The Damsel's Defiance

by Meriel Fuller

  Scooping up the wooden bowl with shaking fingers, ignoring the mess on the wall, Sylvie scurried off to the kitchens, shoulders hunched high for fear of another attack. Her husband was unpredictable; she had no way of knowing his mood as often there was no advance warning, no change in his demeanour. Handing the bowl to a kitchen serf, she tried to calm her breathing, studying the column of steam that rose from the cauldron of bubbling porridge. She’d show him! she thought, watching the serf slop the runny oats into the bowl. Or rather, Emmeline would. She prayed fervently that her message had reached Barfleur, that her younger sister would arrive soon; her strong, fearless sister who would stand up to Edgar and extricate her from this parody of a marriage. When Geoffrey the merchant had arrived some week earlier, seeking accommodation, Sylvie had seen his presence as a salvation, as a way of escaping. She had pressed the letter into his palms, whispering the importance of the contents, that it must at all costs reach Emmeline.

  ‘Hurry up, you idle bitch!’ She jumped at Edgar’s jibing words as she set the fresh, steaming porridge before him. He jabbed his spoon into the pale cereal, shoving the food into his mouth.

  ‘Bah!’ he spat it out. ‘Too hot! Can’t you get anything right?’ He turned his beady, malevolent eyes on her. Sylvie shook her head dumbly. How could she ever have thought that the daring, exciting Edgar was the perfect husband, her mate for life? When she had first met him, the eldest son of a wealthy Anglo-Norman family, a family well rewarded for their loyalty to William the Conqueror with vast estates and productive manors in the south of England, she had thought her future to be certain, a way out of her life in service. Edgar had been handsome, attentive, loving and, above all, rich in his own right. She had been too ashamed to introduce him to her own humble family, her widowed sister eschewing all men in favour of the shipping business, her mother still in mourning from the death of her husband. Nay, Edgar had promised her a life of luxury, whisking her away from all that was menial and desperate. She couldn’t wait to leave, to swap her lowly life for one of colour and fun, to leave her daughter Rose, whose very presence seemed to mock her daily, a constant reminder of her previous folly with a man.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ Edgar was yelling at her, spit adhering to his fleshy lips. ‘Clear that mess up!’

  ‘I’ll fetch a servant to do it,’ she murmured, turning to go.

  ‘Nay! I want you to do it!’ he gripped her fingers, restraining her. ‘’Tis your fault!’ She didn’t move for a moment, paralysed by her train of thought.

  Edgar stood, pushing the bench back violently, eyes trained on his wife’s waiflike frame. His burly presence seemed to loom over her, despite both he and Sylvie being about the same height. Grabbing Sylvie’s upper arms, he all but lifted her off her feet to shake her like some helpless creature.

  ‘I said, “Clear that mess up!’” Without warning, he dropped her, raising one meaty fist to clout her around the ear. As his fingers made contact, Sylvie howled with pain, eyes watering at the ringing noise in her right ear. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you suffer, she told herself, biting her lips to prevent any further outcry. She willed her thoughts to turn to the letter she had sent to her sister, a letter that gave her a renewed spirit and strength, something she had not experienced for above a year.

  ‘You can’t treat me like this! I am your wife!’ Sylvie pressed her palm to her ear, trying to alleviate the pain.

  ‘Huh! Some wife you turned out to be! Thin as a rake beneath the covers—why, ’tis like bedding a skeleton.’ She flinched beneath his scathing criticism. ‘In fact, a skeleton would probably be more fun! And where are the children you promised me? Where are they? I need children to further my name, to keep the lands in this family. You barren bitch, I wish I’d never set eyes on you!’

  He pushed her then, with a studied deliberateness that made her blood run cold, his hand flat against her chest, shoving her toward the wall. ‘I’ll treat you however I like,’ he mused. ‘You are my wife and you will do as I say.’ He gave her one last almighty shove backwards. Her back landed heavily against the wall, as her hip smashed against the hard floor.

  ‘Not for much longer,’ she retorted, trying to focus on his brutish profile through the shimmering tears of pain. ‘I’m leaving you, I’m going back to France. Emmeline is coming to fetch me.’

