‘We need to dry our clothes,’ Benois stood up sharply, almost cracking his skull on the low roof of the cave.
Tavia’s eyes shot open. ‘My clothes are fine,’ she lied, testing the sopping wetness of her skirts between thumb and forefinger.
Benois smiled faintly. ‘Well, I am soaked through, so I suspect you must be, too. This weather looks set to stay for the day. We’ll not travel any further.’
A huge sob rose in her throat; despair clouded her features. ‘Then I’ll be too late,’ she whispered.
Chapter Seven
The sorrow of her expression plucked uncomfortably at the strings of Benois’s heart; feelings ignored by him for the past few years came coiling to the surface. He knew that with his next question, an uncertain involvement in this maid’s life would begin; an involvement that a few days earlier he would have rejected without question. He teetered on the edge, between frozen reserve and compassion.
‘Too late? Too late for what?’ The words pushed him into the abyss.
‘For my mother, Benois. She’s the reason I did all this in the first place.’
‘Tell me,’ he urged.
‘My mother needs a physician. We…we have not the coin to afford such an expense. When Ferchar saw me at the contest, he offered me a great deal of coin to impersonate the princess. I need to return to Dunswick as soon as possible to secure a physician…before my mother dies.’ Her eyes, huge and imploring, searched his face for some sense of understanding.
‘Have you no other family members who could help you?’
‘Nay, my father…’ she picked at a loose thread in her girdle, dropping her eyes to the floor ‘…didn’t have the money.’ How could she tell Benois of her father’s bullying ways? She wanted him to respect her, not pity her.
‘Then we must go.’ Benois eyed his glowing fire ruefully. ‘So much for drying out.’ He frowned out at the slanting rain, then at Tavia’s wilting figure. ‘Are you sure you can make it?’
‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘I must.’ Her heart leaped, despite the prospect of the grim journey ahead. She stepped over Benois, her movements wooden and jerky with the cold. ‘Thank you, Benois. Thank you for doing this.’
He threw her a brief, curt nod in reply, not wanting her gratitude. ‘It will be faster if we leave your horse here, and you ride up before me.’ Benois raised his foot, stamping the fire out with his heavy leather boot.
When the familiar walls of Dunswick town rose up out of the mist later on that day, Tavia wanted to shout for joy. Benois’s powerful war-horse had carried the pair of them effortlessly, despite him losing patience with her at the start of the journey. Tavia had refused to lean back into him, her awkward position confusing the animal’s gait and slowing him down. In exasperation, Benois pulled on his arm that circled her waist, and hauled her against the flat muscled expanse of his chest, ignoring her squeak of protest. ‘Relax,’ he had grumbled in her ear. At the hypnotic vibration of his voice rippling against the small bones of her back, she had shivered. Why did this man, a hated enemy, draw her so?
‘I cannot enter the city dressed as I am.’ Benois pulled on the reins, nudging the horse to a halt beneath the green canopy of a small copse. ‘They would shoot me in a moment for the colours that I wear.’ His voice rumbled against her ear; a ripple of excitement lanced her flesh. ‘I need to trade clothes with someone; maybe a peasant or a pilgrim so I can accompany you. I don’t want to be noticed…like the last time.’ He chuckled.
His strong, sinewy hand held the bunched reins laced across her stomach. That brief touch of his fingers sent spirals of warmth through her belly ‘I wouldn’t want you to take that risk…for me,’ she muttered faintly. ‘For a start, I doubt we could find clothes big enough…’
‘Are you saying I am fat?’ he teased.
She twisted rapidly in the saddle to face him, swiftly regretting the move. His grey eyes scorched her, the dark spiky lashes framing the wide ovals of his eyes. His mouth sat just inches from her own. ‘Nay,’ she tried to explain, ‘you’re tall, that’s all!’
His arm tightened fractionally around her waist, a protective gesture to prevent her falling. Unable to hold his gaze, she dropped her eyes, focusing on the jewelled brooch that fastened his cloak at his throat. ‘And further more,’ she said, hoping to sound capable and efficient, ‘I’ll be fine on my own from now on.’
