Читать книгу Fulk The Reluctant - Elaine Knighton - Страница 13

Fulk stretched, leaned back in his chair, and warily eyed his new acquisition. Lady Jehanne sat rigid and silent before the fire, with a half-dozen sated hounds of dubious pedigree asleep at her feet. In spite of the hour and more formal circumstances, she still wore the heavy men’s tunic and plain surcoat of earlier in the day, her body all but lost in the folds of wool and linen.

A long, untidy fall of hair, the color of ripe barley, twined about her arms and down her straight back. Crowning her head was a circlet of silver, apparently her only concession to the occasion of his arrival. But, resting at a decided tilt, it lent the lady an unexpected air of vulnerability.

Her haughty gaze flicked to his eyes and away again. Her opinion of him was low, indeed. No doubt he would feel much the same, were their positions reversed. Shifting in his seat, Fulk crossed his legs and rested his chin on his palm. What a confusing bundle of contradictions. A mere woman, all alone, yet so bold as to openly defy him. To loose an arrow upon him and wound him, no less.

She possessed a degree of pride, unrelated to vanity, heretofore unknown to him in a female. He was used to women of delicate sensibilities, artful in their allure, soft of voice and skin.

This one was brittle in her righteousness, hardened by her devotion to lofty ideals, but especially to things. Land and cattle, serfs and profits seemed to be her main preoccupations, apart from her love of violence.

Nothing of any interest to him.

Nay, during the siege he had thanked God for each day that passed without the necessity of a bloody fight. And thanked Him even more that he had not been forced to do battle with his supposed future father-in-law. Now that he had met the lady, Fulk knew she would never have forgiven him Alun’s death, be the man traitor to the king or hero to the people.

Jehanne’s contingent of gentlewomen, three in all, surrounded her like mother wolves defending their young. They would flay him alive with their stares if they could, he’d warrant.

But they were vastly outnumbered. Malcolm sat next to him, and all the rest of his men were present, speaking quietly among themselves, though well apart from the women and the other members of the household. Fulk had ordered it so, on pain of a night in chains, should any one of them cause the ladies of Windermere a moment’s distress.

Thus far his consideration to the resident females had met with more resentment than gratitude. The men did not chafe much at the imposed limitations, but the women seemed to take it as an insult, yet another demonstration of the power Fulk held over them.

He cleared his throat. “Lady Jehanne,” he murmured.

Slowly, she turned her head toward him. “My lord?”

He might have been a toad, her tone was so dry. He gestured toward Malcolm, off to one side. “This is Sir Malcolm, known as the Fierce, son of Hunter of Clan Mac Niall. A man of both honor and rare caution.” Malcolm bowed and Fulk let her wait a moment before he continued, and took a good look at her fresh-scrubbed face.

She looked much the same as he remembered from the Duke’s tournament. Skin like a country maid, sun-kissed and quick to blush. Grave, gray-hued eyes, startling in their depth and clarity.

But now a narrow, ragged scar marred her beauty. It slanted and skipped from her right brow to her nose, then onto her left cheek where it faded away. A pity. She made no effort to hide it.

He wondered how she had come by such a wound. Dueling with her suitors, perhaps? Not altogether beyond the realm of possibility. Their eyes met, and though Jehanne’s gaze was unflinching, she clasped her hands so tightly the knuckles showed white. Aye, she had changed. Still bold, but the wholly defiant manner of her exploits last summer had been replaced by wariness.

Nor was she as young as Fulk had first assumed—in her early twenties, he guessed. She must have spurned the earl and his candidates for ages.

Fulk smiled to himself. She had dodged marriage the way he had dodged his knighting. Well, she was welcome to her spinsterhood. He would not deprive her of it. But deal with her he must.

“My lady, there is much to be done on the morrow. My men will aid you in the burial of your dead. I should also inspect your demesnes. Will you accompany me and show me what needs attention?”

Her eyes widened. “My demesnes? Do you mock me, sir?”

Fulk suppressed his impatience. She was determined to take everything he said as an offense. He could hardly blame her.

