The Warrior’s Princess Bride

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘And how did your mother, a destitute peasant by all accounts, come to own a knife such as this? Did she steal it?’

  The sardonic curl of the regent’s lip suggested he was enjoying this, like a game of cat and mouse. It was if he held some information of which she had no inkling, and pulled her towards the truth slowly, through the labyrinth of his questions.

  ‘Nay!’ she responded hotly. ‘Nay, we are not thieves.’

  ‘I’ll tell you how,’ he cut in across her protest. ‘Your mother was given this knife by her lover. Her lover, Earl Henry of Huntington, younger brother to King David.’

  At her side, Ada began to choke on a piece of bread at which she had been nibbling absent mindedly. Malcolm, using his eating dagger to try to extricate the fine bones from a piece of fish, dropped the knife with a clatter, his mouth gaping. Tavia’s world swayed; the walls of the hall seemed to fall inwards, grow dim. So her mother had spoken the truth on her death-bed and Tavia had not known whether to believe her, wrongly deducing that her mother was too ill to think straight.

  ‘This knife belonged to Earl Henry, your father—’ Ferchar’s venomous tones brought her back to the present ‘—and you, my girl, are going to tell me what this inscription means.’

  Tavia frowned at him, confused. ‘But I can’t even read,’ she replied in a shaky voice. ‘I’m a peasant…remember,’ she added sarcastically. ‘And that—’ she pointed at the knife blade ‘—is Latin script.’

  ‘I know what it says,’ Ferchar said slowly, hunching over the blade as if possessed by it, ‘but it doesn’t make any sense.’

  Tavia tilted her head on one side, her mind swimming with hunger, with exhaustion. At this precise moment, she didn’t really care if Ferchar decided to kill her. ‘And what does it say?’ she murmured disinterestedly.

  ‘It says “Seek and thee shall find”. What does it mean, girl? Did the Earl say anything to you? Or to your mother?’

  Tavia lifted her shoulders, feeling the tension rip along the muscles in her back. ‘I don’t have a clue,’ she replied, a note of resignation in her voice.

  Ferchar’s face darkened angrily. He didn’t believe the stupid chit for a moment. Not that she was stupid. Nay, she was a clever piece, make no mistake. She knew what was meant by the inscription on the knife, and if she knew that, then she could lead them to the treasure—the gold that Earl Henry had hidden long ago as a safe guard against the invasions. It was rumoured that the Earl had told his daughter where the treasure was hidden, but no amount of questioning had resulted in any information from Ada. But it was Tavia, his other, illegitimate, daughter, whom the Earl had surely told, and Ferchar would make sure that Tavia would tell him.

  ‘I think a spell in a locked chamber, without food, will loosen your tongue,’ he announced grumpily, picking up a chicken leg and beginning to munch noisily. ‘Guards, take her upstairs.’

  Chapter Ten

  As the four o’clock bell tolled sonorously, its rich voice resounding over the huddled rooftops of Dunswick, a group of English soldiers rode through the hushed, cobbled streets. It appeared as though the whole town had been alerted to their arrival; doors were banged shut hurriedly, frightened mothers called for their children as they scuttled down alleys and ducked around shadowy corners.

  The guards at the castle eyed the band of knights warily as they approached, their horses’ hooves clattering over the wooden draw bridge, the sound bouncing beneath into the deep inky waters of the moat. Despite appearing to remain still and in position, the grim expressions of the Scottish guard twitched slightly, acknowledging with that small movement the bold red-and-gold colours of the English tunics, fingers twitching as if to seize their swords. But Lord Ferchar had been in sis tent—let the English King and his men through, with no challenge. But it was difficult for them not to feel some hatred towards these men, these warmongers who had ceaselessly attacked their city, their homes and their livelihoods. Now they must sit back and watch as King Henry pulled up his reins on his horse and dismounted before the stone steps that led up to the door of the castle.

