His lips flirted with hers, tantalising, demanding more. Her fingers curled into the hard muscle at his shoulders, the ex pensive nap of his cloak smooth and rich beneath her hands. Her breath seemed to stop in her throat, her whole being entwined with a fluidity, a weight less ness that lifted her high up into the heady realms of passion. His hands plunged upwards into her hair, sifting through the loose red strands, be fore he tugged impatiently at the leather bond that held the end of her plait in place. As the gold-red water fall of hair flowed over her shoulders, he lifted his mouth from hers, devouring the sight of her unbound tresses in silent wonder, almost in disbelief. The air sifted over her scalp as the tension of her bound hair was released; at the sublime sensation, she wanted to cry out in pleasure. Throwing back her head, she jumped as Benois traced the column of her throat with his lips.
Breath jagged with desire, Benois turned her care fully in his arms, as if she were made of fragile glass, and eased them both down into the soft mound of hay. His hand smoothed down the side of her body, gently caressing her breast, the narrow indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips beneath the falling gathers of her dress. Her breath snared at the possessive touch; no man had ever been so close to her before, but she welcomed it eagerly, not wanting to push him away. Desire burst within her: a growing, shining bubble that shattered like a million tiny fragments of a star through out her body. Blood stampeded through her veins, hurtling at such a pace she wondered whether she might lose all conscious thought with the pleasure of it.
The voice in his head commanded him to stop. He had to stop, be fore the maid became his. He had to do it, for his sake as well as hers. Reluctantly, he wrenched his lips away, senses gulping at the magnificent sight of the woman beneath him: golden-red hair fanning out in glorious ripples on the hay, pulse beating wildly under the delicate skin of her throat and her face set in an expression of such exquisite rapture that he had to tear his eyes away, for want of kissing her once more.
‘No more,’ he muttered. ‘I cannot do this to you.’ Benois rolled away from her, springing up into a sitting position, knees drawn up.
Tavia lay there, flat on her back, shocked and astounded, bereft of his touch. Nay! she wanted to rail at him, to shout and to tear at his clothes, nay! You can, you can do this to me! She didn’t care as to the consequences of their actions, she just wanted him, wanted him hungry and passionate and demanding. Her body still screamed for him, yearned for him, every fibre of her being bawling out for release, yet now he sat apart from her, expression cold and hard, eyes devoid of emotion. Humiliation, shame, hot, blinding shame washed over her; of course, he was like all the rest, all of those suitors who had thought her too lean, too head strong to marry. They had come and found her wanting, just as Benois had. But only he had come close to possessing her. And why? Because she found him handsome, good-looking. Foolish, foolish girl! Drawing a deep, shaking breath, Tavia rolled away from him, huddling into a tight little ball. ‘Oh, well,’ she muttered, endeavouring to conceal the hurt in her voice, ‘at least you realised sooner rather than later. No harm done.’
He baulked at the jolting offence of her tone. Better, though, that it was like this, he told himself. Better that she hated him; it would make it easier to sever the tie, if there were one, between them. The woman placed him in a dangerous position; already he had told her things about his past that he had never spoken of before, and he resented it. That feeling, that feeling of being vulnerable, exposed, carved into him like a sharp blade, slashing through the thick, impenetrable hide that he had built over his painful memories.
‘You’d better go to sleep,’ he ordered her coldly. ‘Tomorrow will be a long day.’
She bit her lip, tying to dampen down the bubble of tears that threatened to break from her chest. Moments before, this arrogant, powerful man had been about to bed her, and she would have given herself to him willingly. And now, now all she felt was an utter disgust at herself—he didn’t want her, he didn’t find her attractive. Why had she ever fooled herself into thinking otherwise?
Trying to ignore the icy tentacles wrapping around his heart, Benois’s eyes traced the maid’s rigid back, the ramrod set of her spine. Tension poured from her, in every slight, jerky movement, from every line of her graceful body. He wanted to blame her, to rail at her for allowing him to speak, to divulge the secrets of his past. All he wanted was to forget, but in speaking those words to her, the raw memories had been unlocked once more.
