Читать книгу Fulk The Reluctant - Elaine Knighton - Страница 8

A tournament in France, 1230

Fulk de Galliard, the undisputed champion of that day’s mêlée, lay facedown in the dust and wept like a child. Beside him sprawled his elder brother, his eyes still open to the hot sky. Proud, bold Rabel—witty and sarcastic and now utterly dead.

It had not been one of their usual arguments, for Fulk had thrown the first blow. A single, fatal blow.

Fulk raised his head and met his lord father’s terrible, wounded eyes. He held up his bloodied right fist. “Cut it off,” he begged.

The count shook his head slowly. “I will do nothing for you. You are an abomination…you are my son no longer.”

Fulk sat up, wrenched his dagger free and sawed the blade against his wrist. If his father would not rid him of the offending hand, he would do it himself.

“Stop!” The count kicked the bloody weapon from Fulk’s grasp. “I leave you to the mercy of Rabel’s comrades.”

As Rabel’s body was carried from the practice grounds, the grim knights surrounded Fulk. He took a deep breath, but made no effort to defend himself. They laid into him with their fists and the flats of their swords. Fulk never uttered a sound. He took the beating as though he were made of stone.

But before the blackness took him, he had one last coherent thought. I hope they’ve killed me.

He eased his eyes open. It was dark. Freezing. Then he remembered. Rabel is dead. And if the pain and misery and cold were any indication, Fulk was not.

A pity. Rain spattered against his face. From the smell, he knew he lay in a mixture of mud, blood and horse dung. And would no doubt remain there, for the slightest attempt to move produced screams of protest from his limbs.

A squelching noise grew louder, accompanied by the sputtering of torches. Ah. They had come to finish him off. A good thing, and high time. He relaxed into the muck.

“Fulk…dearling, mon pauvre ami! What have they done to you?”

Fulk suppressed a groan and shut his eyes against this fresh humiliation. The beautiful Lady Greyhaven, his friend and advisor, arrived to rescue him. God bless her. And curse her.

She barked orders. “Come, get him onto the litter! Gently, gently now!”

Silk whispered across his brow, and the scents of violet, lavender, rose and musk came to him. Fulk reopened his eyes. The hands that lifted him were many, but did not belong to men-servants.

Women. Fully a dozen of them. Dazzling gifts from God and yet the bane of his life. And all gazed at him with loving adoration.

“We know it was an accident, Fulk, everyone—”

“Shh! He needs a bed, bath and bandages, not talk!”

“God, he weighs as much as a horse!”

“Aye, you would know, Clothilde!”

“Ah, Fulk, with the good Lord’s grace you will be well in no time….”

“Stop thinking of yourself, Pierrette, for I am certain that is your main worry—”

Fulk could bear it no longer. “For the love of God—my dear ladies—spare me your concern.”

“Fulk, be quiet.” Lady Greyhaven briskly bound his wrist with a cloth, laid his hand over his chest and covered him with a heavy blanket. “Allez! To the chateau!”

She is a commander worthy of any fighting force, Fulk thought fuzzily. Why did she have to come? The merciful thing would be to simply let him die. But he was too weak to do anything but submit, as blessed oblivion reclaimed him.