The Warrior’s Princess Bride

by Meriel Fuller

  Benois bowed, his eyes flicking over to Tavia. ‘Don’t be too long, chérie.’ He smiled at her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The rounded domes of the cobbles hurt Tavia’s feet as she walked to wards the chapel. Her shoes, borrowed from Sabine, were a little too large for her feet, and she had to keep curling up her toes in an at tempt to stop the fine leather slipping off. But Sabine’s arm linked companionably through her own kept her steady, as the pair drew covert, admiring glances from the serfs and soldiers going about their chores in the inner bailey.

  Tavia had been relieved when Sabine had steered her away from the mid summer celebrations that continued with in creasing intensity in the fair field; the church was but a short walk away from the main castle building, but, thank fully, in the opposite direction. She still felt sufficiently fragile to not want the marriage witnessed by numerous strangers.

  Sabine squeezed her arm in a friendly manner as they approached the impressively recessed archway at the church entrance. ‘Forgive me for saying this, Tavia,’ she said, halting her step, ‘but are you sure about this marriage? I mean, I know I’ve only known you for a short time, but…’

  ‘Aye, I’m sure, Sabine.’ Tavia fought to keep a note of reassurance in her voice. She knew why she was marrying Benois, and it wasn’t for the same reason that he was marrying her. He sought to protect her; but she knew that she loved him, and any marriage, however short, however sterile, would be a symbol of that love. But he would never know it.

  ‘It’s just that he’s so…so brusque, Tavia. He treats you like one of his soldiers.’

  ‘He’s not always like that.’ A wonderful feeling flooded through her as she defended him.

  ‘Oh, well, you must love him I suppose, whatever faults he has.’

  ‘Aye, I do,’ Tavia murmured, as they moved through the arch and down the wide, stone steps and into the shadowy interior of the church. The exotic smell of incense hit her, assailing her senses with mysterious perfume.

  At the click of the latch, the inward squeak of the door, three pairs of eyes turned. Benois’s gasp was audible, echoing with surprise through the vaulted church ceiling.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Langley spluttered beside him. ‘What a beauty!’

  Sabine had done her work well. A flowing bliaut of finely spun cream silk smoothed over Tavia’s slender form, clinging lovingly to the indentation of her waist, the curve of her bosom. The material, shot through with delicate lines of silver thread, glittered and shone with every movement Tavia made, reflecting magically in the glowing candle light. The pointed ends of her long sleeves, their shape like inverted tear drops, brushed against the flag stones, whispering with every step. The wide cuffs allowed the tight sleeves of the under dress to be revealed, sleeves fashioned from a pale lichen-green material that accentuated the glossy red of Tavia’s hair. A circlet of filigreed silver pinned a short veil to the crown of her head, the delicate folds floating around her like an aura as she walked down the aisle.

  Benois reached out and took her hand, as she stepped up to the altar steps, beside him. Her wide eyes of vivid blue searched his face, trying to find the answer to the puzzle that continually plagued her: why should this man put himself out to help her so much?

  ‘Ready?’ Benois smiled down at her, squeezing her hand, relieved to see that some colour had returned to Tavia’s cheeks under Sabine’s ministrations. He still wore the same mud-splattered garments from before: the red tunic carrying the golden lion of Henry II, the brown woollen braies cross-laced with leather straps from ankle to calf.

  ‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ she murmured, the pearly cream of her skin drawing his eyes with its ethereal beauty.

  Standing facing them, the priest seemed to have fallen asleep, his chin dropping forwards, almost resting on his chest; his eyes were closed. A sudden draught of unknown origin snuffed out a thick candle behind his portly frame, the acrid smoke coiling up behind him, around him, making his slumped figure appear as if in a thick fog.

  ‘Wake up, man!’ Langley demanded, his tones unnaturally strident as he pulled at the priest’s voluminous sleeve. Slowly, with extreme difficulty, the priest opened his blood shot eyes, resentment emanating from every line in his body towards the couple that had dragged him away from the mid summer celebrations. He had been enjoying an extremely merry time up to the point when his lord, Lord Langley, had pulled him away to preside over this dubious marriage. She’s obviously with child, thought the priest, sneering at Tavia’s slim frame, trying to detect a slight rounding of the bride’s stomach under her gown. Aye, that would be the reason, she’s of noble birth, and can’t bear the shame of bearing a child out of wedlock.

