Fulk The Reluctant. Elaine Knighton

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,