Читать книгу Fulk The Reluctant - Elaine Knighton - Страница 11

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.

Windermere did not lay in the direction he would go, had he a choice. There was all the world to explore, knowledge to discover. A thousand places where he could happily spend his life as a scholar. Even were he not in this situation, though, Redware still clamored for freedom.

Fulk pushed his dreams back to the place where he kept them hidden. He mounted his newly purchased horse, a stout Frisian of good blood, and let the sight of the splendid beast soothe his heart.

The destrier’s hooves crunched through the waning rime of ice in the muddy lane.

“I thought you didnae want a charger that cost twenty years’ wages.” Malcolm affectionately slapped his own palfrey’s thick neck as he rode beside Fulk.

“I will not trust even these miserable remnants of my life to an inferior animal. The stallion is grand, and better schooled than I expected.”

The Frisian tossed his great head as if in agreement with Fulk’s high opinion of him.

“But God’s eyes, Malcolm, I’ll never find the like of my books again. It breaks my heart.”

“Aye, a bloody fortune in books tied up in a pair of nags and a pack of mercenaries. Still, I believe ’tis a leap in the right direction. Now you may start entering tournaments again, once you have charmed the lady Jehanne out of her armor, and make up some of your losses.”

Fulk gave Malcolm a withering look. “Neither prospect appeals, Mac Niall. Besides, as you have so gallantly pointed out, I am out of practice. I will do what I must to keep Redware intact and Celine out of Hengist’s hands, but not one thing more.”

“You should find her a proper and grateful husband, right quick, then. Save yourself a realm of heartache.” Malcolm stared straight ahead between his horse’s ears as he said this.

Necessary though it was, Fulk’s stomach lurched at the thought of little Celine wed. To anyone. “Her dowry, too, is on the hoof, between this one and my new courser. She can’t inherit Redware unless she marries or comes of age.”

He cleared his throat, and glanced again at the Scot, whose eyes had narrowed into the typical, over-vigilant gaze the man had, which missed nothing.

“There. See the birds flushing, beyond that rise?” Malcolm pointed. “’Tis trouble, coming at a gallop.”

Malcolm was probably right, as ever. “Then I should go meet it. Embrace it. The devil curse Lexingford, pig’s arse that he is,” Fulk growled. He glanced down at his helm, hanging from his saddle. It could stay there. “Malcolm, kindly keep the men in good order.” With a touch of Fulk’s spurs the stallion bounded forward.

The countryside was cold, but not bleak, for even the gray stubble in the fields gleamed in the sun, and where the villeins had furrowed, the black earth put forth a rich smell. Beyond the uneven stripes of plowed and fallow land the forest loomed, dark even in winter, the trunks and branches interlinked and woven like basketwork.

There were few villages this far north, and towns were even more rare. The keep of Windermere lay at the southern tip of the lake from which it took its name, in the Cumbrian Mountains, two days’ hard ride from Scotland. At a crucial point along the River Leven it was possible to cross at a bridge maintained by the FitzWalter, if he allowed passage.

Fulk thought of this, and other problems that might be presented to a man attacking the hold of Sir Alun. Especially a man who did not want bloodshed. There was only one course, and that was to wait outside until they surrendered. A slow, painful way, but at least it left the choice of life up to the defenders.

Up the road ahead a rider neared, the strange horse’s blowing audible across the distance in the cold air. The Frisian’s nostrils flared and his neck arched, the thin skin forming creases at his powerful jaw. The stranger approached, elbows and knees flailing, a white cloth tied to one arm. At the sight of Fulk the young man halted quickly and none too straight, nearly putting himself over his horse’s side.

“G-greetings, milord, ah…g-good day and G-God bless.”

Fulk eyed the youth. Yellow hair streamed from beneath a jaunty, brimless hat, his blue velvet jacket was well padded, and a fine short-sword rode at his hip. But his mount heaved, the foam at its mouth was flecked with blood, and its flanks bore raised welts from the lad’s lashings.

Fulk said nothing, and positioned the Frisian to block the road. Let the varlet sweat and explain himself.

The stranger’s eyes bulged. “I am Thaddeus, squire to Sir Alun, come in p-peace to meet the p-party sent by the Earl of Lexingford. And you, my lord, p-perchance you might be…?”

“Fulk de Galliard. What do you want?”

Thaddeus’s eyes lost some of their fear and gained a cunning light. “To bargain, my lord. I would save you an argument, seeing how you—”

“How I what? Do I look as though I want to avoid an argument?”

“Well, I thought—”

“You did not think. Did you dream, perchance, that I am come merely to pretend to take Windermere?”

“Take Windermere? But, I thought you were another suitor!”

“I and all these men behind me—” Fulk waved over his horse’s rump “—are indeed coming to pay suit to Sir Alun, to win his heart. And if he does not love us, we shall take his head, instead.” Fulk bluffed, but he was good at it.

Thaddeus paled, then rallied. “The lady Jehanne shall not receive you kindly, in any case.”

“Nor do I expect her to. Why don’t you run along home, boy? There is no escape this way. Tell Sir Alun we will parley and offer him every courtesy—as long as he offers no resistance.”

The young man began to turn his horse, and his expression darkened into surliness. “What do I g-get for sticking my neck out, then? I came all this way, and nothing to show for it. Everyone knows your reputation, Sir Fulk. Why should we fear you?”

