The Modest and the Bold

by Leelou Cervant

  His mouth and eyes bent in discontent, he barely glanced up when his door opened and a vision he dared not hope was real drifted into his chamber. Linen square in hand, he sat unmoving as Lady Constance, her green gowns seeming as dark as night, stepped into the faint glow of his lamp. She kneeled in front of him, her luxurious attire, shot through with gold thread, glimmering. Her eyes were probing as she stared up at him. In that moment, he willed all his feelings for her into his eyes that she might see the truth.

  And she did.

  She laid her cheek against his hands. Closing his eyes, he bowed his head to her temple. She does not detest me! Shuddering, he lifted his head a measure to kiss her ear. Then he stole across her face to her lips. She sighed and repaid his kiss in full. Wrapping his arms about her he pulled her between his legs. Cupping her face, he devoured her nectarous mouth, his thumbs rubbing across her moist, swollen lips each time he loosed them.

  “Oh, Fulke,” she whispered.

  “Constance,” he breathed. Tugging her veil and wimple off, he latched onto that sensitive area of her neck, his tongue swirling, his teeth nipping. His name spilled from her lips.

  “Fuullkkee!”

  Rising, Fulke hauled Constance with him. As she explored his chest with hands and lips and tongue, he groaned, yanking at the ties of his braise to shove them down. Naked, he aided her out of every single article that concealed her flesh from his voracious hands and eyes. Getting into his bed he knelt upon it, appreciating her naked form in the faint light. All lush curves, pale, gleaming skin, and tresses about her like a dark cloud, he decided that she’d never appeared lovelier. Holding out a hand to her she took it and he drew her into the bed to lay below him. Even as his blood seethed, he wanted to take her gradually, expressing with caresses and kisses and plunges what he could not say aloud.

  * * *

  The second Fulke slide between her thighs, Constance arranged them around his own, gliding her soft calves about their muscled hardness as he bore into her. Bearing his weight upon his left forearm he snaked it about her head, fisting his hand in her hair. His hard buttocks rolled with precision as he kneaded her flesh with his free hand. Tears of utter happiness and overpowering pleasure welled-up into her eyes.

  She arched in his embrace as he raised her left breast for his hungry kiss. “Fulke.”

  He loosed her nipple on a moan. “Constance.”

  As she raked her nails up his back to his shoulders, he sucked in his breath. Slating his mouth over hers, tongue delving, he gripped her knee and sped up his pumps, panting her name every chance their lips separated.

  An eternity seemed to pass before the combination of his moaning her name and the steady rise in the speed of his thrusts took their toll upon Constance’s bombarded senses. “Uhhh! Fulke!”

  His sweat-sleek body slapping against hers, he bowed his damp head, his hot, shallow breathing fanning across her flushed cheek. “Come with me, Constance!”

  Tightening her arms about him, Constance sobbed, “Yes!” His hips pumped with savage speed and the heat surged up to bloom in her chest, stealing her breath, sending her over the verge into an abyss of molten waves. Gasping, her sex convulsing, she wailed, “Fuullkkee!”

  “Constance! UHHHHH!”

  Fulke lunged into her one final time, stiffed, and loosed a loud, protracted groan, his sex erupting into her own once, twice, thrice.

  Clinging to the man she loved, Constance heeded their labored breathing, their sweaty bodies, the odor of their coupling permeating the tiny chamber. She alleged never to have heard or felt or smelt things more divine than these.

  When both of their hearts beat normal again, Fulke raised his head and peered down at her. Lifting her hands she swept his hair back from his countenance. Because of the oil lamp she was able to perceive the tenderness in his eyes, an expression she’d heretofore never glimpsed.

  Her heart almost stopped.

  “Evermore, Constance de Molineaux, I am yours. Will you—”

  Whatever he’d been about to say was cut short by the brusque opening of the door.

  Fulke was up in a trice, using the blanket to cover her nakedness and taking a protective stance in front of her.

  “What the bloody hell goes here, sir? Who do you have there with you?”

  At the furious voice of her brother, horror ripped through Constance. Evidently, Béatrix had not found the fair to her liking and had persuaded Richard to depart early. But what had prompted him to seek out Fulke? Had someone seen her coming into his room and reported it to her brother upon his return?

