The Modest and the Bold (10 page)

“
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.”

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.