The Damsel's Defiance

by Meriel Fuller

  Emmeline stood on the darkened stairs, trying to pull her tangled senses into some sort of order. Had she made a mistake in sleeping with Talvas—not that her traitorous body had given her much restraint? The kind gentleness in his eyes, his look of possession afterwards, niggled at her thoughts.

  The castle was quiet, apart from the rumbling of soldiers’ snores from the great hall. The strangely comforting sound made her feel that she was not quite alone in this creeping darkness. Tiptoeing downstairs and into Sylvie’s chamber, she quickly realised that the bed was empty, the bedclothes flat. Where would Sylvie have gone? With all the soldiers downstairs, Emmeline quickly checked the rest of the chambers upstairs. Nothing. Had Sylvie tried to find her in the middle of the night? There seemed no other explanation. Entering the fuggy warmth of the great hall, she scanned the rows of sleeping soldiers, the huddled bodies wrapped tightly in their cloaks. With a gathering panic, Emmeline wondered if Sylvie had decided to leave the castle.

  The temperature outside had dropped below freezing, the land gripped in an icy hold, the only sound the crunch of Emmeline’s feet on the hard ground as she left the relative safety of the gatehouse. The guard on duty had looked at her in surprise as she approached the large wooden gates, but one glance at her fiery expression had made him think twice about questioning her. The icy wind stung her ungloved hands as she held a burning brand aloft in the darkness, careful to avoid the few sparks that emanating now and again from the flame, and tried to decide on her sister’s direction. Maybe she would have tried to seek shelter with friends in the village? Emmeline started to walk down the wide steps that led from the castle to the small huddle of cottages, or what remained of them. At the bottom of the steps lay the moat, with a permanent bridge across it. Strange that Sylvie and her husband had thought themselves so safe as to have dispensed with the more common drawbridge that could be raised at the sight of an approaching enemy.

  She trod carefully over the wooden planks of the bridge. Frost glittered on the bare wood, and the smooth soles of her leather shod feet slipped a little. The cold clenched at her toes. She had almost reached the end of the bridge, when something jarred in her memory. Something she had seen. Retracing her steps to the middle, the spluttering brand picked up a flash of colour, a torn fragment of blue cloth lodged into one of the side rails of the bridge, a small piece of ripped fabric that had snagged in her mind and pulled her back.

  She crouched down, trying to dislodge the frayed material snared on the wooden upright. At least it confirmed that Sylvie had walked this way; the hem of her skirts must have caught on the unfinished planks. As her palm grazed against the wood as she tried to push her hand through the gap to seize it, a disquieting thought flooded over her. The material was on the outside of the bridge!

  Mother of Mary! The pale colour mocked her as her limbs turned to liquid. She started to shake. ‘Oh, my God, nay, nay!’ The words slipped unbidden from her lips. She rose, unsteadily, clutching at the guard-rail of the bridge to lean over. Nausea rose in her gut as she stared down, down into the black, oily waters.

  Sylvie floated face up in the moat below her, her blond hair fanning out in the water, threads of gold on inky velvet, her blue gown spread out like a domed cushion around her frail body.

  ‘Help!’ Emmeline screamed, shock coursing through her body. ‘Somebody help me, please!’ Her voice sounded odd, out of kilter in the still night air. The light fell from her weakened grip, hissing to the ground. She moved suddenly, her body jerky with adrenalin, running to the end of the bridge, trying to find a way down in the dark, down to Sylvie. Coming off the packed earth of the road that led to the village, she plunged into the high grass that edged the steep bank, the heavy dew soaking her shoes, her hem-line.

  ‘Stop, Emmeline, stop!’

  Suddenly Talvas was there beside her, his arms enveloping her to pull her back from the steep incline. Bellowing orders to the soldiers at the gatehouse, he slid down the bank to the deep water. Leaning out from the side, he managed to catch hold of the hem of Sylvie’s dress, towing her dead, floating body unceremoniously to the side.

  Shuddering with horror, Emmeline stumbled down the bank after him, desperate to reach Sylvie. With illogical rage, she saw Talvas’s hands upon her sister, grabbing a fistful of the cloth at her waist to haul her onto dry land. Tears broke from her eyes, a noisy weeping as she beat her fists against Talvas’s back.

