The Warrior’s Princess Bride

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘I don’t pity you!’ Benois contradicted forcibly. ‘I consider myself lucky that those imbeciles didn’t see what I can!’

  Her brain fogged. Why did he talk in riddles so?

  Down below, the beat and tempo of the music seemed to have become louder, faster. The dancers whirled about, the colours of their garments flowing into one another with the pace of their steps. Maids’ hemlines swirled upwards, revealing white, shapely calves and bare feet. Men’s faces, flushed and grinning, grabbed their partners, swinging the maids around until they threw their heads back with utter joy. Some couples, no doubt fuelled by the alcoholic mead running in their veins, sneaked off into the trees beyond the fire, to enjoy more sensual delights.

  ‘They look like they’re having fun,’ Tavia said, glad to find an excuse to move the conversation away from that of marriage.

  ‘Hmm, they’ve certainly had too much to drink,’ Benois replied.

  ‘You don’t approve?’

  ‘The drink addles their brains.’ The regretful note in Benois’s voice twisted in her gut. She felt a deep shiver run through his big frame.

  Benois smoothed one hand through his ruffled hair, sable locks spilling through his fingers. The ridged scar on his palm brushed against his scalp, a constant reminder. ‘It can cause people to lose their heads, do stupid things,’ he spoke, his tone low and measured.

  ‘Like your father?’ she whispered.

  He gathered her close, his arm an iron band around her chest. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘You began to tell me once, remember, in the barn at my home.’ She fell silent, not wanting to probe, to stir up unwanted memories.

  Benois watched the leaping flames below, their red glow lighting up the north wall of the castle, painting the stones a lurid red. ‘My father was practically sense less when he returned home that night, the night of the fire. He’d been spurned by his mistress at court, and had drowned his sorrows with tankard after tankard of mead. If he hadn’t drunk so much…’ His voice died away.

  ‘Then your mother and sister might have lived.’ Tavia finished the sentence for him. Benois gripped her small body, luxuriating in the soft, sweet feel of her.

  ‘I loved them so much, Tavia.’ His voice was ragged, uneven, as if these words had been locked in a dusty treasure box for years and years before finally being released. ‘I loved them…and then I lost them. I never want to go through that again.’

  ‘But you’ll never have to, Benois.’

  He turned her in his arms then, lifting her chin with one finger. The metallic streaks of his eyes clung to hers, granite fire. ‘If I love someone, then the possibility of losing them is always there.’

  ‘If…’ she breathed, the tiny word spark ling in the gap of air between them, daring to hope. Her fingers moved upwards, wanting to ease away the hurt and pain in his face.

  A soldier’s shout, rising sternly above the mêlée of the celebrations, forced them both to turn in unison.

  ‘Hell and damnation!’ cursed Benois. ‘Ferchar!’

  Chapter Twenty

  The solitary messenger, dressed in the green-and-gold colours of the Scottish court, made his way to the top table in the great hall, escorted by a soldier from the gate house. There sat Lord Langley, surrounded by a few of his house knights, sharing a cup of mead before they bedded down for the night. A few soldiers, choosing not to join in with the celebrations outside, had paired up for games of merels, their big frames hunched in concentration over the square game boards.

  Langley tilted his blond head in expectation as he tracked the messenger’s approach. The young squire’s faltering step became slower and slower as he climbed the wooden steps on to the dais, and moved towards the table, obviously reluctant to deliver his message. His fingers moved with agitation over the crackling parchment between his hands.

  ‘Come, come, boy,’ Langley demanded impatiently, although he said the words with a kind smile. ‘What is your message?’

  The squire unrolled the stiff parchment with shaking fingers, the red wax that sealed the paper dropping to the wooden floor boards. Benois, pulling Tavia in his wake, reached the boy in the same moment, smartly plucking the missive from the squire’s astonished hands. Benois scanned the contents at speed, his expression severe as he met Langley’s enquiring glance over the messenger’s sandy hair.

  ‘It’s Ferchar. He’s holding King Henry to ransom, at Marwood Castle.’ He frowned at Langley. ‘Christ, that’s all we need!’