  Edgar shouted with laughter. ‘She’ll have forgotten your existence.’ Spite laced his tone. ‘Remember, you neglected to bid a proper farewell to your family all those years ago.’

  ‘Not Emmeline,’ Sylvie responded feebly, ‘she wouldn’t hold a grudge.’ The sadness on Emmeline’s face when Sylvie had announced she was leaving had almost been too much to bear—the two sisters had always been close. Unable to face her mother’s criticism at such a decision, her condemnation at leaving her small daughter, Sylvie had begged Emmeline to wait until she had sailed before breaking the news to their mother. Emmeline had simply hugged her, entreating her to ‘take care’.

  Edgar sneered down at his wife’s crumpled profile. How weak she was! How insipid! He took great pleasure in ensuring that she behaved herself, as a proper wife should. He knew that without him, she would not survive—with no money, no friends or relatives in this country, she was totally alone. And that was the way he liked it. For miles around, Edgar had bought his loyalty through fear, and money. No one would give Sylvie shelter; they knew what Edgar would do to them. But if the sister appeared…Now that would be a different matter—someone on Sylvie’s side, someone to fight her cause. Edgar stared at the crushed figure huddled into the wall. Sylvie was his, his to treat exactly how he liked and no one was going to take her away from him. The menacing streak in his voice persecuted her, sending pinpoints of fear shooting through her veins.

  ‘You need to be taught a lesson, Sylvie.’

  Outside the woodsman’s hut, deep in the forest, the air was still. A sparkling layer of snow, pure white and pristine, coated the ground, jewel-like frosting. The wind had dropped to leave an icy stillness through the bare branches, shot through with early morning sunlight. Emmeline emerged into the dazzling brightness, still rubbing her eyes to try and wake up.

  ‘Place your foot in my hands, Emmeline; I’ll boost you up.’ Talvas already stood beside his chestnut stallion, smiling softly at her befuddled state. The smooth skin of her cheek bore streaks of mud from the previous day and gave her the look of a street child, albeit an appealing one. She had managed to pull her hair back into one long braid, the curling end of which now bounced at her hips.

  ‘So soon?’ She murmured, wondering at the earliness of the hour. They had slept finally that night, both caught up in the relentless churning of their memories, but now she felt as if she had gained no sleep at all.

  ‘Make haste, Emmeline,’ he urged. ‘I would travel early, before anyone is about.’ The chain-mail clung lovingly to his lean frame, the slits at the side of his legs revealing his woollen braies beneath, his green and gold tunic pulled over the top. He had thrown the hood of the hauberk back on his shoulders to form a fine mesh collar that emphasised the strength of his neck, and his thick hair gleamed in the stark morning light: a raven’s wing.

  ‘You make it sound like we’re in danger.’ Her voice quivered as she stepped forward, hesitating, bracing her body against his inevitable touch. The snow, firmly packed, creaked under her step.

  ‘These are troubled times. If Stephen’s men have failed to catch up with Maud, then she and Robert will raise an army in no time. She has many supporters in this country who are prepared to fight against Stephen.’

  ‘A civil war, you mean?’

  ‘Maybe. And I, for one, would not like to be caught in the crossfire.’

  ‘But Talvas,’ she whispered, ‘it was my ship that brought Maud across.’

  ‘Aye,’ he admitted, his generous mouth twisting ruefully, ‘and I was the captain of that ship.’

  She shook her head. ‘Then why didn’t you stop me?’

  His bright
eyes found hers. ‘Because, mistress, you were unstoppable!’ he held his hand up at her bemused expression. ‘Nay, I tease you! Maud would have found a way across in spite of you, but it may have taken a little longer if you hadn’t been so keen to do business with her.’

  Emmeline flushed. ‘But you didn’t have to be a part of it…we could have found another captain.’

  ‘It meant I could keep an eye on Maud.’ And keep an eye on you, he admitted, assessing her neat, graceful figure as she moved to stand beside him.

  ‘So you are loyal to Stephen?’ She raised one slippered foot, clutching onto his broad shoulder for balance as he cupped the base of her shoe.

  ‘If I have to fight at all, then I would fight on his side. He is married to my sister.’ The sapphire in his eyes grew dark as he studied her face. ‘Come, mistress, the horse grows restless. I wish to be at Waldeath, at your sister’s, by the ten o’clock bell.’ A heady aroma rose from his body, a tantalising mix of horse and woodsmoke as he all but threw her to the front of the saddle, before leaping up behind her.

