The Modest and the Bold by Leelou Cervant Read Free Book Online Page B

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.

E LEVEN
    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.
    As Constance had hoped
against, Sir Fulke was already at table. Her brother and his wife
had yet to come down—they were readying themselves for their trip
to Harborough Market for the Tuesday fair. She had every intention
of ignoring the knight. However, when he presented her with his
customary greeting, her ingrained civility would not permit her to
act in anyway contrary towards him. “Good morrow, sir.” Sitting,
she accepted the trencher of warm, honeyed porridge and cup of
fresh milk. As she took her first bite she glanced up and found
Adele seated at one of the lower tables. Noting how she minded Sir
Fulke at the high table, Constance glanced at the knight sidelong,
catching his gaze go across the hall, seeming to her in Adele’s
direction, prior to falling to his trencher.
    Swallowing the sweetened
porridge that had become as a bitter lump in her mouth, Constance
sipped her milk. So, that is it—he’d used
me during the lovely Adele’s absence. And now that she was
returned, he has no more use for me, she
lamented. Then, Well, it was not as if he could’ve truly wished to carry on
with one such as I when there was such as Adele to be
had.
    Forcing down another
spoonful of her porridge, her brother and his wife swept into the
great hall. As usual, the pair were dressed in fine woolen cotes,
their surcotes trimmed with beautiful embroidery and lustrous
marten. Over their rich garments they’d already donned their
traveling cloaks. Constance greeted the smiling Richard and the
cold-eyed Béatrix with equal politeness.
    Distracted for the
present, Constance was able to take in a degree more of her
meal.
    “ Sister—as Béatrix wishes
to stay the night in town, we should not return till morning. But
Sir Fulke will be here.”
    At her brother’s
mentioning the one person she had no wish to speak about, an
uncommon agitation came over Constance. Finishing her milk, she set
her cup down with a heavy hand and stood in a rather peeved
fashion. “Then all should be well.” Pushing in her chair with a
measured scrape across the wooden