The Warrior’s Princess Bride

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘Of course,’ she stated boldly. ‘I have my crossbow; I can defend myself.’

  ‘Like you did with my soldiers,’ he reminded her.

  ‘That was different…’ She faltered as Benois began to shake his head.

  ‘No different, Tavia.’ He curled his fingers around the top of her arm. ‘Come on, we must make camp while we can still see.’

  Tavia had no choice but to ac company the men back to the clearing where the initial attack had taken place. Following Langley’s stocky frame, she struggled to walk in her sodden, ill-fitting slippers; her toes aching from scrunching to keep the leather attached to her feet. What could she do? Short of stealing a horse and pointing it roughly in the direction on Dunswick, she had no idea of which route to follow, or, indeed, if she could stay on the wretched animal. Langley had already announced that he had sent the soldiers who had accompanied her back to Dunswick, so she had no hope of securing their escort.

  Tavia stopped abruptly, whipping around. At her back, Benois cursed, ceasing his stride immediately, to avoid cannoning into her.

  ‘What now?’ he asked brusquely, aware that his hands had risen instinctively to steady her. He dropped them to his sides, his fingers curiously bereft. ‘Can’t we even take two steps without protest from you?’

  ‘It’s not a protest, more a request.’ Her wide eyes implored him. ‘Benois, I need you to take me back to Dunswick tonight. You must!’ she pleaded, tormented by the re cur ring images of her mother.

  ‘I must?’ he replied slowly, astounded that this impudent chit still found the capacity to give orders. Idly, he wondered at the anguish in her wide, light-blue eyes.

  ‘Lord Ferchar would reward you handsomely if you took me back.’

  Benois grabbed her chin roughly between thumb and forefinger, so close that an enticing smell of leather mixed with wood smoke arose from him. ‘I wasn’t aware you were that important to him,’ he responded heartlessly. ‘I presumed you were a peasant.’

  His words rankled her; she straightened her spine, drawing herself up. ‘I’m a farmer’s daughter,’ she announced.

  ‘My mistake,’ he ground out unpleasantly, indicating by his tone that he still considered her to be ill bred, of the lowest stock.

  ‘I’ll reward you,’ she said desperately.

  His lips clamped into a thin line. ‘Be careful, mistress.’

  She gulped. ‘I said, I’ll reward you, if you take me back.’

  ‘How?’ He tipped his head to one side, considering her—nay, challenging her.

  Was it her imagination or had he stepped a little closer? ‘I’ll pay you,’ she stuttered, wondering how on earth she would achieve that.

  Benois laughed, the sound hollow and raw. ‘I have coin enough. Try again.’

  She squeezed her eyes together, wretched, anticipating his rejection before she even spoke the words. But she would do anything to save her mother’s life.

  ‘Not in coin,’ her voice fluttered. A cold, sick feeling rose in her stomach, humbling her. Glancing upwards, the rigid lines around his mouth portrayed his utter fury, his condemnation at her words. She had made a mistake.

  ‘You want to offer me your body?’ His voice mocked her, cruelly teasing, shred ding her confidence. ‘You must really be des per ate if you wish to prostitute yourself with me.’

  ‘’Tis all I have,’ she replied meekly, wanting to crawl away into the under growth and weep.

  The steel-grey of his eyes hardened, the stance of his body at once condemning and judgemental. Somewhere above them, an owl hooted, the un earthly note echoing hauntingly through the trees.

  ‘Then keep it. Keep it for someone more deserving than myself.’ He stuck his hand through his hair; the silky spikes fell down rakishly over his forehead. ‘Hear me, Mistress of Mowerby, and hear me well. I don’t care if you rip off all your clothes in front of me, and run about stark naked, you will not convince me to change my mind. We are not travelling until tomorrow, do you understand?’

  In reply, she nodded jerkily, misery gathering about her like a cloak.

  Sleep evaded her. The woodland glade, the ground of which had appeared so cushioned and inviting when she had first ridden into it with the Scottish soldiers, was riddled with sharp stones. Every way she turned, rocky corners jabbed her flesh, poking into the rounded curve of her hips, the small of her back. Despite retrieving her cloak, and wrapping herself securely in it, she was still cold, her feet like lumps of ice, her head aching each time the breeze lifted her hair.

