Warrior's Princess Bride (14 page)

The shouts from below echoed more loudly, more insistently. Tavia sprung from the bed, bolting to the window embrasure to push aside the tanned hide that covered the opening in the thick stone wall. Balancing her palms on the ledge, she leaned forwards, trying to glimpse what was happening down below. A cool breeze brushed her heated face, sifted through the looping tendrils of her hair as it spilled over the stone ledge like a magnificent red banner of glory. From this high vantage point, she watched the tall, commanding figure of Benois pulling on his thick, leather gaunt lets as he strode out over the cobbles to his horse, already saddled and pawing the ground impatiently at the sight of his master. King Henry walked along side Benois, talking animatedly, his arms flicking emphatically into the air with decisive gestures. Benois, his face impassive, listened attentively, nodding in agreement now and again.

Her heart deflated with a jolt. Where was he going? Without thinking, her brain be fuddled from sleep, she grabbed a fur from the bed to throw around her shoulders, to cover her thin night gown, before wrenching open the chamber door. She plunged down the shadowed stairs, unmindful of the freezing stone against her bare feet, hoping that the door at the bottom would lead out on to the inner bailey. As she reached the lowest step, trying to gain her bearings in the sepulchral gloom, the door leading to the outside suddenly opened inwards, flooding the small space with clear, blinding light.

‘Oh!’ Tavia blinked in surprise. ‘It’s you!’

Benois, the dark grey of his eyes streaked with silver, stood on the thresh old, dressed in chain mail. The fine links of his hauberk fitted his upper body like a second skin, shimmering like the scales of a fish with the tiniest movement. The hauberk fell to his knees, where he had dispensed with the usual chain mail leggings in favour of braies cut from a supple leather. His boots, expertly constructed from a thicker hide, were closed with leather laces that extended from the top of his foot before criss-crossing over solid calf muscles to his knees. Over the top of his hauberk, he wore a surcoat of red, emblazoned with the two golden lions of King Henry. The lions glittered in the half-light as he bowed formally. ‘Good morning, Princess.’

Was it her imagination, or did his tone contain the faint hint of mockery? No doubt he wanted to chastise her for not revealing her secrets earlier. ‘Nay, don’t address me so.’ Tavia frowned at him.

‘But it’s what you are, my lady.’ He folded his arms across his chest, assessing her languidly.

‘Nay,’ she explained. ‘I may be Earl Henry’s daughter, but because of my illegitimacy, the title is not recognised.’

‘Even so, royal blood flows in your veins, which gives you certain rights and privileges; there’s no denying that.’

The cold from the flag stones seeped through the skin on the soles of her feet; she shivered slightly, chewing on her bottom lip. ‘I should have told you sooner…I…I should have trusted you.’

Benois laughed, the sound immediately dissipating the strained atmosphere between them. ‘Nay, no matter, maid. I can under stand why you chose not to…trusting someone else is something we both find difficult.’

He jerked his head around suddenly as someone shouted his name from the yard, then turned back to her, speaking with low urgency. ‘Tavia…I have to go…King Henry wants me to go with young Malcolm, visit a couple of the more intractable Scottish barons who might prove difficult along the border. I was coming to see you…to tell you.’

‘Will it be dangerous?’ she uttered, eyeing his chain mail, fighting to hold back the crest fallen note in her voice.

‘I doubt it,’ he murmured. ‘Why? Are you concerned for my safety? I thought you’d be glad to see the back of me.’

‘I am,’ she responded dubiously.

‘And don’t worry about Ferchar. Henry will stay here—he has promised to keep you safe…now he knows you’re of royal blood.’ He uttered a short bark of laughter. ‘I trust my King with my life, and so should you.’

‘I will.’

‘It was kind of you to come down and see me off.’ Benois swept an amused, wary look over her tousled hair, the cumbersome fur around her shoulders that high lighted the delicacy of her face to sweet perfection, her naked toes peeking out from under the long hem of her night gown. ‘Even if you did forget to put your shoes on.’ The corners of his mouth crinkled up into a smile. Against the dull grey of the flag stones, her feet glowed pale pink, a pearly pink like the luminous innards of a shell. He longed to touch them, to kiss them. His fingers curled within the stiff leather of his gauntlets. After his last disastrous en counter with Tavia, he had made a promise to himself that he would never touch her again.