  At her touch, he half turned in surprise. ‘Go back,’ he breathed, ‘’tis not safe down here!’

  ‘Get away from her!’ She screeched at him. ‘Leave her alone!’

  But Sylvie already lay in his arms, her head dropped back, her frail arms drifting by her sides, the skin of her face grey. Above them, on the bridge, the castle soldiers had gathered, lighting the ghastly scene with their flaring torches.

  ‘I’m sorry, Emmeline,’ Talvas said quietly.

  Crouching beside him, balancing precariously on the steep bank, Emmeline grabbed his upper arms, her fingers curling into the hard muscle of his shoulders. ‘She didn’t believe me, Talvas! She didn’t believe she would be safe!’ The fat tears ran down her face, over her mouth, on to her chin. ‘She didn’t believe me!’ His strong frame seemed immovable, a statue, as she clung to him.

  ‘It’s not your fault, Emmeline. She decided to take her own life.’

  ‘Because of me! Because of us!’ Her breathing quickened so much that her heart threatened to burst from her chest. Her darling sister!

  ‘Calm down, chérie!’

  ‘Calm down!’ She yelled at him. ‘You tell me to calm down. Talvas, this is my sister, my only sister!’ She shook her head, eyes wild. Sitting back suddenly on her heels, the hem of her dress dipping into the moat, she stared at him. ‘God in heaven, Talvas, I betrayed her and I shall never forgive myself!’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Talvas inspected Emmeline’s white, weary profile—blue circles banded her beautiful green eyes, her shoulders slumped forward in defeat. She rode beside him, her grey palfrey picking carefully through the deep ruts of mud as they followed the main route along the coast. Loathe to admit it, he missed her quick smile, her indomitable will that set to thwart and disagree with him at every turn; anything as opposed to this strained, dispirited demeanour. True, they had only buried Sylvie yesterday; a dismal day when he had remonstrated heavily with Stephen about sending Emmeline on this mission, yet the King had been adamant, insisting that only he and the maid could prise Maud from the castle at Sedroc. A keen responsibility for Emmeline swept over him, a strange compulsion to care for her, to protect her. The sheer force of the emotion surprised him. Ducking his head to avoid the spindles of ash that hung low over the track, he wished it were possible to sweep her grief away and comfort her.

  ‘Let’s stop here.’ he indicated a circular clearing, ringed with beech. A few of the burnished brown leaves still clung to the branches, despite the cold of the midwinter. ‘We need to rest.’

  ‘You may need to,’ She bit out harshly, ‘but I intend to keep going. I want this over with so that I can return home.’

  ‘But you’re so tired,’ he said kindly, leaning out from his saddle to touch her elbow.

  She pulled her arm away, scowling at him. ‘I have no need of your gratitude, just because Sylvie’s dead. I know you’re glad to see the back of her, so don’t pretend.’

  He shrugged, the sharpness of her words having no effect upon him. ‘I don’t pretend I liked the maid, but I never wished her any harm.’

  ‘If I didn’t know you better,’ She snapped back, ‘I’d suspect you of murdering her.’

  His blue eyes held fast upon her face, the faintest tinge of annoyance discernible in their depths. ‘Stop this, Emmeline. Stop blaming yourself.’

  The brittleness of her expression crumbled under his knowing gaze; her head drooped. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t deserve to bear the brunt of my guilt, my anger.’ Her knuckles clenched white on the reins.

&nb
sp; He smiled ruefully in agreement. ‘But I understand.’

  ‘She trusted me, Talvas. She trusted me to protect her, and I failed her.’ Agony pooled in her wide, green eyes.

  ‘Who can protect anyone from themselves?’ Talvas responded quietly. Raising his body from the saddle, he dipped forward, dismounting in one swift movement, leading his horse into the glade of trees. Sunlight shafted through the branches of the beech, lending the glade a magical air, at once a place of mystery and beauty. Coming back to the track, to stand at the side of her horse, he held out his hand. ‘You did everything you could for Sylvie, even risking your own life to help her. I know you are hurting, Emmeline, but if we don’t pull together now, this task set by Stephen will be dangerous. We have to rely on each other, trust each other.’

