The Modest and the Bold

by Leelou Cervant

  * * *

  In the face of Lady Constance’s apparent melancholy, Fulke had forced his longing to take her into his arms deep down, to that dark place he held the wretchedness over his sister’s death hidden, hoping that it would never surface again.

  His hope was doomed the instant his will had birthed it.

  Recalling that she’d placed something in his hand, he lifted it. Unfolding the fine linen square he discovered that the corner had been embroidered with pretty gold flowers—pot marigolds—and a single letter above them in brown, the green leaves of the flowers curling about its periphery. Fingering the embroidered letter, he whispered, “‘E’ for ‘Emma’.”

  As on the day his sister’s young spirit had yielded to her sickness and fled the world forever, an invisible hand enclosed about Fulke’s heart, constricting. Slumping down to the nearby trunk, ironically, the same one he and the Lady Constance had last coupled on, he hung his head in his hands. Why do I withstand this self-castigation? She is a high born lady. It’s not as if I could claim her as my own.

  Forcing himself to believe that what he’d done was for the best, chiefly for the lady, Fulke folded the precious gift, placed it in the petite leather purse at his belt, and left the hall, all the while reciting to himself, It’s for the best. You are base, she high. It is for the best.

  ELEVEN

  When her brother Richard had wed the beautiful and cruel Béatrix, Constance had presumed never to know peace again. But being the resilient soul that she was, she’d prevailed over her depression and even regained most of her happy existence there at Folstoc. With Sir Fulke’s proposal that they end their little affair, gloom had returned to shroud her. Nevertheless, confirming herself worthy of the strength predestined to be hers, she abandoned her bed the following dawn, washed the testimony of wretchedness from her visage, and prepared to reclaim her former peace of mind. So it was that she descended into the great hall to break her fast.

  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.

  TWELVE

  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.

  THIRTEEN

  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.

  So, she thought at present, that is why he has tossed me aside. And how the bastard’s ambition has risen. Recalling her generousness with the lady, Adele’s dejection curved bitterly. Well, we will just have to show the both of them, wont we? With her dark wheels revolving she left the cellar.

  * * *

  As the news of the feast had been announced promptly, it was no wonder that the great hall was overflowing with revelers by the fall of night. Swine and fowl and fish had been spitted to roast over outdoor fires. Cauldrons and pots bubbled with stews and pottages. In the kitchens, the ovens were fired nonstop as pies and tarts and bread galore were baked. Upon the work tables, dishes, like molded jellies and peeled and hollowed apples to be later filled with honey, requiring more artistic handling, were prepared.

  At the center of this merry gathering was Constance, handsome in the dark green cote and matching surcote she’d exchanged her stained work clothes out with. As she ate and drank and smiled her small smile, what Sir Fulke had spouted at her in the cellar slayed her efforts to focus on anything else. Noting his absence from the feast early on, her resolve to maintain her distance from him had waned into indecision. Had he spoken true? Had he really come to desire her over Adele? If so, why had he suggested that they not continue with their affair?

  Racked by an all-consuming need to discover the truth, Constance quitted the dais. Progressing around the hall, affecting enjoyment of the scene of those dancing to the gay tunes produced by the likewise hopping castle minstrels
, she exited the keep. Floating down into the ward, a breeze tugged at her fine linen veil and wimple dyed the same dark hue as her gowns. She was not sure where Sir Fulke was. She figured to pursue him in his private quarters first.

  * * *

  In the shadowy entrance hall of the keep stood Adele, her eyes observing Lady Constance as she crossed the ward to the gatehouse. Glancing around, and finding none out, she crept after her. Entering the gatehouse she wound her way up its torch lit stairwell. Gaining the landing off the corridor where Sir Fulke’s room was located, she glimpsed the sweep of dark skirts as the lady padded into that chamber.

  Eyes narrowing, Adele leaned against the curving wall of the stairwell, simmering in jealousy, and waited to see what would occur next. Well, the bastard might think himself well on route to landing a worthier position. But the lady’s brother will not stand for it. A malicious grin spread across her face as she envisioned Sir Richard’s fury once she brought him the news of his lady sister being “seduced” by his most trusted man.

  Crossing her arms over her bosom, she sighed. If only Sir Richard were here now…

  FOURTEEN

  Slouched at his table in nothing save braise, a cup and his beer allotment jug near to hand, Fulke gazed down at the embroidered linen Lady Constance had given him. Prior, he’d owned only two things that meant anything to him—his courser and the shell lamp that had been his sister’s. Fingering the delicate needlework upon the fine square Fulke established that he now had three prized possessions.

  The bright marigolds led Fulke’s focus to the Lady Constance and the disgust he’d seen in her countenance, in her eyes, when he’d tried to explain his agony in the cellar stairwell. He sighed. She despises me, now. Should have let her be since the off.