‘Well, I must take my leave.’ His voice held a throaty edge. Tavia made a movement, as if she intended following him into the bailey, but he stayed her, one gloved hand pressed against the soft rounded edge of her shoulder. ‘Nay, don’t come out, the cobbles are filthy…besides…’ he leaned closer ‘…dressed like that, you’ll attract too much attention.’ He swept one last lingering glance over her glorious
déshabillé
: the auburn tresses of hair tumbling with wild abandonment over her shoulders, the gauziness of her linen night gown revealing more than concealing the shapely length of her legs.

Trembling beneath the seductive possessive ness of his voice, she watched him power across the slick, greasy cobbles, leaning weakly against the door jamb. Her position shielded her from most of the soldiers, and she kept herself within the shadowed recess of the door. Benois reached his destrier, nodding to Henry before throwing himself up into the saddle, snatching up the reins to wheel the animal about. Beside him, Malcolm had already mounted up, and now was fiddling nervously with his stirrup.

His eyes sought out Tavia’s small figure in the doorway, made more fragile in appearance by the thick oak arch that framed her. Her candid expression shone out, her skin luminous in the shadows, following his every movement. Benois swallowed, trying to fight back the desire that boiled within him. Just one kiss, he thought, the ironclad bonds of his promise slipping apart at the sight of her. Just one kiss and then I will be gone.

He tapped his heels gently against the horse’s flank, urging the animal around to the open doorway where she stood, and swept his whole upper body down from the saddle to seize her up, one powerful arm manacled against the curve of her spine. He brought his mouth over hers in a brief, passionate kiss, his firm lips plundering her softness, her vulnerability. In a flash, he had placed her care fully down on the step again, running one unsteady hand through his hair, his eyes the colour of a knife-edge.

‘I needed something to remember you by,’ he explained roughly, his voice laced with the jagged edge of longing, ‘but I find it is not enough.’ He reached out his leather-covered fingers, catching at a stray silken loop of her hair to tuck it behind her ear.

‘Stay safe, Tavia.’

She stared at him. Memories came flooding back at his gruff utterance.

‘Don’t look so shocked, Tavia. It was just a kiss.’ He grinned, attempting to negate his own strong surge of desire.

‘Nay, it’s not the kiss,’ she replied shakily, ‘it was how you tucked my hair behind my ear. Like that, leaning down from your horse.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘What of it?’

‘I know where Earl Henry hid his treasure, Benois. I know what the message on the knife means.’ Her mind flooded with strong, vivid memories.

Benois cursed. ‘God in Heaven, woman. You do pick your moments!’ He glanced over at Henry, who beckoned impatiently, wanting them to move off. ‘Listen to me, Tavia, do nothing until I return. I’ll not be gone above two nights. Do nothing. Promise?’

The steel grey of his eyes held hers.

‘I promise.’

‘Good girl.’

Tavia watched the proud, broad line of his back as he led the small party of Scottish and English soldiers out through the main gate. Then he was gone.

M
indful of the injury across her palm, Tavia used her right hand to support the heavy yew crossbow as she lifted the end of the stock to her eye, sighting the target. Her muscles ached a little, as if complaining against the unwieldy weight of the bow. She had begged the weapon from the castle armoury, in an attempt to make the hours pass more quickly while Benois was away. The strengthening sun warmed the back of her neck as she viewed the large disc of compacted straw, the centre daubed with animal blood to make a target. Drifts of pink and white blossom blew sporadically across the archery practice area, sailing over the orchard wall to settle on the grass like circles of white lace.

Tavia sighed, lowering the crossbow as she spotted the sylph-like figure of Ada slip through the wooden gate that connected the orchard to the archery area. Caught up in her own thoughts, she had hoped to escape Ada’s constant prattle, at least until the noon bell, yet it seemed her younger sibling was re lent less in her pursuit.

