Warrior's Princess Bride (8 page)

‘Oh, help! Help!’ she called out. Langley released the bridle and came round, supporting her back so she could disentangle her foot.

‘Come on!’ Benois ordered. He hadn’t seen her display of complete ineptitude, as he waited impatiently on the other side of her horse. ‘Langley, stop faffing around, and come and hold her horse’s head.’

Tavia marched around to Benois, hands on hips. ‘Will you just give me a chance, and stop ordering me around like one of your foot-soldiers. It’s really difficult!’

Benois chuckled, watching her cheeks burn with a becoming rose colour. ‘It is for some people, obviously!’ He jumped down from his horse, grabbing her waist firmly, and set her in the saddle with an easy movement. His hand rested on the pommel, vigorous strands of chest nut hair on a level with her waist. ‘Have you ever ridden before?’ he asked curiously.

‘What do you think?’ she answered grumpily, the reins slack between her unknowing fingers.

‘Just try to keep up,’ he muttered, before swinging away.

In the afternoon, the white strands of cloud began to swell, billowing in front of the sun. Tavia shivered, her hands tightening instinctively on the reins with the in voluntary movement, every muscle in her body straining with the effort of keeping up with Benois. Her hip and thigh muscles ached from the un familiar position; her knees shook from clamping them either side of the leather saddle. It seemed like they had ridden for hours, Tavia’s eyes riveted on Benois’s broad straight back, the swishing rump of his horse, but she knew it was not past noon. She should have welcomed Benois’s re lent less pace; like her, it was obvious that he wanted nothing more than to be rid of her, and wanted this journey to be over as soon as possible, but a tiny part of her wished to plead for a rest.

The horses followed a path along side a shallow, fast-flowing brook that meandered, glistening, at the bottom of a gently sloped valley. The running, gurgling water provided a melodious backdrop to their ride, and Tavia was thankful that the horses had to slow to a walk in order to pick their way amongst the stones that littered the green valley floor. Further up the slope, the landscape took a harsher profile, with great grey carbuncles of granite growing out of the valley sides until they flattened off into moorland above.

A huge spot of rain splashed down on to Tavia’s hand. The water slid off her pale flesh to stain the faded leather of the reins. Then an other spot. And another. In a moment, the gathering clouds darkened significantly, and the rain surged down, shining needles of water. The rain sluiced over Tavia’s face, trick ling down beneath the rounded collar of her gown, the damp wool at her throat itching uncomfortably.

Benois whirled his horse around, yanking at the sides of his cloak to try to shield himself from the worst of the rain. Already his hair was plastered seal-like to his head, emphasising the raw beauty of his features, the high angularity of his cheek bones, shadowed and dangerous.

‘We must find shelter!’ he yelled at her. ‘Come on!’ He wheeled his animal away from her with an assured, practised hand, jabbing his heels into the horse’s flank to set it into a gallop.

How in considerate, thought Tavia. She knew that he meant her to follow him, but at a gallop? Her horse continued to plod steadily on wards and she hadn’t the faintest idea how to encourage the animal to go any faster.

Several yards ahead, Benois glanced around. Tavia sensed rather than heard his groan of disgust at her woefully lethargic pace. He gal loped back, his horse kicking up clods of soggy earth, before dragging on the reins to halt beside her. ‘Will you come on!’ he bellowed down at her. ‘We’ll be wet through at this rate!’

Tavia was already wet through, but she thought now was not the time to mention it. ‘I would if I knew how!’ she shouted back, her aqua marine eyes challenging him through the stinging rain.

‘I cannot believe you never learned to ride,’ he muttered, edging his animal round so that his horse was parallel to hers. He leaned over and grabbed her reins. ‘Now, hang on!’

Her direction became uncertain after that; all she did know was that the animal beneath her turned into a see-sawing, unpredictable ride. She clung on to the reins, the stringy mane, the saddle, anything to stop her toppling to the ground. Her hips slipped from the left to the right; one of her feet fell from the stirrup and she lurched forwards, the pommel digging into her stomach. When, finally, the horse stopped abruptly, she lay forward over the animal’s back, exhausted, her fingers inter laced with the mane, trying to control her rapid, frightened breathing.

