“How dare you force me abed? Get out!”

“Nay, lady. We both shall stay, and you will obey. The quicker you cooperate, the sooner you may leave.”

“Fool! You know not what you are up against. You will never break me. No man has.” Jehanne bit her lip at her own outburst. No man had broken her, but never had she spoken thus to one and not regretted it.

As he sat next to her, Fulk radiated heat and strength. Yet there was something more, she felt safe in his proximity. What an absurd idea.

Fulk leaned on one palm, his gaze boring into her. The firelight bounced blue sparks off his hair, and he seemed to fill her whole field of vision. “I have no wish to break you,” he purred, a whisper of steel in his voice. “But bend you I will, and if it takes till summer, so be it.”

Praise for Elaine Knighton’s debut

Beauchamp Besieged

“Sensational plot turns…gritty but vivid picture Knighton paints of medieval times.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Rich details create a strong sense of place in this debut.”

—Romantic Times

“Raymond de Beauchamp is the sort of hero not easily forgotten. He is tortured, brooding and a slave to his passions.”

—The Romance Reader’s Connection

“A definite must-read for those who enjoy a good medieval tale.”

—Romance Reviews Today

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Fulk the Reluctant
Elaine Knighton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my mom and dad,

who have always been there for me, no matter what….

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Prologue

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.

Chapter One

England, 1237

“With all due respect—a pox upon thee, milady!” The young man’s voice cracked with indignation.

Fulk de Galliard wiped his sweaty forehead in the crook of his arm and glanced up from examining his charger’s legs. Bryce, squire to the Duke of Warrick, was not normally given to cursing women. But then again, women were not usually found in the combatants’ waiting area, especially at such a throat-parching tournament as this.

The apparent object of the lad’s ire stood out of sight, on the off-side of the great-horse he attended. All Fulk could see was a pair of small, well-shod feet, their soft leather boots wrinkling at the ankles—with bronze spurs strapped thereon.

In a grim tone “milady” responded, “Squire, you made a promise, and now it must be kept. Else look well to your own arse, for I will not be denied.” The small feet broadened their stance.

After a moment’s hesitation, Bryce gave a resigned sigh and held out the charger’s reins.

A gloved hand took them. “Many thanks, sir. I will care for him well. Rest easy, the duke will forgive us.”

“You, perhaps, but not me.” The squire sounded close to despair.

The young woman stepped into view. Garbed in a dusty crimson overgown, her skirts hiked into her belt, she led the restless white stallion away. Her thick plait of hip-length, sun-bleached hair swung to and fro as she walked, and with each confident stride, steely gleams escaped from beneath the uplifted folds of her kirtle.

She wears a mail shift? Fulk stared and wondered what to make of such a beguiling spectacle.

“Oh, Lord! I am dead!” Bryce groaned as girl and beast disappeared into the noisy confusion of the tournament grounds. “She has as good as stolen the duke’s finest tourney horse. Why do I allow her to do this to me?”

“Why, indeed?” Fulk released his own mount’s near front hoof, satisfied that none of the nails on the cleated shoe were loose. “Take the animal back. She is but a lass, after all.”

The squire shook his head. “Sir, she has a veritable armory under her gown, for that, sir, was the Iron Maiden of Windermere.”

“Ah.” Fulk had heard of this golden-haired virago, who fought like a man and rode the hills heading a pack of armed young women. He did not approve of such goings-on. It was bad enough that men had to shed blood in the pointless and ignoble causes of their lords.

Women should have the good sense not to follow suit, but here was an obvious exception. “What is her intent?”

Bryce put a hand to his brow. “She means to fight in the mêlée, on my lord’s charger.”

“It is obvious the lady is deranged. If she is not slain, the horse might be.”

“Aye, she must be stopped. She is a menace to all good men.”

Fulk could not help but smile. He had never yet met a woman who was not, in one way or another.

The squire brightened. “If anyone can do it, ’tis you, Fulk de Galliard. I shall recommend you to my lord duke as soon as I recover from the beating with which he shall no doubt honor me.”

“Leave me out of it. If I do well today, this will be my final tourney, for I’ll have my sister’s dowry in hand at last.”

And high time, for Celine, fully ten and seven, was as comely and graceful a maid as ever lived. Once Fulk saw to her marriage he would be free of these endless, exhausting feats of arms.

“Ah, the Lady Celine.” The squire’s expression grew dreamy.

Fulk narrowed his eyes at Bryce. “My young friend, do not form a single carnal thought with her name upon your lips.”

“Em, nay, I would not dare.” The young man pointed at a sudden commotion. “Oh, the saints have smiled upon me after all.”

He dashed off in the direction of the thoroughfare, where the duke’s stallion trotted loose, creating havoc among the ale and pasty vendors, scattering musicians and jugglers. The charger allowed the squire to catch him, and as if to hide, jammed his great head under his captor’s armpit.

The horse thief too had been caught. A defiant, unapologetic thief, if her expression and demeanor were to be believed. A tall, daunting knight propelled her from behind. One of his huge, gauntleted hands clamped the back of her slender neck. Only a father could maintain a look of such fury while handling a maid as fair as she, Fulk thought. But what manner of daughter behaved thus? He decided it was unkind to watch her humiliation, though by all appearances she was not perturbed. She held her head high, wincing now and again. Fulk knew exactly what such a neck-grip felt like, and had to admire the girl’s fortitude, despite the sad evidence of her addlepatedness.

“It would seem the lady has surrendered to her parent.”

“She drives Sir Alun mad, she does.”

“So I gather.” Fulk paused, not quite ready to turn back to his horse, after all. The maiden’s thick, padded underjacket did not completely hide her subtle curves, and the lithe grace of her walk was all the more apparent for the lack of skirts.

Women. He never tired of looking at them. This one was certainly an eyeful, and probably more than a handful.

Or two, he amended, as she straightened her shoulders.

At this sign of resistance her lord father shoved her forward, and she stumbled. Fulk’s chest tightened. No matter the provocation, a man of worth did not treat a woman thus, be she sane or otherwise. He had certainly never found it necessary. But he could not upbraid the girl’s own sire, Sir Alun, Baron of Windermere.

“Beware that one, Galliard,” Bryce cautioned. “The Iron Maiden is an angel on the outside, and hellfire within. She might even try your sweet temper. Of course, chances are the lady will never be breached, so ’tis moot.”

Fulk shot the young man a quelling look. Sweet temper, indeed. If he only knew the effort it took to make it appear thus. But the lad needed a lesson in manners.

“I might suggest, Bryce, that you do not gossip about women. Especially ladies who have favored you with an intimate experience, but also those who have not. That would no doubt include all in attendance here, as well as the rest of Christendom and beyond.”

The knights and other squires within earshot chuckled.

Bryce’s grin faltered and he turned away in silence.

“Best not to cross tongues with Fulk de Galliard, he’s quicker’n the likes of you.”

Fulk looked up and nodded to his friend, Malcolm Mac Niall, a man alongside whom he had faced death more times than he cared to recall. Dark and hard as weathered oak, the Scot sauntered over and made a seat of an upturned bucket.

Fulk regretted his cutting words. He had long suffered the cruel wit of his brother Rabel, who had taken his example from their father, God rest them both. As ever, at the thought of them, Fulk’s heart took an instant leap of grief and fury.

As ever, he soothed his pain with images of beauty. Rose petals on clean linen. Soft, white skin flushing pink beneath his hands. Shy smiles and ever-willing arms—and legs—opening to him. And now a new vision, of a fair, fiery lass with tangled, dark-gold tresses…

Fulk shook his head. The mêlée loomed ahead, and every detail of his equipment must be in order. He could not allow himself to be distracted by such an unlikely tidbit. Satisfied his stallion’s legs were cool and tight, his bridle leathers uncracked, and every buckle snugged to perfection, Fulk’s glance strayed to the contingent of Earl Grimald of Lexingford, his deadliest opponent in the upcoming fray.

“A plague on them and those tubs of lard they call horses,” Malcolm growled, his big hands engulfing a pitcher of ale.

“Aye. Grimald’s beasts eat better than we do.” Fulk frowned. The earl and his pack were of grave concern.

Malcolm took a swig of the brew and smoothed his moustache with precise fingers. “There’s the man to watch.”

A big knight, known as Hengist the Hurler, busied himself with the girth on the earl’s saddle. Hengist had a penchant not only for knocking heads, but for tossing them out of their owners’ reach.

The blond knight looked up, and seeing Fulk’s gaze upon him, straightened abruptly. Something glinted in his hand, then vanished into the folds of his tunic. Hengist stared at Fulk, hot menace slowly congealing in his ice-blue eyes.

Stifling an ugly urge to free the Hurler from his no doubt unsatisfactory existence, Fulk grinned and winked. The knight turned red and looked about to advance, but Fulk led his own horse away at a leisurely pace. There was no need to start the fight any earlier than required.

In the raised pavilion with the other young ladies, Jehanne of Windermere tipped her head and squinted against the glare of sun on steel, the better to view the dozens of knights and great-horses parading past.

Bright pennants and banners hung as limp as her own spirits in the still summer air. The grass of the tourney grounds had turned to yellow stubble, the noise and heat were stifling, and dust prevented her from clearly seeing any subtleties of technique the combatants used in the contests.

Not that such things mattered anymore. Hot anguish and bitter shame seethed within her. She had been so close to joining in the mêlée. Her father had dragged her off. But even that was not the worst of it. If not for him, today she would have fought her enemy—her suitor—the Earl Grimald. Aye, she might have slain him—or wounded him so he would have no need of a bride. Even if she had died instead, it would have been an honorable death, with sword in hand.

Forever free.

Jehanne squeezed wads of her fine linen gown in her fists and bit her lip. Lioba, the eldest of her handmaidens, sat beside her, frowning in concern.

“What’s wrong with you, milady?” One violently red-hued curl escaped Lioba’s coif as she leaned closer.

Jehanne released the crumpled fabric from her damp hands. “I am hot. You’ve tightened the side lacings of this infernal gown so I can scarcely breathe.”

“Aye, you cannot run far when you cannot draw air into your lungs. There are other ways to best the Earl Grimald, Jehanne, besides meeting him in combat. Even in marriage, there are ways.”

Jehanne stopped the protest that sprang to her lips. Lioba was good at reading her mind, but even she did not fully understand. She did not want to merely best the Earl Grimald. She wanted him gone from her sight, her mind, her life. But he had spun his web, tight and fine. She was trapped. And the last honorable means of escape had been denied her this day.

A soft peal of laughter emerged from a fashionable damsel seated beside her. Aye, why not this vapid maiden? The girl, jesting with one of her ladies, seemed quite an impossible creature. Such creamy skin, with suspiciously convenient touches of rose at cheeks and lips. Her hair gleamed in rivers of flaxen silk. Demure and graceful, she dimpled whenever a passing man of prowess acknowledged her.

