‘I seem to live all right.’
‘Do you?’
He fixed his eyes on the bare boards of the floor, unwilling to deal with the emotions that seemed to churn in his chest every time he encountered this woman. His life had been so simple before he had met her, so un challenging, so easy. Why did she force him to question the whole time, force him to think about what had gone before, and what might come after?
‘Go to sleep.’ He deliberately ignored her lilting questions, unwilling to admit that maybe, just maybe, the maid’s words held the truth. ‘Over there.’ He pointed at a low pallet bed in the corner of the chamber, made up with a few blankets. ‘I’ll take the bed.’
The pallet in the corner of Benois’s chamber had been furnished with a sturdy, horse hair mattress, before being made up with fine linen sheets and furs. Tavia curled on to the mattress, pulling the covers tightly up to her neck. A sadness clung to her heart, a sadness beset with Benois’s raw, stricken expression as he stared across the chamber towards her. Yet despite his brusque, curt behaviour, she knew, she knew that deep down, there was the faint gleam of something she could hold close to her heart.
She forced herself to remain awake, resolutely holding open her aching, exhausted eyelids until she could hear the deep, even breathing from the bed. Under the suffocating mound of bed clothes, her skin prickled uncomfortably; she had climbed under the covers fully dressed. She shifted her head on the pillow, trying to make out Benois’s shape in the cloying darkness; he appeared to be sleeping soundly. She slid out from beneath the bed covers, hesitating fractionally as the straw within the mattress rustled with her furtive movement. With the wooden shutters clamped firmly over the window embrasures, and no light coming from the corridor outside, the room was lit only by the faintest glow from the charcoal brazier, on the other side of the room. Standing up, she used her fingers to finish the work that Benois had started, fumbling for her side-lacings. Feeling the fabric slacken off around her waist, she bent down and pulled the whole gown over her head, throwing the hampering fabric on to the pallet with a sigh of relief. Checking that Benois still slept, she bent over once more and grabbed the hem of her under dress, again drawing the whole garment upwards, struggling with the tight sleeves over the bulkiness of her bandaged hand.
She had already kicked off her shoes before flinging herself on the bed, and now she rolled down her woollen stockings, bundling them up individually to tuck them neatly in her shoes. Clad only in her loose white shift, Tavia stood for a moment, savouring the soft air flowing about her freed arms and legs. She lifted her good hand, absent mindedly kneading the muscles at the back of her neck. If only she could have a bath!
Searching the darkness for some alternative, she spotted a jug and basin set on an oak coffer, next to the charcoal brazier. The temptation of cool water against her skin loomed too large to resist, and, praying ardently that Benois would not wake up, she tiptoed over to the other side of the room, relishing the feel of the polished oak floor boards beneath the bare soles of her feet.
Lifting the heavy jug awkwardly, Tavia poured the water as quietly as she could into the basin, her fingers seizing on a pristine wash cloth. Dipping the cloth in the water, letting it float for a moment to absorb the cool water, she wrung it out, uncaring that she soaked the bandage around her hand.
Pressing the wet cloth to the heated skin of her face and neck, she almost cried out loud at the sweet sensation, tilting her head back so she could smooth the flannel down her neck. Rivulets of water trailed down the slender column of her throat, trick ling down between her breasts. She sunk the cloth once more into the water, barely wringing it out this time, but squeezing it hurriedly to the curving hollow at the base of her neck, before sliding it along her out stretched arm.
From the bed, Benois watched her, half-shuttered eyes spark ling, keen. The tantalising whisper of clothes being removed had alerted him, but he had kept his eyes closed, curious to discover the maid’s intentions. He had not slept, Tavia’s words churning in his brain, challenging him. His thuggish behaviour had been appalling, threatening even, throwing her down on the bed as if she were nothing better than a low-born camp whore. Guilt churned in his gut, lacerating his conscience. He let his breath out, slowly, regretfully, opening his eyes at the slap of water in the earth en ware basin.
