Читать книгу Fulk The Reluctant - Elaine Knighton - Страница 14

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.