“I would not bludgeon you with the truth. But I believe you would relish the designation ‘our’ even less, am I right?”

Though Jehanne tossed her head, the movement could not disguise the shudder his words provoked. “You are indeed correct in that belief. But as befits the vanquished, I will do whatever you wish—tomorrow. May I go now?”

She stood, chin raised, her small hands still clasped before her.

Fulk rose and bowed. “By all means, lady. Sleep well.”

No doubt she would—better than he, for his wounded arm ached from wrist to shoulder. As the women climbed the stairs to their quarters he took his seat again and turned to Malcolm.

“Vanquished? She would dagger me in a trice if she could.”

Malcolm’s sharp, almost sinister features were the picture of skepticism. He leaned in close, his voice low. “You’re right there. I would watch my back, Fulk. The lass willnae be rolling over for you any time soon.”

“An interesting choice of words, Malcolm. Aye, she must take after her father.”

“And a more cunning plotter against your precious king you’d nae have found. So I heard ere we set out—the quicker Alun FitzWalter were brought to justice the easier his Grace would breathe. ’Tis blessed we are he was taken before we arrived.” Malcolm crossed his arms and stared at the fire.

The Scot’s expression darkened, in spite of his last statement. Fulk handed him a goblet of wine. “What is it, Mac Niall?”

“Och, Fulk, ’tis the state of this keep is causing me to fret.” Malcolm took a long swallow and twirled the cup between his palms. “We will be here a right long time. And it would appear there are not enough womenfolk to go round.”

“Come now, they will be awaiting you in relays. It is the rest of us will suffer.”

“Lies, Fulk. Vicious rumors meant to sully my reputation as a man pure of both heart and mind.”

“You should not tell such falsehoods, or your fortune with the ladies might change, even as has mine.”

Malcolm sighed. “I would fain be in love with the woman I wed, and wake with her beside me, day in and day out.”

Fulk poked at a smoldering log and it rekindled with a burst of yellow flame. “Though it makes my hair stand on end, I can envision you bedded—just. But wedded? I think not.”

The Scot sighed. “What’s the difference? To give a woman my body is to give her my heart and soul as well. Do you not feel the same?”

Fulk ran his fingers through his thick hair. It was growing back fast—as if it sought again to needlessly remind him of Rabel. He replied truthfully to the Scot, “I have no answer to that, for never have I given a lady any part of myself that I did not want returned. Certainly neither my heart nor soul.”

“Ah, that much is obvious, for if you had, you’d know ’tis sheer hell, and to love is to suffer the tortures of the damned.” Malcolm stood abruptly. “Good evening, Galliard.” The Scot stalked off, muttering to himself and shaking his head.

Fulk stared after his friend. Malcolm was in a bad way. Scattered. Irritable. But surely not in love.

The hour was late, and the fire in Jehanne’s chamber had dwindled to a smoking pile of red and black coals. She shook out the gauzy linen of her shift, straightened her overgown, and finger-combed her hair one more time. She checked to make certain the dagger strapped to her calf was secure. She would not use it unless she had to.

Not unless he forced her to.

She felt like an impostor—pretending femininity. But she had made up her mind. Nothing could be worse than lying awake waiting for Fulk to burst in, punish her and take what the king said was his due. For him to overpower and ravish her would be far more humiliating, terrifying and degrading than if she went to him of her own free will.

This way, she retained her dignity. This way, it was her choice, not his.

“My lady, I beg of you, do not do this.” Lioba, ever proud and protective, put a hand to Jehanne’s shoulder. “We shall watch over you, this and every night. He will not come nigh without having to deal with us.”

Elly and Beatrix murmured their agreement. They had already pushed their clothes chests near the door, in order to barricade it quickly.

Jehanne clasped Lioba’s fingers. “You are brave, and I appreciate the protection each of you offers. But think upon it. This Galliard comes at the king’s behest. He and the Earl of Lexingford plotted together and falsely accused my lord father of treason. We cannot stop Fulk’s possession of Windermere. Nor can I stop him from possessing me.”

