Stepping to Ermine and Hawise, who were identical in their mute, wide-eyed expressions, Constance hugged them good-bye, thanking them for all their kindheartedness and wisdom. Wishing them well she quit the keep.
Skirts grasped high, Constance bustled down the wooden stairs and across the ward to the stables. Discovering her palfrey, Star, in all readiness, she sighed in relief. Whirling to Elsa and Ella, she asked if they’d seen Sir Fulke.
“John took his mount out to him a while ago, my lady.”
Constance’s heart lurched. Oh, pray, let me be not too late! Taking the reins of her horse she mounted up. Settling in the saddle she said farewell to the sisters, and prodded Star into a trot. Clearing the inner gatehouse she urged the horse into a canter. Nearing the main gatehouse she reigned in. Peering up, she called out through the darkness to the man on the wall, “Did you see the direction Sir Fulke rode?”
“Yes, my lady,” shouted down the guard. “He just rode into the south wood. I spied a glint of armor as he crossed the stream at the shallow ford.”
Familiar with the spot the man spoke of, Constance thanked him. Giving the reigns a gentle whip, she ordered “Ride on!” and out of the castle they sailed. Wheeling the beast to the left she heeled her into a full gallop, straight to the south wood. It was full night, the wood darker still, but she knew her way about it well. Maneuvering the horse around trees she crossed the ford in the stream that fed into the River Welland. Achieving the west bank she cantered along the slivering waterway that sparkled below the moon, praying that Fulke had taken the same route and was not far ahead. Spotting him her heart soared.
SIXTEEN
Fulke knelt at the stream near a large oak, cleansing his wound, striving to forget his insolence at having nurtured the notion of taking a woman so above him as his own, to forget that in doing so he’d destroyed a future that had been so bright with promise.
Fulke grimaced, sighing heavily.
At the sound of approaching hooves he dropped the bloodstained cloth and stood, gripping the sword hilt at his hip. One could never be too careful when traveling, especially alone and at night. When Constance trotted out of the shadows shock sliced through him.
Relaxing his fist he released his sword. His eyes followed the lady as she brought her dark, glossy palfrey to a halt not a foot away. Joy and dread warred within. She furnished no explanation for her actions. “What are you about, Constance?” It was too dark to ascertain the expression in her eyes. But the confident lines of her countenance in the fain moonlight alluded to her reason for venturing outside her home, alone, in the dark. It was a verity that stole his breath. Even so, no matter his feelings, he could not risk her coming to harm.
“Why, I am coming with you, of course.”
Considering how best to get her to return to her brother, Fulke growled, “You cannot. Now, return home.” Giving her his back he reverted to the task of cleansing the slice to his arm. To his dismay Constance was soon at his side, taking his arm in her gentle hands.
Fulke snatched his arm from her grasp, intending to scold her for her disobedience. She amazed him by wrenching it back. Thrown by this odd display of aggression, Fulke remained immobile as she examined his wound.
“Come, sit down, that I might tend this afore it festers.”
Doing as she ordered, Fulke sat down upon one of the oak’s exposed roots.
“The laceration is long, but not so deep. This is good.”
Fulke said nothing. He surveyed her as she returned to her horse, opening a saddlebag. She ventured back to his side carrying a wineskin and a leather bag. His arm stung when she cleansed the sliced flesh with the wine; his face remained stoic. Next, she applied some salve from a jar she took from her bag. The scent of pot marigold wafted up to his nostrils. This completed, she wrapped a length of linen about his wound and tucked the end securely into the edge of the bandage. As she took her things back to her saddlebags he evaluated the dressing, his brow twitching. “You came prepared.”
At his side once more, Constance sat down, a tender tilt about her eyes. “Why would I not? Particularly as I was aware of your being injured.”
Her regard for his wellbeing recalled the words she’d shouted to her brother, before all to hear, in Folstoc’s ward: I love him…I have always loved him! Letting his gaze travel down the stream, away from the face that was imprinted upon his heart forever, he wondered, Could someone as good as she, so high as she, hold one such as him in such a dear manner? “Why did you leave your home, Constance?” he asked at last in a low, even tone.
“Folstoc is not my home…if you are not there.”
At her delicate protestation, delivered with such certitude, Fulke snapped his heard around to stare at her. In the brighter light there by the stream her eyes shinned with sentiment he’d never aspired to glimpse there. Swallowing the emotion that threatened to choke him, he looked back to the water. “I go southwest, to Earl Rodger in the Welsh Marches. In his quest to win back those lands taken by the Welsh, he is always in want of a good sword.” Swiveling his head back to Constance, fearful, hopeful, he added, “It will be a protracted journey—one that will not always allow leisure or comfort.” Her mouth curled a tad, her eyes and voice as soft as the night breeze.
His heart skipped a beat.
“I am hearty, sir. And a good rider. I shan’t be a hindrance to you.”
Despite his wanting Constance where he knew she would be safe, Fulke could no longer deny the yearning of his heart, specifically when she refused to go back and presented so accommodating a proposition. Standing, he proceeded to unsaddle their mounts to secure them close by. When she ambled over to aid him, he said nothing, only allowed her her way. Afterwards, he unbuckled his sword belt, setting it near to hand, and settled down into the oaks gnarled base. Raising a hand to her she took it without hesitation.
His heart expanded.
Drawing her down to lie with him he cocooned them in his cloak. “Rest,” he ordered in a gentle voice. “At dawn we start forward with our journey.”
