The Damsel's Defiance

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘Stopped her?’

  He lifted his hands, began to crunch his knuckles one by one. ‘Strangled her with my bare hands. I found it easy.’

  Emmeline moaned in shock, her head dropping forward at the impact of his words. Dear, sweet, brave Sylvie! She had tried to warn them! She hadn’t taken her own life after all!

  From his pocket he produced a strip of dirty white linen. ‘I’ve had enough of this prattling.’ He tied the cloth over her mouth, tightly, so she could not utter a sound. She twisted her head, trying to indicate it was too constricting, but he merely laughed. ‘That should keep you quiet until I return.’ he pushed his face up close to hers, so close she could see the grease-filled pores of his pockmarked skin.

  Tears of frustration welled in her eyes as Edgar shot the bolts of the door and slipped out, as she heard the heavy clunk of a key turn in the lock from the outside. She had little idea how long Edgar would be, or what his plans might be for the night. Talvas would come for her, of that she was certain, but when? She had no intention of sitting around waiting for her captor to return. She began to try and rock the unwieldy chair from side to side, but it seemed impossible to move, fashioned from solid oak.

  Panting from the exertion, she rested a while, casting her eyes about the forlorn little room to discover some other means of escape. In the crepuscular gloom of the chamber, a deep-set square of window set high on the north wall snared her glance…and gave her renewed hope. The bristly flax of the rope scraped at her flesh as she pulled and wrenched at the complicated, but inadequate knots that pinned her wrists to the chair arms. As the rope burns drew blood, she gritted her teeth against the pain—she had to escape this place, convinced her fate was to be raped, or murdered, or both. She had to find Talvas, wanted to find Talvas. An overwhelming desire to sink into the warm comfort of his arms flooded through her; the image of his dancing eyes in her mind giving her renewed hope and energy.

  ‘There he is now!’ whispered Guillame, his breath emerging in white clouds into the icy night air. The gold pin securing the sides of his cloak at his throat glinted in the moonlight, the only evidence of his movement as he blended the height and breadth of his body into dark shadow.

  ‘Let’s get him!’ Talvas muttered at Guillame’s back, leaning his body forward, ready to spring at the man who had dragged Emmeline away.

  ‘Nay, friend, stay back!’ Guillame warned quietly. ‘Let him move away a bit. He’s sneaky, he could double back easily if he sees us. He may even have someone else in there, holding a knife to Emmeline’s throat. If we attack him within earshot, he could shout back and—’

  ‘Don’t say it!’ Talvas gave a deep, shaky breath. He tore his hood back from his head, shoving his fingers through his hair. ‘I’ve got to get her out of there!’ An edge of instability suffused his voice, a mark of desperation.

  ‘I know, Talvas,’ Guillame replied, his tone calm and reassuring. ‘And we will get her out. The trick is not to kill her in the process.’

  Talvas nodded curtly, unable to speak. He’d been relieved when Guillame and a few of Stephen’s soldiers had arrived in Wareham just moments after Emmeline had been seized. Guillame had taken charge while Talvas’s mind had scrambled with an untested, untried emotion.

  ‘There’s no way we’ll go through that door without a key,’ Guillame continued. ‘There’s no windows at the front, and the door is heavy with iron straps. We must get the key from Edgar—’

  ‘And drag the whorehound to the gallows,’ Talvas growled. The image of Emmeline’s slender body being dragged from the market-place in Edgar’s barbaric grip replayed endlessly in his mind.

  They followed Edgar from a distance, keeping their steps soft, aware that on the still night air, the slightest sound would carry. They communicated with gestures, with signals that indicated a long friendship, one of trust and loyalty. As Edgar stepped along a narrow path that led down into a valley wooded on either side with spindly birch, they jumped on him.

  ‘Got you, you bastard,’ Talvas yelled, launching onto Edgar’s back and bringing him down spread-eagled into the mud. He sat heavily on Edgar’s back, wresting the man’s arms back and pinning them solidly with his weight. ‘Get the key, Guillame!’

  ‘It’s too late, Talvas.’ Edgar lifted his head, spitting out bits of mud, as Guillame ripped Edgar’s leather pouch from his belt, tipping out the contents. ‘I knew you wouldn’t keep your word. I killed her after I’d had my fun. The maid’s dead.’

