The Warrior’s Princess Bride

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘Thank God!’ Ferchar breathed a sigh of relief, smoothing a white hand across his lined forehead, back over his wispy grey hair. ‘Take the wretched woman away and keep a closer eye on her next time!’

  ‘I’m not leaving until I receive the coin owing to me!’ Tavia’s voice rang out firmly as, furtively, she at tempted to drag her hand out from Benois’s punishing grip. Her mouth set in a stubborn line—what did Benois hope to achieve by this?

  ‘I should heed your husband, maid,’ Ferchar advised slowly, yawning. This whole affair began to bore him; he glanced longingly at his full cup of mead on the table. ‘If he’s got any sense, he’ll take a strap to you for your disobedience.’

  ‘He’s not my—!’ Benois spun her around, effectively shutting off her speech, hauling her against his side in a huge bear-like hug. Teeth rattling at the swift violence of the movement, Tavia found her mouth pressed up against the supple leather of his borrowed jerkin, unable to protest any further.

  ‘You heard the regent, sweetling.’ Benois laid great emphasis on the term of endearment, making her want to punch him. His eyes swung dispassionately over the bluish weal that marked her cheek.

  ‘Go away,’ she hissed up at him, lifting her face away from the constricting press of his chest. ‘This is none of your affair!’

  Benois ignored her words, dropping his head to plant an affectionate kiss on her nose. ‘You’ve become a little over-wrought, dearling.’ He shot a withering glance at Ferchar, as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Tavia wanted to kill him!

  ‘You drew the short straw with that one,’ Ferchar sympathised, collapsing back into his chair, and raising a pewter goblet to his lips. ‘I don’t envy you!’

  ‘Can’t let you out of my sight for a moment, can I?’ Benois said in a loud, patronising voice as he hauled her down from the high dais. His hold on her was such that her feet danced rather than walked over the stone flag stones of the hall.

  ‘Let me go!’ Tavia shrieked, realising his intention. Kicking out, she began to struggle within his hold. She coloured hotly under his churlish treatment off her, hating her own weakness, her inability to push him away. Watching their exit, Ferchar guffawed loudly, smug with the glory of his own achievement.

  Benois refused to let go of her until they had left the castle, marching her out ruthlessly through the inner bailey, the outer bailey and finally over the draw bridge. He refused to talk to her, not responding to her tirade of insults, her pleading to take her back inside, her occasional, ineffectual jabs at his chest with her free hand. At last he stopped in the sepulchral shadows of an alleyway, almost flinging her back against the wall, one strap ping arm pressed up against the stone on either side of her, effectively blocking her in.

  ‘You have no idea what you have just done.’ She glared at Benois hotly, anger bubbling in her breast. Furious, she ducked down quickly, her back bumping against the damp stone, intending to escape under his arm. But he seized her shoulder before she had even moved a couple of inches, forcing it back against the wall.

  ‘I know exactly what I am doing.’ He towered over her, eyes glittering in the shadowy gloom, a foreboding figure. Above his tawny head, the sky was a cloud less, brilliant blue.

  ‘Nay!’ She punched him in the chest. ‘You have completely under mined me! Ferchar was about to give me the coin! I just needed a few more moments with him!’ Emotion wavered in her voice; she wanted to cry at the futility of it all. All those risks she had taken…and for what? To see her mother die?

  Benois grasped her attacking fingers, holding them fast against his chest. Under her hand, his heart beat steadily, a reassuring beat. ‘You just don’t know when to stop, do you, Tavia? I heard you in there—’ he jerked his head in the direction of the castle ‘—berating the regent like he was some lowly serving boy, demanding your money. If you had pushed him any further, he would have strangled your pretty neck with his bare hands.’ The ugly mark on her cheek drew his gaze, and he lifted his fingers, scuffing the cut lightly. ‘In fact, it looks as if he had already made a start.’

  Pain seared through her cheek bone; she sucked in her breath sharply, wincing, trying to control her reaction, trying to forget the sickening crunch of Ferchar’s fist that seemed to constantly replay in her memory. Willing herself not to collapse before him, not to show any weakness, she drew herself upwards. ‘I don’t need you to fight my battles for me,’ she said slowly. ‘I can take care of myself.’

