hugged herself, then went to her knees. She curled up like a hedgehog and hid her face.

Cautiously, Fulk drew near, the new snow squeaking beneath his feet. “Have I offended thee?” He put a tentative hand upon Jehanne’s shoulder.

She jerked and shuddered as though he had poured ice water down her back.

“Ah, lady, tell me true, I cannot bear to see you thus and think that I have caused such pain.”

When she did not reply he knelt beside her. Panic rose within Fulk at the thought of this woman suffering alone. It cut him to the quick, for he knew she saw him as the source of her torment. He, who had kissed away many a tear from many a delicate cheek…

Without considering the consequences he put his arms about her. Jehanne cried out and struggled, but he merely tightened his embrace, though his forearm still hurt. He could feel her ribs through her clothing, and guilt panged at what he had put her through, under siege.

Slowly her resistance ebbed, though her trembling continued. She rested stiffly, her cheek to his shoulder, her eyes squeezed shut. A tear dripped onto his gauntlet, reflecting the bright sky for a moment before it soaked into the leather.

Silence lay thick about them, but for their breathing.

Jehanne looked up at Fulk, anguish shadowing her eyes. “Forgive me, sir, I know not what came over me. I am weary…and foolish. I—I thought when we agreed to a pretense, it would take the form of polite words and pleasantry. I did not expect to be kissed. I did not know how very little I could stand….” Her voice faded away into a whisper.

“I am sorry for my clumsiness. That was no properly executed kiss, lady. I touched not your skin, but that of some fortunate animal whom you allow closer than ever you will me, it seems.”

The offering of comfort to women was ingrained in Fulk, a part of his nature he could not stifle, even had he wanted to try. It gave him pleasure to cradle Jehanne in his arms, to murmur soothing words. But when he smoothed a stray lock of hair from her cheek, she flinched as his fingers brushed her scar.

“You would not enjoy any intimate encounter with me, I am certain.” She turned her face from him as if in shame, and Fulk knew she herself believed what she said.

“I will not ask why you make such a claim, for it must be false. Unless you are not what you appear to be…a maiden who has just lost her father, and any number of friends and vassals. One who, after weeks of suffering, has been betrayed into the hands of a stranger. One who does not want to be at the mercy of any man, be he king, or earl or knight…am I right?”

She went limp. “Aye. I cannot go through with this, sir. Tell Grimald I have gone mad. He cannot fault you for that. He will not abuse your sister knowing I have been brought so low. The news will bring him joy.”

Fulk’s chest constricted at the empty defeat he heard in Jehanne’s voice. “I will give him no cause for joy.” He ground out the words in a whispered vow.

The backs of his gloved fingers again hovered near her cheek, but this time he stopped himself from touching her. Fulk was certain Jehanne would not be glad of his comfort once she regained her pride and anger. This softening of hers was only due to pain and the wearing effects of hunger.

Then she looked up at him again, her clear, silver eyes large in her thin face. Her lips parted as if she were about to speak. She hesitated.

Fulk did not. He knew but one way to bring back her fighting spirit. He pulled her close and brushed her mouth with his. Her heat and sweetness set him alight. He deepened the kiss, tracing her lips with his tongue. His thoughts grew incoherent with an unexpected burst of desire.

Then and there in the snow he wanted her to burn with him. For the merest instant she did belong to him—he recognized her fleeting response, honest and unpracticed. He had a sense of urgency, that if he could not now touch her heart, if the moment slipped away, then she too would drift forever beyond his reach.

He parted his mouth from hers. “Jehanne…”

Even as her name left his lips she slapped his face, hard. She beat at him with her fists and abruptly withdrew, taking with her the spark of warmth she had shared, closing herself off once again.

It was as though he had held a drowning woman who had made a last effort to cling to life, but in the end was swept away by the current of a river too powerful and swift for either of them to combat.

An unaccountable anger filled Fulk, at what or whom, he was not sure. He had revived her hatred of him, that much was certain. And hatred went a long way in keeping one strong, well beyond one’s limits. But he did not suffer blows lightly—from anyone.

