The Damsel's Defiance

by Meriel Fuller

  The sweet smell of wood shavings filled her nostrils as she entered the first warehouse, her eyes alighting immediately on the familiar, elegant lines of her ship.

  Propped up by wooden stands, La Belle Saumur seemed enormous, her hull exposed when normally it would be covered by water. Men worked all around her, some hammering the last carefully curved planks around the bow, others busy up on deck, planing down wood to a silky smoothness. Noticing Talvas, a few of the men grinned and waved before returning to their work.

  ‘She’s all but finished,’ Talvas said reluctantly, pushing at a pile of frothy woodshavings with his toe.

  ‘So I can see.’ Emmeline’s voice echoed dully in the huge space. Her heart plummeted at the impact of his words. If La Belle Saumur was nearly finished, then there was nothing to prevent her departure. Tears bubbled up, blurring her vision, and she stepped forward blindly, thinking to hide her sadness by running her fingers over the mended hull.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ she murmured. Why had she even approached him this morning to ask about her ship? Was she completely foolish? All she needed now was some space in which to think, to think what was best for all of them: her, Talvas, and their child.

  ‘Thank you for repairing her. It means much to me.’ Her fingers drifted instinctively over the silky wood, before she turned to face him. He caught the fragile smell of her perfume, the single pearl of a tear in the corner of her eye.

  ‘Then why are you crying?’ he murmured, touching his fingertip at the corner of her eye. The diamond tear sparkled in the light.

  ‘I’m not.’ She dashed a hand to her face. ‘The strong light is making my eyes water.’

  Inside his heart clenched with wretchedness, with the desolate pain of a loss that had yet to happen. He kept reminding himself that it was better this way, for if she wouldn’t agree to marriage, then it was preferable that she left. He set his face into a blank mask, lifting his eyes to the mast. ‘A new sail, as well,’ he added, remembering the white wisp of her body pinned to the mast on that terrible night at sea.

  ‘When can we put her on the water?’ She struggled to maintain the formal conversation.

  Talvas shrugged his shoulders. ‘Tomorrow, if you like. This harbour will protect the vessel from any storms.’

  She nodded, remembering the huddle of boats against the jetty. ‘Then I suppose I’ll have to find a captain, a crew, to take me back to Barfleur.’ She laughed, joylessly, the sound brittle in her ears, speaking words that hid her heart’s true direction to cover up her indecision, her dilemma. ‘Mayhap you would help me find someone?’

  The strained, translucent quality of her skin bewildered him; she appeared weary, almost beaten, the wide, earnest green eyes bereft of their usual sparkle. Why did she persist with this stubbornness, this refusal to trust him, to marry him? He ached to hold her in his arms, to tell her all would be well, but he knew he deluded himself. Pain lacerated his innards as his mouth twisted in answer. ‘You’ll be lucky to find anyone at this time of year; at Yuletide, people want to be with their families.’

  ‘So you will not help me.’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ve better things to do with my time than assemble a crew for you.’ She flinched at his callousness, the icy tone of his speech engulfing her with a sense of loss, of sadness. Her shoulders slumped forward with an air of dejection.

  His fingers clenched into his palms at the sight of her demeanour; his voice dropped to a savage whisper. ‘You bring this on yourself, Emmeline. It doesn’t have to be like this! One word from you and you could change everything. Just one word.’ The raw hurt that laced his words kicked her in the gut. Unable to speak, her throat gripped with heartache, she shook her head, not knowing what to do, tears of silent agony pooling in her eyes.

  An air of festivity spread through the great hall; servants carried in armfuls of glossy ivy, the green shining leaves offset by clusters of dull black berries, and wrestled with spiky bundles of holly as they attempted to hang them from the walls. The leather curtain that covered the doorway between the hall and the outside courtyard flapped continually with people coming in and out. Smiling contentedly from the high dais, Matilda chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bread, nodding her approval as the decorations began to transform the grey austerity of the hall. She loved this time of year, the celebration of Yule, the time when the nights drew in and the fires burned high, and loved it even more this year as she and Stephen would be staying at Hawkeshayne with Talvas.

  ‘I’m pleased Emmeline decided to stay awhile.’ Matilda turned to her brother, who sat further along the long, oak table, engrossed in the estate accounts with his bailiff.

