The Damsel's Defiance

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘It wasn’t just me,’ Emmeline replied, sitting back on her heels. She nibbled fretfully on one of her nails. ‘Talvas was there, too, remember?’ The memory of him enfolding her into his muscular embrace rattled her senses, his intoxicating scent returning to dance tantalisingly in her conscious mind. A frisson of delight shot through her; her fingers trembled as the silk crushed in her hands.

  ‘I remember; and it looks like you cannot forget.’ Matilda gently prised the silk from her friend, smoothing the material out, her expression thoughtful. ‘The two of you work well together. Your courage matches his.’

  ‘Nay, I am not brave.’

  ‘You climbed into the castle, Emmeline, and you poisoned the well.’ Matilda reached out to touch her forearm. ‘You’re a courageous woman: don’t forget that.’

  ‘I wont,’ Emmeline promised, watching as Matilda began to pack away the rejected garments, anxious to change the subject. ‘I can’t believe you managed to bring so much with you from Winchester!’

  ‘I always insist on an ox cart…’ Matilda’s blue gaze sought Emmeline’s ‘…or two. It’s the only way to travel.’

  Emmeline laughed as she remembered the small bag she had hoisted up into La Belle Saumur, a bag that contained a few underclothes and one other serviceable bliaut and underdress. Now, after these few weeks in England, all that remained were the clothes she stood up in. ‘Stephen must be very lenient,’ She murmured, thinking of the relaxed relationship she had witnessed between the couple.

  ‘Nay, ’tis not a question of leniency, Emmeline.’ A sharpness entered Matilda’s tone, as she shook out one of the dresses. ‘Stephen respects me, listens to me, and treats me as an equal.’

  ‘You are fortunate. Those qualities in a man are difficult to find.’ Emmeline twisted her fingers together.

  ‘Not so rare, Emmeline, if you look hard enough. And for you, that man is easy to find.’

  Emmeline sat down abruptly, smoothing her hand over her face. ‘I know, Matilda, I know.’

  ‘Has he said ought again about marriage?’

  Emmeline plucked miserably at the furs on the bed. ‘My feelings haven’t changed. Marriage means ownership, a curbing of my ways. After my marriage to Giffard, my freedom was the only thing I had. It means everything to me—it is my life.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper.

  ‘And I say again, Emmeline, do you think that I’m not free? That Stephen owns me?’

  Emmeline ran her eyes over the tall, proud figure of Matilda, and knew what her friend was trying to tell her: that marriage could be one of equal partnership.

  ‘Nay, Matilda, you have a wonderful relationship with Stephen.’

  ‘And so could you, Emmeline, so could you.’ Matilda touched her arm.

  ‘I’m not sure. It’s a risk.’

  Matilda laughed, pushing back easily on her heels to stand up. ‘I’m surprised at you, Emmeline. You, of all people, take more risks than anyone else I know. Why not take one more?’ Suddenly, she grimaced, bending over, clutching at her stomach. ‘Mother of Mary! A pox on this curse of ours!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Emmeline levered herself more awkwardly from the oak boards.

  ‘Have you any spare rags?’ The peachlike bloom of Matilda’s face contorted in pain.

  ‘Rags? Only the ones I stand up in!’ Emmeline smiled.

  ‘No, silly, my time of the month is almost upon me and I don’t have enough.’

  ‘Nay.’ Emmeline frowned. ‘I don’t have any with me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll ask the servants.’ Slowly, Matilda straightened up. ‘I’ll get someone in the kitchen to make me a tisane. These cramps will be the undoing of me! But they are not going to make me miss this feast.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Now, come on, Emmeline, make haste, the men await us downstairs.’

  ‘What are your plans now, Stephen?’ Talvas, leaning back in one of the carved oak chairs at the top table, surveyed the mass of people jammed into the hall below him.

  Stephen speared a piece of roast pork with his eating knife, putting it into his mouth. ‘I’m not certain how long Maud will behave herself for; but, for the nonce, I think I deserve a well-earned rest.’ He chewed on the meat thoughtfully. ‘God in heaven! This tastes good after our rations at Sedroc.’ Wiping his mouth on a linen napkin, he turned to Talvas. ‘I know Matilda is keen to spend a few more days at Hawkeshayne with you.’