  On one side, Langley snored comfortably. On her other side, mere inches from her, Benois had stretched himself out, and was now breathing evenly. His nearness made her feel awkward, uncomfortable. She held herself rigid, every muscle held in constant check, just in case she might touch him in advertently. One of the horses pawed the ground behind her as she followed the alluring line of his profile, high lighted by the waning moon: the straight, proud line of his nose, the enticing curve of his full top lip, the jut of his chin.

  Benois turned his head swiftly, eyes twinkling in the soft light, catching her staring at him. Surprised, she gasped, clutching the sides of her cloak to her breast.

  ‘I thought you’d be fast asleep by now,’ he murmured. His breath emerged in misty white puffs of air into the cool night. The velvet rasp of his voice spiralled around her like silken thread, drawing her in. ‘Not still trying to plan your escape, are you?’

  Heat suffused her body, spreading traitorously along her limbs. ‘Nay,’ she whispered back. ‘I wouldn’t dare.’

  He trapped her gaze, and smiled.

  Without thinking, she grinned back.

  ‘We both know that’s a lie,’ Benois replied mildly, a hint of admiration in his tone. Unexpectedly, his expression hardened, became alert, predatory. In a creak of leather, he had raised himself on one elbow, a finger to his lips. He tilted his head upwards, listening intently for a moment, before crouching over her, lips tickling her ear.

  ‘Come with me,’ he whispered. ‘We have visitors.’

  Her senses quickened at the closeness of his body. Powerful arms drew her upwards, one hand at her back as he pushed her towards the dark mass of the forest. ‘Stay out of sight,’ he nodded, indicating that she could go further in, ‘and you’ll be safe.’

  ‘But what is it?’ Tavia halted abruptly, turning in the circle of his arm. ‘I can’t hear anything.’ She craned her neck, trying to look over the broad curve of his shoulder, but he pushed her onwards into the cover of the trees.

  ‘Just stay here,’ he ordered. His broad palm slid along her back, down her arm, igniting a line of fire around her waist, her hips. Tavia captured his hand, feeling the rough scar of his palm against her own, staying him. The warmth, the vitality of his fingers sparked through her veins.

  ‘Let me fetch my crossbow,’ she urged, her eyes huge orbs of diamond in the gloom. ‘I might be of some use.’

  ‘There’s not above a few.’ He glanced at the pale oval of her face, gossamer white in the rays of moon light filtering through the branches. ‘We’ll finish them quickly if they attack. Mayhap they’ll just pass by.’

  Reluctantly, she nodded, toeing the soft ground, watching his dark shape return to crouch down and waken the sleeping Langley, and the other soldiers, before taking cover around the clearing. One of the soldiers led the horses deeper under the cover of the trees. And still, she hadn’t heard a sound, just the frantic beating of her heart thumping against her ribcage.

  The sound of chinking bridles, of bits ringing between the horses’ teeth, could be heard long before the steady thumping of the animals’ hooves. Benois lifted one arm, a signal for his men to stay down as long as possible, to remain hidden. With growing anxiety, Tavia watched the group of men approach, not above ten in number; a fierce-looking bunch with trailing, matted hair, eyes wild and des per ate and swords already held on high. With a bloodcurdling war-cry, the leader reined in his horse with one rapid, violent wrench so that the animal
lifted its front hooves into the air, clawing frantically.

  ‘Come on out, you nobles!’ the leader shouted, his speech thickly slurred and guttural. ‘We know you’re in there! Come out or we’ll kill you where you stand!’

  Nobody moved. Tavia held her breath. Did these men think they were still the royal party?

  A moment passed, then two.

  ‘So that’s the way you want to play it, eh?’ the leader shouted, his head darting one way, then another, trying to discern the human shapes within the under growth. ‘Ye Gods, let’s be having you then!’

