The Modest and the Bold (6 page)

* * *

Meanwhile, Fulke was in
the outer ward with the castle’s freshest pages. “A capable rider
has only to use his thighs to communicate with its mount. Unless
necessary, the reins should be employed as a guide rather than a
tool in which to yank your beast mercilessly in the direction you
require.” He stroked the rouncey at his side upon its smooth neck.
As it was a gentle creature, he usually utilized him when
introducing pages into the art of riding. “Of course, an
ill-trained beast will respond little to whatever method you chose
to exercise control over him. That is why you must also learn how
to choose well-trained mounts.”

Marching over to the
youngest page, who was six, Fulke lifted the boy up and onto the
back of the chestnut. Taking a few steps back, he raised his hand.
“Take up the reigns, Edwine. That’s it. Now, use your thighs to
nudge him forward as I have instructed. Good. A bit more…” Taking a
few steps back, Fulke heard the sound of wagon wheels progressing
from the main gatehouse. From the corner of his eye he caught the
sight of red hair as the sluggish vehicle passed him and his pupils
by, drawing his attention. His stomach curdled at the sight of
Adele sitting next to Elmar the leather worker (the man had gone to
deliver some of his goods to his brother to sell in Burlefurd), her
smile in his direction visible even across the widening distance
between them.

Under normal
circumstances, Fulke would have answered her grin with an inward
one, for he was a private man. But the circumstances surrounding
their relationship had changed, and that former inclination had
vanished along with his ingenuousness concerning her
character.

Cringing at the notion of
meeting with her again, Fulke reverted his attention to Edwine, his
visage bleak.

Sending his pupils off, Fulke led the rouncey back to the
stables. Leaving him in the care of one of the stable hands, he
strode up to his private quarters. Fetching the hanging pitcher
from the wall he trekked back down to the knight’s hall to have the
pitcher filled with his daily allotment (that morning, the
container had still held drink from the previous day) of beer. The
task was usually performed by one of the younger pages, but in the
midst of all the new things they were put to learn, it was not
uncommon for simple things like filling an allotment jug to slip
their minds.

Preoccupied with thoughts
of forgetful pages and their lot, the impassioned conversation
going on in the knight’s hall hit Fulke like a punch to his belly
upon entering.

“
You’re
mad
, man! Sir Richard
would be a
fool
to let his lady sister marry so beneath her again. She might
not be the
comeliest
of females, but she is the
kindest
and most
genteel
of
ladies
. And she
deserves
a husband of her own
station.”

The fervent exclamation
had come from Sir Walter, a senior knight there at Folstoc. Eying
the man with new respect, Fulke sauntered over to the castle
butler’s assistant sitting near his charge—a good sized cask of
beer. His back to the men at the central table, he handed his
allotment jug to the assistant. His attention seemingly focused
upon the boy as he opened the tap to let the beer flow, his ears
listened to all.

“
I’d not mind a tumble
with the Lady Constance,” stated Sir Arnold, another seasoned
knight who was friends with Sir Walter. “Always did appreciate big
tits and lovely round hips. And those succulent lips!”

There was a sudden, loud
scrapping upon the stone floor as someone bounded to their feet.
Fulke glanced over his shoulder to see that it was a livid Sir
Walter.

“
Shut your filthy trap,
you! I’ll not stand for such conceptions of her ladyship! Do you
heed?
” When Arnold exploded into laughter,
others joining him, Sir Walter left the hall in disgust.

Like everyone else, Fulke
knew that Sir Walter’s temper would die down and he would be back
to his usual convivial self in no time. So, it was not alarm for
the man’s angst in which Fulke departed the little hall but
disquiet over his words. From the day he’d been introduced to the
Lady Constance, Fulke had ever held her in high regard. It had been
this vast esteem for her that had stimulated his anxiety over
Adele’s outrageous whim to have the lady take part in their
intimate meeting. And even after his baser instincts had obliged
him to partake of what the lady had been so willing to give, he’d
returned to the castle with a heavy conscience. Subsequently, when
he’d taken her in silent rage against Adele’s decision to persist
with her wanton behavior, he’d shoved his scruples to the back of
his mind. Now, following Sir Walter’s rant, they slammed to the
fore.

Back in his chamber, he
set his full jug down upon the small trestle table there and sat
down. Being the head knight, his chamber was one of the few that
had a fireplace. As it was summer, there was no reason for a blaze.
On balmy evenings as these, an oil lamp was enough. In troubled
stints such as this, he preferred the dark.

Damnable bastard! You
should’ve never dared to lay your hands upon her in the
first.

Sighing, he poured himself
a drink. He’d always understood that women like Lady Constance were
too high for such as him, a bastard born. No matter that he’d
achieved the position he currently held, he should have never
permitted himself to touch such a treasure. Never!