“This is your second assault upon my person. Never strike me again, lady. Be well advised, for you shall rue the day.”

“Aye. I have no doubt of that.” Her level gaze was arrogant and unyielding.

Against her protests Fulk bundled Jehanne into his arms and put her on her horse. Fuming, he mounted his own and led her back to the road, where Malcolm and their escort waited. Upon reaching the others, Jehanne sat her palfrey, staring at nothing.

“What have you done to her, Fulk?” Malcolm’s expression was a mixture of outrage and disbelief. “She is right as rain in one breath and fairly bewitched in the next!”

Fulk glared at the Scot. “She must be put to bed straightaway. She needs rest and some good red meat in her. Organize a hunt. Get word to the crofters they are to come to the hall in three days’ time and present me their concerns, once they have feasted.”

“Red meat, indeed. Nothing would be better for her than a hot oaty porridge.”

“Just do as I ask.” Fulk sidestepped his courser to Jehanne’s palfrey, made sure she was securely seated, and brought her at a canter to the castle gates.

Someone was removing her clothes. Jehanne roused from her pillow, started to scream, to fight the hands peeling off her wet surcoat. “Nay, nay, nay!”

“Shh, dearling, ’tis only your Lioba here, no one but me, and naught to fear.”

The woman’s warm hand soothed Jehanne’s brow, and her heart gradually slowed to a normal rhythm. “What happened? Did I faint?”

“That wicked Galliard was at you in the snowy field—nay love, he hadn’t time to compromise your virtue, for the men caught up with him and put a stop to his pawing.”

Jehanne pinched the bridge of her nose. What was the matter with her? She could remember nothing but a fast ride, cold snow on her legs, a warm kiss…and her palm smacking against the smooth contours of Fulk’s clean-shaven cheek. Her hand went to her throat.

Heaven help her, she had struck Galliard yet again!

Shame seared her, that she had so little control, that he inspired such strong reactions. But she had never before been kissed—not like that, by a grown man, nor with the passion she had felt flowing from him. Jehanne swallowed and looked at Lioba.

“How know you these events?”

“One of Fulk’s lot told me all about it. Mogg—a big fellow, built like a boar. He bears no great love for his master. You would do well to befriend him. He might keep us informed.”

“Friendship with men is an impossibility. Besides, this Mogg is a hired mercenary like the others, not Fulk’s own. He will not be privy to anything useful.” Jehanne chafed her arms against the chill. She felt dizzy, tired and hollow.

Lioba rubbed the arnica-mint ointment on Jehanne’s shoulders, then draped them with a bed-shawl. “Perhaps. But Galliard has only the Scot at his back.”

Jehanne looked into Lioba’s vehement eyes. “Please, love, do not think those thoughts. There is no honor in assassination, and Fulk is more clever than I expected. But where is he? What does he now?”

She reached for the dry garment lying at the foot of her bed, an old-fashioned bliaut her mother’s mother had worn at court. The dark green fabric hung in loose folds upon her slender frame. She felt like a scarecrow, but there was nothing for it. Most of the few clothes she owned were too big for her now.

“Lord Fulk has gone a-hunting, milady.” Lioba’s spirals of red hair shook indignantly. “He will be away for days. If we had the men, we could retake the keep.”

Jehanne hugged herself, surprised by an irrational pang of disappointment at the news Fulk was out. She firmly squashed the feeling before it could take root.

“All in good time. I should have known he would see to his own pleasure before attending the villeins. Would that there were more of me to go around, what with the lambing come spring, and the planting—oh, Lioba! How will we manage, with so few hands? I cannot bear the thought of famine in the wake of that cursed fever. I should have taken a husband long ago. One strong enough to manage the fief and dull enough to forego glory.”

“But, my lady, that is not your nature. You were never meant for the callous bastards the earl and your lord father offered you! Forgive me….” Lioba put a hand to her mouth.

Jehanne smiled wryly. “Always speak your mind, for that is something I can rely upon. I had best go see what is happening downstairs.” She headed for the door, still shaky.