His traitorous senses leapt at the sight of Tavia clad only in her diaphanous chemise; he held his breath, following her sensual movements. Dipping her head forwards, looping her braid over her shoulder to expose the delicate bone structure of her neck, Tavia applied the saturated cloth to the back of her neck. He imagined the droplets spilling over the fine skin of her back, her delicate shoulder blades, beneath the gauzy shift. With her arm raised, bent at the elbow, the light from the charcoal brazier high lighted the translucent quality of her skin, the fragile hairs on her arm creating a spangled aura about her bare skin. Like an angel.
He drew a deep, stumbling breath. What was happening to him? His attempt to possess her had failed, and he knew why—despite what he thought he would achieve, he had no wish to treat her like all those other faceless women he had lain with. She was so unlike anyone he had ever met before, so kind and good and for giving. Every moment he spent with her, he felt his own emotional coldness begin to melt, the numbness that had beset him for years starting to recede, his body and mind beginning to come alive once more.
Tavia whirled around at the slight sound from the bed, eyes seeking Benois in the darkness, the soaking wash cloth scrunched to a ball in one hand, scattering pearls of water to the floor.
His gaze flared at the breath taking sight of her: the dampened bodice of her chemise revealed the soft, shadowy curves of her breast, the seductive indentation of her waist…
‘I thought you were asleep!’ she spluttered, crossing her arms defensively in front of her. He grimaced, sitting up abruptly in the bed, his eyes averted. The sheet slipped down about his waist, exposing the rugged musculature of his chest.
Turning her back, Tavia flung the wash cloth back into the bowl. The material made a soft, plashing sound, slopping the water over the sides of the reddish earth en ware bowl and on to the light oak wood of the coffer. Benois reached down and grabbed his linen shirt, discarded at the foot of the bed. He pulled it over his head, leaning back against the pillow.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said abruptly. His words, unexpected, were clipped, toneless.
Tavia moved back to the pallet bed, pulling a blanket over her thin chemise. ‘Why? You weren’t to know that I wanted to wash.’ Her face shone out of the darkness, pale and exhausted.
Benois flinched at the softness of her tone. ‘Nay, not because of that.’ The halting regret in his voice caught her attention, forced her to look at him. ‘Because of the way I treated you. I…I’m sorry.’
Her breath twisted, snared in her chest. Without thinking, she stepped towards the side of the bed, her limbs shaky from the impact of his apology. ‘You scared me,’ she whispered, the fingers of her left hand trailing across the fine pelt of the bed fur.
‘I know.’ He reached up, touching the sweet curve of her chin, his fingers skimming the loose, lustrous tendrils of her hair. ‘I thought it was the only way I could…’ He stopped, his hands falling back on to the bed covers, fists clenching. A muscle jumped in the corded hollow of his neck. How could he tell her that he believed that by bedding her, his ravaging desire would be sated, satisfied and he would be free again, free from the lurching emotions that this maid engendered within him? ‘I thought it was the only way…I could be free of you,’ he explained hollowly.
Chapter Twelve
The morning light filtered through the uneven gaps in the wooden shutters, creating fragments of light on the floor of the chamber allocated to King Henry. Yet despite the earliness of the hour, the energetic king had risen already and now paced the room in consternation.
‘What in God’s name has got into you, Benois?’ Henry turned to his most trusted commander
-in-chief, who lounged nonchalantly against the side of the window embrasure. ‘I’ve never heard anything so preposterous in my whole life!’ Half-dressed in his linen shirt and braies, the king began to stride across his chamber again, a frustrated edge to his dynamic gait, pursued by his squire who, clutching the king’s surcoat, scampered after him.
Benois sighed, reaching up one hand to undo the wrought-iron catch that held the shutters closed, folding one back against the stone wall. The wide sleeve of his dark green surcoat fell back slightly, revealing the gathered cuff of his shirt, stark white against the tanned skin of his wrist. Columns of light shafted into the chamber, and he peered out, his gaze drifting over the pattern of rolling fields that stretched beyond the city out skirts to the craggy hills be yond. Had the chit really changed him that much? He knew what he re quested of the king was unusual, went against his normal character, whatever that was, but preposterous? Never that, where she was involved.
‘Who is the maid, anyway? Is she of noble birth?’ Henry turned his spark ling, gimlet eyes towards Benois.