What a lot of wasteful effort, just to be a proper lady.

The beautiful creature noticed Jehanne’s scrutiny, and a wrinkle formed between her thin, pale brows. Jehanne returned the Creature’s cold look with a polite smile. “Have you a favorite for the mêlée?”

“I do.” She leaned forward, all coyness gone as she looked.

Jehanne followed her gaze, until it collided with one of the combatants, coming their way on a snorting, blood-bay horse. The man’s surcoat was a plain blue, his outdated, flat-topped helm was unadorned, and his shield bore innumerable scars.

The modesty of the rider’s accoutrements served only to emphasize the grandeur of his stallion. The big man handled the restive animal with admirable calm.

The chatter of the surrounding women died down. Putting her own misery aside, Jehanne looked about, baffled at the variety of expressions on the ladies’ faces. Many were excited, wringing their hands, others blatantly lovelorn, and a few were plainly angry.

“Who is that?” she blurted.

As he approached, the fair damsel’s knuckles whitened on the railing. “Fulk de Galliard. Fulk the Reluctant, you goose!”

Jehanne’s jaw tightened. The lady was fast becoming intolerable. Then the object of so many eyes halted directly before them. No one spoke, no one moved. Galliard sat his massive charger and appeared to survey the ladies through the eye slits of his helm.

Jehanne stared. Never had she seen a lone man command the complete attention of so many women at once. But he did not lower his lance to receive any of the trembling, fluttering wisps of silk being offered him.

The heat rose in her cheeks. She felt his gaze as surely as if he had touched her skin. This—Fulk—looked at her. Her. The least likely of these worthy noblewomen to attract a man’s attention, and no doubt the one least desirous of it. Jehanne had never yet given a knight her token, and she was not about to start with him.

His eyes gleamed from within his helm, then, in a brief, elegant movement of his hand he managed to salute the group of ladies as one before cantering away to join the fight. Sighs, strangled squeals, and sharp, indignant inhalations were the result.

“How is it that he cannot choose from among such a peerless group?” Jehanne took her seat again.

The lady smiled. “Oh, but he has chosen. The trouble is that he keeps on choosing.”

“Fickle, is he?”

Another beauty, dark and glowing, raised her voice. “Ah, lady, with Fulk, it is more like generosity. He sacrifices himself upon the altars of our womanhood….”

At the melting look in the young lady’s eyes, Jehanne had to smother a snort of scorn. “Is he named the Reluctant because he won’t be faithful to any one of you?”

“Nay, not that. Some call him a coward because he is circumspect in battle. But we know better. Fulk is a sinfully dangerous man…and we adore his mystery.” The Creature shivered. “You will see.”

Indeed, as Fulk approached the fighting arena, a mixture of boos, hoots and wild cheers arose from the crowd grouped along the edge of the field. Whether nobles, grooms, cutpurses or ale-wives, all had an opinion of Fulk the Reluctant—and all stayed out of his way.

Jehanne’s throat constricted and her heart pounded. How she would have loved to be a true knight, even if only for one day. To be resplendent and glorious and please her father by bringing honor to the house of FitzWalter. To live all the virtues of chivalry Sir Thomas had taught her in his endless stories of ancient kings and days of valor long past. And today, she might have become part of one of those tales….

No doubt Fulk the Reluctant was one of the new breed. Lusting after idle women and their riches. Squandering his might. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching hoofbeats, which slowed and came to a stop. Jehanne did not turn her head to see who it was. From the rush of fear and revulsion that swept her, she knew, even as she prayed she was wrong.

“Lady Jehanne?”

Her heart sank at the familiar, gravelly voice. She tried to regain her composure, but her stomach only knotted tighter. Facing him at last, she could only manage, “My lord?”

Grimald, the Earl of Lexingford. Lord Grimald, the blight on her existence. In a full harness of exquisite, double-linked mail, he halted his sleek tourney horse near the gallery, a small army of squires and guardsmen forming a phalanx at his back. “Enjoying the spectacle?” He made the question sound like an accusation.

“Indeed I am.” Jehanne avoided the earl’s searing stare. Grimald’s single-minded obsession with her—or rather, with Windermere, the estate she would inherit, was beyond frightening.

One way or another, the earl always got what he wanted.

Grimald drew himself taller as he sat his horse. “You, too, find Fulk the Reluctant irresistible, I suppose?”

“Certainly not.”

“Honor me, then.” He shoved his lance-tip toward her. Not a tournament head, pronged to diffuse the impact of a strike, but a regular war lance. Sharp and deadly.

Jehanne took a deep breath. She thought of saying she had given someone else her token. But telling falsehoods was not the way of a knight. Nor the daughter of a knight. She stood, her hands clutching the railing. “Nay, I will not.”

The words hung naked and unadorned in the air, with nothing to soften their insult. Grimald purpled, from his beefy neck to his gray-streaked hair. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Ah, mais oui. Jehanne, the Iron Maiden. You’d rather challenge a man to fight than lie with him and become a woman.”

Jehanne felt her cheeks burn at his crudity. But the earl’s statement was perfectly true. He eased the lance forward until its point just touched between her breasts, but she did not retreat.

She met his gaze. “I would rather lie down and be a dog than become your woman.” A deadly silence fell, and Jehanne bit her tongue. To speak thus was not chivalrous, even if it were the truth. But so be it.

Grimald withdrew his lance. “Dog, eh? The proper term for you, I trow, is bitch.” He snatched his black horsetail-plumed helm from his squire and spurred his mount toward the mêlée.

The young woman beside Jehanne fanned herself with a delicate, blue-veined hand. “Just what do you have that he desires so much?”

Jehanne studied her own hands, small and calloused. Of course no man would want her for herself. But nor did she want any man. “I have Windermere, lady. The best fief in all of England.” With some satisfaction at the girl’s surprised expression, Jehanne forced herself to watch the fighters churning in the dusty field below.

A blare of trumpets marked the start, and with a roar the charges began. The brightly caparisoned horses flew at each other, lances clashed against shields, swords rang, men bellowed and fell.

Squires led riderless horses away, wounded knights were borne out of danger on litters or staggered off, supported between friends. Some collapsed, overcome by the heat and dust in their airless helms.

If a man died in the course of a tournament he ran the risk of suffering excommunication—the Pope’s penalty for such senseless slaughter. With a pang Jehanne wondered if the ruling would apply to a woman who died in a tourney. Which would she choose, damnation or Grimald? The difference was but slight, she decided.

As she watched, Jehanne could not help but appreciate Fulk de Galliard’s style. He fought with unusual precision, rapidly unseating or disarming his opponents, but leaving none of them incapacitated. The small crowd of prisoners he had amassed waited in the shade for him to finish and come discuss the terms of their ransoms, as befit the demands of chivalry.

The mêlée drew to an end. Two champions had been chosen to finish the fighting on behalf of the exhausted opposing sides. Fulk and Grimald, with lances lowered, their mounts heaving. Winner take all. Fulk seemed unhurt, Jehanne thought.

Her stomach clenched as she remembered Grimald’s lance-tip. She wondered whether the heralds had allowed it, or missed it. But, considering the earl’s power, he could get away with most anything.

This man, Fulk, could not mistake the lethal lance-point. She held her breath. What if he slays Grimald? Her heart thudded faster. It could happen…. Fulk’s powerful horse danced beneath him, then leaped forward, as if still fresh. At the same instant Grimald’s charger lurched into motion. The earl listed to the left in his saddle, arms flailing, and Jehanne knew exactly where Fulk should aim. One blow to Grimald’s right shoulder would send him flying.

What happened next brought everyone to their feet, as Fulk lived up to his dubious name. Grimald neared, and Fulk stood in his stirrups, calling something out to his opponent. He threw down his lance, reined to a halt and raised his right hand as if in surrender.

Shame on Fulk’s behalf stabbed Jehanne, that he would dishonor himself thus in public, apparently only to save his own skin. But she could not hear his words over the noise of excited onlookers.

Grimald slowed, stopped, and nudged his opponent with his wicked lance-tip. Fulk leaned toward the earl as if speaking to him, and the heralds started to approach them.

Grimald shouted, the heralds shouted back, but in the end Fulk dismounted. The earl’s knights seized Fulk’s horse and weapons, and paraded him toward the women’s gallery. Fulk’s prisoners were now the earl’s, and Fulk himself numbered among them.

A sense of helpless rage toward this useless knight filled Jehanne’s being. He had thrown away his chance, failed himself, and though he knew it not, her as well. She stood and gestured toward him. “Why has he disgraced himself thus?”

The Creature sighed. “You are the innocent, aren’t you? He has forfeited. And no one can ransom Fulk de Galliard, the earl will want a fortune for him.”

“He is a churl to forfeit.”

“Oh, no doubt he has a good reason. But we shall not hear of it. He has a beautiful way with words but never speaks of himself.”

“Well, I have no desire to learn anything more about him.” This was not entirely true, but Jehanne felt it necessary to close the subject of Galliard. Even as she awkwardly gathered her skirts to leave, the earl’s men brought him nearer.

Folk heaped abuse upon him, hurling both insults and objects. He appeared completely disinterested, as though dishonor were a mantle he wore lightly. She wondered if during her own shameful march earlier she had looked half so detached.

Nay, not that…empty was a better word for how Fulk seemed. He looked drained of all feeling. And yet somehow, she knew he was not.

Already forgetting her previous declaration, Jehanne asked, “Why do any of you have the least regard for a such a knight?”

The Creature gaped. “How can you ask that? Just look at him. A magnificent animal, like none other! But even that is as nothing compared to being alone with him, up close. May the devil take him.” She tossed her hair. “Besides, he is no knight. He walked away when the king wanted to honor him with knighthood. Needless to say, since then Fulk has been out of favor.”

Jehanne took pause at this stunning revelation. That anyone might refuse knighting, and from a king, no less, was incomprehensible to her. As for him being an animal, magnificent or otherwise, that was merely a characteristic he shared in common with most men.

Why would anyone want to be alone with something so big and unpredictable? And certainly not…up close…as the Creature so delicately termed it. With a shudder, Jehanne continued to slip past the seated women. She had glimpsed Fulk’s broad shoulders as he passed, and his barbaric, outrageously long hair. Black and wavy, it hung nearly to his belt. Such an affectation!

She firmly told herself she had no desire to look further upon such a travesty. If he were a knight, he did not deserve his spurs, so it was just as well he was not. She made her way to the steps leading down the side of the gallery. “Good day, ladies, I—”

Jehanne fell silent at the sight of her father striding toward her across the practice field, fury in his every movement.

“My lady,” Lioba began in an urgent whisper.

