The Warrior’s Princess Bride

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘It’s much appreciated, Langley.’ Benois leant back in his chair. ‘After all those nights spent in cold tents with less than agreeable food, I thank the Lord that you are on our side.’

  ‘And fortunate that I own a castle on the English side of the border that’s not many miles from Dunswick.’ Langley grinned, lifting a slice of chicken on to his plate.

  ‘That, too.’ Benois laughed, the taut skin of his face stretching over his high cheek bones.

  ‘So, what did you find out? They obviously didn’t realise who you were.’

  ‘Hmm! I was lucky. Although one person did recognise me.’

  ‘Who on earth? No one knows you in Scotland!’

  ‘No one, it seems, apart from one completely annoying, interfering, god-forsaken maid!’ Benois replied. A pair of blue eyes shining from a luminous, pearl-like face swam into his memory. ‘She nearly wrecked the whole plan!’

  ‘But how in God’s name did she know you?’

  Benois sighed, breaking off a chunk of bread from the round loaf on the table. ‘The maid was captured by my men in our earlier raid on Dunswick. I caught them just in time. She remembered me from then.’

  ‘Unlucky,’ Langley surmised. ‘But you still managed to avoid being caught.’

  ‘Aye, although the wench nearly stabbed me with one of my own arrows. The woman is a termagant!’

  Langley tipped his head back and roared with laughter. ‘I like it. The magnificent Brabanter mercenary floored by a woman.’

  ‘Nearly,’ Benois corrected, smiling. He remembered the supple feel of the girl’s body against his own as he had wrenched the arrow from her hand, crushing her easily into him, stopping her struggles.

  Langley observed him closely. ‘From your expression it seems the en counter was not entirely un pleas ant.’

  ‘It was certainly surprising.’ Benois grimaced. ‘It’s not every day you find a woman wanting to become a royal bowman.’ He tucked his eating knife back into his belt. ‘Or boasting of her expertise as if she were a skilled marksman.’ He wondered how she had fared in the contest.

  ‘She sounds perfectly intriguing,’ Langley replied. ‘I should like to meet her.’

  ‘Unlikely. Once they discover she’s a woman, she’ll be sent packing.’ Why did he even care? He pushed his plate away, annoyance creasing his brow. Why did the infuriating chit suffuse his thoughts so?

  ‘So what did you find out?’ Having loaded his plate while standing up, Langley flung his rather portly frame into the carved oak chair next to Benois, grabbing a hunk of bread to chew ravenously. ‘Lord! I’m starving.’ Crumbs of bread scattered over his chin and down the front of his tunic.

  Benois traced one fingertip along the polished wood of the table. ‘The Scots intend to spirit Princess Ada away from Dunswick tomorrow morning, so that we have no chance of kid nap ping her.’

  ‘And your plan is…’

  ‘To be there before they leave.’ Benois’s lips curved up into a slight smile. ‘The King and his regent were discussing the plan right above me, as I was waiting to shoot.’ He shook his head, ‘You’d think they would be more careful.’

  ‘Do you think the plan will work?’

  Benois angled his head on one side. ‘I’ll get the Princess, if that’s what you mean. But whether it will persuade Malcolm to hand over the lands…well, I’m not so sure.’

  ‘King Henry has ordered it…and the young Malcolm adores his older sister. I swear he would so anything for that maid.’ Langley picked up a pewter jug of honeyed mead.

  ‘That may be so…’ Benois watched the shiny liquid slide into Langley’s goblet, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see. But I, for one, see no joy in looking after a weeping, pathetic princess for weeks on end.’

  ‘It won’t come to that.’ Langley hefted the jug in Benois’ direction. ‘Do you want some mead?’

  ‘Nay…thank you.’ Benois placed his extended palm over the top of his pewter goblet. ‘I have water to drink.’

  Langley thrust a hand through his wayward blond hair. ‘You intrigue me, Benois. In all the time I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you touch a drop of drink. Are you a monk, or something?’