  Benois swept his eyes around the inner bailey, his steely gaze checking the area for potential dangers. Despite the open invitation from Lord Ferchar, he still suspected some sort of trap. And although the group of knights escorting King Henry numbered not above twenty, Benois had insisted on the whole battalion accompanying them, to wait on the out skirts of the city. If Lord Ferchar decided to play games, then the English retaliation would be swift. Mounting the steps, following the king, Benois remembered the last time he had been here, extricating Tavia from her increasingly risky confrontation with Lord Ferchar. How her foolish boldness had led her into danger, her determination to fight for what she was owed. He wondered if she had learned her lesson.

  His chest squeezed unexpectedly, constricting with a strange fleeting sensation. He wondered what the maid was doing now, how she was faring after the death of her mother. Raising his eyes, he tracked the lazy wheel of some ravens, lifting in a croaking bunch from one of the towers, black wings shining against the luminous blue of the evening sky. A curious listlessness surged through him as he watched Henry spring up the steps in a customary burst of over powering energy. He knew the king needed him, would pay him handsomely for his loyalty, but whereas before this nomadic, military existence had satisfied him, now he found it strangely lacking. When had everything changed? A pair of bright aqua marine eyes sparkled in his mind’s eye, openly berating him.

  ‘Benois! Make haste!’ Henry bellowed from the top step, his loud voice making up for his lack of stature as he frowned at his commander’s tardiness. ‘What’s got into you?’

  She has, he thought, as he swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted, patting the animal’s gleaming rump as one of the stable hands led the stallion away. He climbed the steps, his pace calm and measured, joining Henry under the ornate, recessed archway. Henry’s stern hazel eyes assessed Benois briefly, before turning into the gloom beyond the open door. A servant led them through to the great hall, pushing aside a thick curtain of tanned hide, and, bowing low, indicating that they should precede him.

  Another servant was already pushing himself through the crowded hall, no doubt to warn Ferchar of their arrival. But, far away on the high dais, the regent seemed heavily involved in another affair. Benois scanned the space, checking for any obvious threat or danger, absorbing the comforting sound of people eating and laughing, his eye at last gliding along the row of high-born nobles at the top table.

  God in Heaven! What was she doing here?

  He picked out Tavia immediately, her slender frame flanked by two burly shoulders, her face stark white with exhaustion and…fear? Ferchar lifted himself un steadily from his chair, barking an order at the soldiers, watching as they half-carried, half-dragged her towards a low door at the side of the dais. What had the stupid chit gone and done now? Why had she not heeded his warning?

  Clamping his lips together in a for bid ding expression, Benois lifted his hand to pull off his steel helmet, feeling the thick, fuggy air of the great hall swirl around his scalp as he yanked it off, before following Henry’s rapid pace through the trestle tables. With every step he took, anger and irritation welled within him—he wanted to strangle her! Hadn’t she learned her lesson? Had none of his words sunk in? She had been fortunate the last time that he had followed her into the city, saved her skin. But now…? Now it would serve her right if she received more than she bar gained for. She did not deserve his help… If she continued to defy him, then he’d be damned if he rushed to her aid once again!

  Tavia rubbed furiously at either side of her arms, trying to ease the bruising in her shoulders where the soldiers had ruthlessly gripped her. After hauling her up seemingly endless flights of stairs, they had finally dumped her in this icy, dark chamber. A shaft of fading sun streaming from the narrow arrow slit provided her with a faint light, but not enough to stop her stubbing her toe on something hard as she moved across the ro
om towards it. Gradually her eyes became accustomed to the muted tones, the angles of various pieces of furniture beginning to reveal them selves: a bed, an oak coffer and a low stool in front of a black, cavernous fire place. In despair, she pressed her hands against the gritty stone either side of the arrow slit; no hope of escape from here, she doubted even if she could squeeze her body through the small gap, let alone work out how she could drop to the ground. Nay, she would have to think of another plan of escape.

  Her mind struggled to comprehend Ferchar’s demands; his questions surrounding the writing on the knife confused and con founded her. He obviously had no intention of allowing her freedom until she told him…what? Her whole world had been turned upside down, but she told herself to focus on her current predicament. All that mattered now was to escape from this place, run as far away as possible from Ferchar and his men. Searching the shadows, her eyes alighted on a large earth en ware pitcher, and she stepped over to it, lifting it easily. She vowed not to be defeated…just yet.

