Fulk The Reluctant. Elaine Knighton

as he had done at the tournament so long ago.

      “Gracious lady, it pleases me more than I can say to see you so lovely, hale and accompanied by such beautiful chaperones.” Speaking in the variety of Norman French used at Henry’s court, Fulk paused to see if this elegant address served any purpose.

      The lady of Windermere looked at her companions, then back to him. “Fulk de Galliard, you are trespassing. Get thee gone or suffer the consequences.”

      North country English, plain and to the point. Fulk turned to the Scot. “I do not think she understands my French, Malcolm. Nay, say nothing. I shall pretend my own bafflement.” He shrugged his shoulders, raised his brows, tilted his head, and turned down the corners of his mouth, all at once. The gestures and expressions in themselves were purely Gallic, but he hoped quite obvious in their meaning.

      Still using the court French, Fulk continued amiably, though on a slightly different path. “Ah, so you would seek to cast me off, without a single kind word between us. Believe me, lady, it would do my heart good to turn around here and now, and never lay eyes upon you again. But here I am come, and here I will continue, until I am done.”

      “Why do you go on so, Fulk? What is the point?” Malcolm grumbled.

      “My dear friend, this valiant, though sadly demented creature will never formally challenge me if she believes I do not understand her terms. I have no intention of leaving, nor of fighting such a tender morsel of womankind. Mark me, she will ride off soon, rather than admit she has not the faintest idea what I am saying.”

      Jehanne cleared her throat. “Consider this warning, Sir Fulk. Make any attempt to breach my walls, and you will find yourself hanging from one of them.”

      With a curt nod of her steel-encased head, she reined her horse around and cantered off with her women.

      “How unexpectedly delightful. The lady I am to wed owns a better helm than I, sports finer mail than half the knights in Lexingford, and has a burning desire that I become bird-food with which to decorate her curtain wall. Who could ask for more?”

      Malcolm grinned. “She’s a braw lass, all right. You are a lucky man, Fulk.”

      “One day I will remind you of that foolish sentiment, Mac Niall.” Wearily Fulk waved the column into motion again.

      It would be a long siege.

      Chapter Four

      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