She paused and stared into the red heart of the fire. The decision she had made had been the most difficult of her life.

“The earl’s letter was quite plainspoken. It is best for the villagers that I surrender gracefully, as honor demands. But should this knight reveal himself as wholly a beast, I shall defend myself, for honor will then be forfeit.”

“Let us accompany you to his door, at least. We will sit without the solar and be ready should you call for aid.”

Jehanne could not help a small smile. “Very well. But it may be he who cries for mercy, should he provoke me.”

Her words were bold, but her stomach churned as she approached Fulk’s chamber. Partly because she had taken some food at last—and it did not sit well—and partly because deep inside, a tiny piece of her took interest in Fulk de Galliard. Came alive at the thought of him. And not in a way suitable to any respectable maiden.

Jehanne stopped before the entry of the solar that had been her father’s private chamber. She took a deep breath and raised her hand to knock. The door flew open, and the Scot blocked her way.

Quick blue eyes, hair the color of a blood-bay horse, and a moustache of which any Saxon would have been proud. All in all, his face was a not unpleasing juxtaposition of lean planes and angles.

“Mademoiselle?” His French had a thick Gaelic overlay.

“I would see Sir Fulk.”

“Would you, now? What say you, Fulk? Dare we risk admitting the lady?”

Jehanne heard a thud and a curse. Rubbing his head, Galliard loomed behind the Scotsman. He must have caught the low beam.

“Malcolm, kindly stand aside and let her in.”

“I cannae do that, not ’til I’ve checked her person for weapons.” The Scot’s eyes raked her up and down.

“Malcolm…I thank you for your concern. But I will not subject Lady Jehanne to such discourtesy in her own father’s solar.”

Jehanne gripped her skirts tighter. Fulk had no way of knowing what discourtesies she had already suffered here. Even now it was not easy for her to cross the threshold, but she challenged Malcolm with her gaze. He narrowed his eyes, then the barest hint of humor glinted in their depths, and he allowed her to slip past.

She stood as she had countless times before, in the center of the room, facing yet another man who could break her as he willed—or make the attempt. With the sole of her bare foot she found the familiar, sharp edge of an uneven floorboard she had used over the years to keep her fear at bay.

To her surprise, Fulk bowed. “How may we serve you, Mademoiselle?”

There it was again, that way Fulk had of turning his voice into a caress, of putting her at ease when she needed to remain vigilant.

“I would speak with you alone, my lord.” She curtsied to Malcolm by way of dismissing him.

Fulk’s glance cut to the Scot. A whoosh of air billowed Jehanne’s skirts as Malcolm closed the door, silent on its greased hinges. Galliard had jumped out of bed to greet her, it appeared, for he was but half clad, in a white linen tunic and footless chausses. The clinging gray wool that encased his long legs showed every ripple of muscle with shameless clarity.

He did not apologize, however. Instead, he stared at her as though she were a vision he had dreamed into reality—of what, she could not fathom. After a moment, and a swallow or two, he found his voice.

“Please, be seated, my lady.”

He offered her the most comfortable spot—the bed. Jehanne was not about to refuse, out of either propriety or fear. Her feet barely touched the floor as she sat on the edge of the mattress, still warm from Fulk’s body.

Slowly he approached, his languid eyes focused upon her breasts. A burst of panic seared her throat. He was not going to wait. He was going to take her…now.

It was entirely possible he might kill her, albeit perhaps unintentionally. He had to be at least four cubits tall. He must weigh more than sixteen stone. The very breath would be squeezed from her body, he would tear her in two—Jehanne clutched the bedclothes and with an effort stopped herself from uttering a small moan.

He was almost upon her. What had the wretch found to smile about? Did he enjoy terrifying women? She would wager his past conquests had been but games, played with willing partners. This was life and death, to her, at least.

Mere inches away, Fulk leaned toward her. A pulse throbbed in his neck. A beast, ready to pounce.

Jehanne held herself rigid. Disjointed thoughts raced through her mind. Why must he smell so good? Like cedar, or sandalwood, or—oh, God, she did not want to be hurt. She would have to raise her skirts to pull the dagger.

