Читать книгу Fulk The Reluctant - Elaine Knighton - Страница 12

Jehanne peered through the battlement loophole and strained to focus upon the curve of the road below. Her ears ached from the wind as it whistled around the frost-laden stones of the open turret.

It had been six exhausting, hungry weeks since Fulk de Galliard and his men first made their encampment in the practice grounds beyond the curtain wall.

She cursed the single entrance and the lay of the land which made the keep easy to defend, but also meant Fulk did not need a large army in order to besiege her. Today, for some reason, he was leading them within bowshot, and if it was the last thing she did, she was determined to give him a taste of her ire.

She blinked. Once, twice, and the indistinct cavalcade of armed men turned into individuals. Her heart pounded and her fingers clenched her bow grip. There he was. Fulk the Reluctant. Raven-haired and carrion-hearted, no doubt.

For the earl to send a man without honor to take the keep was yet a further insult to the strength of Windermere. Or rather, its former strength. As if he already possessed the castle, Fulk rode at ease, his lance casually resting across his shoulder.

Why did they risk drawing close now? No matter. Opportunity was at hand.

Jehanne straightened her arm and drew the bowstring taut. With her thumb she adjusted the arrowshaft’s angle, squeezed the grip and aimed a bit to the left, as the bow tended to pull right. Her trembling muscles fought the power she held in check. She caught her breath and slitted her eyes. Galliard’s chest made a broad target.

Three cold, stiff fingers on her right hand released the arrow. The bowstring sang and the steel-tipped, ashwood cylinder hissed forth. In an instant Jehanne had a second one nocked and ready. She looked down to see the result of the first.

Horses galloped and men shouted. Her heart waxed jubilant. “Flee, dogs, flee! Run before I skewer every last one of you!” Then her smile faded. Where was Fulk?

She scrambled toward the top of the battlement for a better view. The curtain wall’s curve demanded a higher vantage if she wanted a good shot. The lip of stone bit her palms as she hoisted herself upon the ledge.

Lightly she jumped from one merlon to the next, her bow at her back, a sheer drop of more than thirty cubits at her feet. The height did not bother her—as long as she did not look down.

The murky moat below was half-frozen and clogged with decaying reeds. As Fulk hurried his men toward the gates, Jehanne paused, made certain of her footing, and loosed the second shaft.

He looked up, and even from that distance she saw the shock on his face at the sight of her skipping along the teeth of the battlements, so far above him. Then an icy gust of wind caught her. For one terrifying instant she wavered on the brink.

Jehanne let her weight shift backwards and landed feet first on the granite stones of the allure. The walkway before her undulated, snakelike, as she tried to focus. She scowled and willed the rippling flagstones to be still. Of late she grew dizzy every time she moved too fast.

“My lady?” Elly, one of her handmaids, stood forlorn, hugging herself, shivering in the breeze. The girl was too thin. And so was Jehanne. But she would not surrender this keep without a fight to any besieger, whether sent by the king or the pope or the devil himself.

“What is it, Elly?”

“Oh, you must come down straightaway. The gate is breached—we are taken!”

Jehanne caught the maid’s shoulders. “How can that be? Look, they are still outside.” She dragged the girl to the nearest battlement crenellation and peered down. No horses. No men. Only the rattle and slither of portcullis chains from the gatehouse. Her heart clenched.

Galliard was cunning. He had watched and waited, never once putting himself in harm’s way until now. And why should he? The ravaging fever had done his work for him.

Grabbing her bow and a fistful of arrows, Jehanne raced to the corner tower. “Sir Thomas!” She looked left and right for the old man. He lay curled up on his side against the wall, sweating and gasping for breath, his sword still clutched in one hand.

“Oh, my wee Jenn, I must tell you something….”

“Shh, dear Thomas, save your strength.” Jehanne’s throat tightened as she stroked his brow. She had no tears left. In the last few weeks the fever had struck Windermere hard. The dead lay in frozen piles in the bailey, layered in quicklime. In desperation she had ordered some of the bodies propped along the battlements, to make the keep appear well-manned.

She cupped Thomas’s hot, white-stubbled cheek with her palm and looked back to the walkway. “Elly, a litter!”

The girl reappeared, teeth chattering. At the sight of the ailing knight her face crumpled. “I’ll fetch Corwin,” she sobbed, and trotted off.

Jehanne returned her attention to Thomas. Apart from his collapse, his dusky color worried her. Just like her father, he had hidden his illness well. Stubborn old man! She slipped her arms around his body and held him close. Carefully, she covered the knight with her mantle, putting her empty quiver beneath his head.