‘I’ve been looking every where for you!’ gasped Ada, reaching over to clutch at Tavia’s sleeve. ‘Of course I’d for got ten how skilful you are with a crossbow; I should have looked here first.’ A gown of light blue complemented Ada’s auburn hair, matching the ribbons that had been care fully braided into her long swinging plait.

‘It helps to keep in practice,’ Tavia explained defensively.

Ada nodded disinterestedly, instead casting a doubtful look over Tavia’s coarse
bliaut
, woven loosely from a serviceable grey wool, over the frayed cuffs of her under dress of brown linen. ‘Ferchar asked me to find you some decent clothes.’

‘How kind of him,’ murmured Tavia.

Ada’s eyes lit up, a beatific expression crossing her face at the mention of Ferchar. ‘He is always kind,’ she intoned. ‘He was quite right when he said you can’t go around dressed like this any more, not if you’re Earl Henry’s daughter…and my sister!’ Ada seized Tavia’s hand eagerly, her manner animated. ‘I can’t believe we’re related; I’ve always wanted a sister, and now I have one!’

Tavia watched Ada’s intense, vivacious expression as she chatted away, and was surprised that she didn’t feel a stronger bond with the girl. A vague feeling nagged away at the base of her consciousness: a feeling that something was not quite right with Ada. She appeared as someone out of kilter with the rest of the world, possessed by a manic desperation that coloured every gesture, every nuance of tone.

‘Have you thought any further about the knife? What it means?’ Ada asked abruptly, in a sing-song voice. She’s been sent by Ferchar, thought Tavia immediately, detecting the false note in Ada’s speech.

‘Nay, nothing,’ she replied blandly, hugging the secret close. When Benois had leaned down from his horse yesterday morning, tucking the wisp of hair behind her ear, she had been carried back to an earlier time, to a spring day when she had walked with her mother up over the moors behind their cottage. They were going to meet someone, her mother had said, someone important to them. They had walked across the craggy, winds wept moor for more than an hour, before dropping down into a narrow, sunlit valley, bisected by a tumbling stream. Densely wooded with the ghostly white stems of birch and the thick, sinewy structures of oak, the valley appeared as a secret place, un discovered and un touched by man. Stepping along the bare, dry earth of a sheep path, Tavia had looked up and almost gasped out loud in wonder. Ahead, a magnificent oak spread long, muscular branches wide, in can des cent with new shining leaves in the early sun. Beneath this sentinel of the woods lay a carpet of flowers: stunning pale wood anemones, five white petals around orange stamens, spangled over the mossy ground.

‘What a beautiful place.’ Tavia had reached forward to touch her mother’s back with her fingers.

‘I know,’ her mother had answered. ‘It’s why we chose it.’

A man on horse back had been waiting for them, dressed in the royal colours of his brother, King David. At their approach, he had dismounted, smiling at the daughter he had never seen. She had been too young to realise the full implications of the meeting, but now, now in the light of what had occurred in the past few days, these events had moved sharply into focus—this handsome man had been her father. He had brought some food and they shared it under the oak tree together. And when he had kissed them both, and bid them
adieu
, he had climbed on his horse. At the last moment, he had leant his big frame down from the horse, and, tucking Tavia’s hair behind her ear, had spoken those words: ‘Stay safe, my sweet.’ The flowers in that valley, those pale wind flowers that fluttered against the breeze, were the same flowers etched into the knife slung into the leather scabbard around her hips.

‘Haven’t you had any ideas?’ Ada’s plaintive cry interrupted her reverie.

‘Nay, I said not,’ Tavia responded reluctantly. ‘Come, why not show me these clothes you’ve found?’

Ada’s eyes widened with pleasure, keen to forget the request that Ferchar had asked of her. She wound Tavia’s arm through her own, and they walked together out of the archery area, passing through the court yard at the back of the kitchens where the low bushes had been draped with laundry to dry, and through into the inner bailey. Tavia’s heart sunk as she saw Ferchar and King Henry locked in conversation by the main door of the castle. Ada’s arm tensed against her own as they approached; Tavia sensed her fear. Both women made a low curtsy.

