The Warrior's Damsel in Distress

by Meriel Fuller

  Margaret was talking to her again, wine clinging to her fleshy lips, red flecks of spittle. ‘And she was nothing like you. My husband has relatives at Count William’s court, so we saw her when we travelled to Hainault. Fair hair.’ A feverish look had entered the older lady’s pale brown eyes; red blotches patched her cheeks. She slumped back in her chair, plucking irritably at her wimple.

  ‘Sorry—who?’ Eva switched her gaze to Margaret, forcing herself to concentrate.

  ‘Why, Sophie le Nys, of course!’ Pushing a chunk of cooked fish into her mouth, Margaret talked around her food, dabbing her lips every now and again with her napkin. ‘What a beauty that maid was!’ Her voice rose volubly above the general hubbub of the great hall, catching her husband’s attention.

  ‘What are you gabbling on about, Wife?’ Goodric demanded. ‘Have you allowed Lady Eva to speak at all?’ His thick hair stood out in haphazard clumps from his scalp, grey and frizzy.

  * * *

  Sophie. Bruin heard the name drop from the older woman’s lips. Like a flare in the darkness, a hook flying out on a flaxen line, snaring the sinew in his neck, digging deep. Hauling him back to those dark, awful days. He set his goblet down before him, slowly, deliberately; pushed his chair back, a violent grating sound. A clawing sickness rose in his throat; he pushed it down, forcibly. His heart seized up with memory, scrunching into a tiny, wasted ball in the middle of his chest.

  Down on the lower floor, servants carried the trestle tables to the sides of the hall, in preparation for the dancing. Wooden legs scraped against the flagstones, discordant sounds. In one corner, a group of musicians settled themselves once more, making tentative sounds with their instruments, before breaking into a lively jig. Couples joined hands, smiling at each other, gathering into the jostling lines of a dance.

  Bruin had no plan, only to move away from that woman, the woman who had spoken Sophie’s name. His brain numb, ploughing through fog, he stepped towards Eva. She shone like a beacon, a salvation, the ebony beauty of her hair glowing beneath her veil. Her cheek held the downy patina of velvet as she inclined her heard towards Lady Margaret’s endless wittering. His hand curled around her shoulder; Eva twisted around, turquoise eyes searching his face, her veil bundling in the crook of her neck.

  ‘Come with me.’ His voice was hoarse.

  ‘What?’ Eva replied abruptly, surprised by his sudden appearance.

  ‘Oh, go on and dance; have a bit of fun! Don’t mind me!’ Margaret giggled, then hiccoughed loudly. She pressed her napkin to her mouth. ‘Excuse me!’

  ‘Come on.’ Bruin reached for her hand where it lay on the table, pulling her out through the gap between the two chairs. His face was white, jaw rigid and strained.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Eva slid out beside him in a rustle of skirts. Concern laced her voice.

  ‘No,’ Bruin replied roughly, tucking her arm firmly beneath his. ‘No, I am not.’ His hip brushed hers, the point of his sword tangling in her gown as they walked from the high dais, down into the crowded noisy hall.

  Eva paused at the bottom of the wooden steps. Her skirts flowed over Bruin’s boots, fine blue wool over creased brown leather. ‘You heard what she said.’

  A pulse beat rapidly in his neck. ‘I did.’

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Yes.’ The calloused pads of his fingers kneaded her silk sleeve, paddling the skin beneath.

  ‘That you were betrothed?’ Eva’s voice rose, amazed by his blunt confession.

  ‘Yes.’ His eyes hollowed out, bleak and piercing, as he stared over her head at the dancers. A rawness shifted across his expression, gouging into her heart.

  ‘Oh, Bruin, what happened to you?’ Eva asked softly. Unbidden, her hand rose to cup his face. The bristles on his jaw rasped against the fleshy pads of her palm.

  His eyes roamed her face, her sweet appraisal. He hadn’t expected her sympathy. Shock, disgust even, at Margaret’s words, but not this, this look of care. Why, in Heaven’s name, would she care about him? He was the man who had hauled her, against her will, across the country to meet a man she had no wish to meet. Who had made her life a living hell. And yet, despite all this, her huge blue eyes travelled across his face, worried for him, her hand embracing the chiselled roughness of his jaw.