“Go ahead to our pavilion, Lioba. Stay out of his way. I will be all right.” But Jehanne’s mouth went dry as she hurried alone to meet Sir Alun. He caught her arm, twisting it in a painful grip and pulled her along, faster than she could walk.

“Willful, obstinate female!” Her father stopped and whirled about to face her, his blue eyes snapping with rage. “You have insulted the Earl Grimald yet again! But this time you’ve gone too far.”

He drew back his raised hand. A hard hand, she well knew. Jehanne’s knees wobbled but she forced herself to hold still. Concentrating on the hot summer whine of the cicadas in the trees, she tensed her legs. A passing couple stopped to watch. Glancing at them, Alun drew a shaky breath before lowering his arm. “What am I to do with you?” he hissed.

Jehanne opened her eyes as far as she could. Never would she let her lord father see her weep. Not as long as she lived. She had already failed him, by not being the son he had desired so much.

But had she been, that son would never break down before his sire. It was the least she could do to spare him further anguish—short of marrying Grimald. “Let me be your right arm, Father.”

“Be silent. No more tourneys. By the Rood, I regret having ever put a sword into your hand!”

Jehanne stared at him, her sense of betrayal complete. Her father, the perfect knight, had himself brought her to this. For years he had encouraged her to act the part of a lad, so he might avoid the ugly truth of her sex. Now that she had honed her martial skills as befit any son and heir, he wished her to abandon them and use her womanhood—or rather, for the earl Grimald to use her womanhood.

“Aye, well you might, my lord. For he will never touch me. One of us will die first.” With these words she braced herself for the blow sure to follow. But Alun’s fist remained at his side.

“We are going home. I will deal with you there.”

Jehanne breathed her relief in spite of her despair. Home. Windermere. The place she loved more than anyone or anything.

Chapter Two

Three months had passed. In the earl’s private chapel, caught between two Danish guardsmen, Fulk stopped struggling and stared at Grimald as he approached along the nave. The earl’s smug, rapacious expression was smeared on his face like a handful of lard.

Fulk wanted to throttle him with his bare hands. The humiliating memory of the mêlée had burned deep into Fulk’s heart. I should have knocked him from his horse. And then his head from his shoulders. At the time, however, his conscience had prevailed.

When he had seen the earl’s saddle go awry, Fulk had halted, to allow Grimald to recover his seat. But instead of continuing the course, Grimald had accused Fulk of cutting his girth before the contest, and bullied the heralds into granting him the win.

And of course all thought Fulk had forfeited because of the earl’s lethal lance-tip. Fulk had spent the remainder of the summer and all autumn still unransomed while the others had long been freed. He had not been held in chains, but his honor—such as it was—bound him just as tightly. He could no more flee than if he had signed a blood oath to stay.

Grimald had taken Fulk’s precious horses, plus the cache of arms he had won over the years, and still insisted they were not enough to buy his freedom. Fulk had refused to part with his few books.

They were dearer to him than gold, and now were all he had left for his sister’s dowry, but in any event such things were relatively worthless in the earl’s view. It had become apparent that the earl wanted something more, something Fulk truly could not afford—a piece of his soul, or of what little remained.

Grimald took a single step closer, and the small sound echoed in the freezing, vaulted chamber. “Hengist, here, tells me you stood up to him the other night. That you tried to stop him from seeing justice done to a common criminal.” Grimald stroked his chin. “Why did you interfere? That flea-bitten village of Redware Keep has nothing to do with you, except as your disinheritance.”

Fulk did not appreciate the reminder of his father having disowned him. The English lands would now pass to his sister.

“The place means nothing to me, but the people do.” Fulk’s anger flared, and he jerked his upper body.

The Danes levered his hands higher behind his back, until he felt his shoulder joints start to separate. He took a deep breath and willed himself to relax.

The earl tilted his head. “Tsk. You love the people. I am grateful that Hengist has no such problem.”

Fulk’s stomach tightened. Thick and greasy, Hengist the Hurler stood to the earl’s right. He smiled at Fulk and nodded, his angelic curls making a parody of his cunning face.

Grimald smiled, too. “He is an obedient knight. And so shall you receive adubbement and be sworn to your duty, Fulk, so help me. You may have refused your spurs from the king, but you will not refuse me. I shall make something of you yet.”

“What, a pillager? A slayer of innocents? That is all knighthood has come to mean.” Fulk met Grimald’s gaze, letting all his loathing for the man burn through his eyes.

The earl’s grin widened. “You will cooperate fully, Galliard. Else your precious village will burn to the ground. I command it and I command you. Do you understand?”

“Aye.” Too well.

“Good. Deacon!” The earl pointed at Fulk. “He looks like a wild animal with that long hair. Cut it off. I would have him properly humbled, come the morn.”

The cleric paled. “B-but, my lord, I believe his hair is part of a penance—”

“Cut it! Or perhaps, Deacon, there is something of yours you wouldn’t mind having snipped, eh?” Grimald grinned at the man, then stalked out the door.

Fulk’s hatred chilled within his breast, and the icy shards pierced his heart. For seven years he had thought to keep the pain of Rabel’s death fresh by letting his hair grow, as did his seemingly endless sorrow. But he did not need long hair to remind himself of the beast he was. Fulk looked at the deacon, who stood before him, trembling, his mouth agape.

“Do not distress yourself, friend. I will not seek vengeance from you when this is through, you have my word.”

The deacon smiled weakly and nodded, sweat dripping from his chin. Fulk closed his eyes. He would not go after the cleric.

He’d go after Grimald.

Jehanne hesitated, winced, then limped over the threshold into Windermere’s dim chapel. She drew her hood lower to hide her throbbing face. The damp stone floor never gave way to warmth, no matter the season. This winter was proving exceptionally difficult, in more ways than ice and snow. Father Edgar, stingy with candles at the best of times, puttered in a gloomy corner.

“Father, I—” Jehanne swayed and closed her eyes as a sparkling, black tide of dizziness raced toward her. She breathed deep, willing it away, and put her hand to the wall to steady herself. Fighting the pride that bade her keep silent, she swallowed her tears.

“What is it?” The priest kept his broad back to her.

Jehanne ventured nearer, hugging her mantle tight, though the pressure of the rough wool made her bruises ache and her stripes burn anew. “I would ease my heart, and seek thy wisdom.” Her voice was yet hoarse, so she cleared her throat.

Father Edgar turned, and narrowed his eyes. “’Tis not yet a year and you’ve come for absolution?”

Jehanne nodded, stung by his sarcasm. Why did he make it harder? He knew only desperation would bring her to him for confession before Easter, still months away.

“Tell me.” He motioned for her to sit on the steps of the altar.

“I prefer to stand.”

Edgar’s thick, tawny brows drew together. “So that’s the way of it, eh? Yet again?” The priest peered at her face, and she saw a flash of sympathy in his eyes. “Mother of God!”

It was all Jehanne could do not to hide behind her hands. She knew she must look bad, but to cause Father Edgar to call upon the Virgin…

He caught the edge of her mantle and jerked it aside. She was all but naked in her thin shift. Held in place by her own sweat and blood, it clung to her in tatters.

The priest swallowed, then licked his lips. “Behold what you have brought upon yourself.”

In an agony of embarrassment Jehanne snatched the cloth from his hand and pulled the garment back over her raw shoulders. She would suffer no man’s gaze. Shivers began to wrack her body. “And you think it just?”

Edgar’s shiny face drew into hard, unforgiving lines. “A woman must obey her betters. You should be ashamed. Especially since you have been given this lesson before, yet you force your father to go to such lengths to correct you, over and over—”

“I have done nothing wrong.”

“Have you not? In your arrogance you have defied not only your lord father but both the earl and God Himself. Expect no comfort from me.”

Jehanne stepped away, her eyelids stinging. She lifted her chin and straightened her back. “So have I learned, Father. I will take no comfort. Not from you, nor from any son of Adam.”

Fulk knelt before the altar. The slate floor bit into his knees and the warm weight down his back was absent, for the deacon had indeed cropped his hair. He had been in the same spot for six hours, according to the great candle flickering to his right. And with each hour his simmering rage burned hotter. No peace came with his prayers, nor were they answered. Nothing happened that he might forego his fate. The guards set to watch him seemed drowsy, but lowered their pikes at him each time he eased his position in the slightest.

The chapel doors crashed open and Fulk jerked to attention, as did the Danes. A wave of icy air washed over him. A babble of murmurs and footsteps approached, including the click of a big dog’s toenails.

“Out of the way, Deacon! Nay, Fulk’s been at this long enough. I need him now. An excess of piety is not good for a knight—not one in my service. Hah!”

Fulk looked up. The heavy tread of the Earl of Lexingford preceded an even heavier hand upon Fulk’s shoulder.

“Galliard, it is time. Arise.”

It took Fulk a moment to force his numb legs to move beneath him and support his weight. He turned to face Grimald. Behind him were a half dozen of his favorites, waiting restlessly, like curs for a tidbit. A brindled mastiff skulked at the earl’s left, to his right stood Hengist. The knight’s lips twitched into a sneer when Fulk met his pale eyes.

Grimald looked Fulk up and down with a speculative, venomous gaze. “You need no more prayers. For the challenge I’ve set you, no amount of divine supplication will be of aid. Only brute strength and healthy lust will see the task completed.”

Sweat trickled down Fulk’s back. Whatever was in store, there would be no reprieve. No escape from a life of carnage, now that knighthood was upon him.

A snap of noble fingers brought attendants scurrying forward. Grimald twirled a pair of silver spurs about one thick finger, then tossed them onto the floor. “Get down again.”

Fulk hesitated, and the pikemen encouraged him with jabs to his ribs. He sank back to his aching knees, fists clenched at his sides. With a clang of steel Hengist drew his sword. Fulk threw a questioning look to the earl. If this was a trap meant to end in death, Fulk would make damn certain he did not die alone, vows or no vows.

Then, from the silent exchange between Hengist and Grimald, Fulk knew why the knight was present. Not for murder, but purely for Fulk’s humiliation. To be given the accolade by a lord of rank increased the status of the recipient.

Therefore the earl had brought one of the stupidest, most churlish knights alive to perform the ceremony in Fulk’s case. It was fitting, in a way, Fulk thought, because even had he wanted the honor, he did not deserve it. He bowed his head slightly, and braced himself for Hengist’s blows.

The flat of the blade pounded Fulk’s right temple, then the left. He swayed as red burst into his vision. With each breath he steadied himself until he could see again, and thanked God the Hurler’s aim was true.

The earl raised one hand. “Sir Fulk, I charge thee with the high purpose of our lord king: go to the hold of Windermere and wrest it from the hands of the traitor and conspirator against the crown, Alun FitzWalter. Relieve said Alun of his undeserved life. And take his devil of a daughter to wife.”

