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,