  Hiding behind the door, Tavia realised that she could be waiting all night for someone to open it, but luck was on her side. It wasn’t long before she heard the steady tread of someone on the steps outside, the sound of the heavy oak bar being lifted. Raising herself from the low stool on which she sat, her heart racing, Tavia hoisted the jug above her head, feeling the ligaments in her wrist sag against the weight.

  The jug landed on the unsuspecting soldier’s head with a horrible cracking noise. The man slumped, sprawling heavily on to the wooden boards with a tremendous thump. Shards of pottery clattered from her hand; the pitcher had broken under the impact with the man’s head. She wondered if he were dead, her guilt forcing her to crouch on to her knees beside him, to check his breathing. Thank the Lord! The soldier was alive. Shame pierced her heart as she noticed a platter of food, now dislodged from one of his hands, the contents spilled messily over the chamber floor. The soldier had had the thoughtfulness to bring her some food, and this was how she repaid him!

  She moved through the doorway, pulling the wood quietly shut within the door frame. Her right hand slid across the iron latch, sticky with wetness, but she thought nothing more of it as she began to step lightly down the spiral stair case, a block of fear lodged in her throat. Her knowledge of the castle layout was hazy, but her main aim was to avoid the great hall, easily identifiable by the noise of people talking and laughing, enjoying them selves.

  At the bottom of the stair well, she hesitated. She was obviously in a part of the castle not often used; no rush torches lined the corridor as was customary, so she made her way to the left, trailing her hand along the wall to guide her. She believed herself to be one floor higher than the great hall, on a gallery level. Up ahead, she could see a patch of light, a section of the corridor that opened up, most probably on to the great hall below. She would have to be careful; this second level was often where most of the bed chambers would be. Approaching the end of the wall, she peered around the stone, her gaze immediately drawn to the scenes of jollity below her. Tavia sank without a sound to her knees; if she crawled along this part, then the wooden half-railings that lined one side of the corridor would hope fully hide her. With shaking limbs, she inched forward, movements jerky with nerves, breath held in panicky expectation.

  A shriek of laughter from below, and she froze, midway along the gallery, hairs standing up on the back of her neck. But no shout followed, no call for the guards, and she let her breath out slowly, and began creeping forwards once more. She noticed her right hand was streaked with red; in her haste to escape the chamber, she must have cut it somehow. And then, she was there, at the other side of the gallery, her whole body obscured once more by the thick stone wall. Her limbs felt wobbly, untried, as if she had sprinted for miles. Heart thumping, she clung to the wall, using the stones to pull herself up. A weakness stole through her; she must have been more frightened than she thought. Her eye travelled back along the gallery, silently congratulating herself on her efforts, and then she froze. Bursting out of the darkness, the flare of a torch. Someone was walking along the corridor!

  Her head whipped around, adrenalin seizing her limbs, forcing her to move once more. Convinced the person with the torch would pursue her, she bolted down the pas sage way, hoping its gloomy shadows would obscure her form, her headlong pace making her arms, her legs, bump against the hewn stone. She felt, rather than looked, for some where to hide, her hands rasping pain fully against the wall. And then her foot plum meted through the air, encountering nothing, no solid base to land on. A stair case! Tavia’s heart missed a beat as she pitched forwards, tumbling down into the black ness, fingers spread out before her, scrabbling for a handhold, frantically trying to regain her balance.

  Oof! She thumped heavily against a hard, unyielding frame—a man, judging from the shadowy bulk of him, who climbed up the stairs. Huge, muscular arms roped around her back, immediately steadying her, although her feet still flailed several inches from the relative safety of the steps.

  ‘I beg you pardon, sir,’ Tavia choked out, unnerved by the collision. ‘I missed a step. I’ll be on my way now.’ She swung her feet a little, a gentle reminder that he should put her down. With luck, this man might think her just another of the castle servants, and let her on her way.

  ‘I might have guessed,’ a familiar voice drawled. Silver eyes glittered, diamonds in the shadows.

  Her mind tussled for comprehension. Benois? But surely he was miles away by now? ‘Wh…what are you doing here?’ The steady beat of his heart thumped enticingly against her chest.

