single-minded obsession with her—or rather, with Windermere, the estate she would inherit, was beyond frightening.
One way or another, the earl always got what he wanted.
Grimald drew himself taller as he sat his horse. “You, too, find Fulk the Reluctant irresistible, I suppose?”
“Certainly not.”
“Honor me, then.” He shoved his lance-tip toward her. Not a tournament head, pronged to diffuse the impact of a strike, but a regular war lance. Sharp and deadly.
Jehanne took a deep breath. She thought of saying she had given someone else her token. But telling falsehoods was not the way of a knight. Nor the daughter of a knight. She stood, her hands clutching the railing. “Nay, I will not.”
The words hung naked and unadorned in the air, with nothing to soften their insult. Grimald purpled, from his beefy neck to his gray-streaked hair. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Ah, mais oui. Jehanne, the Iron Maiden. You’d rather challenge a man to fight than lie with him and become a woman.”
Jehanne felt her cheeks burn at his crudity. But the earl’s statement was perfectly true. He eased the lance forward until its point just touched between her breasts, but she did not retreat.
She met his gaze. “I would rather lie down and be a dog than become your woman.” A deadly silence fell, and Jehanne bit her tongue. To speak thus was not chivalrous, even if it were the truth. But so be it.
Grimald withdrew his lance. “Dog, eh? The proper term for you, I trow, is bitch.” He snatched his black horsetail-plumed helm from his squire and spurred his mount toward the mêlée.
The young woman beside Jehanne fanned herself with a delicate, blue-veined hand. “Just what do you have that he desires so much?”
Jehanne studied her own hands, small and calloused. Of course no man would want her for herself. But nor did she want any man. “I have Windermere, lady. The best fief in all of England.” With some satisfaction at the girl’s surprised expression, Jehanne forced herself to watch the fighters churning in the dusty field below.
A blare of trumpets marked the start, and with a roar the charges began. The brightly caparisoned horses flew at each other, lances clashed against shields, swords rang, men bellowed and fell.
Squires led riderless horses away, wounded knights were borne out of danger on litters or staggered off, supported between friends. Some collapsed, overcome by the heat and dust in their airless helms.
If a man died in the course of a tournament he ran the risk of suffering excommunication—the Pope’s penalty for such senseless slaughter. With a pang Jehanne wondered if the ruling would apply to a woman who died in a tourney. Which would she choose, damnation or Grimald? The difference was but slight, she decided.
As she watched, Jehanne could not help but appreciate Fulk de Galliard’s style. He fought with unusual precision, rapidly unseating or disarming his opponents, but leaving none of them incapacitated. The small crowd of prisoners he had amassed waited in the shade for him to finish and come discuss the terms of their ransoms, as befit the demands of chivalry.
The mêlée drew to an end. Two champions had been chosen to finish the fighting on behalf of the exhausted opposing sides. Fulk and Grimald, with lances lowered, their mounts heaving. Winner take all. Fulk seemed unhurt, Jehanne thought.
Her stomach clenched as she remembered Grimald’s lance-tip. She wondered whether the heralds had allowed it, or missed it. But, considering the earl’s power, he could get away with most anything.
This man, Fulk, could not mistake the lethal lance-point. She held her breath. What if he slays Grimald? Her heart thudded faster. It could happen…. Fulk’s powerful horse danced beneath him, then leaped forward, as if still fresh. At the same instant Grimald’s charger lurched into motion. The earl listed to the left in his saddle, arms flailing, and Jehanne knew exactly where Fulk should aim. One blow to Grimald’s right shoulder would send him flying.
What happened next brought everyone to their feet, as Fulk lived up to his dubious name. Grimald neared, and Fulk stood in his stirrups, calling something out to his opponent. He threw down his lance, reined to a halt and raised his right hand as if in surrender.
Shame on Fulk’s behalf stabbed Jehanne, that he would dishonor himself thus in public, apparently only to save his own skin. But she could not hear his words over the noise of excited onlookers.
Grimald slowed, stopped, and nudged his opponent with his wicked lance-tip. Fulk leaned toward the earl as if speaking to him, and the heralds started to approach them.
Grimald shouted, the heralds shouted back, but in the end Fulk dismounted. The earl’s knights seized Fulk’s horse and weapons, and paraded him toward the women’s gallery. Fulk’s prisoners were now the earl’s, and Fulk himself numbered among them.
A sense of helpless rage toward this useless knight filled Jehanne’s being. He had thrown away his chance, failed himself, and though he knew it not, her as well. She stood and gestured toward him. “Why has he disgraced himself thus?”
The Creature sighed. “You are the innocent, aren’t you? He has forfeited. And no one can ransom Fulk de Galliard, the earl will want a fortune for him.”
“He is a churl to forfeit.”
“Oh, no doubt he has a good reason. But we shall not hear of it. He has a beautiful way with words but never speaks of himself.”
“Well, I have no desire to learn anything more about him.” This was not entirely true, but Jehanne felt it necessary to close the subject of Galliard. Even as she awkwardly gathered her skirts to leave, the earl’s men brought him nearer.
Folk heaped abuse upon him, hurling both insults and objects. He appeared completely disinterested, as though dishonor were a mantle he wore lightly. She wondered if during her own shameful march earlier she had looked half so detached.
Nay, not that…empty was a better word for how Fulk seemed. He looked drained of all feeling. And yet somehow, she knew he was not.
Already forgetting her previous declaration, Jehanne asked, “Why do any of you have the least regard for a such a knight?”
The Creature gaped. “How can you ask that? Just look at him. A magnificent animal, like none other! But even that is as nothing compared to being alone with him, up close. May the devil take him.” She tossed her hair. “Besides, he is no knight. He walked away when the king wanted to honor him with knighthood. Needless to say, since then Fulk has been out of favor.”
Jehanne took pause at this stunning revelation. That anyone might refuse knighting, and from a king, no less, was incomprehensible to her. As for him being an animal, magnificent or otherwise, that was merely a characteristic he shared in common with most men.
Why would anyone want to be alone with something so big and unpredictable? And certainly not…up close…as the Creature so delicately termed it. With a shudder, Jehanne continued to slip past the seated women. She had glimpsed Fulk’s broad shoulders as he passed, and his barbaric, outrageously long hair. Black and wavy, it hung nearly to his belt. Such an affectation!
She firmly told herself she had no desire to look further upon such a travesty. If he were a knight, he did not deserve his spurs, so it was just as well he was not. She made her way to the steps leading down the side of the gallery. “Good day, ladies, I—”
Jehanne fell silent at the sight of her father striding toward her across the practice field, fury in his every movement.
“My lady,” Lioba began in an urgent whisper.
“Go ahead to our pavilion, Lioba. Stay out of his way. I will be all right.” But Jehanne’s mouth went dry as she hurried alone to meet Sir Alun. He caught her arm, twisting it in a painful grip and pulled her along, faster than she could walk.
“Willful, obstinate female!” Her father stopped and whirled about to face her, his blue eyes snapping with