‘Ah! The two sisters together! How charming!’ Ferchar ex claimed, his gaze slithering lust fully over Tavia’s neat figure.

‘Hello, my darling!’ Tavia looked on in surprise as Ada coiled her arms about Ferchar’s neck. There was obviously far more between these two than first appeared. Ferchar pushed Ada away, irritated. ‘Good God, woman!’ he blustered. ‘How many times have I told you about displays of affection in public? It lowers my standing among the people!’

‘I’m sorry.’ Ada stepped away, ducking her head. ‘It won’t hap pen again.’

‘Just make sure it doesn’t,’ Ferchar snapped. He cast a disparaging glance at Tavia. ‘I thought I told you to find some clothes for…er…her.’

‘We were just on our way, my lord,’ Tavia spoke gently, hoping to al le vi ate Ada’s mistake. ‘She had a little trouble finding me, that’s all.’

‘Just make sure we can find you, my lady. King Henry has persuaded me to give you more freedom than I would like.’

‘But it does no harm to rein these women in now and again,’ said Henry. He stared down his nose at Tavia, running his eye contemptuously over her neat figure.

He disapproves of me, she thought, in shock. I wonder why? Benois obviously held his king in high esteem; for his sake, she wanted to as well, at least till Benois returned.

‘May I borrow the lady for a few moments?’ Henry turned to Ferchar, who inclined his head in agreement. Panic slid through her veins as Henry patted her arm in an avuncular fashion, despite being almost the same age as Benois, and began to steer her in the direction of the gardens. ‘Now, you think I am displeased with you, but I assure you, that is not the case.’ They walked past the southern end of the castle, the grey stone walls towering high on their left-hand side, until they reached the wide spread of the vegetable garden set between coarse stone walls. The garden had been laid out into a series of rectangular beds, uneven cobbled paths in between. Neat rows of vegetables sprang up from the rich, brown earth, not fully formed yet, pale green in their infancy. The spring sun had been unusually warm, encouraging the seeds to germinate earlier than expected. The fluttering green shoots of peas had already begun to twine up the hazel supports, bordered by the fleshy, rounded leaves of broad-bean plants. Tavia’s heart twisted suddenly, a pang of longing for the small vegetable patch at the cottage, a pang of longing at the image of her mother kneeling in the earth, planting.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,’ she said suddenly, realising King Henry was talking to her.

‘I said, “I don’t want you to get hurt”,’ Henry replied patiently, stopping for a moment. The white ermine of his short cloak ruffled in the breeze.

She laughed. ‘I doubt Ferchar could do any more to me than he’s done already. Besides, it will all be over soon.’

‘I wasn’t talking about Lord Ferchar,’ Henry cut in, a little tetchily, taking her arm and resuming his brisk pace. ‘I was talking about Lord Benois.’

‘Benois?’ Her voice curled over the sound of his name.

‘Aye. It appears there is something between the two of you. Yester day morning, I saw you…in the bailey.’

‘A kiss. It was nothing.’ A black bird, startled by their quiet approach, flew off, squaw king, seeking refuge in some nearby bushes.

‘Just so long as it is nothing. I hope you don’t expect him to commit to….well, marriage, for example.’

‘I don’t expect him to commit to anything!’ she pro tested. ‘Least of all, me! I am nothing to him!’

It seemed as though Henry didn’t hear her words. ‘Because Benois would rather fall on his own sword than be trapped into anything so dull as the domestic apathy of marriage.’

‘Then it’s just as well I’m not planning on asking him,’ she quipped back, a peculiar constriction binding her chest.

‘He’d never marry, not after what happened to him…his family.’ Oblivious to her light-hearted reply, Henry made the pronouncement dramatically, as if she had no knowledge of Benois’s past.

‘I know what happened to him, sire, and I’m sorry for it.’

‘He told you?’ Henry’s keen hazel eyes narrowed, at once demanding more information. ‘He told you what happened to his family?’