He lay back in the straw, endeavouring to control his breathing, still ragged from their love-making. To stay with her would be to destroy her, he decided. His guilt, his grief would mar what little joy they might have. He brought his arms up to pillow his head, thinking. Better to go now, to leave and return to King Henry, and tuck away the fragile memory of this bold and beautiful maid close to his heart.
The small church that served the hamlet in which Tavia lived was constructed of stone: large, unwieldy lumps of granite, the various mineral seams that streaked the rock spark ling in the afternoon sun shine. A low wooden fence surrounded the building and grave yard, again of simple construction: knobbly hazel sticks driven into the ground and joined together with thin, pliable willow branches. Her family had been coming to this chapel for as long as she could remember, Tavia thought, to hear the priest’s sermon on a Sunday and to be present at weddings and funerals. Somehow, she had never envisaged walking to her own mother’s burial, but here she was, following the hastily constructed coffin, hoisted up on the shoulders of their neighbouring farmers. There was no sign of her father; he had obviously decided to leave for good, never to return.
Misery clung to her heart; for her mother, aye, she grieved, but al though she hated to admit it, she grieved for another as well. When she had awoken that morning, her muscles stiff and aching from sleeping in the open barn, the hay beside her had been cold. Benois had left. In her restless sleep, in her dreams, maybe, had she imagined the light kiss he had placed on her forehead before he swept away into the darkness? After he had rejected her, after she had curled away from him and desperately sought oblivion, forgetfulness in sleep, she knew he would go. In his own way, he had been kind to her; he had taken the honourable, chivalric path. He could have gone ahead, made love with her anyway, despite not being attracted to her. She had known many men who would. She should be happy that he had stopped when he did—at least her virginity was intact. So why did her heart feel like it was breaking?
A sharp stone cut up into her soft leather sole, stopping her thoughts. She still wore the fine shoes that belonged to the princess, but had changed back into her own rougher, more practical clothes for the funeral. Bodies were buried quickly here, sealed up inside the wooden coffins when the blood was scarce cold. Tavia still could not believe her own mother was carried before her; the whole event seemed tinged with a surreal, night marish quality. Surely her mother was back at the cottage, her capable hands kneading the dough for their bread, stirring the pottage for break fast?
She flinched at a sudden eruption of noise behind her, someone shouting, and a sound of thundering hooves. Turning, her heart swooped, then plum meted as a group of Scottish soldiers pounded up the hill towards her, chain mail flashing in the sunlight, green and gold pennants flapping furiously with the forward motion of the horses.
‘Mother of Mary!’ Tavia breathed, clutching at her neck, unable to quell the panic rising in her chest, as she recognised Ferchar’s cruel features under one of the helmets.
‘Go on!’ she ordered the men who carried the coffin. ‘Take the coffin inside the church. I’ll deal with this!’
The farmers, balancing the coffin on their shoulders, looked doubtful, first at her, then at the approaching horsemen.
‘Do it!’ Tavia begged them. ‘Do it for my mother’s sake!’ She watched as the farmers resumed their forward pace, negotiating the coffin through the narrow, awkward gate of the church.
A frisson of fear laced through her as Ferchar pulled his an
imal to a halt beside her. His features, grim and re lent less under the thick metal nose-piece of the helmet, assessed her bedraggled, forlorn state. His horse snorted in protest at the abrupt stop, pawing at the ground impatiently. What does he want with me? thought Tavia, wildly, raising her hands as she realised both Ferchar and another knight were boxing her in neatly with their horses. Soon she was surrounded by the gleaming, sweating flanks of horse flesh, unable to run.
‘Tavia of Mowerby?’ Ferchar challenged her, wiping a slick of sweat from his top lip. Obviously the ride from Dunswick had been hard going; Tavia wrinkled her nose as the stench of exertion wafted down from the regent.
‘You know I am,’ she threw back. The booted foot of the knight on horse back behind her jabbed her in the middle of her spine.
Ferchar sighed, leaning forward on the pommel of his saddle to ad dress her. ‘I thought you’d learned your lesson with me, young chit. What goes on here?’ He moved his head in the direction of the funeral procession.
