The Modest and the Bold (7 page)

As Constance had hoped
against, Sir Fulke was already at table. Her brother and his wife
had yet to come down—they were readying themselves for their trip
to Harborough Market for the Tuesday fair. She had every intention
of ignoring the knight. However, when he presented her with his
customary greeting, her ingrained civility would not permit her to
act in anyway contrary towards him. “Good morrow, sir.” Sitting,
she accepted the trencher of warm, honeyed porridge and cup of
fresh milk. As she took her first bite she glanced up and found
Adele seated at one of the lower tables. Noting how she minded Sir
Fulke at the high table, Constance glanced at the knight sidelong,
catching his gaze go across the hall, seeming to her in Adele’s
direction, prior to falling to his trencher.

Swallowing the sweetened
porridge that had become as a bitter lump in her mouth, Constance
sipped her milk.
So, that is it—he’d used
me during the lovely Adele’s absence. And now that she was
returned, he has no more use for me,
she
lamented.
Then,
Well, it was not as if he could’ve truly wished to carry on
with one such as I when there was such as Adele to be
had.

Forcing down another
spoonful of her porridge, her brother and his wife swept into the
great hall. As usual, the pair were dressed in fine woolen cotes,
their surcotes trimmed with beautiful embroidery and lustrous
marten. Over their rich garments they’d already donned their
traveling cloaks. Constance greeted the smiling Richard and the
cold-eyed Béatrix with equal politeness.

Distracted for the
present, Constance was able to take in a degree more of her
meal.

“
Sister—as Béatrix wishes
to stay the night in town, we should not return till morning. But
Sir Fulke will be here.”

At her brother’s
mentioning the one person she had no wish to speak about, an
uncommon agitation came over Constance. Finishing her milk, she set
her cup down with a heavy hand and stood in a rather peeved
fashion. “Then all should be well.” Pushing in her chair with a
measured scrape across the wooden planks of the dais, she met her
brother’s somewhat disconcerted gaze. “Whilst you two are enjoying
the fair,
I
shall
be seeing to the commencing of the apple harvest.” With a cursory
curtsey she left the dais and the great hall, her brother’s brows
furrowed in worry, his wife’s lips pursed in disapproval, Sir
Fulke’s eyes intense with a sentiment unknown to all parties except
himself.

* * *

As the winter had been
mild, the spring wet, and the summer bright, the hay and corn
harvests had been bountiful, and the orchard now heavy with early
fruit ready for plucking.

Having agreed to oversee
the apple harvest herself, Constance had sent Sir Ralph off that he
might focus on other duties about the manor. And, as she was a firm
believer that hard work led to a healthy soul, she joined the
harvesters without hesitation. Soon enough, Constance found her
downcast spirits lifting as the jocose folk she aided entertained
her with recent anecdotes and delightful ditties.

Positive that the cause for Lady Constance’s unusual
crossness could be laid at his feet, Fulke offered Sir Richard and
his wife a flat farewell before excusing himself, forcing the Lady
Béatrix’s low opinion of him to drop several notches further.
Thinking a spell outside the castle would do much to lessen his
foul mood, Fulke ventured in the direction of the
orchard.

Like the kitchen garden,
the orchard was enclosed by a low wall, making it easy for Fulke to
search among the harvesters there for the bailiff. Not finding the
man, he approached the Lady Constance instead. At the present, she
was setting baskets underneath all the trees. “My lady, do you
perchance know Sir Ralph’s whereabouts?” The lady stiffened, his
gut constricted. Then she was facing him, her mien void of all
emotion.

“
I sent him off. I trust
he’s gone out to speak with the reeve.”

Fulke opened his mouth to
thank her, but she was already walking away. Her mellisonant voice
floated back to him as she thanked one of the servants for bringing
additional baskets. Ignoring the heaviness in his heart he left the
orchard for the stables.

As the first knight of the
castle, Fulke was allotted the privilege of stabling his mounts in
Sir Richard’s main stable located within the inner ward. Fulke only
possessed a single mount, a courser he called Roan, but the beast
was his second most prized possession. Not only was the horse swift
and stout, he’d proved loyal as well as dependable.

