The Damsel's Defiance (21 page)

‘Come.’ Matilda half raised herself from the bench. ‘Come, Emmeline, and break your fast with me. Talvas has wolfed his down already, but I am still eating.’

Emmeline’s eyes grazed the hunched, brooding figure of Talvas, the hectic flush colouring the lean, tanned angles of his face. She wondered how in heaven’s name she would find the strength to tell him of her decision.

Matilda answered her look with a quick, reassuring smile. ‘Don’t mind him, he’s like a bear with a sore head this morning. Come and keep me company.’ She patted the seat beside her.

Emmeline flicked her skirts over the bench and sat down next to Matilda, smoothing the material down over her legs with hot hands. Indeed, it did seem to be very hot in the great hall this morning. The air stifled her.

‘Did you sleep well?’ Matilda asked conversationally, sipping neatly at her goblet of mead. She licked the honeyed droplets from her lips.

‘Aye, I did,’ Emmeline replied, the lie springing easily to her lips. Her head pounded with fatigue, the legacy of continually tossing and turning all night, racked with anxiety and guilt. ‘My chamber is very comfortable,’ she continued awk
wardly, her bell-like tones casting out into the hall, a silver melody that rattled the shell that Talvas had attempted to build around himself. He gripped the edges of the parchment, the spidery writing dancing before his eyes as he tried hard to study their content, to concentrate on his bailiff’s suggestions.

‘Talvas is immersed in his plans,’ moaned Matilda. ‘He can’t seem to stop for a minute and talk to us!’ The solid wall of his back turned toward them, shutting them out.

He’s hurting so much, thought Emmeline sadly. And I am the cause of it. I am the cause of all this heartache between us. ‘I need to talk to him,’ she murmured to Matilda.

Matilda stared at her friend, swiftly interpreting the look. ‘Let’s eat up,’ she suggested, ‘and then I’ll leave you alone.’

Emmeline peered blankly at the bowl of hot pottage before her, steam rising to mist her skin. Her stomach churned, queasy with fluttering nausea. Nay, not now! Not before she had a chance to talk to him!

‘Eat up, Emmeline,’ Matilda urged, breaking into the round of new bread, placing a chunk on each of their pewter plates.

‘I’m not hungry,’ Emmeline replied. A dryness scraped at her throat; still her stomach roiled.

‘What ails thee, Emmeline?’ Matilda said, suddenly, her limpid blue eyes full of concern. ‘You’re pale—look, your hands are shaking.’

Emmeline wished fervently that Matilda would lower her voice, anxious not to draw Talvas’s unnerving gaze. But, glancing over Matilda’s shoulder, she saw with relief that he was still engaged in conversation with the bailiff.

Matilda smiled at her. ‘God in heaven, Emmeline. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were with child!’ Her words boomed and swelled, taking on huge proportions to bounce from the upper rafters of the hall.

Sweat sprung to Emmeline’s palms. Swiftly, she sup
pressed the hysterical giggle that threatened to burst from her lips. ‘Nay, Matilda, I’ve had neither the inclination, nor the opportunity,’ she hedged, breaking the bread on her plate and stuffing the bits into her mouth, praying that Talvas had not overheard. Colour rushed to her face as the image of her limbs tangled with those of Talvas forced its way into her brain.

‘Look at you blushing!’ Matilda touched a finger to her friend’s cheek, misinterpreting Emmeline’s guilty look. ‘I can’t believe I have embarrassed you! Just wait until you’re an old married woman like me!’

Emmeline hung her head, attempting to swallow the bread, a rough stone against her tongue. She wanted to sink under the table, to disappear. A sudden heat broke out over her body; the surging nausea climbing higher and higher as she chewed.

‘I must go!’ Murmuring her excuses to a surprised Matilda, stumbling backwards over the bench, she fled from the hall, out, out through the kitchens, out to the inner courtyard. There, where the sun warmed the east-facing wall, she leant her face against the stone, relishing the damp grittiness against her skin, fighting the sickness that bubbled and churned in her stomach. By not taking supper last night, she had hoped to avoid this morning sickness, hoped to be strong in front of Talvas when she spoke to him. But now, a debilitating weakness coursed her body: she couldn’t face him now. Better to hide, until the worst was over, and confront him later on.