SEVENTEEN
Constance’s eyes lifted at the distant tolling of the bell of St. Hilda’s at Truwick, marking the hour of Matins. Fulke’s embrace slackened as he too woke. She sat up. Suppressing a yawn she eased from Fulke’s warm embrace to retrieve the food and drink she’d brought with her. Returning, she settled on the tree root above him. Retaining an oatcake for herself she handed him the other and the wineskin.
“Thank you.”
Silence hung between them as they ate and drank, but Constance’s mind was roused at what the immediate future held for her. Fulke had expressed physically as well as verbally how his sentiments for her lied, yet, no promise of marriage had passed his lips. And Constance was fine with this. Provided that he kept her with him, and stayed true to her, she cared not what others might utter about their relationship.
When they were done eating, they saddled their horses and mounted up. Across the miles it took them to reach the small village of Truwick, Fulke said nothing. Constance, wishing not to burden him with annoying chatter, followed suite.
Nearing the petite Anglo-Saxon church of St. Hilda Fulke slowed their cantering pace to a walk. Constance was gazing up at the now still church bell, high up in its open, arched turret, when Fulke veered off towards the churchyard instead of riding past it. Her brows twitching, she set her palfrey to follow him. She reined in as Fulke dismounted and secured his Roan to a bush in the churchyard. He strode over and lifted her down from her saddle.
Brow knitted, Constance rose an inquisitive gaze to him as he clasped her hand and led her to the gabled portico of the church. Pausing in the shade of the porch he at last looked down at her. The smoldering in his eyes set her heart aflame.
“You did not truly think I would retain you only as my leman, did you?”
Overwhelmed, Constance could not respond save to squeeze the large hand clutching hers. He accepted her reaction with a return squeeze and opened the church door.
As the interior walls of the church had been plastered the tiny narthex was not as dark as one would expect. At the end of the aisless nave, in the square-ended chancel, Father Edmund was finishing the Office of Aurora by blessing those few who’d come. One by one, those parishioners deserted their kneeling positions upon the rush strewn floor and filed out past Constance and Fulke. When only the priest and a layman remained, Fulke led her out of the entrance hall and down the nave.
While both Constance and Fulke had always attended the holy services at the chapel located in Folstoc’s outer ward, she nor Fulke were strangers to the tall, thin priest.
“My lady! You honor this Lord’s House,” spouted Father Edmund, his jovial eyes now elevating to the tall knight at her side. “And Sir Fulke!” His gaze lowered a trice to the couple’s clasped hands. They darted between the pair, shinning.
Her cheek’s stinging beneath the priests penetrating gaze, Constance looked up at Fulke in expectancy.
“We go southward, Father. But we would wed before we venture further,” Fulke stated in a strong, deep, sure tenor.
The priest’s eyes rounded as he folded his hands in front of him. “Wed? Well! This is sudden. I…”
Constance could see that they’d roused the priest’s suspicion with their unconventional request to be wed so abruptly, principally as the banns had not been read thrice and her brother was nowhere in sight. Again, she lifted her gaze to Fulke. Loosing her hand, he pulled the strings of the leather purse on his belt.
“I am aware of the conventions, Father. Except, as the Lady Constance and I are of an age and both in agreement to this wedding, I’d trusted you would disregard them, just this once, that we might be on our way all the sooner.”
Fulke flicked his fingers buried in his purse; a muffled metallic jingle sounded. Constance almost grinned as Father Edmund raised clasped hands, rubbing them together in expectation as the knight extracted a tiny pouch from his purse.
“For such kindness, I am prepared to bestow a goodly sum upon this Sanctuary.”
Father Edmund accepted the pouch. Pulling the drawstrings open he tipped the bag, spilling silver coins into his open palm. “Well,” he began, pouring the coins back into the pouch, “one gracious act for another, I always say.” Stuffing the bag into his rob, he added, “On condition, of course, that both parties are keen of this union...”
To this, Constance lifted her eyes to Fulke’s, her love burning in her eyes, and squeezed his hand. Seeing her love mirrored in those bottomless, dark pools, her heart swelled. “Yes, Father,” she whispered, turning back to the priest, “I am beyond keen.”
The priest looked to the knight, who nodded his agreement, and beamed. “Good! Then come. Come!” He waved them into the chancel of the church. “Brother Henry!” he shouted to the layman, “Go and fetch Brother Bernard here. Make Haste! The lady and sir design to wed and be off. They have a great course ahead of them and would not delay a moment more than necessary.”
Constance was hard put not to giggle at the comical manner the layman endeavored to scurry to do his superior’s bidding while listening to his explanation. The man disappeared and Fulke led her into the smaller of the two cells of the church to join Father Edmund. A few minutes later, when the layman returned with the demanded second, Father Edmund ordered her and Fulke to take a united stance before him.
Normally, a couple were wed in the porch of a church. As they were already inside, Father Edmund initiated the wedding between Constance and Fulke right there in St. Hilda’s holiest portion. And as the words that would bind them together till death should part them were spoken and repeated, first by Fulke, and next by herself, Constance’s mind reeled. Here was the man she’d loved since he’d walked into her life, binding himself, willingly, to her now. And once they stepped from this place they would start onto a path neither of them had expected to follow.
Heart hammering, tears slipped from Constance’s eyes as Fulke cupped her face and bequeathed unto her the kiss that finalized their plighted troth, a kiss that was the fused epitome of flaming tenderness. And when he raised his head from hers, his thumbs wiping across her wet cheeks, his lips curling in a rare smile, she reflected in awe, What an awful surprise, this twist our lives have taken. Ahead lies our destiny, a destiny that stands so utterly blinding before us that we know not what lies there. But go forth to claim it we shall—claim it together.
THE END
The Modest and the Bold Page 7