‘Nay, she’s a peasant….with the makings of a fine crossbow man, though.’ Benois leaned his palms flat on the window ledge, peering right over the edge of the high window down to the inner bailey. For some unknown reason, the image of Tavia, thrown back against the bed furs, her pulse beating frantically at the base of her slender neck, burst into his brain. He dug his fingers into the gritty stone.
Henry threw his arms into the air, hands out stretched in a dramatic gesture of disbelief, before resuming his furious pacing. ‘This is the first time, the first time, Benois, since we were knights in training together in Anjou, that I have ever doubted your impeccable judgement…why, it’s the first time you’ve ever shown any concern towards a woman since…since…’ Henry stuttered to an uncomfortable halt, reddening at the words he had been about to say.
Benois surveyed his king coolly; he was used to the customary rages, the tirades and out bursts, but at the moment he did not feel inclined to help Henry out of the embarrassing silence.
‘It’s what makes you my best knight, Benois,’ Henry’s voice boomed out over the stilted pause, ‘the fact that you’re so emotionally hard-headed. Even in the heat of battle you never lose your direction, your focus—and I have no intention of losing that. If you’ve lost your heart to some low-born Scottish peasant girl, then you need to end it…quickly.’
‘The girl means nothing to me,’ Benois heard himself saying, ‘other than Lord Ferchar seems to be showing an unusual interest in her. I think it would be to our advantage if we offered her protection. She obviously has something Ferchar wants; with it, we may gain some political advantage over him.’
‘Then he’ll be loathe to give her up without a fight, Benois. And at this delicate stage of negotiation over the border lands, I’m reluctant to add any other conditions to the deal.’
Benois pushed himself upwards and back from the stone window, coming back into the chamber. ‘So you’ll not help her.’
‘Nay, Benois, I will not.’ Henry’s eyes gleamed. ‘Nay, the only way that girl can gain our protection is if you bed her and marry her yourself.’ He cackled with laughter, raising a surprisingly white hand to his lips. ‘And I can’t see that happening in a million years, can you? Everyone knows how you feel about marriage, about the humdrum nature of domestic life. Besides, I would never give my blessing to such a liaison: a high-born noble tied to a peasant chit…it doesn’t bear thinking about. And…’ he wagged a finger in the air ‘…I don’t want to lose my best soldier…or my friend.’
‘It would change nothing,’ Benois replied slowly. ‘I would still be the same man.’
‘Don’t you believe it.’ Henry waggled his fingers. ‘I’ve seen men, great knights, brought to their knees by mewling women. Don’t go that way, Benois. Never that way. Remember the coin you can earn with me—you don’t want to forgo that.’
The fire in the great hall, un help fully lit with wet wood, belched out huge gasps of ashy smoke, making the few people in the hall cough and splutter while they at tempted to break their fast. Peasants rubbed at their eyes, smarting from the acrid nature of the smoke, whilst digging into their bowls of warm gruel, or broke into fresh rounds of bread.
‘Good God!’ bellowed Ferchar furiously, as he entered the hall, the impressive length of his fur-lined cloak sweeping through the wisps of straw that lay scattered about the floor. ‘What have those lackwit servants gone and done now?’ He coughed at length as he climbed the steps to the top table, before plonking himself down into his seat next to Malcolm. ‘Mother of Mary, you think we pay them enough, with all the meals and lodging on top, and yet they still can’t do a job properly!’
‘The wood was wet.’ Malcolm explained, chewing dully on his bread roll. His red hair hung down limply around his rounded features, making him look far younger than his nearly sixteen years.
‘I can see that!’ Ferchar said irritably. ‘The fact is…oh! I don’t even know why I’m discussing such trivial domestic matters!’ He thumped the wooden planks of the table, causing the pewter platters to jump. ‘Have you sorted out the plan for today’s hunting? We need something to keep King Henry sweet.’
Malcolm wondered when he had become Ferchar’s servant. Surely it was supposed to be the other way around? Ferchar was supposed to be helping him—he was the king, wasn’t he? But it did seem easier this way, especially as Ferchar seemed to have the authority and experience when dealing with the English king. Somehow he felt happier deferring that responsibility. ‘Aye, the stables are saddling extra horses, and a picnic is being prepared for us to take out.’
