The Warrior’s Princess Bride

by Meriel Fuller

  Benois glared at her in disbelief, then threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘You think I’m interested in bedding the likes of you? A common wench from the fields with barely an ounce of padding on her? You couldn’t be more wrong!’ He surveyed her coolly, tucking the arrow she had filched back into his belt. ‘I was merely thinking that, if I let you go, the first thing you’ll do is run out there and tell them who I am!’

  ‘Oh!’ Tavia’s face reddened slightly as she smarted from his insult. Taking a deep breath, she tried to recover her equilibrium. ‘Nay, you’re wrong. I’ll just carry on as if nothing has happened.’ She nib bled on a nail.

  ‘You expect me to believe that?’ he countered wryly.

  ‘You have to.’ Tavia took one pace closer to him. ‘You see, I have to take part in that contest.’

  ‘Why?’ he demanded, his attention snared by the rounded slenderness of her hips emphasised by the narrow fit of her braies. How could he ever have mistaken this maid for a lad?

  ‘Because I need to become a crossbow man for the King’s army,’ she replied, exasperated. ‘And if you don’t let me go now, I’ll miss my chance!’

  Amusement bubbled in his chest at the severity of her expression, and he sighed deeply, narrowing his eyes to scrutinise her slim frame. Did the maid really think she could get away with something like this? That she could best a man in a contest? ‘Then I suppose I’ll have to trust you,’ he said. ‘But you’ll have to promise that you won’t give the game away.’

  Tavia was already nodding. ‘I swear.’

  ‘You’d better put this back on, then.’ He reached around to pull her hood back over her head, his fingers grazing her cheek with a touch of fire. ‘It might increase your fortune.’ He didn’t sound hopeful.

  ‘I don’t need fortune,’ she shot back. ‘I rely on my skill.’

  He raised one dark brown eyebrow at her boast. ‘I’m glad you hold yourself in such high esteem,’ he murmured. Hands on her shoulders, he pushed her gently out of the stables. She blinked in the daylight.

  ‘And remember, if you break your promise,’ he whispered softly in her ear, his breath caressing her skin, ‘you’ll have me to deal with. And believe me, it would not be a pleasant experience.’

  Hands still shaking from her en counter with that barbarian, Tavia took her place once more in the queue shuffling slowly forward over the damp, slippery cobbles. She deliberately kept her head lowered, staring resolutely at the toes of her leather boots, unwilling to give Benois le Vallieres, should he still be watching her, any reason that she would give him away. She prayed ardently that the Scottish guards would have enough intelligence to stop him at the gate, and question him as to his identity, but, with a sinking heart, she knew Benois le Vallieres would outwit them.

  When her turn came, she strode up to the rope line, slinging her crossbow forwards from the back of her shoulders, and pulling an arrow from the leather satchel at her waist. Placing one arrow care fully in the central groove of the bow, she raised the sights to the target, trying to keep her breathing slow and steady. Releasing the catch underneath with a slow squeeze of her fingers, the arrow flew straight and true, hitting the red circle painted in the centre of the target. The crowd cheered; there had not been many that morning who had managed to shoot so well.

  Tavia glanced up at the dais, searching for some sign of approval from the royal observers, and saw the young King clapping, smiling at her. Lord Ferchar, the regent, rose to his feet, motioning for her to go and stand with the other men who had come through this first contest. As she nodded at him, she realised with a jolt that he meant for her to come and join him on the dais. Fetching her arrow and climbing the few wooden steps on to the platform, she hoped that Benois le Vallieres was not watching. He might think that she was about to break her promise to him.

  ‘You shoot well, young man.’ Ferchar, his grey hair grizzled and straggling, came forwards, as Tavia bowed low to the royal party.

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ Tavia said hesitantly, unsure whether she was allowed to speak or whether she had to wait until someone asked her a direct question.

  Ferchar curled his lips into a tight smile, and continued. ‘Unfortunately, what has escaped most people’s notice has not escaped mine.’ A sharp gust of wind sent the colourful flags that decorated the dais flapping erratically. Tavia wrapped her arms about her as an icy coldness engulfed her body.

  ‘Oh?’ Her voice emerged as a croak.

