The Warrior’s Princess Bride

by Meriel Fuller

  Her azure eyes lifted, a breath taking clarity in their depths. ‘I suppose it must be,’ she replied gloomily. ‘My mother, God rest her soul, tried to tell me as she was dying, but I refused to believe her.’

  ‘Of course she is!’ snapped Ferchar, annoyed that Benois had interrupted him. ‘Why, if you saw her and Ada together, why, they’re the spit of each other. Aye, she’s one of Earl Henry’s by blows, make no mistake.’

  Tavia bristled under Ferchar’s sneering tone. ‘It wasn’t like that between him and my mother—they loved each other!’

  ‘Hah! So you’d like to think!’ Ferchar smiled contemptuously. ‘Don’t kid yourself that your father was a saint when it came to finding suitable bedmates!’ Leaning forward, Ferchar curled his fingers around the jewelled knife that lay on the table, handing it to her. ‘Here, take this. Study it while you eat; you may come up with some ideas.’

  Taking the knife by the hilt, Tavia sensed Benois’s eyes on her as she stepped forwards over the bench and sat down, leaving a space between herself and Ferchar for Benois. The comforting curve of his upper arm pressed into her shoulder as he took his place next to her.

  ‘How long have you known?’ Benois murmured to her, beginning to heap her pewter platter with food. Setting the knife down before her, Tavia watched as the pile of food grew higher and higher: three rolls of bread, several slices of cheese and cold meat, three apples…

  She clutched at his sleeve. ‘Benois, stop! I’ll never eat this much!’

  ‘How long have you known?’ he asked again, calmly swapping her plate for his empty one, and placing one bread roll and one slice of cheese on her plate.

  The knife glinted on the oak boards next to her plate; she picked it up, turning it between her fingers, wondering at the slight accusation in Benois’s tone.

  ‘As I said, my mother talked of Earl Henry as she lay dying; I thought she was rambling so I didn’t know what to believe.’

  ‘She never said anything before that time?’

  Tavia lifted her gaze to him. ‘Nay, she never spoke of it.’ The delicate tracery of flowers caught in the gleam of the candles; they were small, but distinctive, five petals enhanced by trailing filigreed foliage. Leaning into Benois’s com forting side, so that only he could hear the murmur of her words, she said, ‘I could be here for ever unless I find this gold for him.’

  ‘Is that what he thinks this knife holds the key to? Gold?’

  ‘Aye, and he’s never going to let me go unless I find it.’

  Benois glanced up and caught Ferchar’s jealous, possessive look riveted on Tavia’s neat head as she bent over the knife. And he might not let you go even if you do, he thought.

  The distinctive sound of bits jangling between the teeth of horses, and grooms calling to each other across the bailey, dragged Tavia reluctantly from sleep the following morning. Ferchar, his behaviour no doubt modified to leniency by Benois’s over bearing presence, had graciously allowed Tavia to sleep in a com fort able, unlocked chamber. The regent’s meaningful expression, however, as he had instructed a servant to prepare a better room for her, indicated that he still expected her to come up with a location for Earl Henry’s treasure. Thankfully, she had seen no more of Ferchar that day, nor Benois either. The men had spent the day hunting in the forests, with the intention of discussing the border issues as they rode.

  Tavia had spent most of the previous day in Ada’s child like company, listening to the younger girl chatter on about her life at court. At times, the princess seemed much younger than her eighteen years, a legacy of having spent her whole life closeted by the rarefied up bringing of a noble woman. From time to time, Tavia would glance at the maid, still astounded that they should share the same father, that royal blood ran in her veins. Her muscles had ached from following Ada around the castle, the stables and the grounds; she was glad to sit down for the evening meal which they ate in the comfortable surroundings of the women’s solar.

  The shouts from below echoed more loudly, more insistently. Tavia sprung from the bed, bolting to the window embrasure to push aside the tanned hide that covered the opening in the thick stone wall. Balancing her palms on the ledge, she leaned forwards, trying to glimpse what was happening down below. A cool breeze brushed her heated face, sifted through the looping tendrils of her hair as it spilled over the stone ledge like a magnificent red banner of glory. From this high vantage point, she watched the tall, commanding figure of Benois pulling on his thick, leather gaunt lets as he strode out over the cobbles to his horse, already saddled and pawing the ground impatiently at the sight of his master. King Henry walked along side Benois, talking animatedly, his arms flicking emphatically into the air with decisive gestures. Benois, his face impassive, listened attentively, nodding in agreement now and again.