  Vibrating with fear, Constance contemplated what she should do. The answer swooped in. She may have always been modest, but she was no coward.

  She shifted on the bed to leave Fulke’s protection, his hand twisted behind to hold her there.

  “Who I choose to lay with is not your concern, Sir Richard.”

  Constance’s lips parted at Fulke’s biting tone, for he’d only ever shown him utmost respect. In the hope of allaying the rising contention between the two men, she disengaged herself from Fulke’s protection. Rising, clutching the cover about her, her eyes rounded a measure. “It is I, Brother.”

  Richard’s eyes widened, narrowed, and slid away from her. They settled on Fulke as black slits then broadened to their normal shape, their brown hue taking on a glassiness.

  Constance yelped as he jerked her roughly to his side. “Richard, pray, you do not keen—” He was not heeding her words.

  “If you dared to seduce my sister, I can only fathom what you dared with my own wife during my absences, sir!”

  Constance winced at her brother’s mistaken impression of Fulke. Her eyes rounded, her lips parted, when Fulke accorded the ultimate insult to Richard’s vanished trust.

  “You mistake me, sir, for another. I am not in the habit of bedding proud, unfeeling creatures such as the one you call ‘wife.’”

  Constance gasped.

  Richard cast down his gage.

  All present understood what the act entailed.

  “Swords. Outside. Now.” Richard ordered. Whirling, he yanked the portal open.

  Constance leaped forward and grasped at his sleeve. “Pray, do not do this, Richard! You do not—” He ripped his arm from her hold.

  “Gods Eyes! Clothe yourself, Constance! And get down to the keep. I will deal with you later.”

  For the first time in her life, anger flared within Constance at her brother treating her as a child. But the hot emotion soon melted into fear when the door slammed closed and she spun to find Fulke dressing himself.

  Tearing over to him, she pleaded, “Pray, do not do this, Fulke. We have done nothing wrong!” His movements erratic, he seemed not to be listening. Then he spoke.

  “You have done nothing, but I have.”

  Heart aching, brows furrowing, Constance wailed, “What have you done that I did not seek?

  “And therein lies the fault—I partook when I should never have dared. You are a true lady and I not save a bastard.”

  When he strode to the door Constance raced after him, pulling him back, tears streaming down her cheeks. “No! Do not go out there!” He raised a finger to wipe at her tears.

  “Do you have so little faith in my skill as a knight, then?” he asked flatly.

  Sobbing, Constance pressed her wet cheek to his hand. “Never that. It is only that he is my brother, and you are the one who holds my heart. I cannot bear the idea of either of you coming to harm.”

  In awe of the unexpected shimmer that came into his eyes, Constance was taken off guard when he kissed her before spinning round to exit.

  “NO!” she exclaimed, her hand going out to grasp air. Fresh tears flowing she rushed to don her clothing. When she was yanking on her shoes, a distant metallic clang sounded. She cried all the harder. Cursing her trembling fingers as she closed the ties of her left shoe, she shot to her feet and flew out of the room, her wimple and veil forgotten.

  Holding her skirts high
Constance raced down the stairwell and out of the gatehouse. Shoving through the crowd that had assembled about the combatting pair, she almost pitched forward when she gained the front. Under the shifting lights of the torches that had been brought out, the blood from a slice upon Fulke’s bare upper arm shinned. As for Richard, Constance saw no signs of his being wounded.

  Heart in her throat, teeth nibbling her bottom lip, hands clasped at her bosom, Constance’s eyes darted between the two combatants. Fulke made light work of Richard’s further bids to draw his blood, deflecting each swipe or lunge with a swift, lethal one of his own. Every chance their swords engaged, Constance flinched, the sparking scrap of steel upon steel working upon her nerves with a vengeance.

  Presently, Constance jumped as the swords whooshed towards each other and clashed. They struggled. Fulke slammed his head into Richard’s. She gasped, winced. Next thing, he was ramming his knee up into her brother’s stomach and thrusting him away. Richard landed on his back nearby with a groan.

  As she snapped her eyes up, pleading with Fulke to stop this, her ears pricked at the things being muttered around her.

  “Like a mongrel triflin’ with its filched supper, this is.”