  The priest stepped forward, clearing his throat, obviously intending to begin the service. ‘Dearly beloved…’ he intoned. ‘We—’

  ‘Wait…!’ screeched Sabine. ‘I forgot something!’ She dashed away, as quickly as her distended figure would allow.

  ‘What now?’ Benois twisted his head round irritably, trying to decipher Sabine’s intentions. ‘That infernal wife of yours, Langley!’

  Langley took a half-step forwards and realised he could do nothing, his round, jovial face adopting a look of extreme apology.

  The church door opened, then slammed shut once more. Sabine puffed back down the aisle, thrusting a posy of summer flowers into the bride’s surprised hands.

  ‘Oh, they’re beautiful,’ Tavia cried in delight, savouring the fresh, light perfume emanating from the purplish-blue lavender and the white daisies. Against the heady smell of incense that pervaded the dark recesses of the church, this new scent evoked the bright, burnished meadows of high summer. She darted a quick smile of thanks in Sabine’s direction.

  ‘Now, can we begin?’ Benois growled. The priest, clearing his throat dramatically, opened the heavy Bible that rested before him on a wooden lectern. He began to speak the words of the marriage service, a slow lilting intonation.

  As if in a dream, Tavia listened to the cadence of the priest’s voice without hearing the words. She almost jumped in shock when the priest lifted her hand and placed it over Benois’s, before dutifully repeating the words she had been asked to say.

  ‘And now, if you would like to place the wedding ring on the Bible…’ The priest lifted his reddened eyes towards Benois. Benois looked blank.

  ‘Oh, a ring!’ Langley blustered from the shadows. ‘Here, Benois, take this one.’ He began to fumble to dislodge a ring from his left hand.

  Benois’s fingers tightened around Tavia’s hand; a rawness invaded his expression, making him look momentarily bereft. ‘Nay, friend—’ he stopped Langley’s agitated movements with his low voice ‘—I have one.’

  Benois reached into the collar of his tunic, and drew out a leather lace, pulling it over his head. The silver ring on the end spun, twinkling in slow circles, in the mellow penumbra of the church.

  ‘It belonged to my mother,’ Benois explained, detaching the ring from the end of the lace, and reaching for Tavia’s hand once more.

  Her fingers trembled as he slid the cool metal over her fourth finger. The flat edge of the ring had been intricately engraved with small flowers, stems twining across the silver, making it sparkle. His mother’s ring! Her throat closed up with emotion, and she glanced up, scanning Benois’s impassive face, trying to detect his mood. But his face was set, stern, his hard, granite eyes trained on the priest.

  ‘And I now pronounce you man and wife,’ the priest finished the service in a rush of words, hastily covering his mouth to stifle a belch. He closed the Bible between his hands with a snap, dust puffing into the air from the thin pages.

  Tavia toed the cold flag stones beneath her feet, feeling strangely ill at ease, self-conscious in her own skin. So this was it. She was married. Married to a man she had known but a few days, days that felt like a lifetime. ‘So what happens now?’ Her voice wavered with the question.

  ‘Now?’ Benois raised one dark eyebrow. ‘Now, we wait
for Ferchar.’

  ‘And what if Ferchar doesn’t come? Then you’ll have married me for nothing.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Benois replied enigmatically.

  With a small sound of relief, Tavia sank into the hot, steaming water, the heated liquid soothing her aching muscles, allowing her to stretch her limbs to their full, languorous extent. She wriggled her toes, her fingers, her heart flipping as she acknowledged the un familiar band around her wedding finger. All that had been cramped and tight, now became supple, pliable, under the effect of the water. Closing her eyes, Tavia tipped her neck back to rest her head on the wooden edge of the tub. Somewhere behind her, Sabine bustled about the chamber; Sabine, whose tireless energy seemed indefatigable, who had asked, nay, told Benois that she was taking his new bride upstairs to give her a proper bath. Benois had barely nodded his assent before Tavia had been whisked away.