  Talvas closed his eyes momentarily, unbelieving of the raw pain that coursed through him. ‘You lie, you snivelling dog!’ he shouted. Enraged, he sprung off the man, yanking Edgar into a standing position. Guillame, rifling through the contents of the pouch spread out on the ground, shook his head. ‘The key’s not here.’

  ‘Where is it?’ Talvas demanded. One fist gripped Edgar at the throat, a bunch of cloth in his hand as the other reached for his knife. ‘Maybe this will make you talk.’

  ‘There’s no point, Talvas. Let her body rot there till she’s a pile of dry old bones,’ Edgar squeaked, as the point of Talvas’s knife jabbed into his throat.

  ‘Tell me where the key is,’ Talvas repeated, his voice deadly calm.

  ‘You’ll never find it!’ Edgar lifted his right arm and threw a heavy iron object spinning into the scrubby brambles at the side of the path. Guillame followed the path of the key with his eye, throwing his body after it before it disappeared into the dark thicket.

  Talvas grabbed a fistful of Edgar’s tunic at the neck, all but lifting the stocky man from the ground. ‘Much as I’d like to slit your throat from ear to ear,’ he snarled, ‘the law of this land prevents such action.’

  ‘I’ve found it!’ Guillame hoisted one arm jubilantly, the dull gleam of metal between his fingers indicating the retrieval of the key.

  Talvas did not raise his eyes from Edgar’s face. ‘The sheriff of Wareham will keep you under lock and key until you can be tried for treason at King Stephen’s court.’

  ‘Never!’ breathed Edgar. In desperation, he lunged backwards, pitting his whole body weight against the strength of Talvas’s hold. The heel of his foot jarred against a stone and he stumbled in his efforts, yanking Talvas off balance. The two men plunged together onto the damp ground, Edgar struggling to extricate himself from Talvas, Talvas trying to pull the knife out from where it had lodged between the two men. Rolling away from Edgar in one swift movement, Talvas realised it was too late; the knife had plunged into Edgar’s heart as the men had struggled.

  King Stephen stood before the wide wooden doorway of Waldeath Castle, his thick blond brows knitted together in a disapproving frown that marred his customary benign features. A vague headache troubled him; he raised one hand to his forehead, trying to erase the pain as he viewed the sight below him, at the bottom of the steps. His light blue eyes rested on the figure of a tall, statuesque woman, who smiled up at him coyly with cobalt eyes, her ebony braids partially obscured by a white wisp of veil.

  ‘Matilda,’ he breathed. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was bored of sitting in Winchester, not knowing whether you’re dead or alive! I’d much rather be with you!’

  Stephen sighed. ‘It’s not safe, Matilda.’ he swept his hand over the burnt-out village of Waldeath, the huddle of cottages still smoking slowly. The acrid smell of charred thatch and wood hung like a shroud in the damp air. ‘Maud’s spies are everywhere. And you, as my wife, would be a prime target.’

  ‘It’s not safe anywhere, Stephen,’ His wife cajoled, her face lit with challenge, ‘so I’d as lief be with you.’

  Stephen sighed. Around Matilda, his soldiers dressed in red surcoats were already mounting up, making ready for the march to Sedroc, to flush Maud out. The confines of the inner bailey rang with the shouts of his men as they steadied their horses, their chain-mail glinting like fish scales in the lucid morning light, the bosses of their kite-shaped shields gleaming.

  Stephen winced at the brilli
ance of the scene, his headache intensifying as he shook his head dubiously. ‘It wasn’t a good idea for you to come here. It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘So dangerous that you sent my brother Talvas on a mission with a maid, so I hear?’ Matilda cocked her head on one side. The fine silk of her veil flowed out to one side, exposing the shining black of her hair.

  Stephen coloured. ‘The messenger yesterday claimed the maid has been captured by one of Maud’s men…which is why we must make haste!’

  ‘And what of Talvas? Where is he?’

  Stephen bit his lip under his wife’s unerring azure gaze. God in heaven, she could be stern at times! ‘I have no news of him,’ he replied lamely.

  ‘Mother of Mary! Stephen!’ Matilda blazed at his evasiveness, thrusting her embroidered leather slipper into the stirrup, the elegant folds of her russet cloak falling back to reveal a sumptuous bliaut of red wool. ‘Help me up on to this horse. Talvas could be dead for all we know!’