  “Eh, why don’t the bastard finish him off already?”

  From the tales she’d overheard, and the glimpses she’d caught of him at practice, Constance had acquired a good notion of how skilled a fighter Fulke really was. But the reality was so much more daunting. Fisting her hands in her skirts she watched as he paced, waiting for her brother to composed himself.

  The combat continued for what seemed like hours. The opponents—faces now drawn and dripping sweat, limbs protesting beneath weapons of a sudden too heavy to lift—slackened their attacks. All deemed the fight was near its end; the men could take no more.

  All were wrong.

  With a sudden fatal speed, Fulke lunged low, bending at the left knee, the muscles of his legs bunching underneath his stockings, and sent the point of his sword into the side of Richard’s thigh.

  Eyes snapping wide, Constance cried out, surveying her brother as he growled in pain, his sword point lowering to drag across the ground as he stumbled backward. Looking up, she noticed the menacing glaze to Fulke’s eyes as he advanced. Tears filled her eyes, distorting her vision. Shaking her head she covered her quivering mouth with both hands. Oh, no! Pray!

  Then he looked at her for a moment, for an eternity.

  Through the blurry wall of her tears Constance saw how the hardness in Fulke’s eyes faded into desolation. His fingers gripping the hilt of his sword relaxed until the weapon fell to the dirt with a dull, metallic clamor. He sank to his knees.

  Bewildered, Constance shifted her eyes to Richard as he straightened with a groan, gripping his weapon in renewed vigor, and prepared to finish what the other man had started. Her heart skipped a beat. Clearly, he interpreted his opponent’s actions as nothing save exhaustion and failure.

  Registering how Sir Fulke neither rose nor stretched for his sword as Richard limped towards him, only remained gazing at her with that morose slant to his eyes, Constance acted on instinct. Dashing forward she dove into her brother’s path, her arms closing about the kneeling Fulke.

  His sword yet aimed to strike, Richard growled, “Get out of the way, Constance!”

  Battling Fulke’s own efforts to get her out of harm’s way, Constance dug in her heels and shrieked, “NO! Fulke has not the blame! He did not seduce me!” Richard succeeded in peeling her off of Fulke. She clung to his prodding arm desperately. “I love him! I have always loved him! And if you do this, I shall never forgive! Do you heed me? I shall never EVER forgive!”

  Her brother did not strike, only glared down at Fulke.

  A ray of hope pierced her suffering.

  This ray disappeared the instant Richard lowered his sword point to mere inches of Fulke’s heart.

  “Tender your apology, sir, for your offences against me and mine, and I shall have done with this business.”

  Constance held her breath. Seconds ticked by, a minute.

  “I offer my regrets for my offenses against you and yours, sir. It had never been my intention to allow things to come about as they did.”

  Richard at last lowered his blade.

  Knees quivering, Constance released her breath along with her brother’s arm. Studying Fulke’s grim visage, a coldness enveloped her at Richard’s next words.

  “From this moment forth, you, Sir Fulke of Norcaston, are stripped of your post as my head knight. I bid you collect your belongings with all haste and depart this place that no longer holds a future for you. As a guest shall you be welcome here never again.”

  As her brother had stated his verdict, the mass about them quieted. It erupted again into liveliness the moment Richard set his back against his former head man forever. Heading for the keep he drug his sister alongside him.

  FIFTEEN

  Contesting her brother’s punishing grip, Constance glanced back. Fulke was already striding through the crowd towards the gatehouse. Realizing that he was truly leaving, her mounting fear of not being able to catch him in time produced a strength in her never experienced.

  Delivering herself from her brother’s hold with a violent yank of her arm, Constance raced to the keep, Richard’s shouts hounding her up the wooden stairs. Heart pounding, she rushed up the stairwell of the Lady’s Tower to her apartments. Retrieving her best leather purse she stuffed it full with the little coin that she had and a few possessions that were dear to her. Collecting her beaker of pot marigold oil she recalled Fulke’s wound. Hoping to remember to stop by the still chamber before she left, she rushed to exchange her shoes for her riding boots. This completed she jumped to her feet and ran over to her favorite cloak hanging upon a peg in the wall. Taking it over to a trunk she tossed it down to the floor. Throwing back the trunks lid she extracted a few garments and arranged them upon the center of the cloak.