“Wife!” Fulk could not believe he had heard aright. “I thought you had an agreement with her father—”

“Not anymore. Just make her wish she had said yes to me when she had the chance. And make doubly certain that the revenues from Windermere flow into my hands.”

Fulk choked as the revelation sank in. Windermere. Sir Alun…the Iron Maiden. Unthinkable. He would not become another Hengist. A hired killer, a defiler of women, and in this case, a madwoman.

He waited for Hengist to sheath his sword, but instead the knight sidestepped, so the blade’s cold edge pressed against Fulk’s neck.

He held himself utterly still.

The earl leaned down, his hot breath at Fulk’s cheek. “Listen well, Galliard. I have forgotten nothing of what your father did to me. And what the father owes, so shall the son pay. Or the daughter. Just as will Alun’s.”

Not for the first time Fulk cursed his late father’s barbed wit. Grimald must have been nursing his hatred for years, letting it fester. So shall the son pay.

And the daughter? Alun’s alone, or did he also mean his own sister…Celine? Fulk swallowed the fury that rose to stifle him. Now was not the time, nor was a church the place. He nodded, and the sword edge nicked his throat, sending a warm rivulet down his chest. Still smiling, Hengist resheathed his weapon.

The earl briefly thrust a piece of parchment before Fulk. “Here is the king’s warrant. Dispose of Alun quickly and make certain the wench is humbled for her effrontery. The crown wants a secure succession at Windermere, so see that you get her breeding straightaway. If you survive, you will be a hero in the eyes of all the men she has refused. The maiden of iron-clad virtue, conquered at last.” Grimald’s laughter sounded as out of place in the chapel as a raven’s cawing. Fulk remained silent. He had thought Sir Alun FitzWalter to be the earl’s ally and loyal to the king. He had not heard of any treachery, but nor did he take interest in political intrigues. The pit of his stomach burned. Damn Grimald for dragging him here to be made chief fool in a farce like this.

“Overjoyed at the prospect, are you?” The earl beamed. “She cannot possibly find fault with a great strapping fellow like you, especially once you’ve sped up her inheritance. Do the ladies not swoon at the prospect of being bedded by Fulk the Reluctant?”

Upon hearing that name spoken aloud, Fulk forced himself to breathe, slow and deep. But his heart hammered and he ground his teeth. One of the leering courtiers shrilled, “Oh, most assuredly, my lord. He’s a veritable stallion, methinks. Just look at his flowing black mane!”

The others howled with laughter at Fulk’s rough-shorn state.

Fulk swung his gaze toward Lexingford’s sniggering lackeys, and their merriment died away. The earl slapped his back.

“You see? Fulk plans to vanquish Alun with but a single malevolent glance, so he need not risk himself in swordplay—except with the girl. Who knows what’s under her tunic? She may have bigger ballocks than does he.” Grimald guffawed and clouted Fulk again.

With an effort Fulk resisted the urge to grab Grimald’s arm and twist it off at the shoulder. Apparently there was only the one child of Alun’s, but Fulk knew nothing of her beyond her wild reputation and his own observation that she was headstrong and witless. Carefully he kept his voice low. “Lexingford, what is the name of Sir Alun’s daughter? And does she know of her father’s treachery?”

“What she knows matters not. She is called Jehanne, and she has embarrassed me. Whatever she claims, you damn well better bring the little bitch to heel. Capture Windermere, keep the girl under control and I shall give you your freedom.”

Grimald backed away a step. “We leave you to contemplate your good fortune.” He strode down the nave toward the doors, his retinue in tow. Before exiting, the earl paused. “Oh, and Fulk? The lady Celine. Where is she, these days? My people cannot seem to find her.”

Fulk swallowed. She was with Lady Greyhaven, near the Scottish border. Grimald knew Fulk would never intentionally reveal her whereabouts. So he hedged. “Why do you ask?”

“I want to send someone to collect her…for safekeeping. I have a certain bridegroom in mind—Sir Hengist, a man known for his great prowess. After all, he is already in charge of Redware. And in light of today’s events, who would be a more fitting addition to the great knights of the house of Galliard?”

Hengist bowed to Fulk, his mocking air turning the courtesy into an insult. Fulk leveled a stare at the big knight. The bloody Hurler and Celine, his pure, innocent sister? Never. He would not allow so much as Hengist’s shadow to fall upon her.

Grimald smiled. “Of course, should you make quick work of Alun, I shall leave the choice of Celine’s husband up to you.”

So he had a chance, before Grimald ferreted her out. “I will not fail her, my lord.” Fulk’s words emerged as a growl. He might as well snarl, he felt like a chained animal. He caught a whiff of anger from Hengist at his and Grimald’s agreement. Fulk bowed low as the earl and his retinue left. The doors slammed shut.

Echoes reverberated in the chapel, slowly settling into silence, like dust on a coffin. The bastard. Fulk’s resolve hardened, cold and deadly. He would do the earl’s bidding. Up to a point. Take the keep, aye, he would find a way, if it meant protecting the king’s interests, and obtaining an adequate dowry for Celine. But nothing, and no one, would make him take a woman against her will.

Chapter Three

The practice field at Windermere was empty but for a few of the household warriors, walking their steaming horses over the chopped turf. Jehanne turned her face to the winter sunlight of late afternoon, and closed her eyes. Once more she visualized the target, saw herself hit it full center.

Gripping her lance, she put her horse into a gallop. She leveled the shaft at the proper angle over her mount’s withers and aimed for the small disc at the end of the quintain’s arm. A squeeze of her legs brought a final burst of speed from her horse as she approached impact.

Jehanne braced herself, her weight in her stirrups, and with a crack the lance slammed the target. The spiked ball swung behind her, close enough for her to feel it catch a few hairs from her plait.

Sir Thomas crossed his arms and shook his grizzled head as she trotted up to him. She thumped the lance-butt to the ground. “What? What, sir, am I doing wrong? I hit it, did I not? For the twentieth time in succession?” Weariness tugged at her limbs. For all her skill, she had to practice twice as hard as the men to keep up.

The master-at-arms looked up at her, his blue eyes surprisingly clear in his seamed face. “Jenn, it is not the hitting of anything you must perfect. Truly, you beat the quintain in fine form, and are faster than ever I was, even in my prime. Nay, ’tis the look in your eye of late.”

“What look?”

Sir Thomas took the lance from her. “You’re angry at your father, lass. I know it is hard to accept, but you are full-grown now. Were you his son it would still be your duty to marry when he wished it. What can you hope to gain by putting it off?”

Jehanne looked down at her hands, then out over the expanse of lake and field and forest that comprised Windermere. The motley green and orange hues of foliage still clung like tattered flags to the trees. The browns and grays of jutting rock were more subtle, but just as beautiful. The long, shimmering lake, the crown jewel of Windermere, reflected every color of both earth and sky, even as the mist gathered to shroud it for the night.

“I love this place, Thomas. I don’t want to give it to a stranger. No one will care for it as I do, nor protect the land and villeins. These suitors the earl sends—upon his orders every one of them would bleed the fief dry within a few winters. I cannot let that happen.”

“But, lass…”

To Jehanne’s dismay, the old knight paused to swipe at his eyes and leaned on her lance for support.

“Sir?” Dismounting, she hurried to him.

“You have suffered, Jenn. I cannot bear to see it go on.” Thomas’s voice broke.

“Oh, Thomas.” Jehanne could barely speak past the closing of her throat, and put her arm around his shoulders. “You are like a father to me. I wish you were, in fact,” she whispered.

The old man pulled away. “Do not let me hear you say such a thing again. Sir Alun is hard, but he has more noble blood in his little finger than does that peasant-bred Grimald in his whole body. And you are of that blood. Never take it for granted. There are things that may be learned, and things that one is born to. Part of life is finding out which is which.”

Jehanne smiled sadly and took back her lance. “I was born to this place, Thomas. And it, too, is in my blood.”

After seeing her horse safely into the avener’s care and soothing her pack of boisterous hounds, Jehanne took a rear stairway to her chamber. She did not want to meet anyone. As she slipped into her room, Lioba greeted her with a bowl of steaming water.

“You are wanted below, milady. Immediately. A messenger has come, they need you to read the letter.”

Panic jolted Jehanne as she splashed her still-tender face with the arnica and mint-steeped water. The matter had to be serious, to merit parchment instead of simple memorization or a wax tablet. Lioba helped her peel off hose and tunic.

She dared not defy her father by remaining in men’s clothing before strangers. She slipped into a fresh linen shift, hurriedly donned a loose overgown of russet wool, and snugged it to her hips with a fine, but unadorned leathern belt. Her sweat-dampened hair, still in its plait, would have to do.

Lioba gave her hand a squeeze before she left. Jehanne flashed a smile to the steadfast woman, and flew down the stairs.

Her father’s men nodded to her but shuffled uneasily, glancing away as soon as she met their eyes. She swallowed hard and continued toward the center of the hall.

Gangly and fair, her cousin Thaddeus sat in the carved wooden seat usually reserved for her. His full lips curled into a sly smile. Her father stood by, arms crossed, his face stony.

Garbed in green and brown velvet, the messenger approached. “Mademoiselle.” His eyes flicked her up and down, then fixed upon her face. Jehanne recognized the now familiar instant of shock at the sight of her livid scar.

“What are you staring at? Give me the letter.”

The messenger sniffed, then produced a scroll and he slapped it into her palm. The wax which sealed it bore the imprint of Grimald’s signet. Jehanne broke the seal and stared at the letter. The parchment shivered in her hands. The words she struggled to decipher were too awful to fully comprehend.

With a glance to her father, she cleared her throat. “Know ye this, Sir Alun, that insofar as I, Lexingford, have tried to p-prevail upon you, with all good intent and peaceful means, to achieve the purposes of Henry, our lord King, your refusal to c-convince your daughter of the wisdom of his choice forces him to send a lawful body of men, led by Sir Fulk de Galliard, to put an end to this rebellion…” Her voice trailed away. Sir Fulk? The coward was now a knight, on his way to steal her land!

“Is that it?” Anger burnished her father’s handsome face, his eyes a cold, blue contrast to his sun-browned skin.

“It is all that is of note. The earl is ever flowery in his declarations of doom.” Jehanne let the parchment fall from her fingers.

With a swish of silk the messenger scooped it up and rerolled it. “Your reply, sir?”

Jehanne winced at the man’s arrogant tone. He knew nothing of her father. Alun grabbed the scroll from him and menaced him with it as if it were a dagger. “If thine arse were not so obviously too tight, I would send this back to my good friend the earl, permanently lodged between your cheeks, with my compliments.”

The man paled and retreated. Jehanne had little doubt Sir Alun would make good on his threat should the fellow linger. “My lord, he is but a messenger, and honor requires that we allow him to leave unmolested.”