“Nay, you must rest, my lady. Galliard ordered me to keep you abed, and for once I agree.”

Jehanne swung around. “Ordered you?”

In silence she wrenched the heavy door open and swept out. Galliard had best keep his orders for his own people, not hers. She started down the stairs. The cold stone steps gave way to a section of wooden ones, easily burned in case an enemy tried to gain access to the upper levels.

In her haste Jehanne tripped, scuffing her foot. Her soft cry caught the attention of Mac Niall, who stood warming himself by the central fire in the great hall. He took the stairs two at a time and offered his arm for support.

She refused and the Scot frowned. “Have you stubbed a wee toe, then?”

“It is but a splinter.” Jehanne limped to the hearth and took a seat.

“Where are your shoes?”

He sounded just like Lioba did when she scolded.

“If you must know, the dogs ate them, all but my ones for riding.”

“Tsk. Let me see it.” Malcolm held out his hand.

Jehanne stared at him. “Nay, I will see to it myself.”

Malcolm made a sound of impatience. “I’m not going to fondle your limbs, milady, just pick out a wee bit of wood. I’d do it for a dog, do you think I would treat you worse?”

Jehanne pressed her lips together. His remark was reminiscent of what Grimald thought of her. But it was altogether too difficult to tell whether the Scot was jesting or serious. Slowly she extended her foot for him to take.

Propping it upon his hairy knee, he had the splinter out within moments. Before he released her, her skirt slipped to reveal the dagger strapped to her calf.

Malcolm narrowed one eye. “Lass, you had best be careful with a blade like that. If you must needs run, ’twill slip down to your ankle and trip you up. Put it higher, just below the knee.”

He favored her with a conspiratorial grin, giving Jehanne time to recover from the surprise of his collaboration. Any other man in his position would have immediately disarmed her. Not to mention that he had indeed passed over the opportunity to stroke her leg.

“You have my thanks, sir.”

“You’re welcome to all my advice, lady. I had best be off.” He put his hands to his thighs and stood.

“Why did you not go hunting with Sir Fulk?” Jehanne wrapped her skirts around her cold feet. Indeed, that was the only advantage to women’s attire.

“Och, chasing deer over hill and dale is not a favorite pastime of mine. I much prefer small game and my falcons. But I left them all behind when I came away with Fulk.”

From the look in Malcolm’s eyes she decided not to ask what else he had left behind, or why. “You have been together a long time?”

“Aye. Longer than most.” The Scot gazed at her pointedly.

“Why else he is called The Reluctant?”

“Well, he has forsworn killing.” With thumb and forefinger, Malcolm stroked his moustache from the center outward.

Jehanne was indignant. No self-respecting baron should sit by and risk defeat for having taken such a vow. “How can he defend this place if he is not willing to fight off an enemy?”

“I’m thinking he will be leaving that bit for you to attend to, milady.” Malcolm patted his own dagger, winked, and left abruptly, whistling.

Jehanne stared after him, too surprised to think of an adequate response. Let Galliard and Mac Niall laugh. An overconfident enemy was halfway to defeat. So Sir Thomas always said. Jehanne warmed at the thought of the old man. She would bring him something tasty, and speed him back onto his feet.

A rustle from above caught her attention. Lioba descended the stairs, determination emanating from her every movement. Jehanne sighed in resignation. There was no arguing with Lioba when she got this way.

“All right, Madame Nurse, I will go back to bed, as soon as we take some soup to Thomas. He needs tempting.”

“Aye. He’s not the only one. You are naught but skin and bone.”

With so many of her people still hungry, the thought of food did not appeal to Jehanne, but neither did the prospect of suffering Lioba’s ongoing wrath. “Very well. However much he eats, so will I. Will that satisfy you?”

The woman smiled triumphantly. “Good. I shall tell him that, and he will stuff himself on your behalf.”

Jehanne smiled. She knew when she was beaten. Lioba crossed the hall to her, and hand in hand, they headed to the kitchen sheds.