Worried that his eyes
would stray and linger dangerously upon the Lady Constance in the
orchard across the ward, Fulke marched into the stables and readied
Roan himself. Mounting up, he rode out and set the horse to a
canter. Exiting the castle he rode about the manor until he spied
the bailiff talking with the reeve and Hoel, the woodward, near a
spinney.

Nearing the trio Fulke
nudged Roan to a halt. Setting his gauntleted hands atop his pommel
he waited for the bailiff to come over.

“
Have you come that we may
walk the castle’s perimeter, sir?” asked Sir Ralph in his firm but
amenable manner.

“
Yes. But finish here. I
will meet you at the wall once I’ve taken Roan for a gallop.” The
bailiff nodded, and Fulke wheeled his mount around in the direction
of the lane that led out between two of Folstoc’s
fields.

An hour later, Fulke
trotted back into the castle. Clearing the main gatehouse he
dismounted and proceeded to walk the snorting Roan back to the
stables, saluting Sir Richard and Lady Béatrix as they rode out
with their entourage.

Both beast and master
striding into the inner ward, the beast’s ears twitched at the
sound of voluble laughter coming from the orchard.

Glancing in the direction
of the orchard, Fulke spied the Lady Constance smiling as she
hefted a basket of apples out from under one of the tree’s. The
picture of the lady hard at work was nothing new to him. But
something was different. She’d stripped down to her orange tawny
cote and her head was unburdened by wimple or veil. As she moved
about, talking and laughing as she did so, her long, brown plait
caressed across her swaying hips. All at once, Fulke’s hard won
peace of mind melted away beneath the heat that expanded
within.

Leading Roan into the
stables, Fulke handed him over to a groom. His huge stride
purposeful, he made straight for his private quarters, striving
with all his might to blot the alluring image and sound of Lady
Constance from his conscience. Obtaining his room he snatched off
his leather gauntlets and cast them upon the trestle table
disgustedly. Replacing his cote with the grey, sleeveless tunic he
used for practice, he then retrieved his practice sword. Stomping
out of the gatehouse he shouted to the first knight he saw,
ordering him to collect his own weapon for practice. By the time
the knight, one Sir Gilbert, joined him in the outer ward, Sir
Fulke was ready for him.

Brandishing his sword,
Fulke evolved upon Sir Gilbert without warning. The younger knight
parried his ruthless, downward swop, but only just. Without
pausing, Fulke slid his blunted blade free of his opponents,
whirled, and dealt him a side blow that sent Sir Gilbert stumbling
sideways. Fulke saw the apprehension spark in the young man’s eyes
as he regained his footing. He cared not. He would rid himself of
his burning want of the Lady Constance. He had to!

Allowing his frustration
to surface in his countenance, Fulke stalked his opponent. His
voice was hard and unusually cruel. “Think you your enemy would
stand by as you collected yourself? Come for me, damn you!” When
Sir Gilbert flew at him, his blade arching high, Fulke waited till
the last second, shifted to the side, cuffed him at his neck, and
kicked him away. Sir Gilbert landed on his belly with a hard thud,
his sword dropping from his loosened grip.

Walking over to where Sir
Gilbert’s weapon lay, Fulke booted it towards the knights who’d
come to group about them. Using the blunted point of his own sword
he gestured to a different man—Sir William. “You. Pick it up.” When
the eager knight did as he was bade, Fulke added, flexing his arms
and rolling his shoulders, “Let’s have a see if you can do
better.”

An hour later, the crowd
of knights out in the practice yard parted to make way for their
superior, their eyes identical in their awe and respect of him.
None of them had been able to best him.