  ‘’Tis unlikely,’ Stephen demurred, coming down the steps to boost Matilda’s light frame into the saddle, realising he had no choice but to take his wife with him. ‘I know of no man more fortunate than your older brother.’

  ‘Aye…’ Matilda smiled ‘…he’s lucky, beyond a doubt. But with the maid captured, I suspect he may need our help.’

  Emmeline had no idea how far she had walked, but it seemed like miles. The chill wind moaned through the skeleton branches that arched above her, shadowing her steps along the sunken lane; an icy wind whispering at her, cajoling her to lie down, to sleep. The freezing air chased up the wide, tapered sleeves of her bliaut, sawing into her bones with bitter teeth. She fumbled uselessly with the long cuffs, trying to pull them over her hands to keep them warm. Her buoyant step of earlier had been replaced by a shuffling, stumbling gait.

  A sense of euphoria had washed over her as she had finally squeezed her body through the narrow window of Edgar’s prison, accomplished by stripping down to her linen chemise and hauling the rest of her clothes through after her. Despite wrists raw and smarting, the corners of her mouth bruised from the tight, linen gag, she had rolled out of the window onto a higher piece of ground at the back of the cottage, almost laughing out loud in appreciation of her own achievement. Unsure as to Edgar’s whereabouts, she had donned her garments briskly, creeping through the shadowed streets of sleeping Wareham to find the road west, the road to Hawkeshayne and her ship. She had learned how to navigate by the stars at her father’s knee, and she had turned her face up to the heavens, almost losing herself in the intricate layers of darkness, locating the Pole Star with ease. Keeping that bright gleam to her right, her direction westwards had been easy to identify.

  She had to keep going, had to move forward. No one else could help her now; she had to reach her ship, and sail home. Vaguely, she tried to concentrate on placing one foot in front of another as the soft mud squelched with each step over the sides of her leather boots. Scarcely aware of its damp touch against her woollen hose, she wondered how long it had taken Talvas and her to ride to Wareham—not above half a day, she was certain. As full night draped around her shoulders, sapping at the last vestiges of strength that she held within her, her mind began to crowd with doubts and uncertainties. Had it been only yesterday that they had travelled? Or had it been the day before? She frowned in dismay at the jumble of her mind, the fragments of logic whisking away like feathers on a breeze as she tried to piece together a conscious train of thought. She staggered, her shoulder cracking against the unyielding trunk of a tree, yet she couldn’t feel the pain; her skin seemed frozen, a block of stone. Maybe she should have just a little sleep before she went on; it would lend her renewed energy. The mists of exhaustion swirled around her as she slid down the tree and let her heavy eyelids close.

  Talvas lay low, welding himself to his horse’s back, riding wildly as if lightning was striking at his heels, with no other thought or care than to reach Emmeline. His mind seemed to be within hers—he knew her now, knew where she would go. As he had thrown open the door to Emmeline’s prison in Wareham, he realised immediately the emptiness of the chamber. Despair gnawed at him as his eyes pounced on the bloodstained loosened ropes, a snag of pale green wool on a rusty nail by the window; there was a sense of utter desolation that he couldn’t find her, couldn’t hold her close. And now, as the sky began to lighten with the reddish streaks of dawn, he would catch up with her, he was certain. Rounding a wide, mud-rutted corner of the track at a gallop, clods of wet earth flicking up from behind the horse, he hauled on the reins in surprise. His horse reared up, hooves pawing the air, and he fought to stay on the animal’s back.

  A knot of people clustered on the track some way ahead; rich travellers by their appearance, their garments forming a polished display of reds and golds against the more subdued colours of the forest. He cursed, slowing his snorting horse to a walk; his headlong pursuit of Emmeline had made him careless, unthinking as to his own safety. He, above all people, knew the dangers of travelling alone in these times. Then one of the group turned toward him, and to his surprise he recognised the good-natured expression of Stephen.

  Dismounting, Talvas ran forward, his long, muscular legs springing quickly over the ground as he pulled his horse behind him. ‘Stephen!’ he greeted his friend. ‘Stephen, have you seen Emmeline, Mam’selle de Lonnieres? She must have come this way!’