  Her heart deflated with a jolt. Where was he going? Without thinking, her brain be fuddled from sleep, she grabbed a fur from the bed to throw around her shoulders, to cover her thin night gown, before wrenching open the chamber door. She plunged down the shadowed stairs, unmindful of the freezing stone against her bare feet, hoping that the door at the bottom would lead out on to the inner bailey. As she reached the lowest step, trying to gain her bearings in the sepulchral gloom, the door leading to the outside suddenly opened inwards, flooding the small space with clear, blinding light.

  ‘Oh!’ Tavia blinked in surprise. ‘It’s you!’

  Benois, the dark grey of his eyes streaked with silver, stood on the thresh old, dressed in chain mail. The fine links of his hauberk fitted his upper body like a second skin, shimmering like the scales of a fish with the tiniest movement. The hauberk fell to his knees, where he had dispensed with the usual chain mail leggings in favour of braies cut from a supple leather. His boots, expertly constructed from a thicker hide, were closed with leather laces that extended from the top of his foot before criss-crossing over solid calf muscles to his knees. Over the top of his hauberk, he wore a surcoat of red, emblazoned with the two golden lions of King Henry. The lions glittered in the half-light as he bowed formally. ‘Good morning, Princess.’

  Was it her imagination, or did his tone contain the faint hint of mockery? No doubt he wanted to chastise her for not revealing her secrets earlier. ‘Nay, don’t address me so.’ Tavia frowned at him.

  ‘But it’s what you are, my lady.’ He folded his arms across his chest, assessing her languidly.

  ‘Nay,’ she explained. ‘I may be Earl Henry’s daughter, but because of my illegitimacy, the title is not recognised.’

  ‘Even so, royal blood flows in your veins, which gives you certain rights and privileges; there’s no denying that.’

  The cold from the flag stones seeped through the skin on the soles of her feet; she shivered slightly, chewing on her bottom lip. ‘I should have told you sooner…I…I should have trusted you.’

  Benois laughed, the sound immediately dissipating the strained atmosphere between them. ‘Nay, no matter, maid. I can under stand why you chose not to…trusting someone else is something we both find difficult.’

  He jerked his head around suddenly as someone shouted his name from the yard, then turned back to her, speaking with low urgency. ‘Tavia…I have to go…King Henry wants me to go with young Malcolm, visit a couple of the more intractable Scottish barons who might prove difficult along the border. I was coming to see you…to tell you.’

  ‘Will it be dangerous?’ she uttered, eyeing his chain mail, fighting to hold back the crest fallen note in her voice.

  ‘I doubt it,’ he murmured. ‘Why? Are you concerned for my safety? I thought you’d be glad to see the back of me.’

  ‘I am,’ she responded dubiously.

  ‘And don’t worry about Ferchar. Henry will stay here—he has promised to keep you safe…now he knows you’re of royal blood.’ He uttered a short bark of laughter. ‘I trust my King with my life, and so should you.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘It was kind of you to come down and see me off.’ B
enois swept an amused, wary look over her tousled hair, the cumbersome fur around her shoulders that high lighted the delicacy of her face to sweet perfection, her naked toes peeking out from under the long hem of her night gown. ‘Even if you did forget to put your shoes on.’ The corners of his mouth crinkled up into a smile. Against the dull grey of the flag stones, her feet glowed pale pink, a pearly pink like the luminous innards of a shell. He longed to touch them, to kiss them. His fingers curled within the stiff leather of his gauntlets. After his last disastrous en counter with Tavia, he had made a promise to himself that he would never touch her again.