Even as she debated whether to grab for it, Fulk rested one hand on the bed, and reached behind her, feeling for something tangled in the sheets.

“Pardon me, I had best cover myself.” He brought forth a garment of some sort and stepped back.

Jehanne trembled in her relief, angry with herself for giving way to fear so easily.

The robe he shook out was an amazing creation, ermine-lined, of deep red-and-purple-hued silk, thickly embroidered in loops and whorls of fantastic intricacy. As Fulk shrugged into it, wrapping himself in its voluminous folds, he paused at her frank stare. “Does it not please you?”

“Well, I—”

“Plunder, my lady. One cannot always pick and choose. Or can it be that you do admire it?”

He had the audacity to strike a pose, like a statue of some ancient king. Or warlock.

“Oh.” She gulped. “It dazzles the eye. Surely it belonged to a great lord in some faraway land?”

“Aye. But it no longer fit him.”

His tone made her wonder if the previous owner had lost some of his bulk in an unpleasant manner.

Fulk dragged a stool close and folded his legs in an attempt to sit, but gave up and chose a large, flat-topped chest instead. It put more distance between them, which suited Jehanne far better.

“Would you like some wine?” He dangled the flagon.

“Nay. I had best come to the point, Lord—er, what shall I call you? You are in truth a viscount, so I’ve heard?”

Fulk looked down at his hands, then met her eyes. “In France, perhaps, had my father not—well, that is another matter. Suffice it to say His Grace Henry has deprived me of any title I may once have expected here in England. But do not call me ‘lord’. It makes me feel that I must refer to myself in the plural.” He gave her a devastating, self-deprecating grin.

“I see.” Jehanne cleared her throat and sat up straighter.

God’s teeth and gums. As if his body and voice and eyes were not enough—but she would not let him sway her from her purpose.

If it were possible to die of shame, she would have done so gladly, rather than say what she had to say next. She stood, praying she could bear his lustful attentions without showing fear. “I am here, Sir Fulk, to offer…to offer myself—I am aware of what is expected of me, as the…the spoils of war, as it were.”

To her astonishment, Fulk blushed. Right up to the roots of his black hair. He bounced up from his seat and turned his back to her.

“Watch the beam!” Her warning popped out before she could consider not giving it.

“The devil’s own!” Fulk pressed his palm to his head again, this time to the opposite side, and glared at the offending timber. “Who built this place? Dwarves?” He slammed the flagon of wine down and the liquid sloshed onto the table.

Jehanne tried not to laugh. Bruised and bloodied, Fulk himself was the only casualty of violence so far in the taking of Windermere. He quickly regained his composure, however, and to her dismay, came to sit beside her on the bed.

His was a warm, vibrant presence. Discreetly she edged away from him.

Twisting at the waist, Fulk leaned back against the bedpost. Jehanne longed to run from his penetrating scrutiny, so much so that she barely heeded him.

“Be assured, Lady Jehanne, that you are a—a most tempting prize—were the situation different. I will not lie to you. I have been ordered to beget an heir for Windermere. On you. And the very fact that it is the Earl Grimald’s desire makes it an impossibility for me to carry out such an act. It would make me feel like an animal. I could not subject you to the role, even were you willing. And that I do not believe for an instant.”

Jehanne repeated Fulk’s words to herself, to make certain she had heard correctly. He could not beget an heir on her because it would make him feel like an animal. She acknowledged his stammering attempt not to offend her. She understood. Here, indeed, he had just cause for reluctance. Her scars made her ugly, and there was no way around it.

Fulk rubbed his knees as if they were sore. Watching him, Jehanne frowned. She found she could not help admiring the shape of his powerful, tight-knit hands, and their surprising cleanliness. She pushed away the thought of the strength she had already felt in his long fingers and dragged her attention back to the conversation.

“Duty is not meant to be pleasant,” she said.

His hands stilled. “Do you mean to say you want me to…?”