‘We’ll stop here!’ Benois declared autocratically. He had already dismounted, appearing at the side of her horse. ‘Look, there’s some shelter over there.’ Lifting her head wearily, peering through the incessant rain, Tavia followed his pointing finger towards a dark hole in the side of a granite escarpment. A cave, she thought. Well, anything was preferable to staying on this horse. Leaning forwards, she man aged to swing her leg over the back of the horse, slither down its side shakily, reluctant to accept any more help from Benois. As her feet touched the ground, she clutched on to the saddle for a moment, trying to regain her balance.

Through the dismal, sluicing rain, she appeared as a bedraggled waif, her elfin features pale and luminous. One of her braids had become hooked around the pommel, tugging at her head as she took a step towards the cave and she shrank back as he reached forwards to gently detach the curling end. The silky softness of her hair made his fingers linger; suddenly he longed to see her with her hair free and unbound, with no veil, no ribbons confining its glorious colour.

Her frowning expression jolted him back to reality, and he released the end of her braid as if it stung him. Pulling her by the top of her arm, he dragged her towards the cave and into its dim, damp interior, annoyed that her beauty lured him so, made him forget his true purpose. He released her shoulder abruptly, wanting to push her away, to punish her for attracting him so, and she stood there, fixed to the spot, limp and trembling. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked gruffly, no hint of concern in his voice.

‘Am I all right?’ she repeated his words, astounded, scrabbling behind her for some sort of handhold in the rock. ‘Nay! I am not. Not only do you chide me for not being able to mount my own horse, you also start galloping at a tremendous pace when I cannot even ride, before pulling me off the horse like a sack of grain and dragging me in here!’

‘We needed to shelter from the rain!’ he responded. ‘And you dismounted on your own, if I remember rightly.’

‘Only because I knew you were about to pull me off,’ she replied defensively. ‘I’ve had enough, Benois!’ Eyes bruised with tiredness, she slumped against the rock behind her.

She’s exhausted, thought Benois, suddenly. Her cloak had fallen back over her shoulders, the ornate brooch that fastened the two sides together digging into the skin at her throat. Beneath its cloying folds, the elegant lines of her
bliaut
were revealed, the fabric clinging wetly to her svelte figure. His breath caught, his eye tracing the soft round of her bosom, an elaborate girdle embracing the indentation of her waist. Her com plaint was justified: the maid was half the size of him, yet he had pushed the pace this morning, covering the same distance as if he had been riding with a group of experienced soldiers. And, until now, she had not uttered one murmur of com plaint, or failed to keep up.

He ran the flat of his palm over his face. ‘I am sorry,’ he admitted, ruefully. ‘I’m used to riding with soldiers, not escorting ladies.’

Tavia nodded jerkily. ‘At least you have the courtesy to apologise.’ Her voice, prim and formal, echoed around the cave. Fatigue washed over her as she leant back against the rock, a natural ledge supporting her weight.

Benois moved around the space, treading with the minimal grace of a cat, to gather an armful of the dry sticks that littered the floor of the cave. Reaching for the pouch at his belt, he drew out a sharp flint, and a piece of metal, glinting dully. Crouching down over a bunch of dried moss and grass, Benois struck down on the metal, producing a shower of sparks. A tiny curl of smoke appeared from the kindling. Benois fed the fire quickly, building it up, so that soon the heart of the wood burned strongly. The occasional raindrop, blown in on the breeze, hissed into the flames. Tavia’s eyelids began to droop.

‘We need to dry our clothes,’ Benois stood up sharply, almost cracking his skull on the low roof of the cave.

Tavia’s eyes shot open. ‘My clothes are fine,’ she lied, testing the sopping wetness of her skirts between thumb and forefinger.

Benois smiled faintly. ‘Well, I am soaked through, so I suspect you must be, too. This weather looks set to stay for the day. We’ll not travel any further.’

A huge sob rose in her throat; despair clouded her features. ‘Then I’ll be too late,’ she whispered.

T
he sorrow of her expression plucked uncomfortably at the strings of Benois’s heart; feelings ignored by him for the past few years came coiling to the surface. He knew that with his next question, an uncertain involvement in this maid’s life would begin; an involvement that a few days earlier he would have rejected without question. He teetered on the edge, between frozen reserve and compassion.