  Benois’s fingers stiffened imperceptibly around the stem of his en graved goblet. A muscle jumped in the tanned skin of his cheek. ‘It’s a long story,’ he replied at last, letting out his breath from his lungs slowly. He picked up the goblet and took a long, cool gulp. ‘There’s just one thing I need you to do for me, Langley.’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘You need to come with me and my men to kidnap the princess. I have no idea what she looks like.’

  Away to the east of Dunswick, the land rolled away as a mass of undulating hills topped with purple heather and smooth slopes, a much gentler contrast to the high, barren crags and winds wept moor land to the north of the city. Fast-flowing rivers, the water leaping and twisting around jagged rocks and stones, intersected the velvet green of the hills. Red deer roamed the country side, seeking shelter in the forests of oak and birch, before fleeing as a herd across pasture land at the slightest scent of danger.

  The day was warm, holding the promise of summer within the cloud less blue sky. Above Tavia’s head, sunlight shafted through the pale green canopy of the trees, highlighting the dark sentinels of trunks below. Gritting her teeth, Tavia balanced precariously atop the docile roan mare, clutching in effectively at the bunch of reins at the horse’s neck, trying to concentrate on the soft, rhythmic plodding of the horses’ hooves in the spongy vegetation beneath. Her thigh muscles ached already, and they had only been travel ling for a short time.

  Ferchar had insisted that she rode. Princess Ada was well known for her excellent horse man ship, and it would look strange if she rode in an ox-cart, or was carried in a covered litter. Luckily, her horse seemed happy just to follow the horse in front. It seemed as if once she had agreed to Ferchar’s proposal, he had insisted on a great deal of things. In the past day, he had schooled her in the ways of being a Scottish princess, reeling off strings of facts and family members that he obviously expected her to remember.

  Tavia sighed, taking in a deep breath of the pure forest air. Atleast she appeared as a princess, although she felt awkwardly formal in the Princess Ada’s clothes. Next to her skin, she had been allowed to wear her own threadbare linen chemise; apart from that, everything else had been replaced. Her stockings, spun from the finest silk thread, caressed her legs as she wiggled her toes in shoes of the softest, most pliable leather. She thought of the thick, unyielding leather of her old boots, boots that let in the cold and water when she plodded through the hill sides after her father, tending to the sheep or working in the gar den. Her under dress was of wool, dyed a lichen green, and fitted her body like a second skin, the tight sleeves emphasising the fragility of her arms. The bliaut, laced tightly with leather strings on each side of her waist, was dyed a darker green with long, teardrop-shaped sleeves that hung to the ground. It was these sleeves that would be her undoing, Tavia decided. Unused to such trailing append ages, she continually tripped over them, much to the amusement of King Malcolm and his sister, and to the disgust of Ferchar.

  The soldier in front raised his arm, halting the en tour age. He leaned forward, dismounting clumsily, as if he, too, were suffering from being in the saddle too long. Tavia frowned. Ferchar had obviously picked the most in competent soldiers to ac company her on her journey to nowhere, to give the enemy more chance of kid nap ping her. The situation would have been laughable if she hadn’t been so scared.

  ‘Let’s rest a while here,’ the soldier announced gruffly.

  Tavia’s horse plodded grace fully to a halt, without her needing to do anything. She was about to slither down from the back of the animal, when another soldier appeared at her side to help her down. She had almost for got ten—she was a princess. Her legs nearly collapsed beneath her as her feet touched the ground, and she clutched on to the soldier for a moment, befor
e sinking glee fully down on to a cloak that had been spread out over the damp earth.

  ‘How many?’ Langley whispered, his broad, affable features obscured by his steel helmet.

  Supporting the rangy length of his body against the ribbed bark of a trunk, Benois flung himself back against the tree before answering, ‘Four, maybe five.’ He held a finger to his lips. Somewhere, high above them, the distinctive sound of a cuckoo re sounded through the forest. Moving swiftly and decisively, Benois climbed back to where Langley and the rest of the English soldiers waited in the trees. The harsh lines of his face lightened into a smile.

  ‘I had no need of you after all, Langley. My apologies for dragging you out. The princess sits amongst those rough soldiers like a rose amongst the thorns. She should be easy to pluck.’

  ‘Then let me have the honour of escorting her,’ Langley re quested. ‘You are not renowned for your chivalry around the fairer sex.’