  The scent of lavender rose to her nostrils; a muslin bag full of the dried flower had been tossed into the water, pervading the air with delicious perfume. The water penetrated the very pores of Tavia’s skin, cleansing her of all the dirt of the past few days. Every now and again, a flutter, a niggle, gnawed fleetingly in the pit of her stomach. Had she been a fool for marrying Benois? Would her decision lead to sadness, to heart ache? She wished she could know the answer.

  ‘How does the water feel?’ Sabine, who had stood like a tyrant over her maid servant, watching keenly as the girl folded the flimsy fabric of the wedding gown and packed it back into the oak coffer, now approached the steep sides of the tub. The tub itself was lined with a thick linen cloth to stop its recipient catching any splinters from the rough wooden sides.

  ‘Oh, like Heaven, thank you, Sabine.’

  ‘No thanks needed.’ Sabine plonked her rounded girth on to a low stool next to the bath. ‘Especially after what you’ve been through. It’s the least you deserve.’ She cast a critical eye over the gash on Tavia’s forehead. ‘I only wish you’d had a chance to bathe before your marriage.’ Her fingers probed gently around the crusting edges of the wound. ‘Still, it seems Benois hasn’t done a bad job for a man who was in such a hurry.’

  ‘You mustn’t blame Benois. He was only worried about Lord Ferchar arriving.’ Tavia noted the condemnation threading through Sa bine’s light tone.

  Sabine laughed, leaning forward to clutch at the sides of the bath, her deep brown eyes glowing with intrigue. ‘I must admit, I have never seen him this jittery…ever. Most times, he acts with a deadly calm, even when he’s about to go into a battle. You must really mean a great deal to him.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not certain about that,’ Tavia hedged, wiggling her hips to sink down further, wondering how she could deflect the conversation away from herself. ‘How long have you known Benois?’

  Sabine rested her elbows on the edge of the bath. ‘I don’t believe any one knows Benois well. But Langley and he are great friends, de spite the fact they possess completely different characters. I met Benois when I married Langley. But I had heard of him before; his reputation as a skilful knight, a born leader of men, was well known, notorious even.’ Her gaze scrutinised Tavia’s pale face. ‘And now you’re married to him.’

  Tavia picked up a wash cloth, started scrubbing her pinkened skin vigorously. ‘He’s only done it to help me out. To stop Ferchar from marrying me.’ Her voice sounded gusty, breathless.

  ‘Is that what you truly believe?’ Sabine rapped out, pushing her up per body sharply upright. The material of her gown pulled taut over her curving belly.

  ‘Aye,’ Tavia returned annoyance. ‘He’s married me out of a sense of duty, of obligation.’ She rubbed the back of her neck, her shoulders, the water sluicing down her arms. ‘Although I can’t for the life of me figure out why…’

  ‘Can’t you?’ Sabine stared at her in astonishment, drawing her spine straight. ‘Has that knock on the head made you completely insane? Benois would never marry someone on those terms. Why on earth would he?’

  ‘So why would he marry me, then?’ Tavia ventured in a small voice.

  ‘Oh, Tavia…’ Sabine’s rose-coloured lips widened into a smile ‘…because he loves you, Tavia, that’s why. I must admit, I had my doubts at first, but having seen the two of you together…he loves you and he wants to protect you. Anyone can see that.’

  Tavia crushed the wash cloth haphazardly between her fingers, the water dripping into the flat water, causing con centric circles to ripple out around her. ‘But I feel as if he’s been forced into it…because of Ferchar.’ But Sabine was already laughing.

  ‘Oh, you really don’t know him very well, do you! Can you imagine anyone forcing Benois to do anything he doesn’t want to do? Tell me…can you?’

  A stray head of lavender floated on the water’s surface, brushing against Tavia’s bare thigh, sticking to her wet skin as she raised her knee slightly out of the water. She recalled the intense, unhindered passion of their coupling beneath the magical green light of the forest, the wild, reckless heat of their kisses, and she lifted the wash cloth to her face to hide her flaming cheeks. Did Sabine speak the truth? That Benois had married her for love? ‘He’s never said it, Sabine, he’s never said he loves me,’ she mumbled through the wet flannel, screwing her eyes up against the memory of his rejection after their lovemaking. Her voice held a forlorn edge.