Stomping into the inner
ward, the sweat-sleek muscles of his bare upper arms glistening
under the sun, Fulke headed for a rain barrel standing near a
storage shed. Flinging his practice sword down,\ he dunked his head
inside the barrel. Straightening out, water splashing, sluicing
down his neck to soak the neckline of his sleeveless shirt, he
shook his head and shoved his sopping hair back from his face.
Sighing at the freshness of the water, he rubbed his eyes with a
thumb and finger. The first thing he saw, or rather, the
first
person
,
when he opened his eyes was the Lady Constance.

Sighing wirily, he set his
hands upon the rim of the barrel and studied her, his knuckles
going white as he gripped the copper band. And because he knew not
what to do any longer, the second she exited the orchard and
entered the keep, disappearing into the right tower, he followed
her.

Stepping into the dim
foyer of the keep, Fulke made a hard right and took the stairwell
down to the cellar. As he’d hoped, Lady Constance was there.
Alone.

Constance was shifting things about to make room for the
apples that would be brought down when a sound incited her to
glance over her shoulder. The instant she saw the intense glitter
in Sir Fulke’s eyes as he stalked towards her she knew she had to
get away or she would be lost.

Dashing to the opposite
stairwell, she made it up several steps before Sir Fulke captured
her. Resisting him, she huffed, “Leave go of me, sir!”

“
Pray, do not fight me so,
lady!”

At the knight’s fervent
request, Constance paused in her quest to liberate herself, though
she refused to lift her gaze from the wet neckline of his shirt.
When he pressed her into the stone at her back, sighing into her
hair, she squeezed her eyes at the sudden tears that threatened,
tears of pain and longing, of anger.

“
You cannot fathom how
I’ve labored this day, in vain, to rid myself of your memory. I
never expected to see you as anything beyond Sir Richard’s
respected sister. Except, all has altered. Even so, it is hopeless,
for we cannot be.”

Constance steeled herself
against his lamenting tone, against the sweet torment of his hands
clutching her face as he sought to force her to look at
him.

“
We cannot be. And yet,
you haunt me, lady. You haunt my every moment,” he mourned in a
whisper.

When he started to kiss a
path across her cheek, Constance sobbed. Then, as his lips neared
her own, as she sensed she was about to lose the battle, a vivid
image of him pummeling himself into Adele, his visage lined with
his obvious pleasure, blazed to life in her mind.

Pushing him away with all
her might, Constance held him immobile with a narrow, accusing
gaze. “Why not slack your lust upon Adele? That is, after all, why
you proposed that we not meet again, is it not?” Not waiting for
his reply, she lifted her skirts and bolted down the stairs, back
towards the stairwell that led up to the keep’s entrance. Before
she even achieved the center of the cellar, Sir Fulke overtook her
once more, his hands punishing this time as he spun her round to
face him.

“
Is
that
what you
think
?”

Constance’s eyes blazed as
he shook her.

“
I have not lain with her
since she
left
.
She came to me, but I sent her away. It is
you
who—”

Constance stomped upon his
toe, wishing to hear no more of what she supposed could only be
falsehoods, shoved him away, and bolted out of the
cellar.

Legs trembling, Constance
willed her face into calm lines and descended the wooden stairs off
the keep’s entrance. Marching back into the orchard she informed
all there that they would have a small feast at supper to celebrate
their bountiful harvest. Attempting to hold her composed façade she
next made for the kitchens. As she did so, she sighted Sir Fulke
out of the corner of her eye, standing in the shade of the keep’s
entrance, watching her. She acknowledged him not at all.

* * *

Padding out from the
shadows, Adele moved into the center of the cellar chamber, her
eyes and mouth sullen. She’d been about to quit the great hall for
the laundry shed out in the ward when Sir Fulke had entered the
keep and swerved off to the right stairwell. Thinking to try one
last time with him, she’d followed. As she’d descended into the
cellar, he’d been bolting towards the opposite stairwell. Curious,
Adele had made after him. The second she’d heard his dreadful pleas
answered by a feminine voice she knew well, Adele had stilled,
listening in disbelief. At the sound of rushing footfalls upon the
stone steps she’d leapt behind a barrel. From the shadows she’d
watched the remainder of the pair’s altercation, every word spewing
from the knight’s lips as blade in her belly.