Fulk The Reluctant. Elaine Knighton

and arrows in hand, Jehanne bounded down the stairs. As she reached the entrance to the main ward, she shoved the arrows under her belt, then straightened her surcoat. Starved and without her mantle, she shook in the frigid air. But, taking a deep breath, she held her head high and passed through the archway.

      At least a score of heavily armed, mounted men waited in the bailey. Her heart sank. Each one of them was the equivalent of ten men afoot. Snowflakes drifted onto the horses’ wide rumps, and the breath and steam of the animals clouded the air. Once, she would have hurried to put her hand to the biggest stallion’s silken, black coat.

      But she was no longer a child.

      And it was Fulk the Reluctant who sat the great-horse. His lance protruded before him, and hanging from its tip was the squirming figure of Thaddeus. Fulk had caught the back of the young fool’s belt, and his lance shaft bowed and creaked ominously with the weight.

      Fulk’s shield bore her arrow. Silently, Jehanne cursed her aim, or his quick defense. She knew not which to blame for her failure to kill him.

      Her enemy turned his dark gaze upon her, and she shivered. She had never stood this close to him, nor felt his presence so acutely. His short, jet hair was awry as if he had just pulled back his camail, and his face…the Creature at the tourney had not exaggerated.

      Jehanne swallowed as her gaze drifted down his body. She had a weakness for clean-limbed, black horses. And if ever there were a man whose looks could compete with them, she beheld him now.

      She deepened her frown.

      Fulk dropped his lance-tip and Thaddeus tumbled to the ground. Jehanne ran to him. He jumped up and pushed her away.

      “This is all your fault! Demented, idiot girl. I hope this one makes you g-good and sorry when he uses you—”

      A mellow, lightly accented voice spoke in English. “Cease your filthy rudeness, knave. Collect your blood money and go.” Fulk tossed a plump purse to Thaddeus, who stuffed it inside his surcoat.

      Jehanne stared at her cousin. “Traitor!” She lunged after him, but he danced backward, cackling his glee.

      One of Fulk’s men slid from his horse, grabbed the now shrieking Thaddeus by the scruff of his neck, and threw him bodily out the gates. “Beetle-gnawed snake’s tongue.” The Scot straightened his plaid, a complex weave of muted blues and greens, and scowled at Thaddeus.

      The young man clambered to his feet and gestured obscenely as Jehanne nocked an arrow and aimed at him. Before she could release it a big hand caught hers, and leather-clad fingers wrapped around both the bow grip and her white knuckles.

      Ignoring her cry of protest, Fulk took the weapon and snapped it like kindling over his knee. Jehanne stared in disbelief at the ruins of her bow, then at the man who had destroyed it. She had never heard of anyone breaking a bow with his bare hands. And for him to shatter the elegant, powerful weapon she had shaped and polished herself was like having a piece of her heart torn out.

      “That was mine,” she whispered.

      “It is over, Lady Jehanne. I would speak with you now.”

      Fulk’s words were mild but his voice was low and tight. Slowly, she met his eyes. The warm, lustrous color of Norsemen’s dark amber, she found them unexpectedly beautiful. His restraint was more difficult to bear than if he had twisted her arm or beaten her.

      A momentary weakness rippled through Jehanne, a temptation to compromise. Her limbs were heavy with fatigue, her stomach knotted with hunger.

      Nay. She would not be defeated. Not by treachery, not by force, and not by Fulk de Galliard. Rage at her conqueror and disappointment with herself surged in her gut. She slapped the hilt of her sword.

      “I will not stand by and allow you to simply walk in and take my keep unchallenged. I demand a single combat between us, sir. To the death if it so pleases you.”

      Scattered laughter rumbled from the warriors. Fulk’s eyes widened. A crease formed on his forehead. “You wish to do battle with me, hand to hand?”

      “Aye.” Jehanne squared her shoulders.

      “Do you want to die so young?”

      “If honor requires it.”

      Fulk’s eyes seemed to glow from within, but his voice remained soft. “You will have to await some other form of death, my lady. I refuse to accept such a challenge.”

      “Why? Because I am not a man?”

      “Aye, and you are unwell at that. It is an absurd notion.”

      Jehanne clenched her hands in a futile attempt to contain her temper. His gentle tone implied he thought her feeble—of mind as well as body, no doubt.

      The bite of her nails into her palms only prodded her anger. All her pain rushed back. The sickness, the death, the starvation…the betrayal. “You do me no honor, sir.” Her voice broke. She lashed out at Fulk with feet and fists and teeth.

      His men guffawed, fueling her assault. Fulk himself was impervious. Her blows had no effect. Even had they the force of a man’s strength, he was too heavily padded and too well muscled for them to do him damage. He caught her wrists in an inescapable grip.

      “I said ‘speak’, not brawl, Lady Jehanne. I know your father is dead, that you grieve for him still. Young Thaddeus told us of the fever. You are without resources, without friends. You are alone, but for me. Do not abuse my patience.”

      Fulk released her, and she stood stiffly. At least she had not disgraced herself by weeping. But by speaking the truth so baldly, he had knocked a hole in her resolve. She raised her head. “I need no one besides myself. Why can you not leave me in peace?”

      “The Earl of Lexingford says it is our lord king’s will. You had best abide by it. To disobey me is to disobey him. And while I am a forgiving sort, he is not.”

      Fulk was right about that, too, God rot him. Once the king held her in disfavor, no one would dare help. Jehanne looked up at Fulk again, her vision blurred by despair. She had never seen anyone so tall and imposing. Despite the tales of his refusals to fight, he did not look the least bit reluctant.

      He maintained a neutral expression, but faint lines, perhaps born of mirth, showed around his generous mouth. She met his gaze again, and for an instant found sympathy where she had least expected it. Jehanne sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. Then she hiccoughed. Loudly.

      Fulk flashed a grin, involuntarily, it seemed. She had to admit he was a well-favored beast. Spectacularly handsome, in fact. But she had rejected many a good-looking man. A fair face never changed a man’s essential volatility, nor his lust, nor his greed.

      Beyond that, however, and much more disturbing, Fulk had a compelling air of warmth. Most peculiar in her experience. Being near him gave her the oddest impression.

      She sensed he was indeed a dangerous man, no matter how soft-spoken, but along with that came the unwelcome feeling that if she were in his good graces, nothing could ever go wrong again. And if it did, it would not matter….

      Jehanne gave herself a shake. The greater danger lay with Fulk’s charm. Or perhaps he had some sorcery at his command. From what she had heard at the tourney, he had beguiled a dozen women, perhaps a score of women, or even more for all she knew. He was here to use and betray her.

      She was grateful for his smile. He did not take her seriously, his guard would be lax. And he could do nothing to embarrass her further than she had already done herself. He would not try to comfort her, nor offer his pity.

      Jehanne did not want sympathy. She wanted Windermere free and safe, wanted Fulk the Reluctant to turn around and ride back to the earl’s kennels or wherever it was he had come from.

      But he was not about to depart. He kept his gaze on her, and she looked from his eyes to his broad shoulders, draped with a thick mantle of green wool. From his belted waist hung a hand-and-a-half sword, and his sturdy legs