At the distressed look on his face Jehanne was unaccountably amused. So, perhaps she frightened him, too. Good. She bit her lip but a nervous laugh emerged despite her best effort.

“What? Do you now mock me, lady?”

As his color rose again, so did her mirth, born more from feeling overwhelmed than any humor in the situation. “Of course not. Forgive me, sir, but—”

“I did not come to this Godforsaken place to be made an object of hilarity. Kindly take your leave. I shall summon you when next I wish your presence.”

At his icy tone Jehanne sobered. “Very well. But do not count upon my attendance. This is the last time you will have the opportunity I have just offered.”

“What you deem as noble sacrifice, I deem as cold-blooded manipulation. Leave me, mademoiselle.” Fulk stood.

Jehanne stared up at him, her remaining composure ready to snap, her pride in tatters. “I cannot, sir.”

“Why?” He crossed his arms, deepening the dark V of his chest where the tunic gaped open. In his royal-hued robe, he resembled nothing so much as a displeased potentate from Byzantium—or so she imagined, never having seen one.

She drew a deep breath. “The…the terms of conquest were made clear to me before your arrival. They are part of why my resistance lasted so long. But my duty is to my people. I capitulate for their sake. They have suffered enough. If I do not meet the earl’s demands, he will punish me in some other, even more horrible manner—nay, sir, I did not mean that the way it sounded—”

Jehanne waited for Fulk’s color to return to normal. When her own heart had slowed, she too got to her feet, crunching the rushes and sweetgrass beneath them.

“Grimald wants me thoroughly humiliated. That is why I come to you. To salvage something of my self-respect before the inevitable happens, and at the same time protect my people from future insult.”

“The ‘inevitable’?” Fulk’s luminous eyes appeared wounded. “Lady Jehanne, whatever you may think of me, I am not a rapist.”

“It would not be rape.”

“Would it not?”

“Nay…I—it is how these things are honorably accomplished when in a situation such as mine.” Jehanne wound a strand of her hair about one finger. She had not sounded very convincing, but meeting the demands of honor did not make the prospect of being the object of a man’s lust any less dreadful.

“A situation such as ours, milady. In a way I am a prisoner here as much as you. But, for a woman to submit out of fear, even if not on her own behalf, is a sin. And for me…to take you…take you to wife, with the slightest misgiving on your part—or mine, for that matter—is just as wrong, methinks.”

Jehanne was dumbfounded to hear such a revolutionary attitude. And from a man, no less. If in fact he meant what he said. “What will you do to satisfy the earl, then?”

“I know not. But he holds my sister’s life hostage. Among other things.” Fulk swept up the wine flagon and drank straight from its mouth.

“Hostage?” The possibility of such goings-on between her enemies had never crossed Jehanne’s mind. He must be lying, to gain her sympathy. But the pain she had glimpsed in his eyes looked real enough.

“Grimald holds her well-being as a club to my head.”

“Then what shall we do?”

“What do you want to do?” Fulk wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at her squarely.

Jehanne’s mind raced with possibilities. To beat him in a fair fight and regain her honor. To watch his back as he rode away in defeat from her lands. Her gaze strayed to Fulk’s sword, lying within easy reach, then back to the man, awaiting her reply.

He had the upper hand, his men were fit and well-fed. It would not be easy getting rid of him. She sighed.

“My people will be afraid if they see an ongoing quarrel between us. They fear a reprisal, should the earl suspect we are not loyal vassals. Windermere’s immediate safety lies in your strength, and my cooperation. Your men-at-arms are all that stand between us and any marauder. At this crossroads, alone, I am easily conquered.”

“Not so easily.” Fulk cradled his bandaged arm.

“I am sorry for that.” I am sorry I missed a more vital spot, Sir Fulk. Nay, that was not true. It should have been, but it was not.

“I am grateful you did not pierce my heart.” He gazed at her, not a trace of guile showing.

Jehanne felt her own cheeks bloom, but could not look away. “We must put up a pretense of mutual affection, or at least of tolerance.” She examined her nails, bitten to the quick.