  ‘Hmm?’ replied Talvas, absentmindedly, his attention on the neat list of figures that the bony fingers of his bailiff pointed out to him. The early morning sun poured through the windows, their shallow arches set high into the grey stone of the hall, sending shafts of light down onto the trestle tables, some still crammed with peasants breaking their fast.

  ‘Are you listening to me?’ Matilda raised her voice.

  Talvas lifted his head reluctantly from the parchment, keeping his finger on the numbers he discussed with his bailiff. Confident that his capable manservant would oversee the sowing of the crops, he had only to agree the outline plan for the year before escaping to sea once more.

  ‘I hear you, Matilda.’ The note of patience in his voice stretched thin.

  ‘Are you pleased that Emmeline is staying on?’

  Talvas began sorting through the papers, the large pieces of parchment starting to cover a large part of the oak table. ‘The maid has little choice: the weather is too inclement to return to France at the moment.’ In truth, after she had made her feelings clear about marriage, he wanted her to leave. Every touch, every glance from the maid filled him with a grim despair, a constant reminder of her imminent departure.

  ‘Since when has the weather stopped her? She would go if she really wanted to.’ Matilda speared a piece of sliced ham with her jewelled eating knife. ‘Nay, I think she stays for a different reason.’

  Talvas nodded at his bailiff, who made a few marks on one of the pieces of parchment, then whipped his blue eyes round at his sister.

  ‘Emmeline stays because she has no choice, not because she wants to.’

  ‘She stays because of you,’ Matilda announced.

  A wild, incomprehensible anger seized him. He rose abruptly, almost knocking the bench over with the violent movement. ‘There’s nothing between us, d’you hear?’ He glared at Matilda, mouth twisting in annoyance. ‘For pity’s sake, cease your meddling!’

  He had scarce seen Emmeline in the past few days. She had avoided his company, choosing to keep to the chambers allocated to her, or the women’s solar on the first floor. If by chance they came together, they acted as strangers, their behaviour beset with a jerky formality that knifed his heart. Whatever ties had existed between them now seemed severed, the flimsy lines of connection stretched so taut it seemed the slightest breeze could shred them. He knew better than to pursue her now, now her mind seemed set on returning home. Better to ignore his feelings for her, to parcel them up and tuck them away in a faraway place, buried for ever.

  Emmeline descended the steep steps carefully, one hand skimming the curve of the damp stone wall in case she lost her footing. With every step, her heart thumped in nervous anticipation, at the thought of the commitment she was about to undertake. The stormy weather over the past few days had given her time to think; now her mind was made up. Her blood plummeted around her veins at the enormity of the decision she had taken, formed in the dismal half light of dawn. She would tell Talvas about the child, and if he insisted upon marriage, then so be it. It was no longer her choice to make; she had another life to think of now. If staying with Talvas meant marriage, then she would go through with it, despite all her misgivings. The thought of a life without him was intolerable.

  ‘I thought she’d eaten in her chamber…as usual,’
Talvas muttered as he spotted Emmeline’s slender lines framed in the doorway of the great hall. He began to gather his papers together, much to the astonishment of his bailiff who had been about to explain the crop rotation for spring.

  Matilda placed a hand on his arm. ‘Stay, Talvas. Don’t offend her by rushing from the room.’

  ‘She is more likely to run, if she sees me,’ he responded gruffly.

  But his mouth opened in scowling surprise as he tracked Emmeline’s progress toward the top table. The elegant lines of the heather-coloured bliaut smoothed over her slender curves, the tips of the long, exaggerated sleeves almost touching the flagstone floor. Delicate filigreed embroidery looped and twirled fine stitching along the cuffs of the sleeves, the sweeping hem of the gathered skirt. She appeared as an early spring flower, trembling and radiant in the first pale rays of sunshine, her milk-white skin causing her eyes to burn with jade fire, setting off the rosy pink of her lips. As she walked to the high dais, it seemed the whole hall held its breath, just for a moment, in appreciation of her delectable beauty.

  ‘Come.’ Matilda half raised herself from the bench. ‘Come, Emmeline, and break your fast with me. Talvas has wolfed his down already, but I am still eating.’

  Emmeline’s eyes grazed the hunched, brooding figure of Talvas, the hectic flush colouring the lean, tanned angles of his face. She wondered how in heaven’s name she would find the strength to tell him of her decision.