  The silence extended between them. Eva’s hand dropped away. Her velvet eyelashes fluttered down across the pearly bloom of her cheeks. Her words had been too bold, too reckless. ‘I’m sorry,’ she continued quietly. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’ The line of dancers coiled across the floor; a thickset man jostled against Eva’s back, throwing her forward against Bruin. He caught her elbow, steadied her.

  Why had he gone to her? Why had his body moved towards her as if guided by an invisible hand, seeking her out, when it would have been simpler for him to leave the great hall alone, on some invented excuse? Seeking solace, he had stepped over to her without thought, the luminous beauty of her face lifting up to him like a flower opening in summer. In that moment of utter despair, he had thought only of Eva, of her support. Her quiet wisdom. With the utterance of Sophie’s name unearthing the dark, horrible memories of the past, it was Eva he had wanted at his side.

  And now he had her.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he announced brusquely, tugging her hand. They skirted the hall, past the pushed-back tables, the whirling dancers, the musicians in the far corner. Parting the velvet curtain at the far end, Bruin plunged into the shadowed hallway, a cold empty space by the main doors. A single flame flickered from a rush torch; a vast shield displaying the coloured arms of Lord Goodric was secured to the wall, ornate swords crossed behind. Gemstones shone dully in the hilts.

  ‘Why are we here?’ she whispered, her breath a white cloud in the freezing hallway.

  Because I want to tell you what has happened to me, Bruin thought. Because I know you will understand. ‘Because I don’t want you to hear things about me that aren’t the truth,’ he said, his voice a low growl. ‘Lady Margaret,’ he added disparagingly, ‘is talking of things about which she knows nothing.’

  ‘Then tell me what really happened,’ Eva said softly.

  Bruin crossed his arms over his chest, wrinkling the wool of his surcoat. ‘Someone I was fond of, a woman, died,’ he said.

  ‘Someone you loved,’ Eva whispered, dancing from one foot to the other. It was as if someone had reached into her heart and twisted hard, plucking her feelings out, to leave them exposed, scattered like small stones across the ground. She had to watch out; he would laugh in her face if he found out that she was starting to care for him.

  An anguished look crossed his sculptured features. ‘I thought I did.’

  Eva bit down hard on her bottom lip, dispelling her own selfish, stupid thoughts. It was Bruin that mattered at the moment, Bruin whom she must look after. ‘I am so sorry,’ she said quietly.

  ‘It was my fault that she died,’ he spoke in a jolting tone, as if his words, untested, were having trouble finding their way out. His voice was clipped, brutal. ‘While we were betrothed, Sophie fell pregnant, by another man. I was livid, mad when I found out. I told her it was over, that I never wanted to see her again.’ His eyes bleak, red-rimmed. ‘And I never did.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She drowned herself.’

  ‘Oh, my God.’ Her heart flew to him. The pain of memory hunched his big body, despair a cruel blade driving through his expression. She gripped his forearms, thumbs rubbing against the powerful flex of sinew beneath his linen shirt.

  He dropped his head. ‘I don’t deserve your sympathy, Eva. It’s a horrible thing that I’ve done. You should be berating me, not comforting me.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault. How can it be?’

  Bruin glanced up, surprised. His silver eyes glittered. Outside the iron-riveted door, a guard shouted to someone in t
he bailey; the sound echoed around the lofty hallway. ‘How can it not be? My anger drove her to do what she did. Surely this only confirms your lowly opinion of me: a barbarian and a thug, taking what I want, riding roughshod over people. What happened in my past proves that fact. You’ve been right all along, Eva. I just didn’t tell you.’ His tone was bitter, condemning.

  ‘Whatever my opinion of you, Bruin,’ she replied carefully, ‘you are still not to blame for what happened.’ He would never know what she truly felt about him, how her body yearned for him, for she could not risk the heartache of his rejection, the humiliation. Especially after what had happened in the chamber upstairs. Unconsciously, her thumbs circled across the solid flesh of his forearms. ‘You shouted at her, you were angry, justifiably. But that didn’t cause her death. She did that, all by herself.’