  Talvas smiled. ‘And her new friend.’

  ‘You mean Emmeline. Aye, they seem to have become close.’ Stephen clapped Talvas on the shoulder. ‘So how about it? Can you put up with Matilda and me for longer?’

  ‘You’re always welcome, Stephen, and well you know it.’

  ‘And what of the maid?’

  Talvas shrugged his shoulders. ‘What of her?’

  ‘You can’t pretend you’re indifferent to her. What are your plans?’

  ‘I’m not exactly sure.’ Talvas curled his lean fingers around the cool stem of his pewter goblet, before lifting it to take a huge swig. The honeyed fire of the mead spiralled down his throat.

  ‘Will Emmeline stay…or will she return to France?’

  ‘That depends entirely on her,’ Talvas replied drily. ‘I’m sure you’ve realised by now that she’s a law unto herself.’

  ‘I had noticed.’ Stephen chuckled. ‘And more than a match for you.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ A flash of colour at the far end of the hall hooked his gaze. ‘Talk of the devil,’ he growled, as Emmeline and Matilda slipped through the doorway and began to walk past the rows of crowded trestle tables, drawing admiring glances with every step. The luminous colours of their dresses glowed like butterfly wings: shifting, glimmering silks that formed a startling contrast to the drab greys, browns and greens worn by the majority of the crowd. One by one the crowd fell silent, each and every man and woman acknowledging the presence of their new Queen Matilda and the lady who had saved their country from the Empress’s rule. One by one, they stood, each bowing their heads as a mark of respect.

  ‘Sweet Jesu,’ Stephen muttered, rising out of his seat, ‘that woman is breathtaking.’

  At the women’s entrance, Talvas’s glance had merely grazed the familiar statuesque beauty of his sister, his heart almost ceasing to beat at the sight of Emmeline. The delicate green of her bliaut undulated seductively in the candlelight, flowing over her figure in graceful lines, emphasising the trimness of her waist, the gentle flare of her hips. Her blond hair, plaited and bound in complicated intricacy around her pale forehead, was covered with a single layer of diaphanous silk, so fine that it floated around her head and shoulders like a glistening mist. Desire raged through him; the urge to grab her and run, run like the devil away from this crowd, away from everyone, threatened to overwhelm him. With studied determination, he placed his goblet carefully on the table, before pushing back his chair and striding from the dais.

  He caught Emmeline’s hands, a light snare.

  ‘Talvas!’ She looked up in surprise, the rose of her lips curving into a smile, her eyes alight with longing, with love.

  ‘I haven’t seen you all day!’ he murmured, ducking his head slightly so only she could hear his words.

  She reached up a hand to touch his face; his blood raced at the coolness of her fingertips against his cheek. Without thinking, he seized her to him, one thick arm around her waist as he pulled her, hip to hip, flank to flank, to place his lips against hers.

  The great hall erupted, the crowd wild with excitement at the sight of their lord claiming his woman, clapping and stamping their feet on the grey flagstones.

  ‘Don’t keep her all to yourself, Talvas!’ Stephen shouted down from the top table. ‘Let us all raise a toast to Mam’selle de Lonnieres!’

  As swiftly as the kiss had begun, it ended, Talvas tearing his lips away reluctantly. An expectant hush fell, all eyes resting upon King Stephen as, standing, he lifted his pewter goblet. ‘I raise my cup to Emmeline de Lonnieres, who risked her neck to ous
t the Empress Maud from her campaign against me.’

  ‘Emmeline de Lonnieres.’ The repetition of her name grew louder and louder, swelling to the rafters, carried on a hundred voices. Her fine, alabaster skin flushing from the attention, Emmeline smiled tentatively at the crowd, before turning to Talvas, conscious of his arm still around her waist. ‘They should be thanking you, too,’ she murmured, drinking in the devastating sight of him in a well-fitting dark brown tunic, a black lock of hair falling over his brow.

  He dipped his head to catch her lowered voice, savouring the sweet smell of her perfume: attar of roses. ‘Nay, my lady,’ he whispered back, ‘you deserve it.’ Seizing her left hand, he lifted her arm above her head in a gesture of salute, all but pulling her arm out of its socket.