  ‘The castle is but a few miles from here, but the other side of the border,’ Langley explained quickly. ‘What does he want in return for the King?’

  ‘I’ll give you one guess,’ Benois growled, the mirror-sheen of his eyes falling on Tavia’s petite frame.

  Tavia felt the heat of Benois’s gaze. ‘He wants me, doesn’t he?’ She scoured his lean features for confirmation. ‘He wants you to trade me for King Henry.’

  ‘He can’t bear to lose.’ Langley’s chair legs scraped against the floor as he rose to his feet.

  ‘And he still needs you to gain your father’s inheritance; it’s worth more than anything Henry could give him. I bet Malcolm and the other Scottish barons won’t let him have it.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s it, then,’ Tavia announced practically. ‘The end of this charade. If you find me a horse, I’ll be on my way.’

  Langley and Benois regarded her with identical expressions of disbelief.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Benois asked finally.

  ‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? There’s no contest, if the life of King Henry is at stake. He’s the King of England, and Duke of Normandy for that matter…and who am I? Just—’

  ‘You’re my wife,’ Benois cut in, his slicing words truncating her speech.

  Warmth rose within her at the possessive nature of his words, but she fought to suppress it, to ignore it, placing a gentle hand on his arm. ‘Benois,’ she stated calmly, although her heart cracked with emotion, ‘I don’t expect you to carry on with this…with this parody under these cir cum stances. You never expected Ferchar to do this, did you?’ Her light blue eyes searched his rugged face for some glimmer of understanding.

  Benois glared down at her, storm clouds massing in his silvered eyes.

  ‘We could arrange an annulment,’ Tavia chattered on, her words tumbling out as she sensed his irriation.

  ‘Bit late for that, isn’t it?’ His tone, crushing, shredded her fragile confidence. A lock of sable hair fell over his forehead; he brushed it away in annoyance. ‘Whoever said anything about this marriage being a charade, Tavia? Is that what you think it is? A masquerade? A sham? Then forgive me, my lady, if I don’t see it that way!’ Tavia squirmed miserably under the unexpected harsh ness of his words. He gripped her shoulders, shook her slightly, forcing her in that movement to meet the blistering heat of his eyes. ‘This marriage is for real, my lady, so you’d better become used to the idea!’

  Tavia recoiled from him as if he had hit her, un successfully trying to wrench her shoulders out from his punishing grip. He stared at the bereft expression chasing across her elfin features and felt like a brute. How could he tell her that he loved her? To speak those words, to breathe life into them would mean that they had real sub stance, and things of sub stance could so easily be taken away. He preferred to keep such thoughts hidden, squirreled in the hidden recesses of his heart.

  Tavia chewed on one fingernail, trying to collect her thoughts, trying to find the words to explain. ‘I didn’t mean…I thought…’ Her words died under Benois’ ferocious glance. She didn’t want him to feel trapped by their union, that he was free to go, to leave her. Her dark, spiky eye lashes fanned down over the creamy alabaster of her cheeks; shame washed over her. She had made the situation worse between them, when all she had tried to do was make things easier. She jerked her head up, the silver circlet that held her linen veil glinting in the lowering candle light. ‘I’m sorry, Benois,’ she declared final
ly, ‘it’s just that I’m very grateful for what you are doing for me, protecting me from Ferchar, and I don’t want you to feel you’ve compromised your position in any way.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that, Tavia,’ he replied, a softness stealing over his face. His hands loosened from her shoulders, smoothing down the sides of her arms, leaving a blazing trail of heat. ‘Remember, I’m big enough, and ugly enough, to take care of myself.’

  ‘There must be another way we can extract Henry from Ferchar’s clutches,’ Langley stated, his jovial face sunk in thought. ‘Marwood Castle is more of a fortified manor, and the windows are wide, wide enough for a man to climb through.’

  ‘They’ll have put Henry on a higher floor,’ added Benois, thinking, ‘so we’ll need to fire a rope to his window so he’s able to climb down. And the only way to do that—’

  ‘Is to use a crossbow,’ Tavia finished for him, clasping her hands together. Their eyes met, held, chips of aqua marine clashing with hard granite.