“Rest here until the lads bear you to the hall,” she whispered, and briefly his eyes opened in acknowledgement. Then the snorting of horses below reminded her of duty elsewhere. It was up to her, now.

Most of her father’s men had deserted when the fever first ravaged Windermere. Alun had perished even before Fulk’s arrival on Twelfth Night. After riding out to meet Fulk, she had come home to chaos. At the familiar burning sensation her father’s memory provoked, she forced her eyes wide open. No time to dwell upon the past.

Bow and arrows in hand, Jehanne bounded down the stairs. As she reached the entrance to the main ward, she shoved the arrows under her belt, then straightened her surcoat. Starved and without her mantle, she shook in the frigid air. But, taking a deep breath, she held her head high and passed through the archway.

At least a score of heavily armed, mounted men waited in the bailey. Her heart sank. Each one of them was the equivalent of ten men afoot. Snowflakes drifted onto the horses’ wide rumps, and the breath and steam of the animals clouded the air. Once, she would have hurried to put her hand to the biggest stallion’s silken, black coat.

But she was no longer a child.

And it was Fulk the Reluctant who sat the great-horse. His lance protruded before him, and hanging from its tip was the squirming figure of Thaddeus. Fulk had caught the back of the young fool’s belt, and his lance shaft bowed and creaked ominously with the weight.

Fulk’s shield bore her arrow. Silently, Jehanne cursed her aim, or his quick defense. She knew not which to blame for her failure to kill him.

Her enemy turned his dark gaze upon her, and she shivered. She had never stood this close to him, nor felt his presence so acutely. His short, jet hair was awry as if he had just pulled back his camail, and his face…the Creature at the tourney had not exaggerated.

Jehanne swallowed as her gaze drifted down his body. She had a weakness for clean-limbed, black horses. And if ever there were a man whose looks could compete with them, she beheld him now.

She deepened her frown.

Fulk dropped his lance-tip and Thaddeus tumbled to the ground. Jehanne ran to him. He jumped up and pushed her away.

“This is all your fault! Demented, idiot girl. I hope this one makes you g-good and sorry when he uses you—”

A mellow, lightly accented voice spoke in English. “Cease your filthy rudeness, knave. Collect your blood money and go.” Fulk tossed a plump purse to Thaddeus, who stuffed it inside his surcoat.

Jehanne stared at her cousin. “Traitor!” She lunged after him, but he danced backward, cackling his glee.

One of Fulk’s men slid from his horse, grabbed the now shrieking Thaddeus by the scruff of his neck, and threw him bodily out the gates. “Beetle-gnawed snake’s tongue.” The Scot straightened his plaid, a complex weave of muted blues and greens, and scowled at Thaddeus.

The young man clambered to his feet and gestured obscenely as Jehanne nocked an arrow and aimed at him. Before she could release it a big hand caught hers, and leather-clad fingers wrapped around both the bow grip and her white knuckles.

Ignoring her cry of protest, Fulk took the weapon and snapped it like kindling over his knee. Jehanne stared in disbelief at the ruins of her bow, then at the man who had destroyed it. She had never heard of anyone breaking a bow with his bare hands. And for him to shatter the elegant, powerful weapon she had shaped and polished herself was like having a piece of her heart torn out.

“That was mine,” she whispered.

“It is over, Lady Jehanne. I would speak with you now.”

Fulk’s words were mild but his voice was low and tight. Slowly, she met his eyes. The warm, lustrous color of Norsemen’s dark amber, she found them unexpectedly beautiful. His restraint was more difficult to bear than if he had twisted her arm or beaten her.

A momentary weakness rippled through Jehanne, a temptation to compromise. Her limbs were heavy with fatigue, her stomach knotted with hunger.

Nay. She would not be defeated. Not by treachery, not by force, and not by Fulk de Galliard. Rage at her conqueror and disappointment with herself surged in her gut. She slapped the hilt of her sword.

“I will not stand by and allow you to simply walk in and take my keep unchallenged. I demand a single combat between us, sir. To the death if it so pleases you.”

Scattered laughter rumbled from the warriors. Fulk’s eyes widened. A crease formed on his forehead. “You wish to do battle with me, hand to hand?”

“Aye.” Jehanne squared her shoulders.

“Do you want to die so young?”

“If honor requires it.”

Fulk’s eyes seemed to glow from within, but his voice remained soft. “You will have to await some other form of death, my lady. I refuse to accept such a challenge.”

“Why? Because I am not a man?”