  ‘Then you’re an even bigger fool than I thought you were,’ he grumbled. His hood had fallen back, and now he stuck a frustrated hand through his hair, sending the chestnut strands awry.

  ‘I’m going back in there,’ she announced suddenly.

  ‘Like hell you are!’ he growled.

  ‘You can’t stop me!’

  She had the briefest impression of silvery eyes, alight with desire, looming close. His arms scooped around her sides as he leaned into her, melding the long lean hardness of his bigger body against her own fragile curves.

  ‘Nay!’ she whispered, but her own heart contradicted her, thumping deceitfully with excitement. His lean head dipped down, his lips seeking hers.

  ‘Aye,’ he replied, a rough certainty threading his voice. Hunger kindled in her belly, a hunger she had never before experienced, yearning, craving…for what? As the sensuous curve of his mouth brushed hers, she wanted to scream out loud with joy at the exquisite touch. Cursing her traitorous limbs as they curved sinuously into his muscular frame, she seemed incapable of resisting, her body melting to a burning pool of liquid beneath his touch. The heady smell of him enveloped her, a sensual delight of horse and wood smoke that plucked at her senses, promising more, much more.

  She arched into him as he deepened the kiss, his tongue questing along the seam of her lips, demanding entrance. He groaned, a passionate animal sound, as she opened her lips to him, clawing at his shoulders. Locked together in hungry embrace, reality faded away, to be replaced by a glistening bubble of scorching, intense enchantment. Whereas moments before Tavia had tried to push him away, now she clung to him, almost sobbing with the beauty of his thrilling caress.

  And then it ended.

  Wrenching his lips away, Benois staggered back, astounded, his heart beating un steadily. Blood whipped through his veins, desire pulsing through his body. Anger flooded through him—what had he been thinking? He had accused the maid of being foolish, but who was the greater fool now? Her indomitable will, her stub born ness, had made him want to punish her, but, instead, he had kissed her. And it wasn’t the sort of kiss he had bar gained for.

  ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, jerkily. He dropped his hands away from her, taking a step back. ‘I should not have done that.’

  Heart still racing from the impact of his kiss, her lips burning and bruised, Tavia fought to maintain her balance, her hands seeking the gritty stone behind her for support. Sunlight, beginning to shaft into the deeper recesses of the alleyway, caught the bright gleam of her hair as she shook her head, amazed, loathe to admit how much his kiss had moved her.

  ‘You think a mere kiss can stop me?’ Tavia fought to keep the tremble from her voice. ‘How dare you use such an underhand trick? Mind you,’ she continued, a hint of contempt in her voice, ‘I suppose I should expect nothing less from one such as you.’

  His big body crowded in around her, although he touched her not. ‘Don’t push me, Tavia.’ His voice carried a warning.

  ‘Why?’ she taunted. ‘What else do you intend to do to me?’

  An image sprung into his mind; he quashed it swiftly, a frisson of desire bubbling in his loins. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he muttered, beginning to pull her down the alley, feeling her resistance. He turned back to her, witnessing her set mouth, her mutinous features. ‘For Christ’s sake, woman, if it’s money you’re after, then I will give you some. You are not going back into the castle, and that is an end to it.’

  Chapter Eight

  Lifting his pewter goble
t to his lips, allowing the honeyed mead to slip delectably down his throat, Ferchar sank back against his ornately carved chair and closed his eyes. It would be a shame when the young King Malcolm came of age, he thought ruefully, for he could become used to being in charge. But Malcolm was not yet sixteen, he thought idly, and showed none of the leadership prowess that his uncle, King David I, had been renowned for. At the moment, the young king was easy to control, easy to influence, a situation that gave Ferchar immense satisfaction.

  The fire burned low in the grate, a heap of smouldering embers that spit and crackled occasionally. Many of the castle occupants had gone to sleep; those with no chamber allocated to them rolled up in their cloaks on the floor of the great hall. Cleared of food and dirty plates, the long trestle tables had been scrubbed down and pushed back against the walls to gain more floor space. Every now and again, a cough broke the silence, or the wavering rumble of a snore.