  Benois agreed without hesitation. ‘I grant you that, Langley. Though why you spend your days in courtly inanities is beyond me.’

  ‘Because it’s enjoyable, maybe?’ Langley raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re so caught up in your missions for Henry, that you don’t give yourself time to relax, indulge in banter with the ladies, or give your self any time to think.’

  ‘That’s just the way I like it.’ Benois’s voice held a guarded quality.

  Langley shook his head, uncomprehending. His friend was so different from him; the decisive mind, the quick restless energy that drove Benois to accept more and more assignments from the English King, sat in complete contrast to his own more relaxed behaviour.

  ‘You know me, Benois,’ he said, looping his fingers into the reins to steady his horse as the animal pawed the loose ground beneath its hooves, ‘much prefer the fireside to the saddle.’

  ‘Then let’s get this over with,’ Benois suggested, vaulting on to his horse, and beginning to urge his black stallion down the narrow path that led to the bottom of the valley, and the glade where the princess sat. ‘And remember, you take the princess and ride with her back to your castle. My men and I will hold off the soldiers, to give you time to flee with our prize.’

  As the bloodcurdling shouts reverberated up and down the valley, Tavia threw the leather flagon to the ground and sprung to her feet. This was it! Her heart began to pound with anticipation, nerves, she knew not what. The distinctive red-and-gold surcoats of the English soldiers flashed in the sunlight as they careered haphazardly down the slopes, nostrils flaring on the horses as the animals snorted with excitement. Instinct told Tavia to run, but she stopped herself, remembering Ferchar’s words. Act like a princess, a lady, he had urged her. Act like a simpering fool, more like, she sputtered under her breath. What normal person wouldn’t want to bolt when faced with barbarians such as these?

  ‘Get behind us, my lady!’ begged the older soldier who led the party. Tavia moved back dutifully, amazed that the soldiers who escorted her had no idea that she was not the princess. She felt almost sorry for them as she watched them draw their swords, the metal blades winking as they braced them selves for the attack.

  And then she saw him. Oh, mother of Mary. Not him.

  Benois le Vallieres charged full tilt at their small group, his body lying flat against the back of his galloping horse as its hooves sent clods flicking up from the spongy grass. She would know him anywhere now: the defiant cleft on his chin, those high, slanted cheek bones, that burly frame that dwarfed all the men around him. Fear knotted her stomach and she clenched her hands together, her palms slick with sudden sweat. He would know her, she was certain of it. There was no doubting the man’s intelligence. He would see through her disguise, and return immediately to Dunswick in the hope of kid nap ping the real princess. And Tavia knew that Ferchar needed at least a day to take Ada to safety. She would lose the coin that he had promised her. Unless…

  Dragging the heavy encumbrance of her cloak from her shoulders, Tavia backed away slowly, before turning to sprint off into the dark ness of the forest.

  Benois’s sword clashed heavily against the sword of his Scottish opponent with an ugly ringing sound. He hefted the weapon into the air once more, thrusting forwards with the great blade, slashing with a diagonal motion, first left, then right, moving with the skill and grace of a man honed by years of fighting. In contrast to the cumbersome movements of the soldier he fought, every manoeuvre he made appeared precise, using the least amount of energy to produce the greatest effect. In a few moments, Benois had reduced his opponent to a sweating, frightened animal.

  ‘Langley! Leave him to me!’ he shouted, aware that his friend was embroiled in a sword fight on his right. ‘Fetch the princess!’ Benois’s sword snared his opponent’s weapon, whipping it away into the under growth. Breathing heavily, the soldier sank to his knees, raising his hands up limply. Poking him with the point of his sword, Benois indicated the soldier should join his fellow countrymen, who sat huddled miserably on the ground, heads bowed, defeated. In a few moments, Langley’s opponent also surrendered, scurrying away on his hands and knees to join the group.

  Sheathing his sword, Benois pulled irritably at his leather chin-strap, which anchored his helmet to his head, before glancing about him. Suddenly, Langley burst out from the forest, an expression of complete bafflement on his face.

  ‘Where is she?’ Benois said slowly, his voice grim.