Eyes closed, she prayed fervently that Talvas hadn’t noticed her hasty exit. If he had, then this place, a few steps from the entrance to the kitchens, was not safe. She had to go, she had to run. Pushing herself back from the wall, she scoured the courtyard for somewhere to hide, a place where he couldn’t find her. Had he heard his sister’s words?

The stables attached to the outer bailey would be her refuge. He would never find her there, she thought, agitation causing her fingers to slip and fumble with the rusty bolt on the half door of the stable. Pushing into the gloom, she stumbled through the deep raft of straw strewn thickly on the floor. The grey palfrey within greeted her with a snicker, nuzzling her soft nose into Emmeline’s hand. She spotted the rickety ladder leading up into the hayloft, and at once knew her hiding place. Climbing into the bundle of dried meadow grass, she collapsed into the mound of hay, burying her face into the cushion of grass, into that sweet smell of long, summer days.

‘When were you going to tell me?’

The strident tones attacked her, accused her. Talvas!

Pressing her skin farther into the hay, she willed the soft grass to swallow her up, to engulf her wholly in its balmy scent. Sweet Jesu! She hadn’t been quick enough!

‘How long were you going to wait, Emmeline?’ The stubborn line of her slender back mocked him. ‘’Till the babe’s full grown? Or
never?
’ A fierce anger gripped him, yanked him back to a time he cared not to remember.

‘I was going to tell you.’ Pushing up on her forearms, she twisted her body around in the hay, sitting up.

‘You were going to return to France without telling me!’ He flung the accusation at her, the blue of his eyes spitting arrows of sapphire.

Tears tracked down her cheeks. ‘’Tis not true!’ She sought his shadowed countenance in the gloom of the loft, cowering under the forceful vehemence of his words. ‘I was going to tell you, Talvas. I…I just had to be certain.’

He folded his arms high over his chest, the jewelled hilt of his sword winking in the half light. In the cramped confines of the hayloft, he appeared as a giant, the soft black of his hair
almost brushing the apex of the ceiling. He tilted his head to one side. ‘Certain? Of what?’

‘Of my decision to stay.’ Her words, spoken with quiet dignity, poured over him like honey balm. ‘Of my decision to marry you.’ She drew her knees upwards, clasping her arms around her calves. One golden braid dropped forward, a rope of raw silk.

He stepped forward, dropping to his knees before her, all the tension that had grown within him in the past few days running from his body like a fast-flowing stream. The straw rustled beneath him as he smoothed his palms down the lean length of his thighs. ‘But you don’t want to marry, Emmeline. You made that perfectly clear.’

Her eyes rested upon him, wide, luminous orbs. The reddish-purple hues of her gown accentuated the chalk-white of her skin, the pulse beating rapidly at her throat. ‘It’s not my choice anymore, Talvas.’ Without thinking, she ran a protective hand over the gentle swell of her belly. ‘I will marry you.’

He heard the forlorn note of acceptance in her voice, saw the downcast sweep of her lashes and felt ashamed. The child she carried had compelled her to yield to his demands of matrimony. ‘If not for this babe, Emmeline…’ His voice sounded hollow ‘…you would have left me, gone.’

‘Nay, Talvas, I wouldn’t have. I was upset, angry with you for giving me such an ultimatum, for trying to make me do something that I really didn’t agree with. But the baby has made me truly think what I would be giving up.’ She leaned over and touched his cheek. The raised embroidery on her sleeve rasped against his skin, before the fabric fell back to reveal one slender wrist. He squeezed his eyes shut at the feather-light scuff of her fingers. He hated seeing her like this: downbeat and humbled before him. Emmeline would have stayed despite the baby, but she knew that staying meant
accepting his terms. He had forced her to give up the one thing that was precious to her: her free will. Was that the reason he felt so wretched inside?

The tiny chapel at Hawkeshayne, nestling in the lee of one of the turrets and bounded on two sides by the thick walls of the outer bailey, had been hastily prepared for the forthcoming wedding. The shields and crossed swords that decorated the white stone walls had been polished to a high sheen, emphasised by the morning light that poured through the narrow altar window. As the people of Hawkeshayne entered the holy place through the ornately carved recessed arch of the door, their excited voices muted immediately, feet shuffling forward slowly for fear of drawing the priest’s wrath, as they moved to stand in the nave to hear the wedding service. Some whispered hesitantly of a fight between the lord and his betrothed, that a mystery surrounded this marriage, conceived with such haste. Yet others grinned conspiratorially, and nudged each other, reminding their friends of the feast some nights before, and how their lord had whisked the maid away before she had time to put a morsel of food in her mouth.

