Warrior's Princess Bride (22 page)

‘There’s no time,’ Benois replied, his tone curt, his eyes sharp as flints. ‘Tavia can have a bath afterwards.’

‘But, my lord, it’s not right, she can’t marry looking like that!’ Sabine pro tested. ‘I’d certainly have something to say about it, if I were marrying you!’

‘Then it’s a good thing that you are not,’ Benois replied incisively. ‘Now, please step aside, my lady, so I can tend to her wound as well.’

‘As you wish.’ Sabine edged back from the doorway, acknowledging defeat, peering dubiously at Tavia’s drooping form. ‘There’s enough water and linen in the chamber to do that, at least.’

‘Thank you.’ Benois half-carried Tavia through the oak doorway. Sabine clutched Tavia’s sleeve as they brushed past her. ‘My lady, do you wish me to stay?’ Her liquid brown eyes met Tavia’s.

Tavia shook her head. ‘Nay,’ she replied faintly. ‘I’m quite safe with him.’ As soon as the words had left her lips, she wondered at the truth of them. Was she safe? Was she safe when every time Benois came near her, her heart cascaded into a whirl pool of excitement? As Sabine nodded, pivoting on her heel and disappearing down the corridor, Tavia almost wanted to reach out her hands and beg her to stay.

Benois led her over to a low stool, next to an oak coffer on which a bowl and an earth en ware jug had been placed. Beside these items, a pile of fresh linen towels were stacked high, the scent of them reminiscent of windy, sunlit days when the servants would drape the laundry over the large bushes in the garden in order to dry it.

‘Sabine doesn’t like you very much,’ Tavia commented, starting back slightly as Benois applied his fingers gently to the blood-en crusted hair on her forehead.

He chuckled, a rich, throaty sound bubbling in his chest. ‘Sabine likes to do everything properly, even someone else’s marriage. I seem to remember days, months of preparation for her marriage to Langley; the poor man was beside himself! She thinks I’m rushing you.’

Tavia laughed, her face lifting up to his, searching the tanned, angular features that had become so familiar to her over the last few days. ‘Well, you are, aren’t you?’

Benois gazed down at her, this beautiful angel who had sprung so unexpectedly into his life. ‘With good reason, Tavia. You know this is the only way I can protect you. Once we are married there’s nothing Ferchar can do.’ He dipped one bleached linen square into the bowl of water, watching the open weave of the fabric darken and sink as it absorbed the water. Wringing the cloth out, he bent over her, pressing the wet material to her forehead. ‘I’m sorry if this hurts, I’ll try to be as careful as I can,’ he murmured. The dripping water ran down her face, under the round collar of her gown to prickle uncomfortably against her bare skin, as he slowly cleaned around the wound.

‘Are you sure about this?’ Tavia blurted out suddenly. ‘I mean…marrying me?’ she added in a small voice, trying to clarify her words. ‘I suppose…I suppose I’m not exactly the sort of woman you’d choose to marry.’

The hand dabbing at her forehead ceased, suddenly. ‘So tell me, Tavia, what sort of woman should I marry?’

She struggled to find the right words to try and explain her feelings. ‘Well, taller than me I suppose, more curvaceous…probably less opinionated…’ She trailed off as the corners of his mouth began to twitch. ‘Am I right?’ she finished tentatively amidst his roar of laughter.

‘You couldn’t be more wrong.’ The grey of his eyes softened to ash, spark ling with diamond light.

‘Even so, have you thought of the consequences of your actions—for example, what’s going to happen afterwards?’ Her voice emerged awkwardly, spiky with reserve.

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘We’ll be man and wife. I wouldn’t question the situation too much, maid, I might change my mind.’ Why couldn’t he just tell her, be direct with her, that he couldn’t bear to see her married to Ferchar…or anyone else for that matter?

‘Just as long as you’re not marrying me for my unexpected wealth and position,’ she continued huskily, trying to al le vi ate the odd tension that had fallen between them.

Benois smiled, rinsing the bloodied cloth out in the bowl. ‘Nay, maid, I’m certainly not marrying you for your money.’
I’m marrying you for your beauty, your kind soul, your quick wit and generosity and numerous other curiosities about you that are impossible to describe,
he thought suddenly.