  ‘I swear she was here…just a moment ago.’ Langley panted heavily, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his face. ‘But I just can’t find her!’

  Benois cursed. ‘Probably snivelling behind a tree somewhere. She can’t have gone far. Langley, you’d better sit down before you fall down.’ He un buck led the strap of his helmet and threw it for his friend to catch, feeling the breeze sift through the strands of his hair. ‘I shan’t be needing this, thank God.’ He laughed, glad to be rid of the restrictive head gear. ‘I doubt one simpering princess will be much of a threat.’

  Her whole frame shaking from exertion, Tavia willed her legs to work harder, to take longer strides over the uneven ground. With every step, the bouncy mess of earth and decomposing vegetation dragged at her pace, slowing her, pulling on the delicate leather slippers that afforded little protection against the pools of stagnant water that she splashed through, the hidden branches over which she tripped. Brambles tore into the fine wool of her bliaut, leaving angry scratches across her exposed face and hands, as she plunged through the almost impenetrable thickets. Low-hanging branches plucked at her veil, snagging and ripping into it. In frustration, she tore it off, almost crying out in pain as the gold securing pins ripped against her scalp. Why had he, of all people, been sent to kidnap the princess? Why did it have to be him? Tavia prayed that some bumbling soldier would be sent after her, someone who she could lead on a merry dance through the forest, and delay the English from discovering the truth of her identity.

  Breaking through the thicket, tripping over one long unwieldy sleeve, Tavia’s feet teetered on the edge of a huge natural bowl cut into the forest floor, a pool slick with foul mud at its base. Clutching on to a branch, she fought for balance, listening to the shallow, irregular sound of her own breathing. And then she heard it. A tiny, infinitesimal sound. The crack of a twig. Someone was coming after her. Fear focused her mind with rapier-sharp precision. A bird chirruped in the canopy above and at once she knew her plan.

  Setting her feet on the low branches of the pine tree, Tavia began to pull herself up, swiftly, higher and higher. They would never reach her up here, especially as she weighed considerably less than the average soldier. Up here, in the high branches of the tree, her true identity would be safe from detection, and she would be able to delay them a little longer.

  ‘Princess Ada?’

  Her fingers stilled briefly at his voice. Refusing to drop her gaze, she pushed her chin defiantly upwards, willing the aching muscles in her arms to haul herself higher.

  ‘Princess Ada? I suggest that you come down now
.’ Benois’s voice held the raw edge of formality, and something else—irritation.

  She reached up for the next branch and pulled, levering up her full weight. The branch cracked off suddenly, sending shots of adrenalin lancing through her veins as her feet scrabbled for a foothold, and the branch, weak and rotten, fell to the ground. Sickness crawled through her belly, and she closed her eyes, wanting to cry, not yet willing to admit that she was a fool to climb any higher.

  ‘Princess Ada! May I suggest that you don’t climb any higher?’ Surprisingly, Benois’s voice held concern, but she supposed it wouldn’t be good for Anglo-English relations if they managed to kill a Scottish princess.

  Her rigid fingers scrabbled at the bark of the trunk, trying to find a more secure hold, as she tip-toed in a circle over the flimsy branch on which she stood, so she could look down cautiously. Her head swam, dizzy with vertigo, as she peered down at the ground, far, far away. And there was that man, his face stern, implacable, his chestnut hair ruffled by the wind. Clamping her eyes shut, she struggled to stop the crazy whirling in her head. She couldn’t believe how far she had climbed!

  ‘Princess Ada.’ His tone had adopted a more patient, resigned air, as if he were dealing with a naughty child. ‘You have nothing to fear from us. Just come down.’

  Tavia frowned, concentrating resolutely on the etched bark before her. ‘Er…I can’t,’ she wailed. Her limbs were frozen in fear; if she moved, she would certainly fall to her death.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Irritation changed to outright contempt.

  ‘I said, “I can’t climb down!”’ she shouted. The muscles in her throat strained under her panic.

  She heard a grunt of annoyance, then a thrashing and cursing, as thin branches snapped under his weight. He was coming after her! In a moment, a warm, large hand curled over her foot. The urge to collapse with relief was over whelming.