As she expected, Alun redirected his anger toward her. “What will you have me say, then? That my daughter is beyond my control, that she defies me with her every breath, that she shames me before the world? He knows that already.”

Pain gnawed at Jehanne’s heart. A heart that had frozen stiff and numb around the cherished adoration she held for her father.

“Would you have me sacrifice my honor for the venal purposes of the Earl of Lexingford? He has not your best interests in mind. Is this threat not the proof of it?”

“Your idealism ever clouds your judgment, Jehanne. You fancy yourself a knight of old, on some noble quest for truth and beauty. Face it, girl, as I have done. You are a female. You must be wed and under a man’s authority. For your own good, as well as that of Windermere. As much as it hurts me to not have a son, it will hurt me more to know there will be no grandson, either. God help us, you are the last of the house of FitzWalter!”

She was the last legitimate heir, Thaddeus being a bastard in every sense of the word. A derisive snort broke the quiet that followed. Jehanne scowled at the messenger, whose fear had apparently given way to a lurid interest. Manners be damned.

“Get thee gone!” she shouted.

“Wait.” Her father’s voice. Low, controlled and deadly. “Tell the earl to bid Fulk de Galliard to come ahead.”

Once the messenger had scurried away, Alun cut his gaze to Jehanne. “Grimald must be eager to see this Fulk punished, if he sends him here. I shall determine what manner of man he is, and sway his purpose to mine. To that end, you, daughter, shall welcome him, and give him no reason to wreak havoc upon Windermere.

“But take heed. He is the last. If he is still willing after having seen you, and you yet refuse him, I wash my hands of you. I’ll leave Windermere to the Church, to atone for whatever it is I have done to cause God give me so much grief. Even Grimald cannot take it from the bishopric, the way he could from you. I will go on a pilgrimage and you do as you like.”

The ache in Jehanne’s breast built to an unbearable agony. Her hand crept to her dagger hilt. “I know not whether to use this upon Galliard or myself. Please, do not push me further.”

The look Alun gave her was one of rage and pain, of disappointment and exhaustion, but of love she could no longer see a trace. Alun raised his goblet of wine. “May Grimald be damned to hell.” He drained it violently, then headed for the stairs. His gait was not the confident stride of a man in his prime, but hesitant and unsteady, as though he no longer knew his way around his own keep.

“Father!” A chill crept along Jehanne’s limbs. Give Windermere to the Church? She could not believe he would carry out such a threat. Apart from that, he seemed unwell.

A fever had come to the village with a passing tinker. Father Edgar had taken to his bed, many others were ill, and already a few elderly folk had died. Alun, proud and stubborn, would never allow her to help him if he ailed. And she, hurt and bitter, did not much feel like insisting.

But he was strong as an ox. To put up with such a daughter he had to be, as he frequently reminded her. As if to prove the point, Alun waved her away without turning around, and trudged up the steps to his solar.

Jehanne drew a deep breath. He did not understand. No one did. Aye, Jehanne the Iron Maiden believed in the ideals of knighthood. They were what she had clung to in her efforts to please her father, to make up for her failure in not having been born male. But it was all for naught.

The long hours spent with javelin and bow, sword and buckler, horse and hounds, everything she could think of to prepare herself to defend Windermere once her father grew old—all wasted. He wanted her to toss her inheritance to a man obviously unworthy, otherwise that man would not be doing the earl’s bidding.

Fulk the Reluctant.

Jehanne’s fingers tightened on the edge of the trestle table, and she set her jaw. She had refused the earl and paid dearly for it. She would not give up now and wed Fulk.

She still had time to prepare. Jehanne called her dogs, a pack of ever-hungry lurchers, and made for the armory.

Dawn topped the tree-clad hills, sending a bright shaft of sunlight into Fulk’s eyes. His company of mercenary lancers, tired from the long journey the day before, moved slowly about their duties in the encampment. Fulk swung his sword to and fro, loosening his muscles, his breath creating puffs of white in the chill air.

“It has been too long since you’ve borne arms, lad.” Malcolm relaxed against the shoulder of his skewbald palfrey. “You’ll be a lamb for the young lady’s slaughter.”

Fulk stopped swinging. “I have forgotten nothing of combat, Mac Niall. Especially with women.”

“Aye. Naught but the fact that you could have been your king’s champion, you could’ve had any baroness or countess or princess you cared to crook your finger at.”

“Stow it, Malcolm. Those days are long gone, and you of all people should know better than to remind me. Besides, I have had every baroness, countess and princess—”

“I meant to wed, and be landed thereby. But I suppose this place’ll be as good as any.” Malcolm merely yawned when confronted by Fulk’s glare. “Och, I do hate to see so much muscle wasted turning the pages of books. Sharpening quills, now that takes special skill with a blade, I must admit. But you’ll need a mountain of feathers to get fit for battle.”

“Malcolm, I refuse to fly into rages just to provide you entertainment. And should you doubt my skill with a sword, meet me on trodden ground, and we shall see who bests whom.”

“’Tisnae worth the bother,” Malcolm said, futilely shoving his abundant, dark-red hair back from his brow. “Nay, I’d rather wait until we meet Sir Alun and his wee daughter, and you can meet her on trodden ground. How far off is Windermere?”

“Another day, if the ford is clear. The sumpter horses and wains will slow us a bit, but as the lanes are not knee-deep, we should make right good time.” Fulk slammed his sword into its scabbard, and still fuming, headed for the picket line.

Windermere did not lay in the direction he would go, had he a choice. There was all the world to explore, knowledge to discover. A thousand places where he could happily spend his life as a scholar. Even were he not in this situation, though, Redware still clamored for freedom.

Fulk pushed his dreams back to the place where he kept them hidden. He mounted his newly purchased horse, a stout Frisian of good blood, and let the sight of the splendid beast soothe his heart.

The destrier’s hooves crunched through the waning rime of ice in the muddy lane.

“I thought you didnae want a charger that cost twenty years’ wages.” Malcolm affectionately slapped his own palfrey’s thick neck as he rode beside Fulk.

“I will not trust even these miserable remnants of my life to an inferior animal. The stallion is grand, and better schooled than I expected.”

The Frisian tossed his great head as if in agreement with Fulk’s high opinion of him.

“But God’s eyes, Malcolm, I’ll never find the like of my books again. It breaks my heart.”

“Aye, a bloody fortune in books tied up in a pair of nags and a pack of mercenaries. Still, I believe ’tis a leap in the right direction. Now you may start entering tournaments again, once you have charmed the lady Jehanne out of her armor, and make up some of your losses.”

Fulk gave Malcolm a withering look. “Neither prospect appeals, Mac Niall. Besides, as you have so gallantly pointed out, I am out of practice. I will do what I must to keep Redware intact and Celine out of Hengist’s hands, but not one thing more.”

“You should find her a proper and grateful husband, right quick, then. Save yourself a realm of heartache.” Malcolm stared straight ahead between his horse’s ears as he said this.

Necessary though it was, Fulk’s stomach lurched at the thought of little Celine wed. To anyone. “Her dowry, too, is on the hoof, between this one and my new courser. She can’t inherit Redware unless she marries or comes of age.”

He cleared his throat, and glanced again at the Scot, whose eyes had narrowed into the typical, over-vigilant gaze the man had, which missed nothing.

“There. See the birds flushing, beyond that rise?” Malcolm pointed. “’Tis trouble, coming at a gallop.”

Malcolm was probably right, as ever. “Then I should go meet it. Embrace it. The devil curse Lexingford, pig’s arse that he is,” Fulk growled. He glanced down at his helm, hanging from his saddle. It could stay there. “Malcolm, kindly keep the men in good order.” With a touch of Fulk’s spurs the stallion bounded forward.

The countryside was cold, but not bleak, for even the gray stubble in the fields gleamed in the sun, and where the villeins had furrowed, the black earth put forth a rich smell. Beyond the uneven stripes of plowed and fallow land the forest loomed, dark even in winter, the trunks and branches interlinked and woven like basketwork.

There were few villages this far north, and towns were even more rare. The keep of Windermere lay at the southern tip of the lake from which it took its name, in the Cumbrian Mountains, two days’ hard ride from Scotland. At a crucial point along the River Leven it was possible to cross at a bridge maintained by the FitzWalter, if he allowed passage.

Fulk thought of this, and other problems that might be presented to a man attacking the hold of Sir Alun. Especially a man who did not want bloodshed. There was only one course, and that was to wait outside until they surrendered. A slow, painful way, but at least it left the choice of life up to the defenders.

Up the road ahead a rider neared, the strange horse’s blowing audible across the distance in the cold air. The Frisian’s nostrils flared and his neck arched, the thin skin forming creases at his powerful jaw. The stranger approached, elbows and knees flailing, a white cloth tied to one arm. At the sight of Fulk the young man halted quickly and none too straight, nearly putting himself over his horse’s side.

“G-greetings, milord, ah…g-good day and G-God bless.”

Fulk eyed the youth. Yellow hair streamed from beneath a jaunty, brimless hat, his blue velvet jacket was well padded, and a fine short-sword rode at his hip. But his mount heaved, the foam at its mouth was flecked with blood, and its flanks bore raised welts from the lad’s lashings.

Fulk said nothing, and positioned the Frisian to block the road. Let the varlet sweat and explain himself.

The stranger’s eyes bulged. “I am Thaddeus, squire to Sir Alun, come in p-peace to meet the p-party sent by the Earl of Lexingford. And you, my lord, p-perchance you might be…?”

“Fulk de Galliard. What do you want?”

Thaddeus’s eyes lost some of their fear and gained a cunning light. “To bargain, my lord. I would save you an argument, seeing how you—”

“How I what? Do I look as though I want to avoid an argument?”

“Well, I thought—”

“You did not think. Did you dream, perchance, that I am come merely to pretend to take Windermere?”

“Take Windermere? But, I thought you were another suitor!”

“I and all these men behind me—” Fulk waved over his horse’s rump “—are indeed coming to pay suit to Sir Alun, to win his heart. And if he does not love us, we shall take his head, instead.” Fulk bluffed, but he was good at it.

Thaddeus paled, then rallied. “The lady Jehanne shall not receive you kindly, in any case.”

“Nor do I expect her to. Why don’t you run along home, boy? There is no escape this way. Tell Sir Alun we will parley and offer him every courtesy—as long as he offers no resistance.”

The young man began to turn his horse, and his expression darkened into surliness. “What do I g-get for sticking my neck out, then? I came all this way, and nothing to show for it. Everyone knows your reputation, Sir Fulk. Why should we fear you?”

Fulk leaned forward slightly, and the Frisian hopped, startling Thaddeus. The boy’s mount rolled its eyes, and the Frisian’s ears lay flat back on his elegant head.