  Constance was exchanging her fine gowns for ones more suited for travel when old Judith hurried in. Noting the distress in the woman’s eyes, Constance began in a breathless rush, “I am going with Sir Fulke, Judith!”

  “But, my lady? Why?”

  Ignoring the question, Constance cast her green gowns into the trunk, gathered the corners of her cloak and tied them together. Bounding to her feet, she snatched up a girdle and belted it about her hips, attaching the filled purse onto it. There were other things she wished to take with her, like her embroidery supplies, but time was of the essence.

  Hefting her bundle into her arms she paused beside her old nurse as she ventured to leave. Setting her load down she hugged the woman to her breast. “Take care, Judith. I shall miss you dreadfully.” Releasing the woman, whose eyes were teary now, she added, “But I must follow my heart.”

  Old Judith nodded in understanding and tapped the cheek of the girl she’d always loved like a daughter. “Fare-the-well, then, child. My God keep you. And that knight, too.”

  Bestowing a smile upon that beloved woman, Constance tore through the antechamber and nearly fell over her two younger serving maids, Elsa and Ella, as they came in. “Where is Sir Richard?” In unison they retorted that he was in the great hall having his wound seen to by Ermine and Hawise. Constance’s wheels worked. “Come with me, girls. I shall need your aid.”

  Their young eyes taking in their mistress’s travel attire and the bundle in her arms, they nodded, their eyes glittering with identical excitement.

  Outside in the corridor, Constance turned to one of the sisters. “Elsa, go to the stables and tell them I require Star readied for me at once. Then go and request of Cook some oatcakes and some cheese—a skin of wine as well. When you have them, pack them in Star’s saddlebags.” She put the bundle into the girl’s arms. “These things, too.”

  “Yes, my lady!”

  Her arms now free, Constance towed Ella along with her as she flew down the corridor toward the back of the keep. At the southeast tower they hastened d
own to the still chamber. Gathering a few things, she placed them with care into a leather pouch. Tying its drawstrings she bustled from the room, Ella at her heels.

  Nearing the bottom of the stairs Constance slowed and peeked into the crowded great hall below. As the sisters had said, Richard was there, sitting in front of the enormous hearth, Ermine tending his injury, her daughter at her side, his wife hovering.

  Spinning back to Ella, Constance handed her the leather bag. “I design to bid my brother farewell. But it might be necessary to make a hasty escape. Take the bag out to the stables that Elsa might add it to my other things.” The girl nodded. Twisting forward again, Constance took a deep breath and descended the stairs.

  As soon as Richard noted her sturdy attire, Ella, a bag clutched to her bosom, racing past, weaving through the mass to the exit, his agony charged gaze hardened. “And what do you think you’re about?” he demanded.

  Constance halted before him, an intangible hand squeezing her heart as she took in the pinched look about his pallid mien. At his pierced thigh knelt Ermine, her threaded needle in hand. At his back stood one of his knights, prepared to hold him down. “I have come to say farewell, Brother mine.” He surprised her when he whipped a hand out and wrenched her to him.

  “By God, you shall not leave this place with that bastard! I forbid it!”

  Constance had no wish to hurt her brother, but she had to be free of him as soon as could be. As he strained to retain his hold she pressed down upon his open wound. He released her arm at once, his shout resounding through the cavernous hall. Taking a brisk step back she conveyed a final good-bye.

  Richard tried to get up, his wife darted forward to force him back down. “Do not be a fool, Richard! Let her go that she may no longer stain this place with her foul self.”

  Disregarding his wife’s profession, Richard growled, “If you go, Sister, never can you return. Folstoc shall be locked against you. Forever!”

  Disposed to waste no further kindness upon her ungrateful, heartless sister-by-marriage, Constance dismissed her from her mind for good. Looking to her brother again she willed the profound love she held for him into her eyes, into her voice. “You always did right by me, Richard. I shall always be grateful for this. But fate has decided that I should depart this place. And I shall. I hope one day that your anger is no more that we might be reunited, for after all, we are family—brother and sister—and I shall carry you in my heart evermore.”