Fulk leaned forward slightly, and the Frisian hopped, startling Thaddeus. The boy’s mount rolled its eyes, and the Frisian’s ears lay flat back on his elegant head.

“You may know my reputation, but you do not know me, Squire Thaddeus, nor does any one of your bedfellows. It would be the wiser course for you to go. Now. And have a care for that beast. If I find you’ve brought it to grief on this selfish escapade, you will have me to answer to.”

The young man’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and he kicked his horse around. He raised his riding whip, evidently thought better of it, and said, “She will be coming for you right quick! Hah!”

Thaddeus trotted off, his blond locks bouncing at his back.

Malcolm cantered to Fulk’s side. “What pretty thing was that?”

“A young viper, my friend. But we may find him useful, ere we are done.”

“Lioba, Beatrix, stay a half length behind, on either side of me. I would face Galliard as an arrow does its target.”

Upon these instructions Jehanne’s handmaidens, girded and armed as fully as she, dropped their mounts back to form a wedge of horseflesh, with their lady at the leading point. They used this formation to charge when routing out poachers and chasing troublemakers.

It was difficult, dangerous, and for Jehanne at least, as satisfying as warm bread and honey. Word had spread, and now often as not, thieves simply dropped their booty and ran rather than meet the Iron Maiden of Windermere’s swift justice.

But this was different. She might lose her home, her freedom, everything she cherished. Soon, Jehanne thought, it had to be soon, and so it was. A speck on the horizon grew, winding ever closer, until she recognized her cousin, galloping his horse like a madman.

To her disgust he did not stop, but passed her company by as if they were invisible, ignoring her shouted greeting. She would need to check on Thaddeus’s poor gelding when she returned.

If she returned. The possibility of a real fight, to the death, could not be dismissed lightly. She had always believed goodness and right could defeat wickedness and wrong. That was the whole point of knightly virtue, of trial by combat. God would grant victory to the man—or woman—most deserving.

But she was no longer entirely certain she was that woman. Perhaps her father was right…but she could not afford to doubt herself now, much less doubt God.

“There they are, see?” Jehanne pointed to a black line slowly wending its way nearer, pinpoints of reflected sunlight flashing from lance tips and helms.

“Jenn, that is a small army. Methinks we should make haste to get home and lock the gates,” Lioba said, a tremor in her voice.

“I will meet him alone if I must,” Jehanne replied, but inside she quaked. Never mind Galliard, Thaddeus would no doubt tell her father what she was doing.

If he had risen from his sickbed, a stout rod would be ready upon her return. But if that was the price of honor, so be it. It would not be the first time. She snugged her helm down and rode on.

Fulk saw the phalanx of riders ahead and signaled the column to halt. “Another greeting party. But this is a meagre welcome, for a keep supposedly so hospitable.”

Malcolm grunted his agreement. “Just see there’s no trap set in that narrow defile. ’Tis a prime place for an ambush.”

Fulk ignored Malcolm’s warning. “Here she comes.”

“She? The wee lass herself?”

“Not so wee. And all three are shes.”

“Well I’ll be a bizzem’s bastard.”

“Let me do the talking, Mac Niall.” Fulk pushed his mail coif back and rode forward, his right hand raised in peace. The three women halted several yards away. The one in front, presumably the Iron Maiden in person, bristled with sword, lance and shield.

She did nothing but stare at him through her helm’s eye slits, much as he had done at the tournament so long ago.

“Gracious lady, it pleases me more than I can say to see you so lovely, hale and accompanied by such beautiful chaperones.” Speaking in the variety of Norman French used at Henry’s court, Fulk paused to see if this elegant address served any purpose.

The lady of Windermere looked at her companions, then back to him. “Fulk de Galliard, you are trespassing. Get thee gone or suffer the consequences.”

North country English, plain and to the point. Fulk turned to the Scot. “I do not think she understands my French, Malcolm. Nay, say nothing. I shall pretend my own bafflement.” He shrugged his shoulders, raised his brows, tilted his head, and turned down the corners of his mouth, all at once. The gestures and expressions in themselves were purely Gallic, but he hoped quite obvious in their meaning.

Still using the court French, Fulk continued amiably, though on a slightly different path. “Ah, so you would seek to cast me off, without a single kind word between us. Believe me, lady, it would do my heart good to turn around here and now, and never lay eyes upon you again. But here I am come, and here I will continue, until I am done.”

“Why do you go on so, Fulk? What is the point?” Malcolm grumbled.

“My dear friend, this valiant, though sadly demented creature will never formally challenge me if she believes I do not understand her terms. I have no intention of leaving, nor of fighting such a tender morsel of womankind. Mark me, she will ride off soon, rather than admit she has not the faintest idea what I am saying.”

Jehanne cleared her throat. “Consider this warning, Sir Fulk. Make any attempt to breach my walls, and you will find yourself hanging from one of them.”

With a curt nod of her steel-encased head, she reined her horse around and cantered off with her women.

“How unexpectedly delightful. The lady I am to wed owns a better helm than I, sports finer mail than half the knights in Lexingford, and has a burning desire that I become bird-food with which to decorate her curtain wall. Who could ask for more?”

Malcolm grinned. “She’s a braw lass, all right. You are a lucky man, Fulk.”

“One day I will remind you of that foolish sentiment, Mac Niall.” Wearily Fulk waved the column into motion again.

It would be a long siege.