Fulk The Reluctant. Elaine Knighton

      Nay, during the siege he had thanked God for each day that passed without the necessity of a bloody fight. And thanked Him even more that he had not been forced to do battle with his supposed future father-in-law. Now that he had met the lady, Fulk knew she would never have forgiven him Alun’s death, be the man traitor to the king or hero to the people.

      Jehanne’s contingent of gentlewomen, three in all, surrounded her like mother wolves defending their young. They would flay him alive with their stares if they could, he’d warrant.

      But they were vastly outnumbered. Malcolm sat next to him, and all the rest of his men were present, speaking quietly among themselves, though well apart from the women and the other members of the household. Fulk had ordered it so, on pain of a night in chains, should any one of them cause the ladies of Windermere a moment’s distress.

      Thus far his consideration to the resident females had met with more resentment than gratitude. The men did not chafe much at the imposed limitations, but the women seemed to take it as an insult, yet another demonstration of the power Fulk held over them.

      He cleared his throat. “Lady Jehanne,” he murmured.

      Slowly, she turned her head toward him. “My lord?”

      He might have been a toad, her tone was so dry. He gestured toward Malcolm, off to one side. “This is Sir Malcolm, known as the Fierce, son of Hunter of Clan Mac Niall. A man of both honor and rare caution.” Malcolm bowed and Fulk let her wait a moment before he continued, and took a good look at her fresh-scrubbed face.

      She looked much the same as he remembered from the Duke’s tournament. Skin like a country maid, sun-kissed and quick to blush. Grave, gray-hued eyes, startling in their depth and clarity.

      But now a narrow, ragged scar marred her beauty. It slanted and skipped from her right brow to her nose, then onto her left cheek where it faded away. A pity. She made no effort to hide it.

      He wondered how she had come by such a wound. Dueling with her suitors, perhaps? Not altogether beyond the realm of possibility. Their eyes met, and though Jehanne’s gaze was unflinching, she clasped her hands so tightly the knuckles showed white. Aye, she had changed. Still bold, but the wholly defiant manner of her exploits last summer had been replaced by wariness.

      Nor was she as young as Fulk had first assumed—in her early twenties, he guessed. She must have spurned the earl and his candidates for ages.

      Fulk smiled to himself. She had dodged marriage the way he had dodged his knighting. Well, she was welcome to her spinsterhood. He would not deprive her of it. But deal with her he must.

      “My lady, there is much to be done on the morrow. My men will aid you in the burial of your dead. I should also inspect your demesnes. Will you accompany me and show me what needs attention?”

      Her eyes widened. “My demesnes? Do you mock me, sir?”

      Fulk suppressed his impatience. She was determined to take everything he said as an offense. He could hardly blame her.

      “I would not bludgeon you with the truth. But I believe you would relish the designation ‘our’ even less, am I right?”

      Though Jehanne tossed her head, the movement could not disguise the shudder his words provoked. “You are indeed correct in that belief. But as befits the vanquished, I will do whatever you wish—tomorrow. May I go now?”

      She stood, chin raised, her small hands still clasped before her.

      Fulk rose and bowed. “By all means, lady. Sleep well.”

      No doubt she would—better than he, for his wounded arm ached from wrist to shoulder. As the women climbed the stairs to their quarters he took his seat again and turned to Malcolm.

      “Vanquished? She would dagger me in a trice if she could.”

      Malcolm’s sharp, almost sinister features were the picture of skepticism. He leaned in close, his voice low. “You’re right there. I would watch my back, Fulk. The lass willnae be rolling over for you any time soon.”

      “An interesting choice of words, Malcolm. Aye, she must take after her father.”

      “And a more cunning plotter against your precious king you’d nae have found. So I heard ere we set out—the quicker Alun FitzWalter were brought to justice the easier his Grace would breathe. ’Tis blessed we are he was taken before we arrived.” Malcolm crossed his arms and stared at the fire.

      The Scot’s expression darkened, in spite of his last statement. Fulk handed him a goblet of wine. “What is it, Mac Niall?”

      “Och, Fulk, ’tis the state of this keep is causing me to fret.” Malcolm took a long swallow and twirled the cup between his palms. “We will be here a right long time. And it would appear there are not enough womenfolk to go round.”

      “Come now, they will be awaiting you in relays. It is the rest of us will suffer.”

      “Lies, Fulk. Vicious rumors meant to sully my reputation as a man pure of both heart and mind.”

      “You should not tell such falsehoods, or your fortune with the ladies might change, even as has mine.”

      Malcolm sighed. “I would fain be in love with the woman I wed, and wake with her beside me, day in and day out.”

      Fulk poked at a smoldering log and it rekindled with a burst of yellow flame. “Though it makes my hair stand on end, I can envision you bedded—just. But wedded? I think not.”

      The Scot sighed. “What’s the difference? To give a woman my body is to give her my heart and soul as well. Do you not feel the same?”

      Fulk ran his fingers through his thick hair. It was growing back fast—as if it sought again to needlessly remind him of Rabel. He replied truthfully to the Scot, “I have no answer to that, for never have I given a lady any part of myself that I did not want returned. Certainly neither my heart nor soul.”

      “Ah, that much is obvious, for if you had, you’d know ’tis sheer hell, and to love is to suffer the tortures of the damned.” Malcolm stood abruptly. “Good evening, Galliard.” The Scot stalked off, muttering to himself and shaking his head.

      Fulk stared after his friend. Malcolm was in a bad way. Scattered. Irritable. But surely not in love.

      The hour was late, and the fire in Jehanne’s chamber had dwindled to a smoking pile of red and black coals. She shook out the gauzy linen of her shift, straightened her overgown, and finger-combed her hair one more time. She checked to make certain the dagger strapped to her calf was secure. She would not use it unless she had to.

      Not unless he forced her to.

      She felt like an impostor—pretending femininity. But she had made up her mind. Nothing could be worse than lying awake waiting for Fulk to burst in, punish her and take what the king said was his due. For him to overpower and ravish her would be far more humiliating, terrifying and degrading than if she went to him of her own free will.

      This way, she retained her dignity. This way, it was her choice, not his.

      “My lady, I beg of you, do not do this.” Lioba, ever proud and protective, put a hand to Jehanne’s shoulder. “We shall watch over you, this and every night. He will not come nigh without having to deal with us.”

      Elly and Beatrix murmured their agreement. They had already pushed their clothes chests near the door, in order to barricade it quickly.

      Jehanne clasped Lioba’s fingers. “You are brave, and I appreciate the protection each of you offers. But think upon it. This Galliard comes at the king’s behest. He and the Earl of Lexingford plotted together and falsely accused my lord father of treason. We cannot stop Fulk’s possession of Windermere. Nor can I stop him from possessing me.”

      She paused and stared into the red heart of the fire. The decision she had made had been the most difficult of her life.

      “The