  ‘Nay!’ he breathed.

  ‘I can do it! Benois, I can!’ Tavia’s voice notched upwards with excitement.

  Benois ignored her, running his fingers distractedly through his hair, casting his glance around the great hall as if trying to find an alternative marksman. ‘There must be someone else.’ He looked pleadingly at Langley. ‘Surely you must have some good shots in your house hold guards? Think, man, think!’

  Down in the great hall, one game of merels finished in high jubilation, knights coming forwards to slap the winner on the back, before draining the last dregs from their pewter tankards. They wiped their wet mouths on the backs of their sleeves before setting up another game. Distracted by the noise, Langley swept his gaze down the hall, before turning back to Benois. ‘I’m sorry, friend, but there’s no one. They’re all fingers and thumbs when it comes to accurate shooting…excellent on the battle field, though, can’t fault them. I’m afraid it’s got to be you, Benois, or Tavia.’

  Benois closed his eyes. He knew Tavia was a better shot than he, and he knew that she was aware of that fact. He remembered her re mark able performance in the competition at Dunswick Castle, how she had shot the centre of the target five times in a row. He couldn’t beat that.

  ‘You don’t think I can do it!’ Her sweet voice, fiery, plucked at his senses.

  He opened his eyes. The jewelled brooch that held the neckline of her gown together winked blue fire. Beneath the creamy skin of her neck, he could see the beat of her pulse, rapid, strong.

  ‘Nay, Tavia. I know you can do it. You’re fast and accurate with a bow. Better than any man I’ve seen.’

  ‘Then what’s the matter?’ She inclined her head, her small nose wrinkling faintly in question. ‘Why do you want to stop me going?’

  He shot her a look of such anguish, such despair, that she took a step closer, wanting to comfort him.

  ‘Oh, God, Benois, what is it?’

  In answer, he wound his big arms about her, pulling her close, his tawny head dipping down so his lips brushed the top of her ear. She trembled, her blood careening wildly under his touch, bending into his body like supple willow. ‘Because it will be dangerous, Tavia,’ he whispered. ‘The whole place will be crawling with Scottish soldiers on the look-out for you. I don’t want to lose you…again.’

  ‘But you won’t lose me, Benois.’ Her voice was muffled by the fabric of his tunic. ‘I’ll stick by your side all the time, if that’s what you wish.’ Hope fired in her breast at his words.

  ‘Aye, I wish it,’ he replied tersely. I wish it for all eternity, he thought.

  The noisy frivolity of the midsummer celebrations had muted now, the fire subsiding slowly into red glowing embers, great branches of wood shifting, collapsing as they broke in two. Here and there, couples lay side by side on the grass, talking, kissing, but most seemed to have wound their way to bed. Not many people noticed the group of riders clattering over the draw bridge of Langley Castle, cantering off in the direction of the Scottish border.

  They rode the few miles to Marwood flanked by out riders carrying flares, rush torches held high, spluttering and crackling their wavering, unpredictable flame in the darkness. Above the billowing shadows of the trees, lumpen clouds built steadily from small froths of water vapour, beginning to obscure the feeble light of a quarter-moon. In the dark patches of sky that escaped the cloud, the first stars of evening began to appear, pinholes in black cloth.

  At the front of the group, on a small grey pony, rode the messenger, who kept twisting around in his saddle, his face worried, almost as if he couldn’t believe the number of English soldiers that followed him. Wrapped up in a voluminous cloak against the unexpected chill of the air, Tavia was grateful that Langley had insisted upon finding it for her, even if it had meant rifling through one of Sabine’s coffers. He had urged Tavia to be quiet as she waited for him outside Sabine’s bedchamber; she suspected that his wife would have plenty to say if she knew about their evening trip.

  ‘Ride closer to me!’ Benois urged as the forest thickened, darkened around them. He leaned over to clutch at the reins around her horse’s neck, drawing her and the animal into him. His booted foot nudged against her outer thigh.

  ‘Benois, careful! You’ll have me off!’ she pro tested with a laugh, as his toe brushed against her again.