‘So you’re dismissing me?’ he questioned sardonically. Was he still teasing? She didn’t dare look up, for if she did, she would surely drown in the slate whirl pool of his eyes. In truth, she would miss his fierce, restless ways, his protective strength. She curled her lip slightly; never before had she relied on a man, and she wasn’t about to start now. That way made you vulnerable.
‘Don’t tell me you’re not overjoyed?’ Tavia focused on the intricate silver work that bound the agate stones of Benois’s brooch. ‘Now you’ll be rid of me quicker!’
Nay, he was not overjoyed. For some curious reason, he didn’t want to let her go. She snapped her eyes up, snaring his fierce glance. ‘You’re the one at risk, here, Benois, not I.’
He released the reins, snagging her delicate chin between thumb and forefinger. ‘I didn’t know you cared,’ he replied sarcastically. The warmth flowed from his fingers, suffusing her face with a soft blush.
‘I don’t!’ She tried to wrench her chin away, but found herself inextricably bound. ‘Let me go!’
‘Gladly.’ His hand fell away.
Heart closing with unexpected sadness, Tavia slithered clumsily from the horse, ignoring the way her back bumped pain fully against the saddle. ‘What will you do now?’ she couldn’t resist asking, smoothing the long sleeves of her gown back into place, trying to appear unconcerned.
Benois’s hands rested lightly on the pommel, as he concentrated on some point in the trees. ‘Ride back and tell Henry we failed in the mission, I suppose.’ A wry smile lightened his expression, contrasting with his flat, bland tone. He baulked at sending the maid back into Dunswick on her own, his senses at once suspicious and alert. From what he knew and had heard about Ferchar, the man was not to be trusted, and Benois was certain that the regent’s scheming had only just begun.
‘You don’t seem thrilled by the prospect,’ Tavia ventured. She hesitated over her departure, torn between the need to help her mother, and the wish to stay here, to talk, to discover more about this man. ‘Will Henry punish you because you haven’t kid napped the princess?’
Benois looked sharply at her, almost in disbelief, then he threw back his head and laughed. ‘Nay, lass, Henry and I go back too far for him to punish me.’ His face shuttered suddenly then, as if he had said too much. He resented the way that this maid, this complete stranger, seemed to possess an unnerving ability to read his mind. He wanted to resist, yet, in truth, he knew this contact with her, however brief, had changed him. Whereas before he had thrived on the thrill of battle, the lure of an attack, now he began to question it. This woman was making him think, and thinking took him over shifting, unsteady ground. He didn’t want to think.
‘Get thee gone, maid,’ he said roughly, squeezing his powerful thighs against the horse’s flanks in order to set the animal in motion.
Huge aqua marine eyes berated him, made him pause in his escape. ‘You could at least have the common decency to bid me “adieu” properly,’ she chastised him. ‘I did save your life, remember.’
Guilt washed over him. ‘No doubt it will be something you’ll remind me about on a regular basis,’ he grimaced. The horse’s hooves made a rustling noise as it side stepped, excited, over the fallen leaves on the ground.
‘As I have no intention of ever seeing you again, that will not be a problem for you,’ she replied crossly, realising from his mute, closed features that he would not say any more. She must have been mad to want to stay a moment longer in his presence! ‘But you could at least say “goodbye”.’
‘Goodbye,’ he intoned, scathingly, sweeping low in his saddle i
n a mocking bow.
Tavia’s mouth quirked into a smile. ‘I bid you adieu, my lord,’ she replied formally, refusing to be daunted by his derisive behaviour. And then she was away, in a flurry of skirts, pacing decisively along the track towards Dunswick, the glowing fall of her hair forming a startling contrast against the greens and browns of the surrounding vegetation.
As Benois watched the elegant line of her figure step quietly, purposefully, through the trees and away from him, the urge to kick his horse into a trot and follow her threatened to over whelm him. In surprise, he realised that her nurturing presence, the sweet ferocity of her nature, had begun to loosen the iron bonds that held fast to the clot of pain within his heart. Was there a way through? he wondered. Was there hope after all?