“Aye, and you are unwell at that. It is an absurd notion.”

Jehanne clenched her hands in a futile attempt to contain her temper. His gentle tone implied he thought her feeble—of mind as well as body, no doubt.

The bite of her nails into her palms only prodded her anger. All her pain rushed back. The sickness, the death, the starvation…the betrayal. “You do me no honor, sir.” Her voice broke. She lashed out at Fulk with feet and fists and teeth.

His men guffawed, fueling her assault. Fulk himself was impervious. Her blows had no effect. Even had they the force of a man’s strength, he was too heavily padded and too well muscled for them to do him damage. He caught her wrists in an inescapable grip.

“I said ‘speak’, not brawl, Lady Jehanne. I know your father is dead, that you grieve for him still. Young Thaddeus told us of the fever. You are without resources, without friends. You are alone, but for me. Do not abuse my patience.”

Fulk released her, and she stood stiffly. At least she had not disgraced herself by weeping. But by speaking the truth so baldly, he had knocked a hole in her resolve. She raised her head. “I need no one besides myself. Why can you not leave me in peace?”

“The Earl of Lexingford says it is our lord king’s will. You had best abide by it. To disobey me is to disobey him. And while I am a forgiving sort, he is not.”

Fulk was right about that, too, God rot him. Once the king held her in disfavor, no one would dare help. Jehanne looked up at Fulk again, her vision blurred by despair. She had never seen anyone so tall and imposing. Despite the tales of his refusals to fight, he did not look the least bit reluctant.

He maintained a neutral expression, but faint lines, perhaps born of mirth, showed around his generous mouth. She met his gaze again, and for an instant found sympathy where she had least expected it. Jehanne sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. Then she hiccoughed. Loudly.

Fulk flashed a grin, involuntarily, it seemed. She had to admit he was a well-favored beast. Spectacularly handsome, in fact. But she had rejected many a good-looking man. A fair face never changed a man’s essential volatility, nor his lust, nor his greed.

Beyond that, however, and much more disturbing, Fulk had a compelling air of warmth. Most peculiar in her experience. Being near him gave her the oddest impression.

She sensed he was indeed a dangerous man, no matter how soft-spoken, but along with that came the unwelcome feeling that if she were in his good graces, nothing could ever go wrong again. And if it did, it would not matter….

Jehanne gave herself a shake. The greater danger lay with Fulk’s charm. Or perhaps he had some sorcery at his command. From what she had heard at the tourney, he had beguiled a dozen women, perhaps a score of women, or even more for all she knew. He was here to use and betray her.

She was grateful for his smile. He did not take her seriously, his guard would be lax. And he could do nothing to embarrass her further than she had already done herself. He would not try to comfort her, nor offer his pity.

Jehanne did not want sympathy. She wanted Windermere free and safe, wanted Fulk the Reluctant to turn around and ride back to the earl’s kennels or wherever it was he had come from.

But he was not about to depart. He kept his gaze on her, and she looked from his eyes to his broad shoulders, draped with a thick mantle of green wool. From his belted waist hung a hand-and-a-half sword, and his sturdy legs were endlessly long. He was like an oak tree planted in her courtyard. Impossible to sway. But…even if she could not uproot the tree, she could whittle away at it.

“Have you looked your fill?” he asked.

Jehanne jerked her back straight. “Aye. More than I can stomach.”

To her mortification, at that moment an audible growl came from her midsection. Fulk’s gaze darkened and he signaled his men with a small movement of his head. Within a few moments she heard the hollow rumble of wains crossing the drawbridge. Curse his efficient hide. He was moving in.

“I have brought thee gifts, my lady.”

“I have no desire for finery, Sir Fulk. You can buy neither my loyalty nor my affection with useless trinkets.”

One elegant black brow cocked upward. “Can I not? Come see.” Removing his gauntlet with his teeth, he offered her his right hand. Jehanne looked at it, then at him and his calm, sure demeanor.

Beneath his courtly manner lurked a devious heart bent on taking all Windermere could give. What little was left, anyway. She clenched her fists and hesitated. Did she dare ignore him? Step past his outstretched palm to reenter the hall?

Fulk decided the matter by gripping her elbow and propelling her toward the gate.

“Unhand me!” Jehanne hated the sensation of her own helplessness against male brawn, and could not wrench herself free before the first wain halted in front of them. She glanced at Fulk over her shoulder and a jolt of fear rippled through her body. Lord God, he was big. He could snap her arm in two as easily as he had her bow.