  ‘Come on, you two,’ Matilda urged grumpily from behind Emmeline. ‘I’m hungry!’

  Talvas stepped back to let Matilda past, his fingers tightening around Emmeline’s. ‘Come with me,’ he whispered. ‘I need to talk to you.’ Her green eyes darkened to deep lovat, the seductive timbre of his voice kindling her desire. ‘Come!’ he repeated urgently, sensing the hesitation in the elegant lines of her body. His eyes held hers as ribald laughter echoed around the hall—their exit would not go unnoticed.

  ‘Do you need a chaperon, Emmeline?’ Matilda, halfway up the steps, turned around when she realised Talvas’s intention.

  ‘Nay,’ Emmeline reassured her hurriedly, unwilling to draw more attention than was necessary to the situation. Talvas spun her in the circle of his arm, heading for the door at the side of the high dais, levering a blazing torch from its iron ring as she pushed her way through the curtain.

  ‘They think we’re up to no good,’ She breathed. ‘And after that kiss I don’t blame them.’

  ‘Let them think what they like.’ His eyes sparkled wickedly in the gloom, as he hustled her along the dark corridor and into the icy twilight of the kitchen garden. Through the glittering mounds of frozen, tilled soil they walked, heading for a carved stone seat at the end of the path that sat against the wall that encircled the whole castle. As they sat down, Emmeline could hear the sea on the other side of the wall, water plashing sloppily against the stones as the tide rushed in. A chilly raft of breeze stung her bare throat; she shivered.

  ‘Here.’ Talvas undid the jewelled clasp at the neck of his short cloak, sweeping it around her shoulders before she had time to protest.

  Emmeline shifted uncomfortably as the cold stone began to seep through the fabric of her bliaut. ‘I love this place,’ She ventured, nervously. ‘Matilda and I spent a lot of time here while you were at Sedroc.’

  Talvas leaned forward, resting his elbows on his widespread knees, studying the ground. ‘I missed you then,’ he ground out finally. The bright moonlight highlighted the severity of his expression. ‘Do you really want to go back to France?’

  The bluntness of his question came as a shock, catching her unawares. She touched the bulky curve of his strong shoulder, feeling the tense, bunched muscles beneath. ‘Nay, I wish to stay here with you.’ A sense of utter release flowed out of her, a certainty regarding her future.

  Her words settled upon him like silken cloth. Twisting his whole body, he gripped her upper arms, a spiral of joy bubbling in his chest. ‘Then you’ll marry me?’

  The words hit her with the force of a mace. ‘Nay, Talvas, I’ll stay here on my terms. No betrothal. No marriage.’

  He released her shoulders savagely, causing her to sway back with the movement and sprung from the bench. ‘Sweet Mother of God, I actually thought you would relent…what a fool!’ The feral roughness of his tone shredded her heart as he knocked his head with his fist.

  Shocked, she reached forward with her hand, trying to calm him, trying to appease him. ‘Talvas…I thought you realised…Don’t be like this!’

  ‘Like what?’ he shot back bitterly, striking her fingers away. ‘I have lost too much before to not insist on wedlock, Emmeline.’

  Utter desperation clouded her features, tore at her very soul. ‘But you wouldn’t lose me, Talvas…you don’t need marriage to keep me by your side.’

  ‘The Church would condemn your actions; you’d be treated like a whore if you don’t take my name…’ His voice deepened with guttural hoarseness. ‘I couldn’t protect you, Emmeline. I told you before.’

  ‘Since when have you cared what other people think, Talvas?’ Emmeline stood up, unsteadily. This bitter acrimony poured like acid onto the bond that had grown between them, eating away at those fragile strings of connection. Nausea swept through her as she felt herself losing him, of never seeing him again. ‘Can’t you see?’ Her voice wobbled with misery. ‘Talvas! I would be your wife in all but name!’

  In the pearly luminescence of the moonlight, his eyes were bleak, saddened. ‘’Tis not enough, Emmeline. Not enough.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Not far from the castle at Hawkeshayne, bordering a wide, downstream curve of the river, sat a vast wharfside area spread out over a flat area of shingle. The wharfside was a place of industry, a place well-known for its excellent craftsmanship, where Talvas had ships built to his design, either selling them on, or using the vessels for his own endeavours.