Tavia’s eyes watered as the linen towel snagged once again on her hair.

‘Ah, this hair, it’s impossible!’ Benois cursed.

‘Leave it,’ Tavia suggested, her hand curving upwards to stop him dabbing at her forehead. The skin of his right forearm felt smooth, like hard burnished wood beneath her fingers. Her hand fell away, reluctantly, as he threw the towel over to the oak coffer.

‘Aye, you’re right,’ he agreed, grudgingly. ‘It would take a proper bath to remove most of this.’

‘My hair will be covered with a veil. No one will see.’

To her utter astonishment, Benois dropped suddenly to his knees before her, his brilliant eyes locking with hers. ‘No one will be there to see,’ he corrected. A rueful expression crossed his face. ‘I’m sorry it has to be like this, hurried, secretive, but it is the only way.’ His tongue moved woodenly over the words of apology in his mouth; he felt gruff, awkward, too big for his skin.

‘I under stand.’ She smiled up at him, her blue eyes wide, bright. ‘I under stand that you’re trying to help me, and I thank you for that.’ She touched her fingers to the slanting sweep of his jawline, feeling the faint bristle beneath her fingers. He reacted with a sharp intake of breath, a hiss, almost, of desire, the grey of his eyes deepening to spark ling jet. In the corner of the chamber, loose coals shifted in the brazier, sending renewed flames shooting up, filling the room with a warm, soporific heat. Her fingers throbbed against his cheek, her heart racing with the realisation that he hadn’t pulled away from her, hadn’t jerked back. Her fingers moved upwards, sketching over his high cheek bones to the vigorous strands of his hair that gleamed vibrantly in the dim light. His body was rigid, beset with a tension that filled the air around the couple with a dramatic intensity, a sense of being on the brink of danger, of the unknown.

‘Tavia,’ he whispered, expelling his breath with a whoosh of air. His arms came about her, folding her into his body. He seized her mouth with his own, lips plundering, demanding, obliterating any form of protest she may have had. Protest was the last thing on her mind, as she melted into him, her senses careening upwards in a crazy ascent of desire. Her arms crept around his neck, the downy hairs at his nape brushing against her fingers. The tip of his tongue worked along the seam of her lips and the desire, smouldering gently in the pit of her stomach, ignited into a bright, white heat. The kiss deepened…

The door swung wide open, and Langley stood there, his prepared words fading into the air as he viewed the couple locked together. He had to clear his throat, not once, but twice, to gain their attention.

‘Er…the priest awaits you in the chapel.’ Langley smirked, trying not to laugh out loud at the guilty expressions on both their faces as they sprung apart. Sabine moved into the room, her arms laden with a colourful bundle of material, bobbing elegantly under her husband’s arm that rested high against the door frame.

‘You’ve time for this, yet not time to let this poor maid have a bath,’ she stormed at Benois, who rose quickly to his feet, flushing. ‘Shame on you!’ Sabine marched into the chamber, dropped the pile of cloth on to the wooden coffer before jamming her hands on to her hips, and glaring at him. ‘Now, begone with you, and give me a few moments alone with Tavia.’ At Benois’s reluctant frown, she raised her white hands, shooing him away. ‘Go! We’ll not be long. Wait for us in the chapel.’

Benois bowed, his eyes flicking over to Tavia. ‘Don’t be too long,
chérie
.’ He smiled at her.

T
he rounded domes of the cobbles hurt Tavia’s feet as she walked to wards the chapel. Her shoes, borrowed from Sabine, were a little too large for her feet, and she had to keep curling up her toes in an at tempt to stop the fine leather slipping off. But Sabine’s arm linked companionably through her own kept her steady, as the pair drew covert, admiring glances from the serfs and soldiers going about their chores in the inner bailey.

Tavia had been relieved when Sabine had steered her away from the mid summer celebrations that continued with in creasing intensity in the fair field; the church was but a short walk away from the main castle building, but, thank fully, in the opposite direction. She still felt sufficiently fragile to not want the marriage witnessed by numerous strangers.