  ‘Lean against me, maid, for God’s sake!’ he ordered, aware that she held her body rigidly away from him. ‘You’ll slow the horse’s gait.’ Emmeline let her back fall against his chest, reluctantly. After her emotional outburst from the evening before, a shyness had come upon her, an awkwardness that made her movements jerky and restrained around him. Inwardly she cursed the way her words had tumbled out last night, unbidden, yet he had listened, with neither pity nor mockery in his expression. His very presence had nurtured her, steadied her, and made her feel whole again. Her heart clenched, for this journey to her sister’s house would be their last together. Although unsure as to his plans, from the morrow they would never set eyes on each other again. She would miss him.

  The horse climbed a narrow track out of the forest, and broke out onto open heathland. Talvas kicked the stallion with his heels, his strength in his muscled thighs burning into her hips as he snared her tightly to his chest with one arm, and they galloped over the frozen ground, a desolate moor carpeted with low-lying gorse and heather, its profile broken occasionally by a gnarled, wind-bent tree.

  ‘It’s not far now,’ Talvas announced, steering the chestnut with strong, capable hands to the brow of the hill. ‘Waldeath lies in the next valley.’ The cloudless sky, lit with a brilliant, fresh blue, formed a striking contrast with the bleached-out tufts of moorland grass. The horse crested the top of the hill, and the next wide valley lay spread before them, its fertile pastures patterning out into the hazy distance. And nestled on the southern slopes, the village of Waldeath…burning.

  ‘God in heaven!’ Emmeline shouted. ‘Talvas, Talvas, the village burns! My sister!’ She twisted clumsily in the saddle to speak to him, before turning to clutch at the reins, to set the horse in motion, to race away. Adrenalin shot through her veins, the muscles in her body tensing as she lifted herself up from the saddle.

  ‘Hold on,’ he announced grimly, pulling her back into him, kicking the sturdy heels of his boots into the animal’s sides. The horse careered down the hill, great clods of mud and grass flying out from beneath its hooves. Smoke billowed out from the thatched roofs of the cottages: thick, dirty clouds that obscured the winter sun, the smell of scorched wood filling the air. The screams of the villagers rang out as they ran hither and thither, calling for their loved ones. Blood dripped from injuries: a head gashed by a mace, an arm cut with the murderous length of a sword.

  ‘Mother of Mary,’ Emmeline breathed, ‘who would do such a terrible thing?’ She sat forward, purposefully. ‘We must help these people.’ Throwing her leg over the front of the horse, she slithered easily from Talvas’s light hold, down the rounded flank of the horse. The hem of her skirt caught under the saddle and she pulled it out hastily, marching off into the screaming mêleé, crouching down to a woman cradling a small boy. Tears ran down the soot-streaked face of the woman, who rocked to and fro, wailing with an eerie, off-pitch tone.

  ‘Let me help you,’ Emmeline offered, horrified at the sight of the limp child, blood seeping from an ugly gash on his head. She tried to take the boy from the woman’s arms, but she held on with a surprising strength.

  ‘What is it?’ she demanded of the woman. ‘Why will you not let me look? Let me help?’

  ‘The boy is dead, Emmeline.’ Talvas stood beside her, his voice frozen.

  Emmeline let her hands drop to her sides. She had never felt more useless, more unable to help in her life.

  ‘Come,’ Talvas said gently, ‘let us find your sister. She might be able to tell us what happened.’ he bent down to place a hand under her elbow, helping her up from the cold ground.

  Emmeline rose slowly, her movements wooden. ‘The castle is over there.’ She pointed at the towering stone walls that loomed over the huddle of cottages.

  ‘Then let’s pray your sister is there,’ Talvas said, looking doubtfully at Emmeline’s pale face before hoisting her up on the horse before him. They rode silently through the village, following the narrow cobbled street uphill. The horse’s hooves clattered over the drawbridge, echoing through the dim tunnel of the gatehouse. No guard stopped them. An eerie silence permeated the air. Only a lone figure standing in the middle of the bailey, clothes torn and bloodied, golden hair matted and dirty. Her sister. Sylvie.