Ferchar chewed voraciously on a roasted chicken leg, throwing a stripped bone down to one of the dogs trotting expectantly around the great hall. Wiping his sleeve along the greasy smear coating his lips, he feasted his eyes on the spread of food along the table, wondering whether to have the poached trout or a floury bread roll.
‘King Henry should have sent a messenger by now.’ Ferchar’s long, thin fingers, sparkling with heavy rings, finally selected a bread roll. He studied it moodily, before ripping a piece off sideways with his teeth.
‘It’s not been above a day,’ Malcolm tried to reassure him, pursing his lips in concentration as he stabbed his eating knife into a slice of roast venison. ‘And you said yourself, that peasant chit can take care of herself.’
‘I don’t give a fig about her,’ Ferchar replied nastily. ‘But Henry would have sent a ransom note as soon as the princess was seized. It’s not like him to miss an opportunity to push us into a corner.’
‘At least Ada is safe now,’ Malcolm murmured.
Ferchar burped loudly, his eyes following the movements of a comely serving wench as she made her way with a full jug of mead along the top table. ‘I wish I could be there when Henry realises he has the wrong maid! What a delight that would be!’ Ferchar slumped back in the oak chair, throwing the half-eaten roll back on to his plate, as if bored by it. He stared dole fully down from the dais, watching as a puff of smoke belched out from the carved stone fire place, enveloping those near it in a choking fog.
Nothing seemed to be going to plan at the moment, and when things didn’t go according to plan, he liked it not. True, Ada was safe from the English, but the stupid chit still couldn’t remember anything about the message her father, Earl Henry, had told her, despite Ferchar’s constant questioning. Ferchar knew that Earl Henry had left a fortune on his death, and, if the information given to him by the old servant who attended him was correct, Earl Henry had told his daughter where the fortune was hidden. If only Ada could remember!
At the opposite end of the great hall to the high dais, the iron-studded oak door swung inwards, grating noisily on its rusting hinges. A Scottish soldier walked in first, closely followed by Tavia, stepping proudly, head held high. The eyes of the peasants and soldiers all eating their midday meal at the trestle tables set in lines below the high platform followed the slender girl as she made her way across the hall. Some whispered to their neighbours how similar she appeared in looks to the Princess Ada, and some mistakenly rose in their seats, bowing their heads deferentially as she passed.
Ferchar thumped his fist heavily on the oak table, causing the platters to jump, the pewter goblets to spill droplets of wine. ‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’ he shouted irritably, half-rising from his seat. ‘You’re supposed to be locked up on English soil!’
Innards quaking, Tavia dutifully followed the soldier up the steps to the high dais. Her toe, encased in a soft leather slipper, snagged on the top step, causing her to stumble momentarily. Regaining her balance, she drew herself upright, tilting her chin defiantly, refusing to be intimidated by these nobles. She had only come to claim her dues, after all.
Ferchar lurched out from the table, pushing back his chair tetchily, his thick-set physique made to appear heavier by the thick robes that he wore. Malcolm remained seated, a tentative smile across his rounded, boyish features.
‘What happened?’ Ferchar’s breath fanned over her, foul with the stench of alcohol. He stopped a couple of feet away from her, rings glittering as he raised one hand to stroke the sparse hair of his long beard.
Tavia forced herself not to recoil—to show weakness would be the way of a fool. ‘The English did catch me,’ she admitted. ‘But they realised soon enough that I was not Princess Ada!’
‘You gave the game away, you stupid bitch!’ A gob of spittle appeared on Ferchar’s lips, as his pale eyes flicked angrily over her. ‘What did you do?’
Malcolm rose un certainly, a faint note of remonstration in his voice. ‘Er…Ferchar, don’t you think—?’
‘Sit down!’ Ferchar lashed back at him. ‘When I need your opinion I’ll ask for it.’ Malcolm sank down into his chair once more, white and silent.
Pale and trembling, Tavia stood her ground, almost unbelieving as to the way this man was treating her. All the courteous manners and charm she had witnessed on the last occasion had slipped away, to be replaced by this brutal rudeness. King Malcolm appeared to have lost all authority, Ferchar treating him with the utmost disrespect. A cold, sliding fear scraped along her veins; the smallest part of her wishing for the strong figure of Benois at her side. Inwardly, she reeled. What was she thinking? When had she ever asked a man to fight her battles for her? She had stood up to her bullying father for all these years, and how different was Ferchar to him? Her en counter with Benois had made her soft, pulled at her in dependence, her will.