  ‘Sorry,’ he responded tersely. ‘I just wish you didn’t have to do this. I keep racking my brains, trying to think of another solution to get Ferchar off our backs!’

  ‘Maybe he’ll give in once he knows we are married?’

  ‘It’s a possibility, but not something we can rely on. I should just kill him.’

  ‘Oh, Benois, you know that’s not the way.’

  He laughed, dropping his gaze on to her neat head. ‘It would have been my way, though. I gave no thought to life, or person, before I met you. I would rush headlong into battle, slashing, burning, killing, with no thought or heed for anyone.’

  Tavia scanned his face, marvelling at the sincerity of his tone. ‘I’m not responsible for such a change,’ she whispered. ‘It has come from you, from within.’

  ‘You’ve brought me back to life,’ he whispered, bending down from the waist to touch his lips to her upturned face. Tavia shuddered under the cool feel of his mouth, burning need firing her veins, her heart. She stretched up, standing up in the stirrups so she could wind her arms around his neck, deepen the kiss…until her horse, disturbed by the odd movements of its rider above, stepped away from Benois’s destrier, widening the gap between the two horses. Tavia broke away, her lips bruised, sensitive, but laughing, and clutched hold of her palfrey’s neck in a des per ate attempt to stay in the saddle.

  Benois’s eyes, sparking with unfulfilled desire, snared hers. ‘Later,’ he said.

  The oppressive nature of the air crushed in upon the riders, making every movement slow, soporific. Thunder grumbled ominously in the distance. Benois ran a finger around his neckline, trying to disperse the beads of sweat that had gathered. He was glad he hadn’t worn chain mail; it would have slowed his movements on this sultry night. He could see Langley, riding ahead, was already regretting donning his hauberk. At last the young squire stopped, just as he reached the forest boundary, and pointed out something to Langley who rode just behind him.

  Langley hoisted his arm above his head, his metal gauntlet shining, indicating that the riders should dismount, tie up their horses, so they could approach Marwood Castle on foot. Beside Tavia, Benois had already jumped down, before coming round to her horse’s flank.

  ‘Let me help you,’ he offered.

  Tavia swung her leg front ways over the horse’s neck. Noting her peculiar way of dismounting, Benois placed both hands on the side of her waist, a grin split ting his features. He held her close for a moment, their faces at the same level, his arms locking her body into him. ‘Back there, I almost thought you had mastered the knack of riding. But now I can see you have a little more to learn.’

  She
giggled, one hand sneaking up to tweak his ear. ‘I’ve not done badly for someone who had never been on horse back a sennight ago.’

  He allowed her to slide to the ground, still holding her. ‘Still, I think I’m going to have some fun teaching you.’ She frowned, surprised at his words. They implied a longevity, a sense of going into the future, together. She prayed that she hadn’t misinterpreted his meaning.

  ‘Benois!’ Langley blustered up. ‘Listen, let me go down to the gate house with a few men, and engage Ferchar in some sort of negotiation. I’ll keep him talking as long as I can.’

  ‘I can rely on you, Langley, to keep someone talking.’ Benois slapped him genially on the back.

  Langley smiled, his skin damp, glistening with perspiration, the nose-piece of his steel helmet obscuring most of his face. ‘You and Tavia make your way down care fully; one of my men will give you a crossbow and the rope…and for God’s sake, keep your selves out of sight! I suspect Henry will be in the tower, there’s only one, on the north side of the castle. Aim for that. And good luck,’ he added, al most as an after-thought.

  ‘He’s nervous,’ Benois explained, as he and Tavia, having broken away from the rest of the group, began to descend the gentle slope down to the castle. In his hand, he carried a polished crossbow, and on his back, a leather case full of bolts. Tavia carried the rope over her arm, having insisted on carrying something. Nerves fluttered in the pit of her stomach; Benois’s gentle teasing on the ride had distracted her from the true purpose of their journey. She glanced warily at the crossbow; it looked heavy, unwieldy.

  ‘Mayhap I should have had some practice.’ She licked her dry lips. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve shot at a target.’

  ‘It’s not much above a sennight, Tavia. That was when I first saw you…at Dunswick Castle. You’ll have not lost your skill in such a short time.’