LITMIR.BIZ

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      He cleared his throat, and glanced again at the Scot, whose eyes had narrowed into the typical, over-vigilant gaze the man had, which missed nothing.

      “There. See the birds flushing, beyond that rise?” Malcolm pointed. “’Tis trouble, coming at a gallop.”

      Malcolm was probably right, as ever. “Then I should go meet it. Embrace it. The devil curse Lexingford, pig’s arse that he is,” Fulk growled. He glanced down at his helm, hanging from his saddle. It could stay there. “Malcolm, kindly keep the men in good order.” With a touch of Fulk’s spurs the stallion bounded forward.

      The countryside was cold, but not bleak, for even the gray stubble in the fields gleamed in the sun, and where the villeins had furrowed, the black earth put forth a rich smell. Beyond the uneven stripes of plowed and fallow land the forest loomed, dark even in winter, the trunks and branches interlinked and woven like basketwork.

      There were few villages this far north, and towns were even more rare. The keep of Windermere lay at the southern tip of the lake from which it took its name, in the Cumbrian Mountains, two days’ hard ride from Scotland. At a crucial point along the River Leven it was possible to cross at a bridge maintained by the FitzWalter, if he allowed passage.

      Fulk thought of this, and other problems that might be presented to a man attacking the hold of Sir Alun. Especially a man who did not want bloodshed. There was only one course, and that was to wait outside until they surrendered. A slow, painful way, but at least it left the choice of life up to the defenders.

      Up the road ahead a rider neared, the strange horse’s blowing audible across the distance in the cold air. The Frisian’s nostrils flared and his neck arched, the thin skin forming creases at his powerful jaw. The stranger approached, elbows and knees flailing, a white cloth tied to one arm. At the sight of Fulk the young man halted quickly and none too straight, nearly putting himself over his horse’s side.

      “G-greetings, milord, ah…g-good day and G-God bless.”

      Fulk eyed the youth. Yellow hair streamed from beneath a jaunty, brimless hat, his blue velvet jacket was well padded, and a fine short-sword rode at his hip. But his mount heaved, the foam at its mouth was flecked with blood, and its flanks bore raised welts from the lad’s lashings.

      Fulk said nothing, and positioned the Frisian to block the road. Let the varlet sweat and explain himself.

      The stranger’s eyes bulged. “I am Thaddeus, squire to Sir Alun, come in p-peace to meet the p-party sent by the Earl of Lexingford. And you, my lord, p-perchance you might be…?”

      “Fulk de Galliard. What do you want?”

      Thaddeus’s eyes lost some of their fear and gained a cunning light. “To bargain, my lord. I would save you an argument, seeing how you—”

      “How I what? Do I look as though I want to avoid an argument?”

      “Well, I thought—”

      “You did not think. Did you dream, perchance, that I am come merely to pretend to take Windermere?”

      “Take Windermere? But, I thought you were another suitor!”

      “I and all these men behind me—” Fulk waved over his horse’s rump “—are indeed coming to pay suit to Sir Alun, to win his heart. And if he does not love us, we shall take his head, instead.” Fulk bluffed, but he was good at it.

      Thaddeus paled, then rallied. “The lady Jehanne shall not receive you kindly, in any case.”

      “Nor do I expect her to. Why don’t you run along home, boy? There is no escape this way. Tell Sir Alun we will parley and offer him every courtesy—as long as he offers no resistance.”

      The young man began to turn his horse, and his expression darkened into surliness. “What do I g-get for sticking my neck out, then? I came all this way, and nothing to show for it. Everyone knows your reputation, Sir Fulk. Why should we fear you?”

      Fulk leaned forward slightly, and the Frisian hopped, startling Thaddeus. The boy’s mount rolled its eyes, and the Frisian’s ears lay flat back on his elegant head.

      “You may know my reputation, but you do not know me, Squire Thaddeus, nor does any one of your bedfellows. It would be the wiser course for you to go. Now. And have a care for that beast. If I find you’ve brought it to grief on this selfish escapade, you will have me to answer to.”

      The young man’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and he kicked his horse around. He raised his riding whip, evidently thought better of it, and said, “She will be coming for you right quick! Hah!”

      Thaddeus trotted off, his blond locks bouncing at his back.

      Malcolm cantered to Fulk’s side. “What pretty thing was that?”

      “A young viper, my friend. But we may find him useful, ere we are done.”

      “Lioba, Beatrix, stay a half length behind, on either side of me. I would face Galliard as an arrow does its target.”

      Upon these instructions Jehanne’s handmaidens, girded and armed as fully as she, dropped their mounts back to form a wedge of horseflesh, with their lady at the leading point. They used this formation to charge when routing out poachers and chasing troublemakers.

      It was difficult, dangerous, and for Jehanne at least, as satisfying as warm bread and honey. Word had spread, and now often as not, thieves simply dropped their booty and ran rather than meet the Iron Maiden of Windermere’s swift justice.

      But this was different. She might lose her home, her freedom, everything she cherished. Soon, Jehanne thought, it had to be soon, and so it was. A speck on the horizon grew, winding ever closer, until she recognized her cousin, galloping his horse like a madman.

      To her disgust he did not stop, but passed her company by as if they were invisible, ignoring her shouted greeting. She would need to check on Thaddeus’s poor gelding when she returned.

      If she returned. The possibility of a real fight, to the death, could not be dismissed lightly. She had always believed goodness and right could defeat wickedness and wrong. That was the whole point of knightly virtue, of trial by combat. God would grant victory to the man—or woman—most deserving.

      But she was no longer entirely certain she was that woman. Perhaps her father was right…but she could not afford to doubt herself now, much less doubt God.

      “There they are, see?” Jehanne pointed to a black line slowly wending its way nearer, pinpoints of reflected sunlight flashing from lance tips and helms.

      “Jenn, that is a small army. Methinks we should make haste to get home and lock the gates,” Lioba said, a tremor in her voice.

      “I will meet him alone if I must,” Jehanne replied, but inside she quaked. Never mind Galliard, Thaddeus would no doubt tell her father what she was doing.

      If he had risen from his sickbed, a stout rod would be ready upon her return. But if that was the price of honor, so be it. It would not be the first time. She snugged her helm down and rode on.

      Fulk saw the phalanx of riders ahead and signaled the column to halt. “Another greeting party. But this is a meagre welcome, for a keep supposedly so hospitable.”

      Malcolm grunted his agreement. “Just see there’s no trap set in that narrow defile. ’Tis a prime place for an ambush.”

      Fulk ignored Malcolm’s warning. “Here she comes.”

      “She? The wee lass herself?”

      “Not so wee. And all three are shes.”

      “Well I’ll be a bizzem’s bastard.”

      “Let me do the talking, Mac Niall.” Fulk pushed his mail coif back and rode forward, his right hand raised in peace. The three women halted several yards away. The one in front, presumably the Iron Maiden in person, bristled with sword, lance and shield.

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