  ‘The fact that you’re a maid,’ replied Ferchar, reaching up with gnarled fingers to flip her hood back. King Malcolm gasped audibly, half-rising from his wooden chair, all thoughts of watching the contest for got ten.

  ‘Look! Ferchar, she looks just like…’ The end of Malcolm’s sentence trailed into in significance as he appraised Tavia’s slender proportions.

  ‘I know,’ Ferchar replied.

  Tavia remained silent. She hadn’t the faintest idea what they were talking about.

  ‘It’s your hair,’ Ferchar continued. ‘Well, there are other things as well, but it’s mainly your hair.’

  ‘I can cut it off,’ she gabbled in response. ‘I’ll blend in with the soldiers; they won’t even suspect that I’m a maid.’ She couldn’t let her mother die!

  ‘Why would you want to do that?’ Ferchar rapped out. ‘Nay, you mistake me, girl. There’s something I’d like to ask you. A favour, if you will.’

  Tavia nodded, wanting him to continue. Malcolm, his round face jovial, smiled encouragingly at her, although it was obvious that he had no more idea than she about what Lord Ferchar would say next.

  ‘As a maid, you could never be in the King’s army, you know that.’

  Tavia shuffled uncomfortably.

  ‘But there is something you could do for us.’ Ferchar raked his arrogant gaze over the threadbare state of her clothes. ‘ And we would pay you handsomely, more than a humble bowman.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she whispered, a flicker of hope springing to her breast. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that she had been discovered after all.

  ‘First of all, who was that man who carried you off?’ Ferchar glanced down into the bailey, as if trying to catch sight of him. ‘Was he your husband?’

  ‘Aye,’ she lied easily. ‘He didn’t want me to go ahead with the contest.’

  Ferchar laughed, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. ‘Quite right. A man should assert his marital rights. But if he hadn’t caused such a diversion I might not have noticed you.’

  She clasped her hands together. ‘What would you have me do?’

  ‘Have you noticed your likeness to the King’s sister, Ada?’

  ‘In truth, I have never met her, my lord.’

  ‘Then follow me.’

  Ferchar leaned over the front rail of the platform and ordered the soldiers to hold the proceedings, before striding off the platform in the direction of the main castle building. Hesitating slightly, before catching the more encouraging, friendly face of King Malcolm, she darted after the flowing cloak of the regent.

  After the bright ness of the day outside, the great hall of the castle seemed wreathed in gloom. A fire smouldered listlessly in the huge fire place, sending out great gasps of smoke across the hall, which was deserted apart from one figure sitting at the top table. Tavia blinked her eyes, trying to accustom them to the dim interior.

  Still walking forwards, Ferchar raised his hand, gesturing towards the girl who nibbled at a piece of bread. ‘Ada of Huntington,’ he intoned, by way of introduction. ‘The King’s older sister.’

  They had reached the dais. ‘Come over here, my lady, if you please,’ Ferchar addressed Ada, as he climbed the steps, indicating that Tavia should follow him. ‘There’s someone I wish you to meet.’

  With regal poise, Ada swivelled around in the carved oak chair be fore rising grace fully. She lifted one hand to adjust the veil of diaphanous silk, anchored with a heavy golden circlet, pulling it away from her face. Her bliaut, sewn with exquis
ite precision to flatter her slender figure, was of pale green silk, elaborately embroidered about the hem with an intricate design of flowers and leaves. Self-consciously, Tavia smoothed her grubby hands down the front of her tunic before tucking them behind her back.

  ‘Now, do you see what I see?’ Ferchar addressed her. ‘Just look at the princess!’

  Tavia frowned. See what? ‘She’s very beautiful,’ Tavia admitted as Ada approached them, and smiled.

  ‘She looks just like you,’ Ferchar said, exasperated, ignoring her whispered admiration. ‘Once we clean you up and put some decent clothes on you, I doubt anyone could tell you apart.’

  ‘But why would you want to do that?’ Tavia replied, aghast, sceptical that anyone should compare her to this breath taking beauty.

  Ferchar reached out to grasp Ada’s hand, his manner soothing as he patted her white fingers. ‘The Princess is in danger,’ he explained. ‘We’ve had information that the English plan to kidnap and hold her to ransom in exchange for Northumbria and Cumbria. We need to take her to a safe place and in order to do that we need to create a diversion. You, my dear, will be the diversion. You need to lure the English spies away from this castle long enough for us to smuggle Ada out of here.’