  The wind sighed through the bare tops of the beech trees as Talvas led Emmeline along the narrow track through the forest toward the high warehouses that edged the wharves. With each step, misery welled in Emmeline’s chest as she followed the rigid line of his back, his every movement unyielding with anger. After he had left her bereft and speechless in the garden, she had raced back to her bedchamber, flinging herself fully clothed onto the bed, tears pouring down her face. How could Talvas be so unreasonable? How could he expect her to marry, after everything she had told him? Surely he of all people knew how she felt? Yet the thought of leaving him filled her with such pain that she wondered whether she could step up to the altar and take her vows once more. Tormented by self-doubt, thoughts looped continually through her mind, nibbling and chattering at her. She hadn’t seen him for over a week, preferring to keep to the chambers allocated to her, trying to decipher the best way forward.

  Talvas’s feet skidded as the path began to descend, the heavy mud clinging to the thick leather on the sole of his boots. He stopped, turning to Emmeline. ‘Watch your step here,’ he cautioned brusquely, reaching up his hand to help her down, avoiding her emerald gaze. The warmth of her fingers sent spirals of longing coursing through his lean frame and, inwardly, he cursed, dropping her hand and turning his back on her as soon as he knew she was steady. When Emmeline had approached him earlier that morn, his heart had lifted briefly with the thought that she might have changed her mind. But one glance at her pale, stony face made him swiftly realise his mistake. Beset with a polite formality, she had asked about the state of repairs on La Belle Saumur, as if there had been nothing between them, as if they hadn’t argued, her intention to return to France obvious in every gesture, in every word. Despite being irked by her cold, withdrawn behaviour, his every instinct yearned to race down to the wharfside and smash the vessel to pieces to prevent her leaving.

  As Talvas strode on impatiently, Emmeline clutched at a gnarled, overhanging branch for balance and to catch her breath. Matching Talvas’s furious pace was difficult this morning, and, lagging behind dismally, she knew why. Matilda’s request for rags had highlighted the stark fact that Emmeline had had no need of them since she had come to England. Tossing and turning in her bed last night, Emmeline had tried to dismiss it, tried to focus on something else, until, with shaking fingers, she begun to count the days. The frantic summing up on her fingers had yielded a full-blown certainty: she carried Talvas’s child. Biting her lips against the boiling nausea in her stomach, she fought to place one foot before another, her mind churning with the damning reality. The thought filled her with fear, with tearing panic. How could she tell him? If he knew about the babe, then he would compel her to marry, without a doubt. But to keep such knowledge from him would b
e beyond cruelty. Her lashes swept down briefly over her cheeks; racked by indecision, she followed his steps blindly.

  They emerged from the gloom of the trees and onto the gentle slope of the open foreshore: a narrow strip of shingle that bounded the powerful, strong current of the river. The tide was out at the moment, and the vast flats of mud made strange creaking and sucking noises as they walked past, each silent, caught up in their own thoughts. Curlews lifted their long, spindly legs to pick their delicate way through the mud, their black outlines stark against the silvery grey flow of the water. Emmeline lifted her face, the fresh sea air brushing her skin, quelling the sickness in her stomach.

  ‘Over there.’ Talvas pointed at the impressive line of warehouses, their outlines sharply delineated against the billowing grey sky. Emmeline nodded, pulling the sides of her cloak closer together, relieved that she didn’t have to walk much farther. The energy had sapped quickly from her body on this walk, leaving the muscles in her legs depleted of all strength, trembling from exertion.

  ‘What ails you?’ Talvas rapped out roughly, a restraining hand on her upper arm as he checked the grey circles beneath her eyes, the whiteness of her skin. ‘Make haste, Emmeline; I haven’t got all day.’

  She flinched under the cut of his words; but after her rejection of him he had every right to be angry with her. How angry would he be if she failed to tell him about the small life that grew within her? She had lain awake for most of the night, her mind racked with uncertainty. Could she really leave, go back to France, without saying anything? Could she really take another baby away from the man who had suffered so much with the loss of his first child? Stumbling over the coarse, ridged grass of the estuary, she honestly did not know the answer.