Elaine Knighton - Fulk The Reluctant

“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.”

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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To my mom and dad,

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

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

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.

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.