  She hesitated, absorbing the solemn impact of his words, knowing in her heart that she would be lost without him, then placed her cool, delicate hand in his large, warm fingers. Almost immediately, his hands moved to her waist, and he swung her light frame to the ground. Her hood dropped back, releasing a sweet smell of lavender from her hair, bound tightly into a thick braid that swung down her back.

  ‘I said I would do this, Talvas, and I will.’ She stumbled a little over the words, a note of apology for her earlier accusation lacing her speech. His firm hands still clasped about her waist, sending an entrancing warmth through her sides. ‘But I still can’t understand why you feel so obliged to help Stephen.’

  ‘Stephen is my brother-in-law. I owe him a certain loyalty.’ He touched her elbow, steering her gently into the forest glade. ‘You need some nourishment.’ Spreading his cloak over a damp cushion of leaves, he opened his leather satchel to bring out a heavy round of bread, a lump of cheese. Rubbing at her aching eyes, Emmeline sank down onto his cloak in a puddle of skirts. The pale green of her bliaut had become spattered with mud from the journey and she brushed at the specks absentmindedly. The bright strands of her hair gleamed in the weak sunlight, feathery spirals around her forehead.

  ‘You must eat, Emmeline.’ Talvas broke off a piece of bread and pressed it into her hand. ‘You’ll need all your strength for the task ahead.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Emmeline drew her knees up to hug them close to her chest. ‘I’m too ashamed.’ Her cheeks flushed at the memory of their night together.

  Talvas lay back on one elbow, stretching his long body out on the cloak, his eye following the bouncing flight of a wren as it crossed the glade. ‘No regrets, Emmeline,’ he admonished softly. ‘Don’t let your sister’s death tarnish what happened between us.’ he touched her cheek with one finger.

  Conscious thought deserted her as she turned her face into the warm nearness of his hand, eyes closing impulsively at the sweet torture of his caress. Memory pounded into her head: their bodies coupled in passion against the white linen sheets, the untamed desire that had raged between them. His simple touch reminded her of so much. Just for a moment, she told herself, a moment of comfort in this cold, dark time. She heard the sharp intake of his breath as her lips pressed against the sensitive skin of his inner palm. The urge to sink into him, into the warmth of his embrace, was overwhelming.

  ‘Emmeline,’ he whispered, the velvet rasp of his voice drawing her closer. His hand smoothed gently over the curve of her cheek to cup her chin. Her defences shattered to a thousand tiny pieces; his lips crushed against hers. Reason tried to tell her that the pain of her sister’s death had undermined her defences, that Talvas took advantage of that fact, but she knew it was a lie. She relished the fierce burn of his lips, the thrilling eddy of passion as it spiralled through her body, the vital strength of his arms as he lifted her effortlessly toward him, locking her upper body to his own in a vicelike grip.

  Then abruptly, reluctantly, he broke away, meeting her stunned expression with the slightest shake of his head, a finger against his own lips. The polished lustre of her skin, the chafed redness of her lips snagged his gaze for a moment, before he set his head on one side to listen, trying to control the rapid staccato rasp of his breathing. On the still air came the faintest whinny of a horse, the crack of a stick breaking; someone approached. A ripple of alertness charged through Talvas as he sprang to his feet, hand on his sword hilt. His eyes, heavy with promise, ran over her as she hung her head in shame. He bent down, forcing her to meet his eyes. ‘We are not finished, mam’selle,’ he murmured. ‘And both you and I know it.’

  A cloud of ill humour crouched over Edgar of Waldeath’s head as he followed the track alongside the forest. Where were they? He had supposed that Mam’selle de Lonnieres would be as pathetic at riding as her sister, slowing their progress, but it seemed the couple had started early in the morning, when he had still been snoring in his bed, exhausted by the bloody excitement of firing his own village. What had started out as a way of punishing Sylvie for her insubordinate behaviour had turned into a massacre: a pleasing way to end the day.

  After the attack, he had dispensed with his soldiers, returning to his castle alone. He was astonished to find it filled with Stephen’s soldiers, and the King himself, sitting at his top table! Knowing the back corridors and secret hiding places of the castle had enabled Edgar to overhear Stephen’s plans regarding Maud without revealing himself. As he climbed the stair to a disused chamber, Edgar had cursed himself for allowing his soldiers to go home: the heavily guarded King Stephen was a sitting duck in his castle, yet, with no manpower, Edgar had not the means to touch him!