Fulk tipped his head to one side. “How grand a pretense would you like to attempt?”

At the low, sensual timbre of his voice, the bottom dropped out of her stomach. “As much as I can bear.”

“I can be very convincing.”

Fulk’s growing smile was dangerous. Captivating. Much too appealing. Jehanne swallowed hard. An unfamiliar quiver in her belly told her it would not take a great deal of effort on his part to make a pretense wholly unnecessary.

She must keep her heart steeled against him. It was merely lust she felt, nothing more. “No doubt. Just remember, the appearance of amity is for the public’s benefit only.”

“Aye. In six months’ time we’ll tie a pillow round your middle. And in nine months we will come up with a foundling—our heir—is that the plan?” His grin became positively roguish.

“It is not! Who is to say you would be so potent—or I so fertile, or the imaginary babe so healthy?”

How had he turned the conversation into such a ridiculous fantasy? Fulk’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Ah, but were the child to die, I would be prostrated by grief, and would have to go on a pilgrimage to cleanse my soul.”

“What if the mother died? Would that not solve all your problems? You’d be able to take a bride of your own choosing.” Jehanne glared at Fulk, until the growing look of strain on his face caused her to soften her gaze. Her own mother had died giving her life. It would not be surprising to learn Fulk had killed his, too, simply by virtue of his size.

He began pacing before her, this time ducking the beam at each end of his circuit as if he had grown up with it. “That is a wicked thing to suggest, lady.”

He raked his hand through his loose black curls. “Besides, the father’s death would be just as convenient, for you.” He shot her a piercing look. “Windermere is a vast and beautiful fief, is it not?”

Jehanne blinked at the abrupt change of subject. “It is large, and was once a rich, productive place.”

“One the earl might covet for his own?”

Where was he going with his questions? “Certainly.”

“How did your father become Grimald’s enemy?”

“My father has ever been true—faithful to both the earl and our lord king.”

“You cannot expect me to believe that. Why then was I sent to confiscate this place? I was shown the king’s seal upon the matter—” Fulk stopped in his tracks. He rubbed his brow and she followed his look toward the shield hung over the bed, blazoned with the FitzWalter arms.

A pair of lions, back to back. Fitting symbols for a family who would fight to the death.

“My lady, go, rest you this night, and on the morrow let us speak again.”

Jehanne straightened her shoulders. “I do not wish to further discuss the plots and intrigues that have ensnared my family. You are here simply because I refused the earl and his henchmen, thus he has used other means to force our cooperation. The effect on me is the same, for I have no doubt you will go to great lengths to protect your sister. But since you appear to be a pawn just as am I, I intend to do something about this injustice.”

Fulk questioned her with an arched brow.

“I shall petition the king. In person. And you shall be forever removed from the chessboard.” Jehanne strode to the door, fully expecting Fulk to stop her with one of his big hands on her arm.

“Perhaps you should do, lady. But give me a month, ere you set my doom into motion.”

“Why should I grant you any grace period?”

“Because you have not a chance in hell of changing the king’s mind. And because I spared you.”

Jehanne suddenly felt small and alone, no longer righteous. Despite what she would like to think of him, she had a feeling this opponent possessed a sense of honor. And that made it all the harder to hate him on principle, for being the one to take Windermere away from her. The question was, could he hold on to it? She might yet retake the keep, God willing.

“Agreed, Sir Fulk. We shall not act in haste. I bid you good night.”

He opened the door for her. As she passed him, heat escaped from his open robe, licking at her back. Still, Jehanne shivered. She hurried toward her own chamber. Her women were nowhere in sight, and she risked a look over her shoulder. Fulk had retreated, and Malcolm was already in place, watching her for a moment before he ducked into the solar.

Jehanne shrugged off the sense of isolation that dogged her as she walked down the echoing corridor. The Scot had apparently chased her ladies away, damn him. She paused, her hand on the door of her own chamber, reassured by the murmur of her women’s voices within.

Another thought occurred to her. If the earl did want Windermere for himself, why send a man who hated him, even under the pretext of her father’s supposed treason?

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.