  ‘But…’ So that’s what le Vallieres was doing here! Was he planning to kidnap Ada right in front of their noses?

  ‘It’s obvious you can defend yourself—’ Ferchar’s tone held an ingratiating lilt ‘—and we would pay you handsomely.’

  An image of her mother, lying frail and listless on a grubby mat tress, entered her mind. ‘I’ll do it,’ she agreed.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Thank you for helping us like this,’ Ada’s lithe figure sprang lightly up the stone stairs that spiralled up inside one of the castle turrets. ‘Ferchar’s been afraid for my safety for some time, but, with all the English watching the castle, he couldn’t work out a way of carrying me to safety.’ Tavia caught the note of admiration in the princess’s voice when she talked about Ferchar and wondered at it—was there more to their relationship than at first appeared? She felt slightly ashamed; Ada made it sound as if Tavia were helping them out of the kindness of her heart, as a friendly favour, but the grim reality was that she needed the money, and she needed it fast.

  ‘I’m just pleased that I could be in the right place at the right time,’ she replied, cautiously, following the princess’s graceful ascent. Be side Ada’s delicate beauty, she felt every inch the peasant that she was, especially dressed in these shabby boy’s clothes. ‘But I’m not certain you will be able to make me look like you.’ Tavia eyed Ada’s elegant lines dubiously, the seductive sway of her gown, the glittering jewels at her slim throat.

  Stopping on a wide, curving landing, Ada swung round, the fine twirling embroidery on her bodice catching the light from the flame of a single torch, slung into an iron bracket on the wall. The shadowed space high lighted the deep red of her hair, drawn into two braids that fell either side of her head. ‘You really have no idea, do you, Tavia?’ she questioned, laughing. ‘I will find a piece of silvered glass, and we will put our faces side by side, and then you will see how alike we are. Once you are bathed and dressed, I would challenge anyone to notice the difference.’ Placing one hand against the uneven planks of an oak-studded door, Ada pressed inwards. Light flooded out into the gloomy stair well, illuminating the shrouds of cobwebs draping from the angled ceiling. Following the princess into the bright ness, Tavia almost gasped in delight.

  The southernmost tower of Dunswick Castle housed the women’s solar, where the ladies of the royal court, wives of the high-ranking soldiers who had sworn fealty to King Malcolm, spent their days. After the drab grey stone of the castle bailey and the stairs, the room swelled with rainbows of bright fabric and laughing chatter. Everywhere Tavia looked, the bright, jewel-like colours of the ladies’ gowns filled her senses.

  In one corner, a lady sat at a loom, fingers busy as she pushed her wooden shuttle back and forth through the many-stranded warping threads, weaving a fine cloth resplendent with muted hues of purple and green. Other women held drop spindles, almost hidden in the voluminous folds of their skirts, drawing single threads from fluffy pieces of woollen fleece bunched in their hands.

  As the ladies noticed Ada’s presence, they rose and curtsied one by one, each murmuring ‘my lady’ before resuming their work. If they noticed the similarity between the grubby boy in scruffy peasant garb and the luminous beauty of their princess, then they made no comment, displayed no change in their expressions.

  ‘My ladies,’ Ada introduced the group of women to Tavia with a wide sweep of her hand. Heads bowed respectfully towards Tavia, and she smiled back, somehow glad of their silent discretion. She had entered a world totally unknown to her, a world of luxury and riches, so completely at odds with the harsh minutiae of her own daily life, that the temptation to be completely absorbed by the fine details of this noble life style nudged strongly at her heart. She was here for the coin, she reminded herself sternly, coin that she would earn, and then escape, to run back to her cold, dry little life in the hills.

  ‘Beatrice will find you some suitable clothes.’ Ada indicated an older woman, who placed her embroidery in the willow basket at her feet, before looking Tavia up and down, assessing her size, her frame. ‘She needs to look like a princess…like me,’ Ada stated, as Beatrice sighed, rising to her feet, her bones creaking with the effort.