  As he and his men charged forward into the bushes, Benois and the other soldiers rose up, stealthily, drawing their swords. For a moment, the brigand leader appeared astonished; he obviously had not been expecting to deal with a group of English soldiers, but it was too late to call his men away. Already swords clashed against each other, the steel flashing through the trees, grunts of pain emerging as a sword sliced through skin, or a dagger found its mark. With her back against the tree trunk, all Tavia could hear was the terrible noise of men fighting. Nervous tension strung her body tight, and she peered frantically through the trees, trying to spot their horses, to find her crossbow. Thank the Lord someone had possessed the foresight to transfer her weapon and satchel to the English horses. She couldn’t stand by and watch these men be slaughtered, she had to help. Gliding back through the woodland, she crept over to the horses, feeling along the high glossy backs of the animals until she came to the smooth wooden arc of her crossbow. Her hands shook as she drew the bridle of sinew back to arm the weapon, reaching for a quarrel from the round leather satchel, to fit it along the groove. Pulling the hood of her cloak sharply over her bright hair, hair that gleamed like a burnished coin under the thready light of the moon, she tiptoed back to the edge of the clearing to take up a position. Slinking around the curving girth of a tree, she screwed up her eyes, focusing intently on the scene before her.

  Benois, his large rangy form moving with an animal grace, fought easily, the sword moving as if it were merely an ex tension of his body, slashing one way, then the other. His feet danced across the ground, no ounce of spare energy wasted, each step executed with the precision and skill of a master swords man. Glancing quickly around the clearing, Tavia noticed with relief that all the other English soldiers, including Langley, seemed to still be standing. Her hands relaxed their re lent less grip around the crossbow. They didn’t need her…or did they?

  Her eyes flicked to a dark spot to the right of Benois; someone was moving, creeping along in the shadows. She raised her bow, setting her sights on the shifting area of darkness, waiting for one shadow to pull away. She drew breath, honing her gaze, as the leader of the barbarians emerged from the darkness, the menacing curved blade of a falchion winking at Benois’s back.

  As she squeezed the trigger, the man’s blade slashed down, in tended for Benois’s neck. The point of Tavia’s arrow drove straight through his ragged clothes, straight into his heart. Benois whipped around, staring in astonishment as the barbarian crumpled to the ground, a dark stain spreading across his threadbare tunic.

  The crossbow dropped uselessly from her numb fingers; bewilderment fogging her brain, stifling her. She backed slowly away, struggling to breathe, huge, rounding waves of sorrow rising up to over whelm her. What had she done? In that single appalling moment, she had lost all sense of control, or responsibility; she had killed a man. She sank to the ground, a pitiful heap, burying her head in her hands.

  ‘Tavia.’

  She felt the warmth of Benois’s hands in her own. ‘It’s over,’ he said, hunkering down at her feet, staring in puzzlement at the tears washing over her face, dripping down from the bottom of her chin. ‘They were vicious, I grant you that,’ he admitted care fully. He pulled lightly on her hands, not understanding her tears. ‘But we got them in the end.’ He laughed. ‘Thanks to you.’

  Her face turned up to him, tears streaking the milk-white skin of her cheeks. She shook her head. ‘How can you laugh?’ Her voice stung him, an accusation. ‘At least ten men lie out there, dead, all dead, and we did it!’

  His eyes narrowed, dangerous cuts of spark ling granite. ‘They deserved it, Tavia. They attacked us, remember?’ Coldness invaded his voice, crushing her. ‘If we hadn’t killed them, then they would have killed us…or maybe you would have preferred that? They were going to kill us, Tavia. And I would be dead…’ she jumped as his fingers grazed her cheek ‘…if it hadn’t been for that deadly shot.’

  The air in her lungs shuddered as she took a deep breath. ‘I’m not proud of it,’ she returned shakily. She hung her head, shame rolling over her.

  ‘You saved my life.’ His fingers tipped her chin upwards, forcing her to meet his gaze. ‘I know it’s hard to see something like this, when you’re not used to it. There’s no place for feelings, for emotion, when you’re fighting for your life.’

  ‘Is that why you do it?’ she blurted out. ‘Is that why you laugh when men lie dying around you; why you dismiss killing with such ease? Because you have no feelings? Is it?’ She wanted to goad him, provoke him into some reaction.

  His face was stony, grim under her verbal attack. ‘You’ve said enough, mistress.’

  ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

  He grabbed at her shoulders, wanting to shake her, wanting to stop her mouth with a kiss. His hands rounded on her small shoulders, fingers splayed over the delicate bones beneath. ‘Aye,’ he admitted ruefully. ‘You are right. The best soldiers have no feelings at all. Otherwise all that they witness in battle would make them go mad.’