  ‘God in heaven!’ Emmeline threw one leg over the horse’s neck and jumped to the ground. ‘Oh my God, what have they done to you?’ She grasped her sister’s pale, limp hands. Her sister’s eyes were wide and staring, fixed on something behind Emmeline. She started to shake her head, her eyes riven with fear.

  ‘Nay, nay, not him. Take him away! He’ll punish me for what I did!’

  ‘What’s the matter, Sylvie? Tell me, what is it?’ Emmeline demanded, turning to follow the direction of her sister’s gaze. Already Sylvie pulled against her, trying to back away. ‘She’s raving, Talvas. Just look at her, she’s shaking.’ Emmeline glanced at Talvas, who came to stand beside her. ‘God knows what has happened to her.’

  ‘Is this your sister?’ Two spots of colour had appeared on Talvas’s cheekbones.

  ‘Aye, this is my sister, Sylvie,’ Emmeline nodded, a slight frown appearing on her brow.

  ‘Sylvie Duhamel,’ he murmured slowly. Again, Sylvie dragged and twisted against Emmeline’s hands.

  ‘Talvas, step back, you’re scaring her.’ Emmeline’s forehead creased with puzzlement as she tried to decipher the peculiar tension between her sister and the man she had shared the last few days with. ‘What’s amiss, Talvas? You’re acting as if you’ve met Sylvie before.’

  ‘We did more than “meet”,’ he bit out. The taut planes of his face were rigid with hostility.

  Emmeline reached out to him, touched his arm. ‘Tell me.’

  He laughed, the sound brittle and forced. ‘This is the woman I intended to marry…the mother of my child.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘What did you say?’ Emmeline reeled under the staggering impact of his words, insides turning to liquid fear. Disorientated, she searched Sylvie’s pale, pinched, mud-smeared face for some clue, some hint as to what was happening. Talvas and Sylvie…together? It didn’t seem possible…or make sense. Questions surfaced with unerring rapidity, confusion mangling her perception of reality. Sylvie appeared as if in a dream, the green of her eyes blank and unfocused as she swayed slightly, a slender flame buffeted by an unseen wind.

  ‘You heard.’ A rod of iron stretched through the clipped timbre of Talvas’s voice. ‘This woman is the mother of my child. When she left me, she took Rose with her, and I never saw her again.’

  God in heaven! Rose, thought Emmeline, recalling the tiny baby brought to Barfleur by her sister; the tiny baby who had spent just a handful of days with her and her mother before slipping away. She pictured the child now with deadly clarity: a shock of raven-black hair, piercing blue eyes…and then…nothing. Talvas’s baby daughter!

  ‘Nay, it’s not possible!�
� The words burst forth from Emmeline as she struggled with the picture of Talvas and Sylvie sharing a life together, a life into which she had no insight, no knowledge. Resentment nudged her heart, a burgeoning of hostility toward Talvas that threatened to dissolve the gossamer links, those flimsy threads of understanding that had bound them yestereve.

  Sylvie moved awkwardly, her step hesitant, to stand next to Emmeline. ‘’Tis true, Emmeline. Every word he speaks is the truth.’ Her voice was a whisper, the soft vowels vanishing into the freezing air.

  ‘You never said you’d had a child!’ Emmeline flung at Talvas, annoyed that her tone sounded petulant, childish.

  ‘It’s not something that comes up in normal conversation,’ he replied tersely, his expression blank and forbidding. His knuckles clenched white at his sides.

  The tight control of his tone made her rock back on her heels. ‘But you could have told me,’ she mumbled. ‘You could have told me.’ Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, and she dropped her head, focusing her blurred vision on the bright, slick cobbles at her feet.

  ‘Emmeline.’ He reached out, lifting her face with strong fingers to meet his eyes, acknowledging with that single glance the depth of understanding, of trust that they had shared the previous night. ‘Last night was not the time.’

  Her small, straight teeth worried at the tender skin of her bottom lip, relishing the lingering warmth from his hand before it dropped from her face. He didn’t deserve her resentful, churlish behaviour and neither did Sylvie, who shivered in her thin gown beside her. ‘But how?’ Emmeline rubbed at her eyes distractedly, as if by the simple movement she could throw some clarity on the situation.