  ‘She’s shorter than you, my lady,’ Beatrice muttered in a guttural accent, before limping off through an open doorway. ‘But I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘And a bath as well, please, Beatrice,’ Ada called after the woman, flashing a quick half-smile of apology at Tavia. ‘She grumbles, but she has a heart of gold,’ Ada excused Beatrice’s gruff behaviour. ‘She looked after me as a child.’

  ‘I must look dreadful,’ Tavia tried to excuse her own appearance. ‘I daubed mud on my face before the archery competition. To make myself look more like a boy,’ she added, catching Ada’s bemused expression.

  ‘You’re very brave,’ Ada whispered. ‘I don’t think I’d ever have the nerve to do something like that.’

  Tavia shook her head, remembering the nauseous churning in her stomach that she had experienced before walking through the castle gates. ‘I don’t consider myself to be brave. Sometimes cir cum stances force you to do these things.’

  ‘But your husband…?’

  ‘I have no—’ Tavia stopped suddenly, remembering the lies she had told Ferchar, that the English soldier, Benois le Vallieres, was her husband. ‘Ah, yes,’ she muttered, lamely.

  ‘He didn’t look too happy when he led you away.’ Ada linked her arm through Tavia’s and led her towards the window embrasure, away from the knot of industrious ladies. ‘What did you say to him to change his mind?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, my lady?’ Confused, Tavia scrabbled to make some sense of the princess’s words. How in Heaven’s name did she know all this?

  Ada laughed. ‘I watched everything from an upstairs window; he’s a handsome fellow, your husband.’

  ‘Aye, and very lenient, once you know how to handle him.’ Tavia smiled, hoping that she would never have to ‘handle’ that man again. Two encounters had been more than enough for her.

  ‘Then I hope I am as lucky as you seem to be in your marriage.’ A secretive coyness spread across Ada’s face. Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Which may be sooner than everyone thinks.’

  ‘Oh?’ Tavia replied, vaguely.

  ‘I feel like I can tell you this, Tavia,’ Ada spoke in a hurried under tone, excitement making her stumble over some of the words. ‘You’re a stranger, yet I know we will be friends, and I know I can count on your discretion…?’

  The question hung on the princess’s lips, warranting some sort of answer. Tavia felt awkward, unwilling to be drawn so quickly into the princess’s confidence. Aye, at this first meeting, she liked the maid, but friends? It was too soon to make t
hat judgement. A quiet desperation lurked around Ada’s eyes, her neediness like an empty bucket that Tavia doubted she could fill. Not knowing how to reply, Tavia smiled lightly.

  ‘Ferchar will be my husband. He loves me, dotes on me…and I love him.’

  ‘I’m happy for you.’ Ada’s words meant nothing to her.

  ‘He’s so strong, so decisive, a natural leader.’ Ada’s voice rose a notch, hissing slightly with un disguised elation. ‘Why, he even picked out this gown for me this morning!’ She smoothed her hand over the soft wool of her skirt.

  ‘He makes a good regent,’ Tavia agreed, startled by Ada’s curious dependence on Ferchar.

  ‘He’d make an even better king!’ Ada blurted out, then clapped a hand over her mouth, before clutching weakly at Tavia’s sleeve. ‘I’ve said too much. Forget my words, Tavia!’ She glanced hurriedly around the room, checking to see if they had been over heard.

  So that explained Ferchar’s over-protectiveness of the Princess Ada, thought Tavia. He wanted the maid for himself, for a wife, and wanted to keep her safe. He had obviously already gained Ada’s undeniable loyalty; the girl appeared infatuated with him, despite him being at least twenty winters older than her.

  ‘Your words are for got ten, my lady,’ Tavia replied brightly. ‘Do not think on it again.’

  Underneath the magnificent wooden arches of the great hall at Langley Castle, Benois stabbed his jewelled eating knife into a piece of cured ham and put it between his lips, chewing thought fully. Below him, in the main body of the hall, his soldiers ate along side the peas ants that worked in the castle fields, hungrily devouring the huge platters of food that seemed to emerge continually from the kitchens.

  ‘Ah, Benois, back already!’ Lord Langley, a well-known sup porter of King Henry, bounced up the stairs to the top table. ‘How are you enjoying our hospitality?’ He slapped his friend companionably on the back.