  ‘Well, I must take my leave.’ His voice held a throaty edge. Tavia made a movement, as if she intended following him into the bailey, but he stayed her, one gloved hand pressed against the soft rounded edge of her shoulder. ‘Nay, don’t come out, the cobbles are filthy…besides…’ he leaned closer ‘…dressed like that, you’ll attract too much attention.’ He swept one last lingering glance over her glorious déshabillé: the auburn tresses of hair tumbling with wild abandonment over her shoulders, the gauziness of her linen night gown revealing more than concealing the shapely length of her legs.

  Trembling beneath the seductive possessive ness of his voice, she watched him power across the slick, greasy cobbles, leaning weakly against the door jamb. Her position shielded her from most of the soldiers, and she kept herself within the shadowed recess of the door. Benois reached his destrier, nodding to Henry before throwing himself up into the saddle, snatching up the reins to wheel the animal about. Beside him, Malcolm had already mounted up, and now was fiddling nervously with his stirrup.

  His eyes sought out Tavia’s small figure in the doorway, made more fragile in appearance by the thick oak arch that framed her. Her candid expression shone out, her skin luminous in the shadows, following his every movement. Benois swallowed, trying to fight back the desire that boiled within him. Just one kiss, he thought, the ironclad bonds of his promise slipping apart at the sight of her. Just one kiss and then I will be gone.

  He tapped his heels gently against the horse’s flank, urging the animal around to the open doorway where she stood, and swept his whole upper body down from the saddle to seize her up, one powerful arm manacled against the curve of her spine. He brought his mouth over hers in a brief, passionate kiss, his firm lips plundering her softness, her vulnerability. In a flash, he had placed her care fully down on the step again, running one unsteady hand through his hair, his eyes the colour of a knife-edge.

  ‘I needed something to remember you by,’ he explained roughly, his voice laced with the jagged edge of longing, ‘but I find it is not enough.’ He reached out his leather-covered fingers, catching at a stray silken loop of her hair to tuck it behind her ear.

  ‘Stay safe, Tavia.’

  She stared at him. Memories came flooding back at his gruff utterance.

  ‘Don’t look so shocked, Tavia. It was just a kiss.’ He grinned, attempting to negate his own strong surge of desire.

  ‘Nay, it’s not the kiss,’ she replied shakily, ‘it was how you tucked my hair behind my ear. Like that, leaning down from your horse.’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘What of it?’

  ‘I know where Earl Henry hid his treasure, Benois. I know what the message on the knife means.’ Her mind flooded with strong, vivid memories.

  Benois cursed. ‘God in Heaven, woman. You do pick your moments!’ He glanced over at Henry, who beckoned impatiently, wanting them to move off. ‘Listen to me, Tavia, do nothing until I return. I’ll not be gone above two nights. Do nothing. Promise?’

  The steel grey of his eyes held hers.

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  Tavia watched the proud, broad line of his back as he led the small party of Scottish and English soldiers out through the main gate. Then he was gone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mindful of the injury across her palm, Tavia used her right hand to support the heavy yew crossbow as she lifted the end of the stock to her eye, sighting the target. Her muscles ached a little, as if complaining against the unwieldy weight of the bow. She had begged the weapon from the castle armoury, in an attempt to make the hours pass more quickly while Benois was away. The strengthening sun warmed the back of her neck as she viewed the large disc of compacted straw, the centre daubed with animal blood to make a target. Drifts of pink and white blossom blew sporadically across the archery practice area, sailing over the orchard wall to settle on the grass like circles of white lace.

  Tavia sighed, lowering the crossbow as she spotted the sylph-like figure of Ada slip through the wooden gate that connected the orchard to the archery area. Caught up in her own thoughts, she had hoped to escape Ada’s constant prattle, at least until the noon bell, yet it seemed her younger sibling was re lent less in her pursuit.

  ‘I’ve been looking every where for you!’ gasped Ada, reaching over to clutch at Tavia’s sleeve. ‘Of course I’d for got ten how skilful you are with a crossbow; I should have looked here first.’ A gown of light blue complemented Ada’s auburn hair, matching the ribbons that had been care fully braided into her long swinging plait.

  ‘It helps to keep in practice,’ Tavia explained defensively.

  Ada nodded disinterestedly, instead casting a doubtful look over Tavia’s coarse bliaut, woven loosely from a serviceable grey wool, over the frayed cuffs of her under dress of brown linen. ‘Ferchar asked me to find you some decent clothes.’