‘Excellent.’ Ferchar rubbed his hands, before frowning, suddenly. ‘And any news on our…er…other problem?’
‘The soldiers can’t find her anywhere. Young Wulfric has a lump on his head the size of an egg.’
‘Bloodthirsty wench! Just wait till I get my hands on her. She can’t have gone far. Make sure the soldiers cover every inch of the city. All the gate houses were alerted last night. We’ll hunt her down.’
‘I hope you do. I’d like to know my “new” older sister.’
Ferchar laughed. ‘Probably a bit uncouth for your refined tastes, Malcolm. Remember, the girl’s been brought up as a peasant. Anyway, there’s plenty of time for all that after she’s found the fortune that her father, Earl Henry, has hidden away some where.’ He stuffed a spoonful of porridge into his mouth, loose globules of white sticky oats spilling over his chin. He wiped them away with the sleeve of his surcoat. ‘And none of this to the English king; I don’t want him knowing of this gold, or he’ll want…well, well, well.’
Ferchar stopped mid-sentence as his gaze riveted to the door at the back of the great hall. Through the wreaths of grey smoke, the diminutive figure of Tavia appeared, flanked by the heftier bulk of an English soldier, immediately recognisable as one of the nobles who had accompanied King Henry the previous night.
‘Ah! My good man!’ Standing up, Ferchar raised his right arm to gain Benois’s attention. ‘Thank the Lord you’ve found her; we were beginning to worry. Both of you, do come and join us to break your fast.’ He motioned to the bench beside him.
Tavia grimaced at the patronising note in Ferchar’s tone—surely he didn’t expect Benois to believe in this thin veneer of benevolence? No doubt this obsequious behaviour from Ferchar was entirely due to the for bid ding figure at her side. She noticed how the peasants looked up to him as they walked beside the trestle tables, heard the muted whispers of awe as they ex changed their scant knowledge on the infamous English commander.
‘It seems your fame precedes you.’ Tavia glanced up at him as he took her elbow to help her up the steps to the dais.
‘And not all of it good, I suspect,’ he replied, a terse smile about his mouth.
One foot on the first step, Tavia gaped at him, incredulous. Was he actually apologising for some of his past deeds? Was he beginning to regret all the fighting and the bl
ood shed?
‘Close your mouth,’ he murmured, one hand moving to the side of her hip to give her a little push. ‘And get a move on.’
‘You are in no position to order me about,’ she hissed down at him. ‘Especially after what happened last night.’
He flushed, the colour washing over his high cheek bones. ‘For which I have apologised,’ he reminded her swiftly. She scampered up the last steps, lest he should be tempted to boost her on again. Knowing the regent’s unpredictable moods, she approached Ferchar with trepidation; Benois had already told her that King Henry was not prepared to grant her any protection against this man. Loathe to admit it, she was glad of Benois’s burly frame at her side.
‘So, have you come to your senses, my lady?’ Ferchar flicked his watery, fish-like eyes over her.
Tavia lifted her chin. ‘What do you want of me, Lord Ferchar?’ Her tones, quiet and modulated, sang out over the noisy chattering that filled the hall.
Ferchar narrowed his eyes. ‘You know what I want, Tavia,’ he hissed. ‘The knife. I want you to tell me the meaning on the knife.’ He glanced at Benois, unwilling to involve the English knight in the affair; no doubt he would run to King Henry at the earliest opportunity. ‘Rumour has it that Earl Henry told his daughter of the place where he had hidden the…’ He wavered for a moment, looking at Benois once more. ‘Well, you know, the subject that we talked of last night. His youngest daughter, Ada, knows nothing. You’re his eldest, there fore he must have told you. If he gave you the knife, then he must have given you some hint, some clue…?’
Benois, intent on the inter play between Ferchar and Tavia, but content to keep quiet and study the calm beauty of Tavia’s face, frowned suddenly, jolted out of his calm reverie. ‘Is this true?’ He snared Tavia’s arm in a firm grip, the movement insisting that she look up to him. ‘That you’re the daughter of the late Earl Henry?’ The warmth of his fingers seared through the coarse wool of her sleeve.
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