  The soft grey of his eyes pierced hers, and she bit her lip nervously. ‘I couldn’t do it. And I don’t know how you can.’ Tavia swept her eyes back over the clearing. ‘I feel so guilty,’ she whispered, finally.

  He released her chin, sprung to his feet, eyes aflame. His caustic tone tore at her rattled senses. ‘You don’t know the meaning of the word,’ he ground out.

  Chapter Six

  Mist veiled the river valley: shifting diaphanous fingers of white draped length ways across the clearing like shrouds for the dead. Heavy dew coated the undulating mounds of grass, at first thick white, then changing to a spark ling net of diamonds as the sun began to rise. Through the trees, with slow onset of light, birds began to chirrup merrily, the sweet song of the black bird mingling with the more human like call of the jay. The bodies of the brigands, cold and lifeless, were scattered over the ground, a grim reminder of the events of the previous night.

  Gruesome, re lent less images harrowed Tavia’s brain; in her dreams, she had reached out to touch people, and they dropped at her feet, dead, blood seeping from their limbs. Anguished, she had twisted her head from side to side, trying to rid herself of the appalling images, but only succeeded in waking herself up. She had fallen asleep, exhausted, half-propped against the tree, and at some time during the night had slipped sideways to lie in a more com fort able, horizontal position. Now, as the layers of foggy sleep receded, her limbs ached from sleeping on the lumpy ground in such a miserable, scrunched-up position. She rubbed the back of her neck, trying to relieve the tension in the knotted muscles.

  ‘Try to go back to sleep,’ a familiar tone barged into her thoughts. Too close! Her spine tingled beneath the deep vibration of his voice. Cursing her aching muscles, she rolled over abruptly, and found her self mere inches from Benois!

  ‘What are you doing here?’ She sucked in her breath, stung with shock, holding her body stiffly away from him. Benois lay flat on his back, the lean length of his legs crossed at the ankles, one arm folded behind his head. ‘I was sleeping,’ he replied. His eyes, in the faint light, had muted to the soft grey-green of old stone. ‘Until your shuffling woke me up.’

  ‘You deliberately misunderstand me!’ she hissed back, aware that Langley and the other soldiers still snored beneath their cloaks just a few feet away. ‘I mean that you are too close!’

  The leather cords cross-gartering t
he bottom of Benois’s braies strained slightly as he flexed one foot, then the other. ‘You seemed upset last night,’ he said, after a long pause.

  ‘That’s no reason for you to sleep almost on top of me!’

  He quirked one eyebrow, his silvered expression gently teasing. ‘You could have chosen a less provocative turn of phrase.’

  ‘Oh!’ Incensed, she pushed herself into a seated position, her numb muscles protesting. ‘You know what I mean!’

  ‘I know. I also know that your desire to return to Dunswick might have been greater than your desire to sleep.’

  ‘So you’re guarding me?’

  ‘Precisely.’ He rolled one shoulder forwards, trying to ease the discomfort gained from sleeping in chain mail. ‘And…you did seem upset.’

  ‘And you would be the one to provide comfort? How would you know how to do that?’ she taunted him. ‘You, the man who feels nothing!’ The auburn silk of her hair fell in a gentle curve across her forehead, the amazing rippling colour accenting the exquisite pearl lustre of her skin. Her sky-blue eyes, wide with accusation, provoked him.

  She was wrong. Shock walloped him in the guts with the force of a cannon ball. He did feel something, but it wasn’t for those men who had brutally attacked them. It was for her. This woman. This ethereal, fey creature who had burst into his life from nowhere, who continually defied him, saved him and surrounded him with energy, and spirit, and light. He couldn’t define this fleeting, newborn feeling, but it was there. He liked it not.

  Damn it! The woman was making him soft! ‘I told you before,’ he replied between gritted teeth, ‘a soldier becomes accustomed to the fighting, the blood shed.’ He con tem plated the interlacing of branches above him, new green leaves be ginning to frill along the branches, heralding spring. It was the fighting, the battles that kept him from the memories, and held them prisoner in the depths of his thoughts. He knew they were there, and, if he wasn’t careful, those memories would rise to the surface, the flotsam and jetsam of his brain, and he would remember, God help him. Without thought, he rubbed the scar on his hand.