  His eyes clung to her, his sense of dislocation easing. Was this what it felt like to have someone on his side? He had roamed so long in the wilderness of grief, he wasn’t sure he could recognise such a feeling. The heat from her hands travelled up his arms. Her touch was a torment, stirring the blood in his veins. His muscles flexed, tightening with sweet awareness. ‘God, I wish it were the truth,’ he breathed unsteadily. In the shadows, her silky skin was translucent, supple, like liquid cream. Her plush mouth tilted up at the corners, the ghost of a smile, tender, compassionate. Lust shot through him, a dangerous wildfire, volatile, unstable. With a supreme effort of will, he pushed her arms away, clamping them firmly to her sides. ‘We had better go back.’ His voice was hoarse.

  ‘Are you going to be all right?’ Eva murmured.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  If you are there, then I will be.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The remainder of the evening passed in a torpid blur. Piles of food continued to arrive from the kitchens, many more cups of mead and wine. Grease splatters, gobbets of spilled food littered the length of the tablecloth. Wax dripped down the candlesticks in weird contorted shapes. Servants wove around the tables, lifting dirty plates, hauling away empty serving platters. And the music and dancing went on and on: an endless whirling of colourful clothes, of waists gripped hard, of women spun around, laughing. Apart from a single ribald comment from Goodric as Bruin and Eva returned to the hall, nobody had directly questioned their temporary absence.

  Bruin’s words crowded through Eva’s mind: the sadness chasing across his taut cheekbones, haunting the mineral glitter of his eyes. He had loved another: Sophie, a woman who had held his heart and, judging by his reaction when he heard the name, she still held it. Eva’s heart plummeted with the sudden realisation. Jealousy reared up within her, rash and volatile, and she squashed it down, annoyed. It was ridiculous, to feel jealous of a dead woman. And yet, she hated her. Her heart curled with forlorn longing.

  Margaret jogged her arm once more, telling her some endless story. Eva had lost track. Fatigue clouded her brain; her eyes drooped. As her spine sagged once more against the back of the chair, she made an effort to pull herself upright, forcing herself to listen, to keep her eyes pinned open. And then, finally, thankfully, Margaret stood, along with her daughters, indicating that it was time for bed. Eva wobbled to her feet, the overwhelming tiredness making her light-headed.

  As she turned, Bruin was there, standing behind her. He crooked his arm, indicating with a faint tilt of his head that she should take it. Eva didn’t even possess the energy to throw him a mocking smile, but took his arm gratefully, hung on to him as they climbed the stairs together.

  ‘You’re exhausted,’ Bruin said, as they paused at the door to the bedchamber. A bluish tinge shadowed the hollows beneath her beautiful eyes. Her fingers were laced over his forearm.

  ‘Yes, yes, I am,’ Eva admitted, hanging her head.

  He gave a short laugh. ‘It’s not a crime, you know. You are entitled.’ He pushed the bronze-coloured locks back from his forehead. ‘You’ve had an exceptional day, starting with throwing yourself into a river. I’m not surprised you’re tired, after what you’ve been through.’

  She raised her head slowly. He was acting as if nothing had been said between them, as if he hadn’t uttered those damning words in the icy hallway: he loved another. Had he said those words to warn her away, to keep a distance between them? Had he peeled back the flesh around her heart and read the truth contained within? She chewed down hard on her bottom lip, staring at the front of his surcoat, where blue embroidery stitches met gold.

  Bruin studied the top of her neat head, the silken veil settled lightly over her glossy hair; the silver circlet gleaming in the dimness of the corridor. ‘You need sleep, Eva. We both do. I will wait out here, give you time to get into bed. I’ll knock before I come in.’ He placed one big palm flat on the wide elm boards of the door and pushed it open. The four-poster bed revealed itself: carved posts supporting the linen canopy above, a delicately wrought tapestry hanging at the back. Expensive fur pelts rippled across the bed; the pillows were sewn from pristine linen, bleached in the sun. The bed dominated the chamber.

  The intimate scene startled Eva from her reverie. Dryness scraped at her throat, a hot flush sheening her neck. ‘Look,’ she said, adjusting her veil, nervously patting the fabric into place on her shoulder, ‘I’m not sure about this—’ Her eyes rounded on him, a deep luscious blue, faintly accusing.