  ‘I arrived with the king…King Henry…at Lord Ferchar’s invitation.’ The coldness of his explanation scoured her skin—he appeared in different, aloof. ‘Lord Ferchar has agreed to renegotiate on the border lands.’

  An awkwardness swept over her, the blood on her cut hand flowing freely to the floor, thin drops of red, spotting against the folds of her skirt. ‘Oh, well, I am just looking for a way out,’ she explained, her voice creased with fatigue.

  All but dropping her on the step, his arms fell away from her sides abruptly. Benois shook his head, two or three chestnut strands falling over his forehead. ‘I can’t believe you were stupid enough to come back here.’

  ‘Do you think I came back willingly?’ How dare he chastise her when he had no knowledge of the facts?

  His shoulders lifted, a dismissive shrug. ‘At this moment—’ his tone rasped over her ‘—I don’t really care.’

  ‘Ferchar locked me up in a chamber.’ Her voice notched up a little.

  ‘I saw the guards taking you away when we arrived.’

  ‘What? You knew I was here…yet you did nothing to help me?’ The moment the words were out, she regretted the speaking of them. Why in Heaven’s name should he help her? He had made it perfectly clear that he wanted nothing more to do with her.

  ‘You don’t deserve my help, Tavia,’ he lashed out suddenly. ‘I told you not to come back here, and you did!’

  ‘I did not!’ she argued back. ‘Ferchar came and dragged me away from my own mother’s funeral; believe me, Benois, I had little choice in the matter.’ She raised her hand, attempting to push her hair back from her face. Her hand, streaked with blood, smeared across her face.

  Benois seized her arm. ‘Good God, woman, what have you done to yourself?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ She tore her hand away, hiding it behind her back.

  He raised his eyebrows at the bloody marks streaked across the pale skin of her face. ‘I think not,’ he murmuring, reaching around her to bring her hand back, to study the ragged gash across her palm. ‘You’ve cut yourself badly.’ Voices beneath them on the stair galvanised him into action. ‘We’ll go to my chamber.’

  He bundled her along the corridor, his touch firm, assured, as he half-carried her into a room further along. Rush torches slung into iron rings fastened around the chamber wall already burned steadily, washing the whole space with their yellow, comforting glow. A
charcoal brazier packed with glowing coals filled the room with a welcome heat.

  Benois led her over to one of the torches, snatching her hand up to the light. The jagged gash gleamed stickily across her palm, the clotting blood still oozing. ‘How did you do this?’

  ‘I told you, Ferchar locked me in a chamber. I escaped.’ Tavia willed herself to keep a note of in dependence in her voice; Benois must never think that she couldn’t cope, couldn’t look after herself. She tried to pull her hand away, wanting to dismiss the injury, but he held on fast, his lean, muscular fingers wrapping her pale, bloody hand with unexpected gentle ness.

  ‘You’re fortunate you don’t need stitches.’ Movements quick, decisive, he allowed her hand to slip from his, enabling him to fetch a stool from the other side of the chamber. ‘Sit here…I’ll find something to bind it with.’ Benois strode to the bed, throwing back the furs, the woollen blankets, tossing them into a heap on the floor boards until he found the sheet that he was looking for. Tavia’s eyes widened as he ripped it several times, tearing the material into make shift bandages. Bringing over the bowl of clean water from the oak coffer, he knelt down on the floor beside her, soaking one of the shredded cloths in the bowl and cleaning the gash.

  ‘You don’t need to do this,’ she said hurriedly, shy under his ministrations.

  ‘Nay, I don’t.’ He looked up, unsmiling. ‘I should have just left you to whoever was coming up the stairs.’

  ‘If you hadn’t come up, I would be away by now.’

  He sat back on his haunches, the wet clothing dripping from his fingers. ‘You really think so?’ His sarcastic tone vexed her.

  ‘You don’t believe I can take care of myself, do you?’ Tavia stood up, hastily, irked by his punishing manner. Caught by the flick of her skirts, the stool crashed back wards, clattering on the wooden floor boards behind her. ‘Why, I escaped from that room all by myself…’