‘I am burying my mother today,’ she retorted coldly. ‘So if you’d kindly step aside, my lord, I wish to pay my last respects.’
‘Good riddance to her,’ Ferchar spat out. ‘If it wasn’t for her, we’d have none of this trouble today. Useless whore.’
Tavia trembled under the onslaught of his vicious words. ‘She was a good woman. How dare you speak ill of the dead?’ she shouted up at him, eyes flaring with anger. ‘My mother’s no whore!’
‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’ Ferchar raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you know of her past?’
Tavia hung her head, mind racing. Was Ferchar referring to the very same words that her mother had spoken to her before she died?
‘Hmm. I thought so.’ Ferchar mistook Tavia’s silence for confirmation that she knew something. He pulled up on the reins with his gloved hands, digging his toe into the horse’s chestnut flank to keep it steady. ‘You, young lady, need to come with us.’
‘Nay, I need to see my mother laid to rest.’
‘You’ll come with us, maid, willingly or not.’
A chaotic scene reigned at Langley Castle. Knights on horse back crammed into the inner bailey, chain mail shining like silver fish scales, bright scarlet tunics, emblazoned with the golden lions of King Henry II. Servants ducked here and there, mindful of the skitterish hooves, adjusting a stirrup here, handing up parcels of food there. And in the centre of this busy scene sat King Henry himself, a thickset, stocky man, his hair the colour of fresh carrots, his fair skin ruddy from a lifetime spent outdoors. His experienced eye ran over the preparations for the march north wards, missing not the smallest detail as he barked orders at his men to make haste. Yet his smile was wide in greeting as Benois nudged his horse along side him.
‘I’m glad you decided to join us.’ Henry leaned out from his saddle and slapped Benois jovially on the back. ‘What kept you anyway? Langley’s been back above a day.’
‘Nothing important,’ Benois replied, his mind filling suddenly with the beautiful, seductive image of Tavia, sleeping in the hay, her gown flattened against her slender form, revealing her delicious contours. Hell’s teeth! Why could he not tumble her from his mind?
‘Hah! That’s not what I heard,’ Langley chortled, pushing his way through the mass of horse flesh to join them.
‘Save it, Langley,’ Benois growled at his friend. For some reason, he felt reluctant to divulge any more details of his en counter with Tavia of Mowerby.
Langley eyed him for a moment, startled, as the teasing smile slipped from his face. He had no wish to pry; all he knew was that Benois had finally returned at some early, god-forsaken hour of the morning, whilst he still snored beneath the covers. Exhaustion clouded Langley’s round, friendly features; the arrival of the English king at his castle yestereve had resulted in a flurry of non-stop activity. Two messengers had ridden ahead of the king, warning Langley of his impending arrival.
From the moment Henry had descended from his horse on to the greasy cobbles of the inner bailey, Langley felt he had been constantly running around, chasing up his stewards, making sure the chambers had been made up properly to ensure that everything would meet the King’s strict high standards.
Henry sensed the unspoken tension between the two men. ‘Is there something you’re not telling us, Benois?’ He smiled. ‘Other than the fact that a peasant girl managed to dupe you?’
Benois grinned ruefully, shooting an apologetic glance at Langley. His friend didn’t deserve to be the butt of his ill humour. ‘My apologies, Langley,’ he muttered, gruffly. ‘I didn’t mean to bite your head off. It’s just that maid…’
‘Got under your skin?’ Langley ventured.
‘Aye…like an irritating fly.’ Benois laughed. He should never have gone after her, should have left her to fend for herself with Lord Ferchar. The brittle casing around his heart, the un breakable shell that protected his emotions, had begun to soften, he knew that now, all because of what he had told her. He wished he had not. Benois looked around him, at the excitement in the faces of the knights, at the swords and helmets glinting in the sun. This was the life he had chosen for him self: a hard life of war and fighting, with no space or time for thought. He would do well to remember that.
‘Benois…?’ Henry had asked him a question.
‘Sorry…?’ Benois forced himself to focus on his king’s words.
‘I said “I need your eyes and ears on this one”, I don’t trust Lord Ferchar one bit.’