“You may know my reputation, but you do not know me, Squire Thaddeus, nor does any one of your bedfellows. It would be the wiser course for you to go. Now. And have a care for that beast. If I find you’ve brought it to grief on this selfish escapade, you will have me to answer to.”

The young man’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and he kicked his horse around. He raised his riding whip, evidently thought better of it, and said, “She will be coming for you right quick! Hah!”

Thaddeus trotted off, his blond locks bouncing at his back.

Malcolm cantered to Fulk’s side. “What pretty thing was that?”

“A young viper, my friend. But we may find him useful, ere we are done.”

“Lioba, Beatrix, stay a half length behind, on either side of me. I would face Galliard as an arrow does its target.”

Upon these instructions Jehanne’s handmaidens, girded and armed as fully as she, dropped their mounts back to form a wedge of horseflesh, with their lady at the leading point. They used this formation to charge when routing out poachers and chasing troublemakers.

It was difficult, dangerous, and for Jehanne at least, as satisfying as warm bread and honey. Word had spread, and now often as not, thieves simply dropped their booty and ran rather than meet the Iron Maiden of Windermere’s swift justice.

But this was different. She might lose her home, her freedom, everything she cherished. Soon, Jehanne thought, it had to be soon, and so it was. A speck on the horizon grew, winding ever closer, until she recognized her cousin, galloping his horse like a madman.

To her disgust he did not stop, but passed her company by as if they were invisible, ignoring her shouted greeting. She would need to check on Thaddeus’s poor gelding when she returned.

If she returned. The possibility of a real fight, to the death, could not be dismissed lightly. She had always believed goodness and right could defeat wickedness and wrong. That was the whole point of knightly virtue, of trial by combat. God would grant victory to the man—or woman—most deserving.

But she was no longer entirely certain she was that woman. Perhaps her father was right…but she could not afford to doubt herself now, much less doubt God.

“There they are, see?” Jehanne pointed to a black line slowly wending its way nearer, pinpoints of reflected sunlight flashing from lance tips and helms.

“Jenn, that is a small army. Methinks we should make haste to get home and lock the gates,” Lioba said, a tremor in her voice.

“I will meet him alone if I must,” Jehanne replied, but inside she quaked. Never mind Galliard, Thaddeus would no doubt tell her father what she was doing.

If he had risen from his sickbed, a stout rod would be ready upon her return. But if that was the price of honor, so be it. It would not be the first time. She snugged her helm down and rode on.

Fulk saw the phalanx of riders ahead and signaled the column to halt. “Another greeting party. But this is a meagre welcome, for a keep supposedly so hospitable.”

Malcolm grunted his agreement. “Just see there’s no trap set in that narrow defile. ’Tis a prime place for an ambush.”

Fulk ignored Malcolm’s warning. “Here she comes.”

“She? The wee lass herself?”

“Not so wee. And all three are shes.”

“Well I’ll be a bizzem’s bastard.”

“Let me do the talking, Mac Niall.” Fulk pushed his mail coif back and rode forward, his right hand raised in peace. The three women halted several yards away. The one in front, presumably the Iron Maiden in person, bristled with sword, lance and shield.

She did nothing but stare at him through her helm’s eye slits, much 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 memory provoked, she forced her eyes wide open. No time to dwell upon the past.

Bow 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 were endlessly long. He was like an oak tree planted in her courtyard. Impossible to sway. But…even if she could not uproot the tree, she could whittle away at it.

“Have you looked your fill?” he asked.

Jehanne jerked her back straight. “Aye. More than I can stomach.”

To her mortification, at that moment an audible growl came from her midsection. Fulk’s gaze darkened and he signaled his men with a small movement of his head. Within a few moments she heard the hollow rumble of wains crossing the drawbridge. Curse his efficient hide. He was moving in.

“I have brought thee gifts, my lady.”

“I have no desire for finery, Sir Fulk. You can buy neither my loyalty nor my affection with useless trinkets.”

One elegant black brow cocked upward. “Can I not? Come see.” Removing his gauntlet with his teeth, he offered her his right hand. Jehanne looked at it, then at him and his calm, sure demeanor.

Beneath his courtly manner lurked a devious heart bent on taking all Windermere could give. What little was left, anyway. She clenched her fists and hesitated. Did she dare ignore him? Step past his outstretched palm to reenter the hall?

Fulk decided the matter by gripping her elbow and propelling her toward the gate.

“Unhand me!” Jehanne hated the sensation of her own helplessness against male brawn, and could not wrench herself free before the first wain halted in front of them. She glanced at Fulk over her shoulder and a jolt of fear rippled through her body. Lord God, he was big. He could snap her arm in two as easily as he had her bow.

What manner of woman could have produced an offspring capable of attaining such size? Yet he was perfectly proportioned. Still, he unnerved her. If he were fully human, he could only be the result of some outlandish mixture of—of she knew not what.

Frowning, Fulk released her arm and lifted a corner of the oiled tenting that covered the wain’s crated contents. As the light penetrated, a cacophony of honks and flutters made Jehanne start. Geese. Dozens of them.

She stared at Fulk. Too late, she realized her mouth hung open. She ran to the next wain. Smoked hams, sacks of flour, crocks of butter and honey. Barrels of wine and ale. Dried fish and cakes of salt. Barley and oat-seed…life for her people.

Gratitude eroded Jehanne’s bone-deep resistance. She would prefer to starve, had she only herself to consider. But calculated or not, Fulk’s charity was a godsend, especially for the children. Gritting her teeth, she turned to thank him as courtesy demanded, but he was already overseeing his men as they unloaded the provisions.

The folk of Windermere emerged, gaunt and hesitant. They looked to her and kept their distance, ready to forego the bounty if she said they must. Jehanne closed her eyes briefly, then waved the people forward. With glad cries they hurried to carry the stores inside the keep.

She had rebuffed his messengers all these weeks. She would never have believed any offer of peace in return for opening the gates. Siege armies put their prisoners to the sword. Why should Fulk be any different? He was, though. Unlike any man she had ever met.

Though the words threatened to stick in her throat, she managed to get them out. “Sir Fulk, please accept the thanks of an ungracious woman on behalf of Windermere. Your Christian act puts me to shame. I have allowed my people to suffer far too long.”

Fulk rested one booted foot upon a cask and leaned his elbow on his knee. “Nay, my lady. Had I any true Christian kindness I would have catapulted the hams over your walls weeks ago. But had you a full belly then, your aim would have been even better this day.”

He must have noticed that the arrows in her belt matched the one caught in his shield. Jehanne swallowed and strove to keep her voice light. “It would have made no difference, I’m afraid. I am a poor shot under the best of circumstances.” She would rather he did not know of her considerable skill with a bow.

“Not so poor.” He pulled his mantle aside and showed her his left forearm. A wound oozed red, soaking his sleeve.

Jehanne clapped a hand to her mouth. The arrow had gone right through his shield. Her heart battered her ribs, but pride kept her from running away. No man suffered such an injury without responding in kind. She held her head high, ready to receive whatever punishment he might deal her. His pretense of friendliness was meant only to put her off guard.

Fulk snapped his mantle back over his arm and Jehanne flinched at the sudden movement. The knight’s mouth tightened. “Forgive me, I forgot the sight of blood offends some folk. If you have a cloth, I can staunch it.”

Was the man being sarcastic? “I—I’ll find one,” she stammered. “Come to the hall.”

Jehanne breathed again, but not easily. He was posing, saving his wrath to deliver it later. Tonight, no doubt. In private. She shuddered at the thought of angry hands upon her body…tearing away her clothes, her pride. Apart from her virginity, he would rob her of all honor…of all hope.

And there was nothing she could do to stop him. Hunger and weariness had sapped her. She thought of the battlements. How easy it would be to fall… Nay. That was a coward’s way out. She must somehow endure until her strength returned.

Jehanne led Fulk and his men to her father’s great hall, now stark and echoing. Her father’s warriors had taken their wages in tapestries and silver plate. They had looted the hall and fled during Fulk’s approach, on the heels of the deadly fever.

As she hurried to the chest of linens, shame gnawed deep, that strangers should see her home brought to such a desperate condition. Worse, Fulk assumed he was now lord of Windermere, and of her, too.

He stood near the weeks-old ashes of the fire circle, giving orders to both his people and hers. Her battered pride revived. Anger warmed her anew.

As if he sensed Jehanne’s shift of attitude, Fulk gazed at her from across the hall, his expression unreadable. With a catch in her throat, she found herself staring back instead of preparing to tend his wound. She inhaled deeply and strode to meet him.

Though he towered over her, the fear she expected did not blossom. Nor could she stop looking at him. Witchcraft. Magic. Nothing else explained the unwelcome ache in her heart.

His amber eyes grew opaque, and he pulled the bandages from her nerveless fingers. “Eat and take your rest now, lady. I shall explain my requirements to you later.”

Jehanne did not reply. She could not, without spluttering her indignation. This—sorcerer—had requirements? Windermere belonged to her, and she would forever belong to it. Let him think he ruled, let him imagine that she might comply. Jehanne, daughter of Alun FitzWalter, would win her keep back.

Chapter Five

Fulk stretched, leaned back in his chair, and warily eyed his new acquisition. Lady Jehanne sat rigid and silent before the fire, with a half-dozen sated hounds of dubious pedigree asleep at her feet. In spite of the hour and more formal circumstances, she still wore the heavy men’s tunic and plain surcoat of earlier in the day, her body all but lost in the folds of wool and linen.

A long, untidy fall of hair, the color of ripe barley, twined about her arms and down her straight back. Crowning her head was a circlet of silver, apparently her only concession to the occasion of his arrival. But, resting at a decided tilt, it lent the lady an unexpected air of vulnerability.

Her haughty gaze flicked to his eyes and away again. Her opinion of him was low, indeed. No doubt he would feel much the same, were their positions reversed. Shifting in his seat, Fulk crossed his legs and rested his chin on his palm. What a confusing bundle of contradictions. A mere woman, all alone, yet so bold as to openly defy him. To loose an arrow upon him and wound him, no less.

She possessed a degree of pride, unrelated to vanity, heretofore unknown to him in a female. He was used to women of delicate sensibilities, artful in their allure, soft of voice and skin.

This one was brittle in her righteousness, hardened by her devotion to lofty ideals, but especially to things. Land and cattle, serfs and profits seemed to be her main preoccupations, apart from her love of violence.

Nothing of any interest to him.

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 earl’s letter was quite plainspoken. It is best for the villagers that I surrender gracefully, as honor demands. But should this knight reveal himself as wholly a beast, I shall defend myself, for honor will then be forfeit.”

“Let us accompany you to his door, at least. We will sit without the solar and be ready should you call for aid.”