Sabine squeezed her arm in a friendly manner as they approached the impressively recessed archway at the church entrance. ‘Forgive me for saying this, Tavia,’ she said, halting her step, ‘but are you sure about this marriage? I mean, I know I’ve only known you for a short time, but…’

‘Aye, I’m sure, Sabine.’ Tavia fought to keep a note of reassurance in her voice. She knew why she was marrying Benois, and it wasn’t for the same reason that he was marrying her. He sought to protect her; but she knew that she loved him, and any marriage, however short, however sterile, would be a symbol of that love. But he would never know it.

‘It’s just that he’s so…so brusque, Tavia. He treats you like one of his soldiers.’

‘He’s not always like that.’ A wonderful feeling flooded through her as she defended him.

‘Oh, well, you must love him I suppose, whatever faults he has.’

‘Aye, I do,’ Tavia murmured, as they moved through the arch and down the wide, stone steps and into the shadowy interior of the church. The exotic smell of incense hit her, assailing her senses with mysterious perfume.

At the click of the latch, the inward squeak of the door, three pairs of eyes turned. Benois’s gasp was audible, echoing with surprise through the vaulted church ceiling.

‘Oh, my God!’ Langley spluttered beside him. ‘What a beauty!’

Sabine had done her work well. A flowing
bliaut
of finely spun cream silk smoothed over Tavia’s slender form, clinging lovingly to the indentation of her waist, the curve of her bosom. The material, shot through with delicate lines of silver thread, glittered and shone with every movement Tavia made, reflecting magically in the glowing candle light. The pointed ends of her long sleeves, their shape like inverted tear drops, brushed against the flag stones, whispering with every step. The wide cuffs allowed the tight sleeves of the under dress to be revealed, sleeves fashioned from a pale lichen-green material that accentuated the glossy red of Tavia’s hair. A circlet of filigreed silver pinned a short veil to the crown of her head, the delicate folds floating around her like an aura as she walked down the aisle.

Benois reached out and took her hand, as she stepped up to the altar steps, beside him. Her wide eyes of vivid blue searched his face, trying to find the answer to the puzzle that continually plagued her: why should this man put himself out to help her so much?

‘Ready?’ Benois smiled down at her, squeezing her hand, relieved to see that some colour had returned to Tavia’s cheeks under Sabine’s ministrations. He still wore the same mud-splattered garments from before: the red tunic carrying the golden lion of Henry II, the brown woollen braies cross-laced with leather straps from ankle to calf.

‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ she murmured, the pearly cream of her skin drawing his eyes with its ethereal beauty.

Standing facing them, the priest seemed to have fallen asleep, his chin dropping forwards, almost resting on his chest; his eyes were closed. A sudden draught of unknown origin snuffed out a thick candle behind his portly frame, the acrid smoke coiling up behind him, around him, making his slumped figure appear as if in a thick fog.

‘Wake up, man!’ Langley demanded, his tones unnaturally strident as he pulled at the priest’s voluminous sleeve. Slowly, with extreme difficulty, the priest opened his blood shot eyes, resentment emanating from every line in his body towards the couple that had dragged him away from the mid summer celebrations. He had been enjoying an extremely merry time up to the point when his lord, Lord Langley, had pulled him away to preside over this dubious marriage. She’s obviously with child, thought the priest, sneering at Tavia’s slim frame, trying to detect a slight rounding of the bride’s stomach under her gown. Aye, that would be the reason, she’s of noble birth, and can’t bear the shame of bearing a child out of wedlock.

The priest stepped forward, clearing his throat, obviously intending to begin the service. ‘Dearly beloved…’ he intoned. ‘We—’

‘Wait…!’ screeched Sabine. ‘I forgot something!’ She dashed away, as quickly as her distended figure would allow.

‘What now?’ Benois twisted his head round irritably, trying to decipher Sabine’s intentions. ‘That infernal wife of yours, Langley!’

Langley took a half-step forwards and realised he could do nothing, his round, jovial face adopting a look of extreme apology.

The church door opened, then slammed shut once more. Sabine puffed back down the aisle, thrusting a posy of summer flowers into the bride’s surprised hands.