  Malcolm stuck his head around the side door leading from the dais. ‘What happened?’ he enquired querulously.

  Ferchar opened one eye, looked over to him in irritation. The open door had caused a trouble some draught to sneak in, to whirl around his ankles. ‘Aha! How like you to re-emerge when all the un pleas ant ness is over!’ he chided sarcastically. ‘Come in, will you, my feet are freezing!’

  Malcolm slid in, closing the door behind him. ‘I couldn’t go to sleep until I knew you were safe,’ he offered in his defence.

  ‘How noble of you,’ Ferchar jeered. ‘You didn’t think to send the castle guard to my aid when that woman was threatening me, did you?’

  Malcolm remained silent, not wanting to antagonise Ferchar. The regent had obviously drank a few cups of mead, judging from his movements, which seemed loose and uncoordinated. As he approached the table, his leather boot kicked against something that protruded out from the chairs. Puzzled, Malcolm bent down to pick up the item, a worn leather satchel, from the dusty wooden floor boards.

  ‘What is it?’ Ferchar rapped out as he studied Malcolm’s expression. His eyes alighted on the scuffed bag between the young King’s fair hands. ‘That stupid fool maid must have left it…nay, dropped it after her husband dragged her out of here.’ His lip curled into a smirk at the amusing memory. He wondered what punishment the husband would mete out to his wife; she certainly deserved a sound hiding for her bold, challenging behaviour.

  ‘I’ll leave it at the gate house,’ Malcolm said. ‘Mayhap she will return to claim it.’

  ‘Give it here first.’ Ferchar held out his hand. ‘Let’s have a look.’

  ‘Should we?’ Malcolm held the satchel primly against his chest.

  ‘Don’t be such a ninny! The woman’s a peasant. It will be amusing to see what rubbish she carries around in her bag.’

  Ferchar’s drunken fingers fumbled with the leather straps and buckles, finally tearing open the leather flap, upending the bag and dumping the contents on to the polished oak planks of the table. He poked about through the meagre contents, the corners of his thin mouth turning down wards.

  ‘Hmm! Nothing much here. A hand kerchief, a flagon of water…hey, what this?’ His fingers seized on a small, jewelled dagger. ‘Looks like an expensive piece for a peasant.’

  He rotated the knife between his hands, seemingly transfixed by the way the honed metal blade caught the light. The stones winked and flashed, beautiful gems of diamond and sapphire studding the hilt. Ferchar smoothed one fingertip over the ornate engraving that looped and twirled its way up the blade, a delicate tracing of flowers and trailing vines. He flipped the blade, studying an inscription in Latin on the other side. A lump formed suddenly in his throat, his chest, a burning excitement coiling through his veins.

  ‘I’ve seen this knife before, Malcolm.’ His voice quavered.

  The young king frowned. ‘But…how can you? It belongs to the peasant girl.’

  ‘That maid is not who she seems, Malcolm.’ He knocked against his head with one fist. ‘Of course! It all becomes clear now! I thought there was something different about her, something bold, unusual.’

  ‘My lord, you make no sense.’

  Ferchar smiled. ‘It makes perfect sense, Malcolm. You see, I have just worked out who that chit really is.’

  The strengthening wind blew wraiths of cloud across the waxing moon, ragged strips of white that clumped together, then dissipated in a moment. In this luminous twilight of early evening, beyond the haphazard mesh of branches against the sky, the stars twinkled. The dry husks of beech nuts crackling under her feet, Tavia trudged along the path through the copse of trees to her home, her heart sinking. With Benois following her, a reluctance dragged at her steps, making her slow. She had no wish to bring him into her world, present him with the intimate details of her humble life; she had no wish to spend any more time with him. With the kiss against the wall, he had come too close, too close to the flimsy barrier that shielded her vulnerability. He’d had no right to kiss her…no right at all! She pursed her lips, frowning, annoyed as she remembered her wanton reaction to him. Her body still thrummed from the onslaught of his kiss. Nay, he didn’t belong here, with her…she wanted him gone! Before…what? Before she gave herself utterly to him? She closed her eyes, shocked by the way her thoughts led her, nay, pulled her inexorably, as if she had no choice in the matter.