Jehanne could not help a small smile. “Very well. But it may be he who cries for mercy, should he provoke me.”

Her words were bold, but her stomach churned as she approached Fulk’s chamber. Partly because she had taken some food at last—and it did not sit well—and partly because deep inside, a tiny piece of her took interest in Fulk de Galliard. Came alive at the thought of him. And not in a way suitable to any respectable maiden.

Jehanne stopped before the entry of the solar that had been her father’s private chamber. She took a deep breath and raised her hand to knock. The door flew open, and the Scot blocked her way.

Quick blue eyes, hair the color of a blood-bay horse, and a moustache of which any Saxon would have been proud. All in all, his face was a not unpleasing juxtaposition of lean planes and angles.

“Mademoiselle?” His French had a thick Gaelic overlay.

“I would see Sir Fulk.”

“Would you, now? What say you, Fulk? Dare we risk admitting the lady?”

Jehanne heard a thud and a curse. Rubbing his head, Galliard loomed behind the Scotsman. He must have caught the low beam.

“Malcolm, kindly stand aside and let her in.”

“I cannae do that, not ’til I’ve checked her person for weapons.” The Scot’s eyes raked her up and down.

“Malcolm…I thank you for your concern. But I will not subject Lady Jehanne to such discourtesy in her own father’s solar.”

Jehanne gripped her skirts tighter. Fulk had no way of knowing what discourtesies she had already suffered here. Even now it was not easy for her to cross the threshold, but she challenged Malcolm with her gaze. He narrowed his eyes, then the barest hint of humor glinted in their depths, and he allowed her to slip past.

She stood as she had countless times before, in the center of the room, facing yet another man who could break her as he willed—or make the attempt. With the sole of her bare foot she found the familiar, sharp edge of an uneven floorboard she had used over the years to keep her fear at bay.

To her surprise, Fulk bowed. “How may we serve you, Mademoiselle?”

There it was again, that way Fulk had of turning his voice into a caress, of putting her at ease when she needed to remain vigilant.

“I would speak with you alone, my lord.” She curtsied to Malcolm by way of dismissing him.

Fulk’s glance cut to the Scot. A whoosh of air billowed Jehanne’s skirts as Malcolm closed the door, silent on its greased hinges. Galliard had jumped out of bed to greet her, it appeared, for he was but half clad, in a white linen tunic and footless chausses. The clinging gray wool that encased his long legs showed every ripple of muscle with shameless clarity.

He did not apologize, however. Instead, he stared at her as though she were a vision he had dreamed into reality—of what, she could not fathom. After a moment, and a swallow or two, he found his voice.

“Please, be seated, my lady.”

He offered her the most comfortable spot—the bed. Jehanne was not about to refuse, out of either propriety or fear. Her feet barely touched the floor as she sat on the edge of the mattress, still warm from Fulk’s body.

Slowly he approached, his languid eyes focused upon her breasts. A burst of panic seared her throat. He was not going to wait. He was going to take her…now.

It was entirely possible he might kill her, albeit perhaps unintentionally. He had to be at least four cubits tall. He must weigh more than sixteen stone. The very breath would be squeezed from her body, he would tear her in two—Jehanne clutched the bedclothes and with an effort stopped herself from uttering a small moan.

He was almost upon her. What had the wretch found to smile about? Did he enjoy terrifying women? She would wager his past conquests had been but games, played with willing partners. This was life and death, to her, at least.

Mere inches away, Fulk leaned toward her. A pulse throbbed in his neck. A beast, ready to pounce.

Jehanne held herself rigid. Disjointed thoughts raced through her mind. Why must he smell so good? Like cedar, or sandalwood, or—oh, God, she did not want to be hurt. She would have to raise her skirts to pull the dagger.

Even as she debated whether to grab for it, Fulk rested one hand on the bed, and reached behind her, feeling for something tangled in the sheets.

“Pardon me, I had best cover myself.” He brought forth a garment of some sort and stepped back.

Jehanne trembled in her relief, angry with herself for giving way to fear so easily.

The robe he shook out was an amazing creation, ermine-lined, of deep red-and-purple-hued silk, thickly embroidered in loops and whorls of fantastic intricacy. As Fulk shrugged into it, wrapping himself in its voluminous folds, he paused at her frank stare. “Does it not please you?”

“Well, I—”

“Plunder, my lady. One cannot always pick and choose. Or can it be that you do admire it?”

He had the audacity to strike a pose, like a statue of some ancient king. Or warlock.

“Oh.” She gulped. “It dazzles the eye. Surely it belonged to a great lord in some faraway land?”

“Aye. But it no longer fit him.”

His tone made her wonder if the previous owner had lost some of his bulk in an unpleasant manner.

Fulk dragged a stool close and folded his legs in an attempt to sit, but gave up and chose a large, flat-topped chest instead. It put more distance between them, which suited Jehanne far better.

“Would you like some wine?” He dangled the flagon.

“Nay. I had best come to the point, Lord—er, what shall I call you? You are in truth a viscount, so I’ve heard?”

Fulk looked down at his hands, then met her eyes. “In France, perhaps, had my father not—well, that is another matter. Suffice it to say His Grace Henry has deprived me of any title I may once have expected here in England. But do not call me ‘lord’. It makes me feel that I must refer to myself in the plural.” He gave her a devastating, self-deprecating grin.

“I see.” Jehanne cleared her throat and sat up straighter.

God’s teeth and gums. As if his body and voice and eyes were not enough—but she would not let him sway her from her purpose.

If it were possible to die of shame, she would have done so gladly, rather than say what she had to say next. She stood, praying she could bear his lustful attentions without showing fear. “I am here, Sir Fulk, to offer…to offer myself—I am aware of what is expected of me, as the…the spoils of war, as it were.”

To her astonishment, Fulk blushed. Right up to the roots of his black hair. He bounced up from his seat and turned his back to her.

“Watch the beam!” Her warning popped out before she could consider not giving it.

“The devil’s own!” Fulk pressed his palm to his head again, this time to the opposite side, and glared at the offending timber. “Who built this place? Dwarves?” He slammed the flagon of wine down and the liquid sloshed onto the table.

Jehanne tried not to laugh. Bruised and bloodied, Fulk himself was the only casualty of violence so far in the taking of Windermere. He quickly regained his composure, however, and to her dismay, came to sit beside her on the bed.

His was a warm, vibrant presence. Discreetly she edged away from him.

Twisting at the waist, Fulk leaned back against the bedpost. Jehanne longed to run from his penetrating scrutiny, so much so that she barely heeded him.

“Be assured, Lady Jehanne, that you are a—a most tempting prize—were the situation different. I will not lie to you. I have been ordered to beget an heir for Windermere. On you. And the very fact that it is the Earl Grimald’s desire makes it an impossibility for me to carry out such an act. It would make me feel like an animal. I could not subject you to the role, even were you willing. And that I do not believe for an instant.”

Jehanne repeated Fulk’s words to herself, to make certain she had heard correctly. He could not beget an heir on her because it would make him feel like an animal. She acknowledged his stammering attempt not to offend her. She understood. Here, indeed, he had just cause for reluctance. Her scars made her ugly, and there was no way around it.

Fulk rubbed his knees as if they were sore. Watching him, Jehanne frowned. She found she could not help admiring the shape of his powerful, tight-knit hands, and their surprising cleanliness. She pushed away the thought of the strength she had already felt in his long fingers and dragged her attention back to the conversation.

“Duty is not meant to be pleasant,” she said.

His hands stilled. “Do you mean to say you want me to…?”

At the distressed look on his face Jehanne was unaccountably amused. So, perhaps she frightened him, too. Good. She bit her lip but a nervous laugh emerged despite her best effort.

“What? Do you now mock me, lady?”

As his color rose again, so did her mirth, born more from feeling overwhelmed than any humor in the situation. “Of course not. Forgive me, sir, but—”

“I did not come to this Godforsaken place to be made an object of hilarity. Kindly take your leave. I shall summon you when next I wish your presence.”

At his icy tone Jehanne sobered. “Very well. But do not count upon my attendance. This is the last time you will have the opportunity I have just offered.”

“What you deem as noble sacrifice, I deem as cold-blooded manipulation. Leave me, mademoiselle.” Fulk stood.

Jehanne stared up at him, her remaining composure ready to snap, her pride in tatters. “I cannot, sir.”

“Why?” He crossed his arms, deepening the dark V of his chest where the tunic gaped open. In his royal-hued robe, he resembled nothing so much as a displeased potentate from Byzantium—or so she imagined, never having seen one.

She drew a deep breath. “The…the terms of conquest were made clear to me before your arrival. They are part of why my resistance lasted so long. But my duty is to my people. I capitulate for their sake. They have suffered enough. If I do not meet the earl’s demands, he will punish me in some other, even more horrible manner—nay, sir, I did not mean that the way it sounded—”

Jehanne waited for Fulk’s color to return to normal. When her own heart had slowed, she too got to her feet, crunching the rushes and sweetgrass beneath them.

“Grimald wants me thoroughly humiliated. That is why I come to you. To salvage something of my self-respect before the inevitable happens, and at the same time protect my people from future insult.”

“The ‘inevitable’?” Fulk’s luminous eyes appeared wounded. “Lady Jehanne, whatever you may think of me, I am not a rapist.”

“It would not be rape.”

“Would it not?”

“Nay…I—it is how these things are honorably accomplished when in a situation such as mine.” Jehanne wound a strand of her hair about one finger. She had not sounded very convincing, but meeting the demands of honor did not make the prospect of being the object of a man’s lust any less dreadful.

“A situation such as ours, milady. In a way I am a prisoner here as much as you. But, for a woman to submit out of fear, even if not on her own behalf, is a sin. And for me…to take you…take you to wife, with the slightest misgiving on your part—or mine, for that matter—is just as wrong, methinks.”

Jehanne was dumbfounded to hear such a revolutionary attitude. And from a man, no less. If in fact he meant what he said. “What will you do to satisfy the earl, then?”

“I know not. But he holds my sister’s life hostage. Among other things.” Fulk swept up the wine flagon and drank straight from its mouth.

“Hostage?” The possibility of such goings-on between her enemies had never crossed Jehanne’s mind. He must be lying, to gain her sympathy. But the pain she had glimpsed in his eyes looked real enough.

“Grimald holds her well-being as a club to my head.”

“Then what shall we do?”

“What do you want to do?” Fulk wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at her squarely.

Jehanne’s mind raced with possibilities. To beat him in a fair fight and regain her honor. To watch his back as he rode away in defeat from her lands. Her gaze strayed to Fulk’s sword, lying within easy reach, then back to the man, awaiting her reply.

He had the upper hand, his men were fit and well-fed. It would not be easy getting rid of him. She sighed.