‘Too late? Too late for what?’ The words pushed him into the abyss.

‘For my mother, Benois. She’s the reason I did all this in the first place.’

‘Tell me,’ he urged.

‘My mother needs a physician. We…we have not the coin to afford such an expense. When Ferchar saw me at the contest, he offered me a great deal of coin to impersonate the princess. I need to return to Dunswick as soon as possible to secure a physician…before my mother dies.’ Her eyes, huge and imploring, searched his face for some sense of understanding.

‘Have you no other family members who could help you?’

‘Nay, my father…’ she picked at a loose thread in her girdle, dropping her eyes to the floor ‘…didn’t have the money.’ How could she tell Benois of her father’s bullying ways? She wanted him to respect her, not pity her.

‘Then we must go.’ Benois eyed his glowing fire ruefully. ‘So much for drying out.’ He frowned out at the slanting rain, then at Tavia’s wilting figure. ‘Are you sure you can make it?’

‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘I must.’ Her heart leaped, despite the prospect of the grim journey ahead. She stepped over Benois, her movements wooden and jerky with the cold. ‘Thank you, Benois. Thank you for doing this.’

He threw her a brief, curt nod in reply, not wanting her gratitude. ‘It will be faster if we leave your horse here, and you ride up before me.’ Benois raised his foot, stamping the fire out with his heavy leather boot.

When the familiar walls of Dunswick town rose up out of the mist later on that day, Tavia wanted to shout for joy. Benois’s powerful war-horse had carried the pair of them effortlessly, despite him losing patience with her at the start of the journey. Tavia had refused to lean back into him, her awkward position confusing the animal’s gait and slowing him down. In exasperation, Benois pulled on his arm that circled her waist, and hauled her against the flat muscled expanse of his chest, ignoring her squeak of protest. ‘Relax,’ he had grumbled in her ear. At the hypnotic vibration of his voice rippling against the small bones of her back, she had shivered. Why did this man, a hated enemy, draw her so?

‘I cannot enter the city dressed as I am.’ Benois pulled on the reins, nudging the horse to a halt beneath the green canopy of a small copse. ‘They would shoot me in a moment for the colours that I wear.’ His voice rumbled against her ear; a ripple of excitement lanced her flesh. ‘I need to trade clothes with someone; maybe a peasant or a pilgrim so I can accompany you. I don’t want to be noticed…like the last time.’ He chuckled.

His strong, sinewy hand held the bunched reins laced across her stomach. That brief touch of his fingers sent spirals of warmth through her belly ‘I wouldn’t want you to take that risk…for me,’ she muttered faintly. ‘For a start, I doubt we could find clothes big enough…’

‘Are you saying I am fat?’ he teased.

She twisted rapidly in the saddle to face him, swiftly regretting the move. His grey eyes scorched her, the dark spiky lashes framing the wide ovals of his eyes. His mouth sat just inches from her own. ‘Nay,’ she tried to explain, ‘you’re tall, that’s all!’

His arm tightened fractionally around her waist, a protective gesture to prevent her falling. Unable to hold his gaze, she dropped her eyes, focusing on the jewelled brooch that fastened his cloak at his throat. ‘And further more,’ she said, hoping to sound capable and efficient, ‘I’ll be fine on my own from now on.’

‘So you’re dismissing me?’ he questioned sardonically. Was he still teasing? She didn’t dare look up, for if she did, she would surely drown in the slate whirl pool of his eyes. In truth, she would miss his fierce, restless ways, his protective strength. She curled her lip slightly; never before had she relied on a man, and she wasn’t about to start now. That way made you vulnerable.

‘Don’t tell me you’re not overjoyed?’ Tavia focused on the intricate silver work that bound the agate stones of Benois’s brooch. ‘Now you’ll be rid of me quicker!’

Nay, he was not overjoyed. For some curious reason, he didn’t want to let her go. She snapped her eyes up, snaring his fierce glance. ‘You’re the one at risk, here, Benois, not I.’

He released the reins, snagging her delicate chin between thumb and forefinger. ‘I didn’t know you cared,’ he replied sarcastically. The warmth flowed from his fingers, suffusing her face with a soft blush.

‘I don’t!’ She tried to wrench her chin away, but found herself inextricably bound. ‘Let me go!’