  ‘How kind of him,’ murmured Tavia.

  Ada’s eyes lit up, a beatific expression crossing her face at the mention of Ferchar. ‘He is always kind,’ she intoned. ‘He was quite right when he said you can’t go around dressed like this any more, not if you’re Earl Henry’s daughter…and my sister!’ Ada seized Tavia’s hand eagerly, her manner animated. ‘I can’t believe we’re related; I’ve always wanted a sister, and now I have one!’

  Tavia watched Ada’s intense, vivacious expression as she chatted away, and was surprised that she didn’t feel a stronger bond with the girl. A vague feeling nagged away at the base of her consciousness: a feeling that something was not quite right with Ada. She appeared as someone out of kilter with the rest of the world, possessed by a manic desperation that coloured every gesture, every nuance of tone.

  ‘Have you thought any further about the knife? What it means?’ Ada asked abruptly, in a sing-song voice. She’s been sent by Ferchar, thought Tavia immediately, detecting the false note in Ada’s speech.

  ‘Nay, nothing,’ she replied blandly, hugging the secret close. When Benois had leaned down from his horse yesterday morning, tucking the wisp of hair behind her ear, she had been carried back to an earlier time, to a spring day when she had walked with her mother up over the moors behind their cottage. They were going to meet someone, her mother had said, someone important to them. They had walked across the craggy, winds wept moor for more than an hour, before dropping down into a narrow, sunlit valley, bisected by a tumbling stream. Densely wooded with the ghostly white stems of birch and the thick, sinewy structures of oak, the valley appeared as a secret place, un discovered and un touched by man. Stepping along the bare, dry earth of a sheep path, Tavia had looked up and almost gasped out loud in wonder. Ahead, a magnificent oak spread long, muscular branches wide, in can des cent with new shining leaves in the early sun. Beneath this sentinel of the woods lay a carpet of flowers: stunning pale wood anemones, five white petals around orange stamens, spangled over the mossy ground.

  ‘What a beautiful place.’ Tavia had reached forward to touch her mother’s back with her fingers.

  ‘I know,’ her mother had answered. ‘It’s why we chose it.’

  A man on horse back had been waiting for them, dressed in the royal colours of his brother, King David. At their approach, he had dismounted, smiling at the daughter he had never seen. She had been too young to realise the full implications of the meeting, but now, now in the light of what had occurred in the past fe
w days, these events had moved sharply into focus—this handsome man had been her father. He had brought some food and they shared it under the oak tree together. And when he had kissed them both, and bid them adieu, he had climbed on his horse. At the last moment, he had leant his big frame down from the horse, and, tucking Tavia’s hair behind her ear, had spoken those words: ‘Stay safe, my sweet.’ The flowers in that valley, those pale wind flowers that fluttered against the breeze, were the same flowers etched into the knife slung into the leather scabbard around her hips.

  ‘Haven’t you had any ideas?’ Ada’s plaintive cry interrupted her reverie.

  ‘Nay, I said not,’ Tavia responded reluctantly. ‘Come, why not show me these clothes you’ve found?’

  Ada’s eyes widened with pleasure, keen to forget the request that Ferchar had asked of her. She wound Tavia’s arm through her own, and they walked together out of the archery area, passing through the court yard at the back of the kitchens where the low bushes had been draped with laundry to dry, and through into the inner bailey. Tavia’s heart sunk as she saw Ferchar and King Henry locked in conversation by the main door of the castle. Ada’s arm tensed against her own as they approached; Tavia sensed her fear. Both women made a low curtsy.

  ‘Ah! The two sisters together! How charming!’ Ferchar ex claimed, his gaze slithering lust fully over Tavia’s neat figure.

  ‘Hello, my darling!’ Tavia looked on in surprise as Ada coiled her arms about Ferchar’s neck. There was obviously far more between these two than first appeared. Ferchar pushed Ada away, irritated. ‘Good God, woman!’ he blustered. ‘How many times have I told you about displays of affection in public? It lowers my standing among the people!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Ada stepped away, ducking her head. ‘It won’t hap pen again.’