She nodded, amused by the look of puzzlement that crossed Henry’s face, before he recovered enough to begin speaking once more. ‘It was a horrible time, but because of it, he has become the greatest fighting man, the finest soldier I have ever seen.’

‘Are you suggesting that’s a good thing?’ she blurted out, astonished.

‘For me, aye, it is. And I don’t want that to change.’ Henry glared at her, his eyes piercing and intent. He’s warning me off, she thought in a flash; he wants me away from Benois. She took a step back, hesitantly, a sense of disbelief washing over her. Henry’s words held power and authority; he had known Benois for a long time, whereas she had known him…how long? Not above a handful of days. But since that kiss on the thresh old, some brief, in de finable hope had flared within her, had grown, fed by the tiny crumbs Benois had thrown to her as he bade her farewell. He had apologised for the way he had treated her when she had slept in his chamber; aye, he had scared her, but he had also awoken in her a craving, a need that would not disappear.

She sighed, a long tremulous breath. The fragile idea, the dream she had begun to nurture, shattered into a million tiny pieces, dust in the wind. In truth, he had given her little, yet unwisely she had taken his small gestures of kindness and assembled them into something more meaningful, something greater! How could she ever hope to turn Benois away from a world of soldiering? It was his life. By heeding King Henry’s words, she could leave now, before she made an even greater fool of herself, before Benois returned. And in order to leave, she would have to tell Ferchar the location of Earl Henry’s gold.

Benois tightened the muscles of his honed inner thighs to squeeze his horse into a quick trot towards Dunswick Castle. Inside his steel helmet, his scalp felt sticky and hot; he longed to remove it and immerse himself in a cool bath. The ride back from the western border lands had been more than a day, over difficult, hostile terrain, yet all through that long journey, Benois couldn’t work out why Henry had sent him on such a fruit less mission. Malcolm hadn’t needed him—the young man’s powers of communication were perfectly adequate for the task; in fact, dressed in English colours, Benois’s presence had been more of a hindrance than a help, scaring people witless before Malcolm had had a chance to talk to them. After two days of marching from border castle to border castle, watching King Malcolm inform his people that King Henry now had control of the border lands, Benois made the decision to return to Dunswick to be with his king. And her.

The early afternoon sun beat down on his back, and, all about him, people were bustling about the town, faces happy and smiling as they went about their daily chores. Without openly acknowledging Benois’s formidable presence, high on his black destrier, they made a path for him through the crowds, so he could reach the castle easily. He pulled lightly on the reins, slowing the horse to a walk as he approached the draw bridge to the castle, wincing at the pain in his right shoulder. Damn! He had thought the wound would have begun to hurt him less by now. The bundle of linens, wrapped over his shoulder and under his armpit to make a tight bandage underneath his hauberk, felt loose: it had come undone. His mouth tensed ruefully—only an amateur would have failed to notice the over-zealous guard at one of the border castles! Yet his mind had been else where, and he had caught the sword point at the top of his arm, as the weapon had dug up along the loose sleeve of his chain mail.

The hooves of his horse clattering over the wooden drawbridge, his heart lifted at the thought of seeing Tavia again. The memory of how she had looked on the day he left remained vivid in his mind’s eye: her skin rosy and flushed from sleep, the sweep of lustrous fur around her shoulders emphasising the delicate bone structure of her neck. His heart quickened at the vision; he had wanted to seize her right then, sweep her up into his arms, and race upstairs with her, back to the downy, sweet-smelling warmth of her bed. He frowned, trying to dispel the tantalising thought, the voices in his head warning him, forcing him to remember what happened the last time with the maid! Pulling the horse to a stop in the inner bailey, he dismounted care fully, handing the reins to a groom. Lifting off his helmet, he pushed back the mail hood that formed part of his hauberk, shoving his hand through his hair, relishing the coolness of the breeze against his heated scalp. The inner bailey seemed quiet—where was she? He needed to see her, hear her kind voice, touch her…nay, not that. But the least he could do was make sure she was safe. Striding up the steps two at a time, he swept into the great hall. At this hour, the massive, high-ceilinged chamber was empty, apart from two figures seated at the top table: King Henry…and Langley!