  Matilda answered her look with a quick, reassuring smile. ‘Don’t mind him, he’s like a bear with a sore head this morning. Come and keep me company.’ She patted the seat beside her.

  Emmeline flicked her skirts over the bench and sat down next to Matilda, smoothing the material down over her legs with hot hands. Indeed, it did seem to be very hot in the great hall this morning. The air stifled her.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ Matilda asked conversationally, sipping neatly at her goblet of mead. She licked the honeyed droplets from her lips.

  ‘Aye, I did,’ Emmeline replied, the lie springing easily to her lips. Her head pounded with fatigue, the legacy of continually tossing and turning all night, racked with anxiety and guilt. ‘My chamber is very comfortable,’ she continued awkwardly, her bell-like tones casting out into the hall, a silver melody that rattled the shell that Talvas had attempted to build around himself. He gripped the edges of the parchment, the spidery writing dancing before his eyes as he tried hard to study their content, to concentrate on his bailiff’s suggestions.

  ‘Talvas is immersed in his plans,’ moaned Matilda. ‘He can’t seem to stop for a minute and talk to us!’ The solid wall of his back turned toward them, shutting them out.

  He’s hurting so much, thought Emmeline sadly. And I am the cause of it. I am the cause of all this heartache between us. ‘I need to talk to him,’ she murmured to Matilda.

  Matilda stared at her friend, swiftly interpreting the look. ‘Let’s eat up,’ she suggested, ‘and then I’ll leave you alone.’

  Emmeline peered blankly at the bowl of hot pottage before her, steam rising to mist her skin. Her stomach churned, queasy with fluttering nausea. Nay, not now! Not before she had a chance to talk to him!

  ‘Eat up, Emmeline,’ Matilda urged, breaking into the round of new bread, placing a chunk on each of their pewter plates.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ Emmeline replied. A dryness scraped at her throat; still her stomach roiled.

  ‘What ails thee, Emmeline?’ Matilda said, suddenly, her limpid blue eyes full of concern. ‘You’re pale—look, your hands are shaking.’

  Emmeline wished fervently that Matilda would lower her voice, anxious not to draw Talvas’s unnerving gaze. But, glancing over Matilda’s shoulder, she saw with relief that he was still engaged in conversation with the bailiff.

  Matilda smiled at her. ‘God in heaven, Emmeline. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were with child!’ Her words boomed and swelled, taking on huge proportions to bounce from the upper rafters of the hall.

  Sweat sprung to Emmeline’s palms. Swiftly, she suppressed the hysterical giggle that threatened to burst from her lips. ‘Nay, Matilda, I’ve had neither the inclination, nor the opportunity,’ she hedged, breaking the bread on her plate and stuffing the bits into her mouth, praying that Talvas had not overheard. Colour rushed to her face as the image of her limbs tangled with those of Talvas forced its way into her brain.

  ‘Look at you blushing!’ Matilda touched a finger to her friend’s cheek, misinterpreting Emmeline’s guilty look. ‘I can’t believe I have embarrassed you! Just wait until you’re an old married woman like me!’

  Emmeline hung her head, attempting to swallow the bread, a rough stone against her tongue. She wanted to sink under the table, to disappear. A sudden heat broke out over her body; the surging nausea climbing higher and higher as she chewed.

  ‘I must go!’ Murmuring her excuses to a surprised Matilda, stumbling backwards over the bench, she fled from the hall, out, out through the kitchens, out to the inner courtyard. There, where the sun warmed the east-facing wall, she leant her face against the stone, relishing the damp grittiness against her skin, fighting the sickness that bubbled and churned in her stomach. By not taking supper last night, she had hoped to avoid this morning sickness, hoped to be strong in front of Talvas when she spoke to him. But now, a debilitating weakness coursed her body: she couldn’t face him now. Better to hide, until the worst was over, and confront him later on.

  Eyes closed, she prayed fervently that Talvas hadn’t noticed her hasty exit. If he had, then this place, a few steps from the entrance to the kitchens, was not safe. She had to go, she had to run. Pushing herself back from the wall, she scoured the courtyard for somewhere to hide, a place where he couldn’t find her. Had he heard his sister’s words?