  ‘Oh, Tavia, you mustn’t expect hearts and flowers with Benois. He’s a soldier, gruff and taciturn at the best of times, but, oh, if only you could see how he is around you! He shows his love in other ways, in the way he looks at you, cares for you.’

  Tavia shook her head, droplets of water cascading down from her hair. ‘I’ve never seen it,’ she replied, a helpless, brooding look entering her eyes.

  ‘Just give him a chance, Tavia, give him a chance.’ Sabine levered herself up from the stool, indicating with a precise movement of her dark head that she wished the maid servant to bring over some towels.

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ Tavia answered finally, wringing out the flannel and hanging it over the side of the tub. She stood up, the water cascading over her naked limbs, her hair plastered wildly down her back, taking the towel that the diminutive maid servant held out to her, horribly aware that her words held no conviction, no certainty. She didn’t believe Sabine for a moment. Could she accept this way of life, a life without his love, just to be near him? Would her love for him be enough for the two of them?

  Benois stood high up in the darkness on the curtain wall, an undulating boundary of stones that circled Langley Castle. He was alone up here, apart from the occasional patrolling soldier, who marched constantly around the high wall scanning the country side for potential invaders. Leaning his wide shoulders back against the cold stone, he crossed his arms over his chest, lazily watching the festivities be low. Yet while the people of Langley danced and fro licked beneath him, the flames of midsummer fire leaping higher and higher, he couldn’t shake the image of Tavia coming towards him down the aisle, and how utterly breath taking she had looked. Her shining beauty on the outside had matched the kindness and beauty of her soul on the inside, and the urge to hold her sealed within his arms and keep her there for ever had been over whelming. He had scarce wanted to hand her over to Sabine at the end of the ceremony. She was his wife! The thought swelled within him, growing like a rich, warm aura, a feeling of comfort, of joy, that disconcerted him. After his family had died, he had vowed never to marry, never wanted to inflict his black-hearted soul on any unsuspecting maid, never wanted those complicated emotional ties that love and marriage would surely bring. But now? Now he was not so sure.

  ‘Benois.’ The familiar musical tones of her voice drew him, his eyes seeking her out in the dark. At the top of the steps, Tavia paused, the veil covering her wet hair billowing out, a flimsy cloud on the evening breeze. Her loose, damp hair coiled down, dark red tendrils of sea weed. She smiled, annoyance, not wishing to intrude, nerves flittering through her as she hesitated at the top of the steps. ‘I’m sorry. D
id you want to be alone?’

  ‘Not any more.’ He laughed, pushing himself away from the wall, coming towards her in two quick strides. Not now, or for ever more, he thought, cheer fully. Her small hand slipped into his, her blue eyes twinkling in her flushed face. ‘Come, stand with me for a while. There’s a good view from here.’ He guided her along the narrow walk way, bringing her to stand in front of him, his big arm wrapped over her shoulders, pulling her back into the solid warmth of his chest.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you again; I thought Sabine would have tucked you up in bed by now.’ The scent of lavender rose from her newly washed hair, tantalising his nostrils.

  ‘She did try, but I wanted to find you.’

  ‘Why?’

  Her hand gripped more securely on to his. ‘To make sure it wasn’t all a dream.’ Extending her left hand out, she watched the silver ring sparkle in the evening gloaming. Why had she really sought him out? To tell him that the marriage was a huge mistake?

  Benois sighed. ‘It was quick, I’ll grant you that. I’m sorry if it wasn’t the kind of wedding you had in mind.’

  Tavia laughed. ‘Benois, I never had any marriage in mind. I was set to be a spinster for the rest of my life. Nobody wants to marry me—my tongue is too sharp, my body too lean for most men’s tastes, and the colour of my hair? That’s the first thing that men run away from!’

  Benois issued a small sound of disbelief, pulling her upper body closer into him. Tavia misinterpreted his gesture, thinking he was trying to comfort her. ‘Nay, you needn’t feel badly for me, Benois. After witnessing the marriage my parents endured, I was quite happy to remain alone. You mustn’t pity me!’