  ‘She’s here…Talvas. We’ve just found her.’ Stephen’s voice seemed crushed, beaten. His stricken expression cast a sad veil across his face.

  ‘Nay…’ whispered Talvas. His heart split, fragmenting to a thousand tiny splinters of loss. ‘It’s not true…tell me it’s not true…’ He began to push his way through the huddle of bodies, an unforeseen rage searing his chest, aware of Stephen’s hand on his arm…then stopped. For a moment, he closed his eyes, appalled by the harrowing sight of Emmeline splayed out defencelessly on the frozen ground, then he sprung down beside her, his hands moving over the ashen skin of her face, the blueness of her lips.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do, Talvas. She’s gone.’ Nausea rose in his gullet as he recognised the calm, measured tones of Matilda, his sister. His hands move ceaselessly over the frosted silk of Emmeline’s skin, trying to find something, anything, that would indicate she was still alive. And then his questing fingers recognised a shiver of movement at Emmeline’s throat. The faintest beat of hope.

  ‘Nay…’ he gathered her limp body into his arms ‘…she lives.’ Dieu merci, he thanked God silently as he scooped Emmeline up, throwing her against his chest as he stood up. ‘The cold is killing her, but she is alive!’ he carried Emmeline toward the ox cart, her golden head lolling against the supple leather of his jerkin, the gathered skirt of her bliaut falling in a wide arc, the embroidery at the hem skimming the ground. ‘I’ll take her back to Hawkeshayne!’

  ‘But what of our campaign against Maud?’ Stephen said petulantly. ‘I need you with me at Sedroc. Let Matilda take Emmeline back, with an escort.’

  ‘Maud can wait, Stephen,’ Talvas growled, his blue eyes lit with the fires of determination. ‘Emmeline goes with me.’ As he turned once more, pacing toward the cart, Matilda moved toward her husband, whispering into his ear. Bending his head to his wife’s lips, Stephen nodded.

  Once in the cart, Talvas stripped Emmeline of her clothing with savage resolve. He’d seen people die from exposure before, especially at sea, and he wasn’t about to let this maid go easily. Despite his joy at finding her still alive, he knew of the risks; she was not yet out of danger. Lying her on his cloak, her frozen body clad only in a linen chemise, he slipped off his own clothes, leaving on his undergarments. Skin to skin contact was the only way to warm a person up. Pulling her close to him, chest to chest, hip to hip, binding her legs tightly with his own longer ones, he was aghast at the iciness of her limbs as he drew the fur of his cloak over both of them.

  ‘Why didn’t you wait for me, Emmeline?’ he whispered, touching his fingers to the alaba
ster luminescence of her face, the soft blond curls of hair that frothed over her forehead. A delicate scent of rose petals lifted from her skin as he roped his arms around her back, trying to draw the ice from her limbs with the heat of his body. Tipping his head back a little, he searched her taut, pallid face for some shred, some scrap of life.

  ‘Talvas! What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?’ Matilda poked her head through the side curtain of the cart, her dark features alive with curiosity, her head bobbing in time to the movement of her horse.

  ‘I’m trying to save her life!’ Talvas replied, irritated, amazed at how like their mother Matilda sounded.

  ‘I’ve never seen anyone save a life like that before,’ Matilda continued imperiously. ‘Are you naked under that cloak?’ She noted the bundle of clothes thrown into the corner.

  ‘As good as…’ Talvas sighed. His younger sister was well known for asking hundreds of questions. Against his limbs, Emmeline stirred gently. His heart leapt.

  ‘It’s not seemly, Talvas. You should swap with me, and I’ll look after her.’

  ‘Matilda, tell me one thing. Are we on the road to Hawkeshayne?’

  ‘Aye, I decided to come with you, but Stephen has carried on to challenge the Empress. He’s not best pleased with you.’

  Talvas shrugged his shoulders. ‘I care not. Now close the curtain, little sister, you’re letting in the cold air.’

  ‘Let me swap with you, Talvas. The maid’s reputation—’

  ‘Does not matter now,’ Talvas finished the sentence for his sister. ‘What matters is that she is alive.’ His voice fractured with emotion.

  ‘She means a lot to you.’ Matilda’s words emerged as a statement, not a question.

  ‘More than you can know, Matilda. More than you can know.’

  Chapter Seventeen