Believing there was
nothing else he could do save terminate this thing that had sprang
up between him and Sir Richard’s sister, disappointment, unlike any
other he’d ever experienced, swathed him.
There’s nothing else to be done,
he
reasoned again, as if to convince himself.
You must do it. You
must!

It was in this saddened,
but determined, state of mind that Fulke heard the door of his
chamber open and close hours later. He shifted round in his chair
to find Adele sashaying towards him. When she sat in his lap and
wrapped her arms about his neck he simply sat there, despairing
over his decision regarding Lady Constance, repulsed by Adele’s
presence.

“
You were missed at
supper, sir.”

Fulke’s skin crawled when
she nibbled upon his ear. Pulling his head free of her unwanted
touch, he asked in a hard, flat tenor, “Did not your cousin furnish
you with enough of what you sought?” Shock registered in Adele’s
mien, halting her in whatever she’d been about to say next. Knowing
of her character as he did, he was positive she was about to try to
use his awareness of her true reason for visiting Burlefurd to her
advantage.

Sure enough, she snuggled
closer to him, purring, “Since meeting you, Symond will never again
be enough to satisfy me, sir.”

At her openly
acknowledging her lasting carnal relationship with her cousin,
Fulke jumped to his feet, pitching Adele down to the floor in a
heap of blue skirts.

Her anger engaged, she
stumbled to her feet, scoffing, “Why this treatment, Fulke?
I—”

Grabbing hold of her arms,
Fulke shook her. “
Why
this
treatment
? Did you really suppose I would remain your lover now that I
know I’m not the only one you accept between your thighs?” Loosing
her in disgust he gave her his back.

“
Well, why not? None of
the others cared!”

Whirling around, Fulke
took Adele’s left arm in a vicious grip and towed her to the door.
Hand on the latch, he bent his head and stated in a menacing
whisper, “And that is where you went amiss, my lovely little whore,
thinking that I am like all the others.” Jerking the door open he
shoved her out and slammed it in her face.

When the natural light had faded Constance and Judith had
moved to sit at the trestle table that held an oil lamp burning
with three wicks. It was at this new station, hours later, her
servants away to bed, that Constance cut the thread she had been
plying, set down her needle, and tied-off her work. Taking up her
shears again, she snipped the threads holding her project in place
upon the embroidery frame. Setting both the frame and the shears
down, she extracted the dangling threads from the square’s border.
All finished, she raised the decorated corner closer to the triple
flame lamp to view it better. Finding the end result of so many
arduous hours to her satisfaction, she sighed.

Setting the square down
Constance left the table to undressed. Going over to the shelves
situated above a different table, she took down the tiny beaker of
marigold oil she’d brought back with her prior to going off to meet
with Sir Fulke earlier that day. Pulling out its stopper she poured
a small amount into her palm, set the beaker down, and rubbed her
hands together. After infusing her skin with the aromatic oil she
set the beaker back in its place, donned her chemise, and pinned
her cloak about her shoulders.

Folding up the precious
linen square, she placed it into the snug bodice of her
undergarment and left her chamber. Creeping through the antechamber
so as not to wake Judith and the other girls, she stepped out into
the corridor and absconded down to the stairwell and onward to the
secret passage.

Ascending into the old
hall, Constance parted her lips to call out for Sir Fulke. He
startled her when he abruptly exited the shadows. He took her hands
in his and led her into the light below the window. Thinking that
he was eager for her, her mouth bowed as she rose to her toes to
kiss him.

“
My lady. There is
something we must discuss.”

Heeding how the
seriousness of the knight’s tone matched the tilt of his eyes,
Constance lowered to the soles of her feet, her own eyes expectant
now.

“
This cannot carry on, my
lady. It was erroneous of me to have allowed things between us to
venture this far. You are a lady deserving only of the highest
treatment. All I shall humbly seek of you henceforth is your pardon
for the slip in my scruples.”

Having heeded only that he
no longer wished to see her in so intimate a manner, Constance
swallowed hard as her body threatened to cast up the accounts of
her belly. Dropping her eyes she withdrew her hands from his. “Oh…I
see,” she replied. Without meeting his gaze again, she added, “Your
request for pardon is unwarranted, sir. What transpired between us
was sanctioned by myself as much as by you.” Staggered by this
unexpected twist in their affair, her retreating step was
dispirited. Reaching the trapdoor she remembered her gift. Delving
past her cloak she extracted the folded square of linen from her
chemise. Returning to him, she took his hand and place the gift
into his palm, saying in a listless voice, “Here, I made this for
you.” Then she turned and departed.

Constance trudged back to
the castle, the inviable dagger now embedded in her heart twisting.
Once gaining the safety of her bedchamber she took off her cloak,
got into bed, and closed her eyes, tears rolling down from beneath
her shivering lids.

* * *

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.

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.