  But, despite his secrecy, one person had known of his return: Sylvie. Like a frightened animal, she had caught his scent, and had tracked him down to the little-used chamber where he snored. He had woken as she had pushed open the door, watching her through the half-open slits of his eyes as she stared at him with her wide, anxious eyes. He had known in that moment that she would run to the King, raise the alarm. As she had slipped away, he had grabbed her from behind, squeezing her neck in a fatal grip before hoisting her body into the moat while the guard at the gatehouse snoozed.

  Tightening his thick, pudgy fingers on the reins, he kicked his horse into a trot. Killing came easily to him; both his father and brother rode out daily to attack rival barons, to steal and pillage in the bloodthirsty ambition of gaining more land, more money. He and his kin would do anything to help Maud onto the throne of England; they shared strong blood ties with her, and she had promised them more land and gold in return for their sworn allegiance. In thwarting Stephen’s plans, he would become a hero, maybe even a member of the Empress Maud’s coveted inner circle, advising her on matters of state. Edgar licked his lips, almost tasting the power, excitement welling in his chest. He knew how to get Stephen where he wanted him, begging for mercy, and he would use Lord Talvas and Mam’selle de Lonnieres to achieve it. He just needed to find them.

  Voices carried to his ear on the wind; in a trice, he dragged hard on the reins, jerking his horse to a stop. He turned his head this way and that, trying to gauge the origin of the sound. Dismounting stealthily, he looped the bridle around a low-hanging branch and crept through the snagging undergrowth, the soft leaves deadening the sound of his approach. He could see the clearing now, the golden flash of Emmeline’s hair, the relaxed stance of Talvas, as he lay back on the cloak. Edgar knew he was no match for Talvas; in hand-to-hand combat, the big man would best him in moments. The maid would be no problem, but how to lure her away from him? He watched in growing interest and surprise as Talvas leaned forward to kiss Emmeline. His rate of breathing increased as the kiss deepened, and in eagerness he stepped forward fractionally, a twig snapping under his leather sole. Immediately the couple jumped apart; Edgar moved silently back, before coiling into a low crouch back to his horse, a wily smile upon his lips. He had a plan.

  ‘Who goes there?’ Talvas shouted, instinctively shielding Emmeline with his body.

  Edgar walked into the clearing, leading his horse, his scarlet tunic ‘borrowed’ from one of Stephen’s sleeping soldiers glowing against the pale colours of the win
ter forest. ‘’Tis I, Robert of Ilminster,’ he lied. With a false name, Emmeline would never suspect his true identity; they had never met face-to-face.

  ‘Be you for Stephen or for Maud?’ Talvas challenged, glowering warily at the stocky stranger, his muscled right arm held diagonally across his trunk, gripping his jewelled sword hilt.

  ‘I fight for Stephen,’ Edgar declared, childishly crossing his fingers behind his back in the hope that he might negate the lie. ‘He sent me after you, Lord Talvas…to help.’

  ‘Hmm…he made no mention of it yesterday.’ Talvas frowned. ‘And I don’t remember your face from his soldiers.’

  ‘I arrived in Waldeath last night…from Winchester.’ Edgar hurriedly recalled all the details gleaned from the overheard conversations that would make him appear convincing. ‘Stephen sent word that he needed extra soldiers for the push on to Sedroc. I am to go ahead as a scout for the camp.’

  Talvas nodded, for this he knew to be true. How could this man know about the plan to surround Sedroc unless he had spoken with Stephen directly? After he and Emmeline had infiltrated the castle, Stephen planned to increase his troops to the front of Sedroc, so that Maud would have no means of escape. ‘Then you are welcome to join me…’ he hesitated for a moment, his eyes raking Emmeline’s seated figure. How to introduce the woman who had come to mean so much over the past few days, more than he would care to admit? After his experience with Sylvie, he had truly believed that he would never care for anyone again, but at this precise moment, he could not imagine life without Emmeline. ‘And my wife,’ he added finally.