What manner of woman could have produced an offspring capable of attaining such size? Yet he was perfectly proportioned. Still, he unnerved her. If he were fully human, he could only be the result of some outlandish mixture of—of she knew not what.

Frowning, Fulk released her arm and lifted a corner of the oiled tenting that covered the wain’s crated contents. As the light penetrated, a cacophony of honks and flutters made Jehanne start. Geese. Dozens of them.

She stared at Fulk. Too late, she realized her mouth hung open. She ran to the next wain. Smoked hams, sacks of flour, crocks of butter and honey. Barrels of wine and ale. Dried fish and cakes of salt. Barley and oat-seed…life for her people.

Gratitude eroded Jehanne’s bone-deep resistance. She would prefer to starve, had she only herself to consider. But calculated or not, Fulk’s charity was a godsend, especially for the children. Gritting her teeth, she turned to thank him as courtesy demanded, but he was already overseeing his men as they unloaded the provisions.

The folk of Windermere emerged, gaunt and hesitant. They looked to her and kept their distance, ready to forego the bounty if she said they must. Jehanne closed her eyes briefly, then waved the people forward. With glad cries they hurried to carry the stores inside the keep.

She had rebuffed his messengers all these weeks. She would never have believed any offer of peace in return for opening the gates. Siege armies put their prisoners to the sword. Why should Fulk be any different? He was, though. Unlike any man she had ever met.

Though the words threatened to stick in her throat, she managed to get them out. “Sir Fulk, please accept the thanks of an ungracious woman on behalf of Windermere. Your Christian act puts me to shame. I have allowed my people to suffer far too long.”

Fulk rested one booted foot upon a cask and leaned his elbow on his knee. “Nay, my lady. Had I any true Christian kindness I would have catapulted the hams over your walls weeks ago. But had you a full belly then, your aim would have been even better this day.”

He must have noticed that the arrows in her belt matched the one caught in his shield. Jehanne swallowed and strove to keep her voice light. “It would have made no difference, I’m afraid. I am a poor shot under the best of circumstances.” She would rather he did not know of her considerable skill with a bow.

“Not so poor.” He pulled his mantle aside and showed her his left forearm. A wound oozed red, soaking his sleeve.

Jehanne clapped a hand to her mouth. The arrow had gone right through his shield. Her heart battered her ribs, but pride kept her from running away. No man suffered such an injury without responding in kind. She held her head high, ready to receive whatever punishment he might deal her. His pretense of friendliness was meant only to put her off guard.

Fulk snapped his mantle back over his arm and Jehanne flinched at the sudden movement. The knight’s mouth tightened. “Forgive me, I forgot the sight of blood offends some folk. If you have a cloth, I can staunch it.”

Was the man being sarcastic? “I—I’ll find one,” she stammered. “Come to the hall.”

Jehanne breathed again, but not easily. He was posing, saving his wrath to deliver it later. Tonight, no doubt. In private. She shuddered at the thought of angry hands upon her body…tearing away her clothes, her pride. Apart from her virginity, he would rob her of all honor…of all hope.

And there was nothing she could do to stop him. Hunger and weariness had sapped her. She thought of the battlements. How easy it would be to fall… Nay. That was a coward’s way out. She must somehow endure until her strength returned.

Jehanne led Fulk and his men to her father’s great hall, now stark and echoing. Her father’s warriors had taken their wages in tapestries and silver plate. They had looted the hall and fled during Fulk’s approach, on the heels of the deadly fever.

As she hurried to the chest of linens, shame gnawed deep, that strangers should see her home brought to such a desperate condition. Worse, Fulk assumed he was now lord of Windermere, and of her, too.

He stood near the weeks-old ashes of the fire circle, giving orders to both his people and hers. Her battered pride revived. Anger warmed her anew.

As if he sensed Jehanne’s shift of attitude, Fulk gazed at her from across the hall, his expression unreadable. With a catch in her throat, she found herself staring back instead of preparing to tend his wound. She inhaled deeply and strode to meet him.

Though he towered over her, the fear she expected did not blossom. Nor could she stop looking at him. Witchcraft. Magic. Nothing else explained the unwelcome ache in her heart.

His amber eyes grew opaque, and he pulled the bandages from her nerveless fingers. “Eat and take your rest now, lady. I shall explain my requirements to you later.”

Jehanne did not reply. She could not, without spluttering her indignation. This—sorcerer—had requirements? Windermere belonged to her, and she would forever belong to it. Let him think he ruled, let him imagine that she might comply. Jehanne, daughter of Alun FitzWalter, would win her keep back.