‘Oh, they’re beautiful,’ Tavia cried in delight, savouring the fresh, light perfume emanating from the purplish-blue lavender and the white daisies. Against the heady smell of incense that pervaded the dark recesses of the church, this new scent evoked the bright, burnished meadows of high summer. She darted a quick smile of thanks in Sabine’s direction.

‘Now, can we begin?’ Benois growled. The priest, clearing his throat dramatically, opened the heavy Bible that rested before him on a wooden lectern. He began to speak the words of the marriage service, a slow lilting intonation.

As if in a dream, Tavia listened to the cadence of the priest’s voice without hearing the words. She almost jumped in shock when the priest lifted her hand and placed it over Benois’s, before dutifully repeating the words she had been asked to say.

‘And now, if you would like to place the wedding ring on the Bible…’ The priest lifted his reddened eyes towards Benois. Benois looked blank.

‘Oh, a ring!’ Langley blustered from the shadows. ‘Here, Benois, take this one.’ He began to fumble to dislodge a ring from his left hand.

Benois’s fingers tightened around Tavia’s hand; a rawness invaded his expression, making him look momentarily bereft. ‘Nay, friend—’ he stopped Langley’s agitated movements with his low voice ‘—I have one.’

Benois reached into the collar of his tunic, and drew out a leather lace, pulling it over his head. The silver ring on the end spun, twinkling in slow circles, in the mellow penumbra of the church.

‘It belonged to my mother,’ Benois explained, detaching the ring from the end of the lace, and reaching for Tavia’s hand once more.

Her fingers trembled as he slid the cool metal over her fourth finger. The flat edge of the ring had been intricately engraved with small flowers, stems twining across the silver, making it sparkle. His mother’s ring! Her throat closed up with emotion, and she glanced up, scanning Benois’s impassive face, trying to detect his mood. But his face was set, stern, his hard, granite eyes trained on the priest.

‘And I now pronounce you man and wife,’ the priest finished the service in a rush of words, hastily covering his mouth to stifle a belch. He closed the Bible between his hands with a snap, dust puffing into the air from the thin pages.

Tavia toed the cold flag stones beneath her feet, feeling strangely ill at ease, self-conscious in her own skin. So this was it. She was married. Married to a man she had known but a few days, days that felt like a lifetime. ‘So what happens now?’ Her voice wavered with the question.

‘Now?’ Benois raised one dark eyebrow. ‘Now, we wait for Ferchar.’

‘And what if Ferchar doesn’t come? Then you’ll have married me for nothing.’

‘Maybe not,’ Benois replied enigmatically.

With a small sound of relief, Tavia sank into the hot, steaming water, the heated liquid soothing her aching muscles, allowing her to stretch her limbs to their full, languorous extent. She wriggled her toes, her fingers, her heart flipping as she acknowledged the un familiar band around her wedding finger. All that had been cramped and tight, now became supple, pliable, under the effect of the water. Closing her eyes, Tavia tipped her neck back to rest her head on the wooden edge of the tub. Somewhere behind her, Sabine bustled about the chamber; Sabine, whose tireless energy seemed indefatigable, who had asked, nay, told Benois that she was taking his new bride upstairs to give her a proper bath. Benois had barely nodded his assent before Tavia had been whisked away.

The scent of lavender rose to her nostrils; a muslin bag full of the dried flower had been tossed into the water, pervading the air with delicious perfume. The water penetrated the very pores of Tavia’s skin, cleansing her of all the dirt of the past few days. Every now and again, a flutter, a niggle, gnawed fleetingly in the pit of her stomach. Had she been a fool for marrying Benois? Would her decision lead to sadness, to heart ache? She wished she could know the answer.

‘How does the water feel?’ Sabine, who had stood like a tyrant over her maid servant, watching keenly as the girl folded the flimsy fabric of the wedding gown and packed it back into the oak coffer, now approached the steep sides of the tub. The tub itself was lined with a thick linen cloth to stop its recipient catching any splinters from the rough wooden sides.

‘Oh, like Heaven, thank you, Sabine.’

‘No thanks needed.’ Sabine plonked her rounded girth on to a low stool next to the bath. ‘Especially after what you’ve been through. It’s the least you deserve.’ She cast a critical eye over the gash on Tavia’s forehead. ‘I only wish you’d had a chance to bathe before your marriage.’ Her fingers probed gently around the crusting edges of the wound. ‘Still, it seems Benois hasn’t done a bad job for a man who was in such a hurry.’

