Elaine Knighton - Fulk The Reluctant

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.