“My people will be afraid if they see an ongoing quarrel between us. They fear a reprisal, should the earl suspect we are not loyal vassals. Windermere’s immediate safety lies in your strength, and my cooperation. Your men-at-arms are all that stand between us and any marauder. At this crossroads, alone, I am easily conquered.”

“Not so easily.” Fulk cradled his bandaged arm.

“I am sorry for that.” I am sorry I missed a more vital spot, Sir Fulk. Nay, that was not true. It should have been, but it was not.

“I am grateful you did not pierce my heart.” He gazed at her, not a trace of guile showing.

Jehanne felt her own cheeks bloom, but could not look away. “We must put up a pretense of mutual affection, or at least of tolerance.” She examined her nails, bitten to the quick.

Fulk tipped his head to one side. “How grand a pretense would you like to attempt?”

At the low, sensual timbre of his voice, the bottom dropped out of her stomach. “As much as I can bear.”

“I can be very convincing.”

Fulk’s growing smile was dangerous. Captivating. Much too appealing. Jehanne swallowed hard. An unfamiliar quiver in her belly told her it would not take a great deal of effort on his part to make a pretense wholly unnecessary.

She must keep her heart steeled against him. It was merely lust she felt, nothing more. “No doubt. Just remember, the appearance of amity is for the public’s benefit only.”

“Aye. In six months’ time we’ll tie a pillow round your middle. And in nine months we will come up with a foundling—our heir—is that the plan?” His grin became positively roguish.

“It is not! Who is to say you would be so potent—or I so fertile, or the imaginary babe so healthy?”

How had he turned the conversation into such a ridiculous fantasy? Fulk’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Ah, but were the child to die, I would be prostrated by grief, and would have to go on a pilgrimage to cleanse my soul.”

“What if the mother died? Would that not solve all your problems? You’d be able to take a bride of your own choosing.” Jehanne glared at Fulk, until the growing look of strain on his face caused her to soften her gaze. Her own mother had died giving her life. It would not be surprising to learn Fulk had killed his, too, simply by virtue of his size.

He began pacing before her, this time ducking the beam at each end of his circuit as if he had grown up with it. “That is a wicked thing to suggest, lady.”

He raked his hand through his loose black curls. “Besides, the father’s death would be just as convenient, for you.” He shot her a piercing look. “Windermere is a vast and beautiful fief, is it not?”

Jehanne blinked at the abrupt change of subject. “It is large, and was once a rich, productive place.”

“One the earl might covet for his own?”

Where was he going with his questions? “Certainly.”

“How did your father become Grimald’s enemy?”

“My father has ever been true—faithful to both the earl and our lord king.”

“You cannot expect me to believe that. Why then was I sent to confiscate this place? I was shown the king’s seal upon the matter—” Fulk stopped in his tracks. He rubbed his brow and she followed his look toward the shield hung over the bed, blazoned with the FitzWalter arms.

A pair of lions, back to back. Fitting symbols for a family who would fight to the death.

“My lady, go, rest you this night, and on the morrow let us speak again.”

Jehanne straightened her shoulders. “I do not wish to further discuss the plots and intrigues that have ensnared my family. You are here simply because I refused the earl and his henchmen, thus he has used other means to force our cooperation. The effect on me is the same, for I have no doubt you will go to great lengths to protect your sister. But since you appear to be a pawn just as am I, I intend to do something about this injustice.”

Fulk questioned her with an arched brow.

“I shall petition the king. In person. And you shall be forever removed from the chessboard.” Jehanne strode to the door, fully expecting Fulk to stop her with one of his big hands on her arm.

“Perhaps you should do, lady. But give me a month, ere you set my doom into motion.”

“Why should I grant you any grace period?”

“Because you have not a chance in hell of changing the king’s mind. And because I spared you.”

Jehanne suddenly felt small and alone, no longer righteous. Despite what she would like to think of him, she had a feeling this opponent possessed a sense of honor. And that made it all the harder to hate him on principle, for being the one to take Windermere away from her. The question was, could he hold on to it? She might yet retake the keep, God willing.

“Agreed, Sir Fulk. We shall not act in haste. I bid you good night.”

He opened the door for her. As she passed him, heat escaped from his open robe, licking at her back. Still, Jehanne shivered. She hurried toward her own chamber. Her women were nowhere in sight, and she risked a look over her shoulder. Fulk had retreated, and Malcolm was already in place, watching her for a moment before he ducked into the solar.

Jehanne shrugged off the sense of isolation that dogged her as she walked down the echoing corridor. The Scot had apparently chased her ladies away, damn him. She paused, her hand on the door of her own chamber, reassured by the murmur of her women’s voices within.

Another thought occurred to her. If the earl did want Windermere for himself, why send a man who hated him, even under the pretext of her father’s supposed treason?

She looked up toward the solar. The keep would still belong to Fulk, who might not share its potential, as the earl’s other lackeys would have done. It was almost as though the earl had placed both his enemies into one pot.

Chapter Six

Fulk woke to the faint scent of mint, the only trace of Jehanne’s presence the previous night.

But the herb’s aroma also reminded him of hot nights and warm seas, of dewy, kohl-ringed eyes and veiled faces….

Fulk blinked away the erotic images, and instead studied the complex weave of the faded red and gold bedcurtains. After a moment, he sat up and thrust them aside. A milky sunbeam had found its way through the wooden slats at the window, and now seethed with dust on its way to the floor.

At the thought of his last encounter with Jehanne he shook his head. What in hell had possessed him? I can be very convincing. Lord God. He had smiled, knowing full well how it would affect her. Or how it affected most women. Fulk groaned inwardly. He was not treading lightly, nor taking steps to remain disentangled from this woman and her miserable keep.

And whose fault was it?

Hers. Hers entirely. He wanted nothing to do with her. Not with her, her haunted eyes, her eloquent, chewed-upon hands, nor her lithe, hungry body that cried out to be touched—Fulk’s groan turned into a growling yawn.

He stretched and went to the window seat. Pushing open the shutters he looked out upon the tidy village, fields and white-clad forest now under his protection. The rising mist caught the sun and diffused its light, veiling the harsh reality of lingering disease and starvation below.

Just what he needed—more responsibility, when worrying about Celine was already an all-consuming occupation.

An energetic rap sounded at the door, adding to his foul mood. “Come.”

Malcolm entered sideways, glancing left and right, checking for potential assassins behind the bed curtains and the door, as was his wont.

“I am quite alone, Hunterson.”

“In your present state, Fulk, any number of malefactors could be hovering, daggers at the ready, and you would pay them no heed.” Malcolm stepped to the window. “’Tis a lovely dawn.”

“Aye. And with the coming of this day the yoke of Windermere falls securely about my neck. I will never get free of this place. It is a pit of quicksand, I know it.”

“Why should you wish to be free? ’Tis every man’s dream handed to you gratis, both lady and land.”

“Nay, Malcolm. I have already paid too dear for it—with every last one of my books, and to buy what? A ransom in fine horseflesh and foodstuffs. Land and warlording are not how I had thought to live my life. And now I’ve been tethered to the likes of a mermaid. She will take me down with her, to depths beyond my capacity, until I drown in a sea of tears.”

“What rot! This is what comes of your bookishness, Fulk. You wax morbidly poetic instead of forging ahead.” Malcolm sat opposite him and propped one booted foot on the window ledge.

“Leave me alone. I am unwell.” Fulk leaned his aching head against the cold stone of the embrasure.

“Lovesick, you mean.”

“You are the plague that ails me.”

“Nay, Fulk. I know what cure you will be needin’, right quick.”

“Not another word. Why don’t you find out if the girl intends to show me round, or if I should look for the bailiff?”

“Ah, ’tis ‘the girl’, now. You’re so pitifully transparent, Fulk. You cannae hide your longing behind such disrespectful forms of address.” Malcolm waggled an elegantly gloved and beringed finger at Fulk.

God have mercy on me should I strike the man dead. Sometimes Fulk would like to have forgotten that Malcolm was of noble blood, and related to the Viking Earls of Orkney. He gazed at his friend’s grinning, feral face.

“You, Hunterson, tread upon thin ice. And if my goodwill means aught to thee, you had best retreat to shore.”

The Scot paled a shade but his voice ground out low and steady. “You’re a bloody fool. Treasure in your grasp and you would toss it aside over a dead man.”

“Watch yourself, sir.” Fulk’s heart lurched with regret. As ever, he was tortured by the image of Rabel, dying. Rabel, drowning in his own blood. “You know what I mean.”

“Aye, Fulk, I do. But you are that blind, if true love were to clout you o’er the head, you would fight it off instead of embracing it.”

“I cannot concern myself with love. I must find Celine a refuge, to keep her safe from the Hurler. I thought of bringing her here, but this place is not yet stable.” And, he did not add, there were far too many men about. One look at his sister was often enough to bring lovelorn suitors crawling to him, begging for her hand. But none that he cared to have as a good-brother.

Malcolm did not reply.

Fulk stared at his friend. His silence was heavy. Full to bursting. “Oh, Lord. Nay, Malcolm. Not you, too. Not Celine. You have never even spoken to her!”

The Scot’s eyes only burned more intensely.

Fulk stood. Blood roared through his chest and into his head. Nay. Such a thing could never be. Celine was fragile. Delicate. Not a maid for the likes of Hengist, nor even for Malcolm, wild and fierce as a northern gale. While his honor and bravery were unimpeachable, his passions ran too hot.

Fulk could not think of a single man of his acquaintance who would be suitable for his sister. It would only be a matter of time before she fell into the clutches of some unscrupulous varlet, if she were not close by that Fulk might guard her himself. Even were her dowry intact, the search for a properly civilized groom might take a long time.

Malcolm rocked on the balls of his feet. “You will not 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, lady, tell me true, I cannot bear to see you thus and think that I have caused such pain.”

When she did not reply he knelt beside her. Panic rose within Fulk at the thought of this woman suffering alone. It cut him to the quick, for he knew she saw him as the source of her torment. He, who had kissed away many a tear from many a delicate cheek…

Without considering the consequences he put his arms about her. Jehanne cried out and struggled, but he merely tightened his embrace, though his forearm still hurt. He could feel her ribs through her clothing, and guilt panged at what he had put her through, under siege.

Slowly her resistance ebbed, though her trembling continued. She rested stiffly, her cheek to his shoulder, her eyes squeezed shut. A tear dripped onto his gauntlet, reflecting the bright sky for a moment before it soaked into the leather.

Silence lay thick about them, but for their breathing.

Jehanne looked up at Fulk, anguish shadowing her eyes. “Forgive me, sir, I know not what came over me. I am weary…and foolish. I—I thought when we agreed to a pretense, it would take the form of polite words and pleasantry. I did not expect to be kissed. I did not know how very little I could stand….” Her voice faded away into a whisper.

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