‘You dull-witted wench!’ Ferchar berated her. ‘I suppose you blurted out the truth the moment they caught you in their hot little hands!’ His fleshy jowls wobbled. ‘Why couldn’t you have kept your mouth shut, you stupid guttersnipe?’
Rage reared up in her breast and she took a step forward, blue eyes blazing. ‘I don’t have to take this from you,’ she said, breathing deeply to keep her voice low, threatening. ‘Ada is safe, isn’t she? You’ve got what you wanted. Now give me what you owe me, and I will leave.’
The blow came from nowhere, the square cut of a sparkling gemstone ripping into the side of her cheek, lacerating her flesh. Her head jerked back under the surprising force of Ferchar’s fist; in shock, she clutched her palm to the side of her face, sucking in her breath, cradling the injury. On the wall opposite, the intricate patterns of the tapestry blurred and swam as her eyes watered under the impact of the blow.
‘I gave you no permission to speak,’ Ferchar hissed, pushing one of the rings more securely on to his index finger. In horror, she realised that Malcolm had disappeared, no doubt not wishing to witness any further violence. A hum of chatter, of people eating and laughing, of pewter plates occasionally knocking together rose as back ground hubbub from the lower part of the great hall, but, despite this, a gripping band of panic tightened around her chest—she felt totally alone. There was no one to help her, no one to spring to her defence, but she was used to that; and she would make this man give her the money if it were the last thing on earth that she did.
‘You only speak if I ask you a direct question,’ Ferchar explained slowly, rubbing his hands distastefully, as if he couldn’t quite bear the touch of her base-born skin. ‘Now listen to me, wench, and listen to me well. I am not going to give you any money. You did not carry out my plan exactly. I wanted the sat is faction of my enemy, King Henry, knowing that he had been duped good and proper. And you failed to provide that sat is faction, so you lose. Now begone…’ He dismissed her, turning away to sit down once more.
‘You don’t frighten me,’ Tavia announced boldly, walking nearer to him. Standing by his chair, Ferchar was only half a head taller than herself, yet his burly physique was twice the width of her own.
Ferchar laughed. ‘Think you to intimidate me, wench? You’re a bold one, I’ll give you that.’ He smoothed down the front of his tunic, pic
king at a tiny speck of grease, fixing her with his colourless eyes. ‘Get thee gone, maid—’
‘Nay, I will not—’
‘Ah, there you are, dearling,’ a voice boomed out across the great hall. ‘I’ve been looking for you every where!’
Astonished, Tavia whirled about, heart leaping involuntarily at the familiar deep voice. Struggling to isolate the broad figure of Benois amongst the crowd in the hall, she failed to notice the tall man mount the steps to the dais, a peasant wearing braies fashioned from a crude uneven weave and a drab, threadbare tunic. Over his head and shoulders he wore a hood and cape, constructed as a single garment from thin grey wool that stretched tautly across the muscular width of his shoulders.
‘Who are you?’ Ferchar demanded, nervous fingers pouncing to his sword hilt. Only a single soldier remained on the high dais to protect him, and he suspected most of the castle guards were too drunk to come to his aid, should he wish it. This man appeared rather too large and powerful for comfort; a fighter, Ferchar thought, judging from the way he moved, and not someone he would care to tangle with. ‘What do you want?’ he challenged, as the peasant approached with a light tread.
‘Forgive me, my lord Ferchar.’ The man bowed low. Ferchar frowned slightly: there was an unusual catch to the man’s voice, an accent he couldn’t quite place. ‘I have come to take my wife home.’
The words rapped into Tavia’s consciousness like an icy raft of hail stones, her jaw dropping in surprise as one lean, cool hand wrapped about her wrist—a warning. As aware ness stole through her veins at his touch, she tried to pull away, irritated by her response to him, annoyed as to the reason that he was here. She didn’t need him fighting her battles for her!
The Warrior’s Princess Bride Page 9