‘You mustn’t blame Benois. He was only worried about Lord Ferchar arriving.’ Tavia noted the condemnation threading through Sa bine’s light tone.

Sabine laughed, leaning forward to clutch at the sides of the bath, her deep brown eyes glowing with intrigue. ‘I must admit, I have never seen him this jittery…ever. Most times, he acts with a deadly calm, even when he’s about to go into a battle. You must really mean a great deal to him.’

‘Oh, I’m not certain about that,’ Tavia hedged, wiggling her hips to sink down further, wondering how she could deflect the conversation away from herself. ‘How long have you known Benois?’

Sabine rested her elbows on the edge of the bath. ‘I don’t believe any one knows Benois well. But Langley and he are great friends, de spite the fact they possess completely different characters. I met Benois when I married Langley. But I had heard of him before; his reputation as a skilful knight, a born leader of men, was well known, notorious even.’ Her gaze scrutinised Tavia’s pale face. ‘And now you’re married to him.’

Tavia picked up a wash cloth, started scrubbing her pinkened skin vigorously. ‘He’s only done it to help me out. To stop Ferchar from marrying me.’ Her voice sounded gusty, breathless.

‘Is that what you truly believe?’ Sabine rapped out, pushing her up per body sharply upright. The material of her gown pulled taut over her curving belly.

‘Aye,’ Tavia returned annoyance. ‘He’s married me out of a sense of duty, of obligation.’ She rubbed the back of her neck, her shoulders, the water sluicing down her arms. ‘Although I can’t for the life of me figure out why…’

‘Can’t you?’ Sabine stared at her in astonishment, drawing her spine straight. ‘Has that knock on the head made you completely insane? Benois would never marry someone on those terms. Why on earth would he?’

‘So why would he marry me, then?’ Tavia ventured in a small voice.

‘Oh, Tavia…’ Sabine’s rose-coloured lips widened into a smile ‘…because he loves you, Tavia, that’s why. I must admit, I had my doubts at first, but having seen the two of you together…he loves you and he wants to protect you. Anyone can see that.’

Tavia crushed the wash cloth haphazardly between her fingers, the water dripping into the flat water, causing con centric circles to ripple out around her. ‘But I feel as if he’s been forced into it…because of Ferchar.’ But Sabine was already laughing.

‘Oh, you really don’t know him very well, do you! Can you imagine anyone forcing Benois to do anything he doesn’t want to do? Tell me…can you?’

A stray head of lavender floated on the water’s surface, brushing against Tavia’s bare thigh, sticking to her wet skin as she raised her knee slightly out of the water. She recalled the intense, unhindered passion of their coupling beneath the magical green light of the forest, the wild, reckless heat of their kisses, and she lifted the wash cloth to her face to hide her flaming cheeks. Did Sabine speak the truth? That Benois had married her for love? ‘He’s never said it, Sabine, he’s never said he loves me,’ she mumbled through the wet flannel, screwing her eyes up against the memory of his rejection after their lovemaking. Her voice held a forlorn edge.

‘Oh, Tavia, you mustn’t expect hearts and flowers with Benois. He’s a soldier, gruff and taciturn at the best of times, but, oh, if only you could see how he is around you! He shows his love in other ways, in the way he looks at you, cares for you.’

Tavia shook her head, droplets of water cascading down from her hair. ‘I’ve never seen it,’ she replied, a helpless, brooding look entering her eyes.

‘Just give him a chance, Tavia, give him a chance.’ Sabine levered herself up from the stool, indicating with a precise movement of her dark head that she wished the maid servant to bring over some towels.

‘Maybe you’re right,’ Tavia answered finally, wringing out the flannel and hanging it over the side of the tub. She stood up, the water cascading over her naked limbs, her hair plastered wildly down her back, taking the towel that the diminutive maid servant held out to her, horribly aware that her words held no conviction, no certainty. She didn’t believe Sabine for a moment. Could she accept this way of life, a life without his love, just to be near him? Would her love for him be enough for the two of them?