LITMIR.BIZ

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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,

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