  The stables attached to the outer bailey would be her refuge. He would never find her there, she thought, agitation causing her fingers to slip and fumble with the rusty bolt on the half door of the stable. Pushing into the gloom, she stumbled through the deep raft of straw strewn thickly on the floor. The grey palfrey within greeted her with a snicker, nuzzling her soft nose into Emmeline’s hand. She spotted the rickety ladder leading up into the hayloft, and at once knew her hiding place. Climbing into the bundle of dried meadow grass, she collapsed into the mound of hay, burying her face into the cushion of grass, into that sweet smell of long, summer days.

  ‘When were you going to tell me?’

  The strident tones attacked her, accused her. Talvas!

  Pressing her skin farther into the hay, she willed the soft grass to swallow her up, to engulf her wholly in its balmy scent. Sweet Jesu! She hadn’t been quick enough!

  ‘How long were you going to wait, Emmeline?’ The stubborn line of her slender back mocked him. ‘’Till the babe’s full grown? Or never?’ A fierce anger gripped him, yanked him back to a time he cared not to remember.

  ‘I was going to tell you.’ Pushing up on her forearms, she twisted her body around in the hay, sitting up.

  ‘You were going to return to France without telling me!’ He flung the accusation at her, the blue of his eyes spitting arrows of sapphire.

  Tears tracked down her cheeks. ‘’Tis not true!’ She sought his shadowed countenance in the gloom of the loft, cowering under the forceful vehemence of his words. ‘I was going to tell you, Talvas. I…I just had to be certain.’

  He folded his arms high over his chest, the jewelled hilt of his sword winking in the half light. In the cramped confines of the hayloft, he appeared as a giant, the soft black of his hair almost brushing the apex of the ceiling. He tilted his head to one side. ‘Certain? Of what?’

  ‘Of my decision to stay.’ Her words, spoken with quiet dignity, poured over him like honey balm. ‘Of my decision to marry you.’ She drew her knees upwards, clasping her arms around her calves. One golden braid dropped forward, a rope of raw silk.

  He stepped forward, dropping to his knees before her, all the tension that h
ad grown within him in the past few days running from his body like a fast-flowing stream. The straw rustled beneath him as he smoothed his palms down the lean length of his thighs. ‘But you don’t want to marry, Emmeline. You made that perfectly clear.’

  Her eyes rested upon him, wide, luminous orbs. The reddish-purple hues of her gown accentuated the chalk-white of her skin, the pulse beating rapidly at her throat. ‘It’s not my choice anymore, Talvas.’ Without thinking, she ran a protective hand over the gentle swell of her belly. ‘I will marry you.’

  He heard the forlorn note of acceptance in her voice, saw the downcast sweep of her lashes and felt ashamed. The child she carried had compelled her to yield to his demands of matrimony. ‘If not for this babe, Emmeline…’ His voice sounded hollow ‘…you would have left me, gone.’

  ‘Nay, Talvas, I wouldn’t have. I was upset, angry with you for giving me such an ultimatum, for trying to make me do something that I really didn’t agree with. But the baby has made me truly think what I would be giving up.’ She leaned over and touched his cheek. The raised embroidery on her sleeve rasped against his skin, before the fabric fell back to reveal one slender wrist. He squeezed his eyes shut at the feather-light scuff of her fingers. He hated seeing her like this: downbeat and humbled before him. Emmeline would have stayed despite the baby, but she knew that staying meant accepting his terms. He had forced her to give up the one thing that was precious to her: her free will. Was that the reason he felt so wretched inside?

  The tiny chapel at Hawkeshayne, nestling in the lee of one of the turrets and bounded on two sides by the thick walls of the outer bailey, had been hastily prepared for the forthcoming wedding. The shields and crossed swords that decorated the white stone walls had been polished to a high sheen, emphasised by the morning light that poured through the narrow altar window. As the people of Hawkeshayne entered the holy place through the ornately carved recessed arch of the door, their excited voices muted immediately, feet shuffling forward slowly for fear of drawing the priest’s wrath, as they moved to stand in the nave to hear the wedding service. Some whispered hesitantly of a fight between the lord and his betrothed, that a mystery surrounded this marriage, conceived with such haste. Yet others grinned conspiratorially, and nudged each other, reminding their friends of the feast some nights before, and how their lord had whisked the maid away before she had time to put a morsel of food in her mouth.