  ‘Nobody knows the truth but us,’ Bruin explained calmly. ‘Everyone downstairs believes us to be married.’ His mouth twisted wryly.

  She scowled, irritated by her feelings of uncertainty around him, glancing miserably at the bed. How could she lie next to him and actually sleep? It would be impossible, an endless torture, trying to keep her limbs from touching him, holding her body aloof, at a distance. Every nerve taut, straining, hour after dark hour. She would probably have a better night’s sleep if she stretched out on the floor and wrapped herself in one of the rugs. ‘Bruin, we can’t share that bed together,’ she whispered unhappily.

  ‘I know,’ he replied cheerfully, bracing one massive shoulder against the door frame.

  His stance was so nonchalant, so relaxed, that she glanced up at him in surprise, frowning. ‘What are you saying? Are you going to sleep in another chamber?’

  He laughed at the lilting hope in her voice. ‘No, but there is a truckle bed that I can sleep in. It’s tucked under the big bed. I checked earlier.’

  ‘Fine,’ Eva snapped at him. ‘I’ll go and get ready then.’ By withholding the information about the second bed, he had forced her to reveal her worries; she felt foolish now, cloth-headed. She swept into the bedchamber, head held high, spine rigidly straight, and shoved the door closed. Why could she not act normally around him? The way she used to be? It was if he had taken every aspect of her previous character and instructed it to behave differently. She didn’t know who she was any more. She didn’t trust herself.

  The chamber was blissfully warm. The screen had been pushed back around the wooden tub; the water had been emptied. The smell of wax polish permeated the air. An earthenware jug full of water stood next to a bowl on an oak coffer. Eva moved over to it, removing her circlet and veil as she went, folding them neatly. Her cloak lay where she had placed it earlier, the dark blue pleats gathered on the oak coffer; she put her veil and circlet on top.

  Unpinning her hair, she scattered the hairpins beside the jug. Her braids looped down over her shoulders, the curling ends brushing her hips. She sloshed some water into the bowl and scrubbed her face and hands, so vigorously that she made her skin tingle. This journey with Bruin was torturous; how could this man come to matter so much to her, after such a short time in his company? His simple confession downstairs had only made it worse: he had suffered so much. She bit her lip; her answer was there, hovering in the outer recesses of her mind, but she refused to acknowledge such a thought, because it was so impossible, so inconceivable.

  Clasping her hands
before her, Eva made a decision. She would wear her gowns to bed. Even with Bruin lying in the truckle bed, she wanted to remain fully covered. She could not risk exposing herself to him, as she had earlier. The shame of it! Her face flamed with the memory; stifling a swift gasp of dismay, she covered her mouth with her hand.

  ‘Eva? Are you ready?’ His low voice was muffled, insistent, through the door.

  ‘Yes!’ Fully clothed, she scuttled over to the big bed, threw back the covers and jumped in, dragging the linens up to her neck. Her braided hair rustled against the pillow. She had no wish to start a debate with him on why she was wearing all her clothes in bed.

  Bruin prowled into the chamber on silent feet. His glimmering glance sought and found her in the bed; he gave a small nod of approval, striding over to the jug of water, the earthenware bowl.

  Eva turned away from him on to her side, closing her eyes. She heard the sounds of washing, and then, of garments being removed. A boiling heat coursed out from the very centre of her, flooding her whole body, and she closed her eyes, blood thrumming in her ears, willing him to climb into bed very soon.

  ‘Don’t worry, Eva, it’s not as bad as you think.’ Bruin chuckled as he rounded the bed, saw the fierce set of her face. ‘I still have my braies and shirt on.’

  She peered at him. Bruin bent down, pulling out the truckle bed. The simple wooden frame had a rudimentary wheel attached to each leg which made the task much easier. He dragged it out into the middle of the room, a significant distance from the four-poster bed she was relieved to see. Throwing back the meagre covers, he lay down on it. His body was too big: his feet and legs overhung the end of the bed up to his knees.

  Consternation rattled through her. She was much shorter than him; she could fit in that bed easily. Bruin hunched himself into a ball, tucking his knees and feet up. The frame creaked and strained beneath him. The muscled rope of his spine rippled beneath the gauzy bleached linen of his shirt. He would be so uncomfortable.