  Although she was loathe to admit it, he had probably saved her from a nasty incident at the castle, and had helped her to secure a physician for her mother. When they had reached the doctor’s house in the middle of Dunswick, Tavia had looked on in amazement as Benois handed over a pile of shining coins to the befuddled physician. The man quickly changed his manner from one of doubtful hesitation to fawning obsequiousness at the sight of all that money, promising to visit her mother as soon as he was dressed.

  Following the stubborn line of her rigid back, Benois smiled softly. He knew she resented this involvement in her family life—every movement, every gesture she had made since he had dragged her out of the castle had been couched in hostility. The kiss, he admitted ruefully, had been a mistake. How could he have known the feelings such a fleeting touch would kindle within him? He had thought himself immune to such sensations, cut off a long time ago from that world of passion, of desire.

  He told himself he would see her home safely, then bid her adieu, but he couldn’t deny a growing curiosity about the girl, about her history and her home life. No doubt King Henry would be champing at the bit now, demanding to know from Langley why the Princess Ada wasn’t in their hands.

  Catching the toe of her shoe in her trailing sleeve once again, Tavia cursed. ‘These wretched sleeves—how does the Princess manage in them all day?’ Her voice reverberated oddly around the silent trunks of the wood. Somewhere, up above, an owl hooted.

  Benois chuckled, a deep throaty sound. ‘Because she is a lady, a royal princess. She spends her days in the women’s solar, not trudging about the fields.’ He lengthened his stride to overtake her, forcing her to stop. ‘If I knot them up, it should make the going easier.’ Hooking up the sleeve end, he tied it fast, shortening the sleeve so that it no longer skimmed the ground.

  ‘Thank you.’ Tavia’s response was tight-lipped. She tilted her head up to him, meeting his eyes. ‘Haven’t you got anywhere else you’d rather be?’ she demanded, rather rudely. Blood rose hotly in her cheeks as his spark ling eyes brushed her lips.

  ‘I’ll see you home, then I’ll be on my way,’ he stated firmly.

  ‘My home is along the valley…’ she gestured vaguely with her hand, the knotted sleeve swinging under her slim arm ‘…so you can take your leave now.’

  He grinned. ‘Nay, mistress. I’ll see you to the door. I wouldn’t put it past you to nip back into the city and visit old Ferchar once more.’

  She bristled under his words, hating him for reading her mind. ‘You sound like you don’t trust me.’

  ‘I don’t.’ His teeth flashed white in the moon light, the look of a rogue. ‘Listen, you chided m
e before about not taking my leave properly, now you can’t wait to be rid of me. What’s changed?’

  What’s changed? she wanted to yell at him. You kissed me. And I want more. The thought knocked, hot and demanding, into her brain. She swiped one hand across her mouth, wanting to scrub the burn of his lips away. ‘Nothing,’ she mumbled, dropping her gaze. ‘You’re still the same arrogant, violent barbarian that I can’t seem to shake off!’

  The cottage, nestled under the hulking shape of the steep-sided crag, lay in darkness. Beneath the stark rising moon, the landscape around faded to a pattern of contrasting grey tones; the mountains behind appeared as bulky, looming shapes, like monsters of old; the trees were a lighter colour, the frilled grey lace of their branches touching the moon light sky.

  Blood hurtling through her veins, Tavia in creased her stride, trip ping and stumbling over the spongy turf to reach the door. For a moment, as the flat of her hand touched the rough wood of the door, she paused, as if wary of the conditions she would meet inside.

  ‘Who is it?’ a voice rose querulously from the corner. Relief flooded through her. Flinging the hood of her cape back, she stepped through the dimness to the pallet bed, her mind alive with questions. Where was her father? How could he have left her mother in this state? The cottage was freezing; no fire had been lit, and her mother shivered beneath a thin blanket. Fumbling with the jewelled brooch at the throat of her cape, Tavia swung her fur cloak, warm from her body, down over her mother.

  ‘What ails her?’ Benois asked bluntly. He ran a quick, assessing eye over the older woman, the pale, sweating skin, the dull eyes, and his heart snapped shut. He knew, without a doubt, that this woman would die.