‘Was it he who called the meeting, or the young King Malcolm?’ Benois forced himself to concentrate on the situation.
‘Lord Ferchar himself. He wants to discuss Cumbria and North umbria.’
‘Do you think he’ll yield?’
‘The fact that he’s called a meeting is a start. It might put an end to all this fighting.’ Henry raised one arm in the air, summoning the soldiers’ attention. ‘Let’s ride north, to Scotland,’ his voice boomed out over the expectant crowd.
‘Tavia! How lovely to see you again!’ Princess Ada stood at the top of the steps that led into Dunswick Castle, her fine gown of blue silk forming a startling contrast against the rough-hewn planks of wood that formed the great door behind her.
‘It isn’t exactly a social call,’ Tavia ground out, as one of Ferchar’s soldiers dragged her mutinous body up the steps. She felt hot, bed raggled and furious. Was Ada really as naïve as she appeared? She searched the princess’s pale, fragile features, realising with a sickening lurch that, if her mother’s words were true, then Ada was her half-sister.
‘Come on!’ the soldier growled at her. ‘Lord Ferchar told me to take you to the great hall!’ Tavia threw a look of friendly apology at Ada, as the solder bundled past her. It wouldn’t hurt to have the princess on her side.
‘I’ll come too!’ Ada announced girlishly, seizing Tavia’s other arm in companionable style. Tavia clamped down on an inconceivable desire to laugh—Ada was acting as if they were about to wend their way around the market stalls!
In the great hall, the evening feasting had already begun; the peas ants, tired and hungry from the day’s chores in the open air, now relaxed at the trestle tables, laughing and joking as they chewed hungrily on the fare provided by the king. Ferchar was al ready seated in his customary position at the top table, King Malcolm at his side. The regent had thrown his cloak to a servant at the side of his chair, and now threw back his head to swallow a full cup of mead, drops of the honeyed liquid spilling from the sides of his mouth.
As the soldier tugged her along, Tavia struggled to control the panic, burgeoning and fluid, as it cantered through her body. It was not above a day since she had stood in the same place arguing with Ferchar about the money owing to her, but then, Benois had intervened, Benois had calmed the situation and pulled her away as her temper began to get the better of her. A strange pang cuffed her heart—where was Benois now? She would do well to keep a level head with Ferchar this time; it was obvious the soldiers responded more
to his command than that of the pale, ineffectual Malcolm.
‘Sit down,’ Ferchar ordered, wiping his sleeve across his mouth. His lips gleamed fleshily in the light from the rush torches that thronged the hall.
Beside her, Ada smiled sweetly, seemingly completely unaware of the tension between Tavia and the regent. She slipped delicately on to the bench, patting a space between her slight figure and Ferchar’s ornately carved chair, so that Tavia could sit down.
Despite the unnerving situation she was in, Tavia’s stomach rumbled as she took her place. Unable to eat before her mother’s funeral, the sides of her belly seemed to cave in at the enticing sight of all the food spread before her. How these rich nobles ate! She thought of the meagre meals her family had endured, especially during the lean winter months when snow lay on the ground: meals of plain boiled root crops, or oats softened with water. But here! Here lay a vast feast, surely more than all these people could eat; plump roast game birds—partridge, quail and pigeon—their skins still steaming from the ovens, jostled for space on the table with poached fish and floury rounds of bread.
Ferchar saw her eye the food, and smiled nastily. ‘Answer my questions, maid, and then I may allow you to eat.’ In her numb, be fuddled state, Tavia realised he turned something between his fingers—a dagger. Her dagger?
‘Where did you find that?’ she asked, wanting to snatch the pretty knife out of his bulky grip.
‘Aha! So you recognise it!’
‘Of course, it belongs to me!’ she replied care fully.
‘And who gave it to you?’ Ferchar said slowly, an avaricious gleam in his eye.
Tavia frowned. ‘Why, my mother!’ Sadness chiselled through her heart…her mother, who she would never see again. Who she had failed to see properly laid to rest because of this man dragging her away. She chewed on her lip, fighting to hold back the tears.
The Warrior’s Princess Bride Page 12