‘Gladly.’ His hand fell away.

Heart closing with unexpected sadness, Tavia slithered clumsily from the horse, ignoring the way her back bumped pain fully against the saddle. ‘What will you do now?’ she couldn’t resist asking, smoothing the long sleeves of her gown back into place, trying to appear unconcerned.

Benois’s hands rested lightly on the pommel, as he concentrated on some point in the trees. ‘Ride back and tell Henry we failed in the mission, I suppose.’ A wry smile lightened his expression, contrasting with his flat, bland tone. He baulked at sending the maid back into Dunswick on her own, his senses at once suspicious and alert. From what he knew and had heard about Ferchar, the man was not to be trusted, and Benois was certain that the regent’s scheming had only just begun.

‘You don’t seem thrilled by the prospect,’ Tavia ventured. She hesitated over her departure, torn between the need to help her mother, and the wish to stay here, to talk, to discover more about this man. ‘Will Henry punish you because you haven’t kid napped the princess?’

Benois looked sharply at her, almost in disbelief, then he threw back his head and laughed. ‘Nay, lass, Henry and I go back too far for him to punish me.’ His face shuttered suddenly then, as if he had said too much. He resented the way that this maid, this complete stranger, seemed to possess an unnerving ability to read his mind. He wanted to resist, yet, in truth, he knew this contact with her, however brief, had changed him. Whereas before he had thrived on the thrill of battle, the lure of an attack, now he began to question it. This woman was making him think, and thinking took him over shifting, unsteady ground. He didn’t want to think.

‘Get thee gone, maid,’ he said roughly, squeezing his powerful thighs against the horse’s flanks in order to set the animal in motion.

Huge aqua marine eyes berated him, made him pause in his escape. ‘You could at least have the common decency to bid me “adieu” properly,’ she chastised him. ‘I did save your life, remember.’

Guilt washed over him. ‘No doubt it will be something you’ll remind me about on a regular basis,’ he grimaced. The horse’s hooves made a rustling noise as it side stepped, excited, over the fallen leaves on the ground.

‘As I have no intention of ever seeing you again, that will not be a problem for you,’ she replied crossly, realising from his mute, closed features that he would not say any more. She must have been mad to want to stay a moment longer in his presence! ‘But you could at least say “goodbye”.’

‘Goodbye,’ he intoned, scathingly, sweeping low in his saddle in a mocking bow.

Tavia’s mouth quirked into a smile. ‘I bid you
adieu
, my lord,’ she replied formally, refusing to be daunted by his derisive behaviour. And then she was away, in a flurry of skirts, pacing decisively along the track towards Dunswick, the glowing fall of her hair forming a startling contrast against the greens and browns of the surrounding vegetation.

As Benois watched the elegant line of her figure step quietly, purposefully, through the trees and away from him, the urge to kick his horse into a trot and follow her threatened to over whelm him. In surprise, he realised that her nurturing presence, the sweet ferocity of her nature, had begun to loosen the iron bonds that held fast to the clot of pain within his heart. Was there a way through? he wondered. Was there hope after all?

Ferchar chewed voraciously on a roasted chicken leg, throwing a stripped bone down to one of the dogs trotting expectantly around the great hall. Wiping his sleeve along the greasy smear coating his lips, he feasted his eyes on the spread of food along the table, wondering whether to have the poached trout or a floury bread roll.

‘King Henry should have sent a messenger by now.’ Ferchar’s long, thin fingers, sparkling with heavy rings, finally selected a bread roll. He studied it moodily, before ripping a piece off sideways with his teeth.

‘It’s not been above a day,’ Malcolm tried to reassure him, pursing his lips in concentration as he stabbed his eating knife into a slice of roast venison. ‘And you said yourself, that peasant chit can take care of herself.’

‘I don’t give a fig about her,’ Ferchar replied nastily. ‘But Henry would have sent a ransom note as soon as the princess was seized. It’s not like him to miss an opportunity to push us into a corner.’

‘At least Ada is safe now,’ Malcolm murmured.