Aware of the whispered speculation behind him, Talvas gazed up to the single window that threw light on to the altar table, covered with a brilliant white linen cloth, then upwards at the barrel-vaulted ceiling. Did he pray for salvation, for some sign that he did the right thing? He yearned to rest his head against the cool stone of the huge, circular column beside him; his skull pounded incessantly with the after-effects of too much mead the night before. Tormented by the image of Emmeline, humbled before him, quietly accepting his terms without her customary fighting spirit, he had quaffed cup after cup of the potent alcohol, ostensibly to celebrate his impending marriage. Doubt and despair plucked at his conscience.

He winced as the priest moved one of the candelabra nearer to the stone steps that led to the altar, steps at the top of which he would kneel with Emmeline and speak their vows. One of the candles tilted precariously in its iron holder, a gob of wax spattering to the floor below, spreading, then setting hard on the cold flagstone. He loved her wilful independence, her indomitable spirit—had he now crushed the one thing that he so admired? Would she grow to resent him for this in years to come? By gaining her hand in marriage, he might well lose her for ever.

Immersed in his thoughts, he jumped as a hand touched his elbow.

‘Are you ready?’ Stephen murmured in his ear.

Attempting to control the crucifying thump in his temples, Talvas viewed his brother-in-law, resplendent in his red-and-gold finery. ‘Nay,’ he replied. ‘Stephen, fetch Matilda to me. I need her to do something for me.’

‘He…what?’ Emmeline gasped out loud, the elaborately wrought headdress slipping through her fingers. The dried lavender and roses that made up the circlet crushed against the wooden floor to release the sweet aroma of summer. She brushed her hands over the fine blue silk of her wedding gown, a gesture of agitation. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘Well, I certainly don’t,’ Matilda replied. ‘He just told me that you’re free to go. Like you’re a prisoner or something.’

‘But…?’ In a single, blinding revelation, Emmeline suddenly realised what he was doing…and her heart leapt with joy. ‘Oh, what a fool that man is!’

‘I agree,’ Matilda replied. ‘He said he couldn’t bear to see you leave, couldn’t bear to watch you walk out of his life for ever. Now, what sort of talk is that when he’s about to marry you?’

Emmeline grasped Matilda’s hands. ‘Don’t you see? He’s
giving me the freedom to choose.’ Bending down, she grabbed the blue silk slippers dyed to match her gown, and shoved her feet into them. Her gleaming, unbound hair flowed around her like a cape; the only day a maid was allowed to leave her hair loose was on her wedding day. ‘I’ve got to find him…where was he when you last saw him?’

‘Sitting in the church, feeling sorry for himself. God be with you, Emmeline,’ Matilda called after her friend as the iron-studded door shut behind her.

The church had been cleared of people, empty apart from a solitary figure: Talvas. He sat on the lowest step, his back to the altar, elbows resting on his knees, his seal-dark head buried in his hands.

‘Talvas!’ The hem of Emmeline’s gown lapped across the flagstones as she moved toward him.

Slowly, he lifted his head. Dressed in his wedding finery, the masculinity of the man before her was devastating. His tunic and braies were of the deepest forest green, their only decoration a silver trace of embroidery around the cuffs and hem. He wore a cloak lined with sable, the chestnut-brown colour of the fur emphasising the dark hue of his eyes. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said, the words dragging heavily from his lips. ‘Didn’t Matilda tell you you’re free to go? Didn’t she give you the message?’ Strain and exhaustion etched his features.

‘But I don’t want to go, Talvas. I want to stay.’ She came and sat next to him on the step, relishing the close warmth of his big body.

‘I made a mistake, Emmeline.’ He shifted his weight, turning to look at her. ‘For which I am truly sorry.’ Almost in wonderment, he touched the shining strands of her loosened hair that rippled over her shoulders, curling to the grey stone beneath her. ‘I should never have forced marriage on you.’ His speech emerged as a desperate whisper, a plea for under
standing, for compromise. ‘You, of all people, should have a right to choose. But that choice was taken away from you when you realised you carried our child.’

Our child. His words carried a sweet possessiveness that fired her heart. The azure brilliance of his eyes pierced her. ‘So you are giving me the choice.’ Her fingers reached up to skim his cheek, and he turned the side of his face into the cup of her hand.