Ferchar burped loudly, his eyes following the movements of a comely serving wench as she made her way with a full jug of mead along the top table. ‘I wish I could be there when Henry realises he has the wrong maid! What a delight that would be!’ Ferchar slumped back in the oak chair, throwing the half-eaten roll back on to his plate, as if bored by it. He stared dole fully down from the dais, watching as a puff of smoke belched out from the carved stone fire place, enveloping those near it in a choking fog.

Nothing seemed to be going to plan at the moment, and when things didn’t go according to plan, he liked it not. True, Ada was safe from the English, but the stupid chit still couldn’t remember anything about the message her father, Earl Henry, had told her, despite Ferchar’s constant questioning. Ferchar knew that Earl Henry had left a fortune on his death, and, if the information given to him by the old servant who attended him was correct, Earl Henry had told his daughter where the fortune was hidden. If only Ada could remember!

At the opposite end of the great hall to the high dais, the iron-studded oak door swung inwards, grating noisily on its rusting hinges. A Scottish soldier walked in first, closely followed by Tavia, stepping proudly, head held high. The eyes of the peasants and soldiers all eating their midday meal at the trestle tables set in lines below the high platform followed the slender girl as she made her way across the hall. Some whispered to their neighbours how similar she appeared in looks to the Princess Ada, and some mistakenly rose in their seats, bowing their heads deferentially as she passed.

Ferchar thumped his fist heavily on the oak table, causing the platters to jump, the pewter goblets to spill droplets of wine. ‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’ he shouted irritably, half-rising from his seat. ‘You’re supposed to be locked up on English soil!’

Innards quaking, Tavia dutifully followed the soldier up the steps to the high dais. Her toe, encased in a soft leather slipper, snagged on the top step, causing her to stumble momentarily. Regaining her balance, she drew herself upright, tilting her chin defiantly, refusing to be intimidated by these nobles. She had only come to claim her dues, after all.

Ferchar lurched out from the table, pushing back his chair tetchily, his thick-set physique made to appear heavier by the thick robes that he wore. Malcolm remained seated, a tentative smile across his rounded, boyish features.

‘What happened?’ Ferchar’s breath fanned over her, foul with the stench of alcohol. He stopped a couple of feet away from her, rings glittering as he raised one hand to stroke the sparse hair of his long beard.

Tavia forced herself not to recoil—to show weakness would be the way of a fool. ‘The English did catch me,’ she admitted. ‘But they realised soon enough that I was not Princess Ada!’

‘You gave the game away, you stupid bitch!’ A gob of spittle appeared on Ferchar’s lips, as his pale eyes flicked angrily over her. ‘What did you do?’

Malcolm rose un certainly, a faint note of remonstration in his voice. ‘Er…Ferchar, don’t you think—?’

‘Sit down!’ Ferchar lashed back at him. ‘When I need your opinion I’ll ask for it.’ Malcolm sank down into his chair once more, white and silent.

Pale and trembling, Tavia stood her ground, almost unbelieving as to the way this man was treating her. All the courteous manners and charm she had witnessed on the last occasion had slipped away, to be replaced by this brutal rudeness. King Malcolm appeared to have lost all authority, Ferchar treating him with the utmost disrespect. A cold, sliding fear scraped along her veins; the smallest part of her wishing for the strong figure of Benois at her side. Inwardly, she reeled. What was she thinking? When had she ever asked a man to fight her battles for her? She had stood up to her bullying father for all these years, and how different was Ferchar to him? Her en counter with Benois had made her soft, pulled at her in dependence, her will.

‘You dull-witted wench!’ Ferchar berated her. ‘I suppose you blurted out the truth the moment they caught you in their hot little hands!’ His fleshy jowls wobbled. ‘Why couldn’t you have kept your mouth shut, you stupid guttersnipe?’

Rage reared up in her breast and she took a step forward, blue eyes blazing. ‘I don’t have to take this from you,’ she said, breathing deeply to keep her voice low, threatening. ‘Ada is safe, isn’t she? You’ve got what you wanted. Now give me what you owe me, and I will leave.’

The blow came from nowhere, the square cut of a sparkling gemstone ripping into the side of her cheek, lacerating her flesh. Her head jerked back under the surprising force of Ferchar’s fist; in shock, she clutched her palm to the side of her face, sucking in her breath, cradling the injury. On the wall opposite, the intricate patterns of the tapestry blurred and swam as her eyes watered under the impact of the blow.