The Warrior’s Princess Bride

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘Just make sure it doesn’t,’ Ferchar snapped. He cast a disparaging glance at Tavia. ‘I thought I told you to find some clothes for…er…her.’

  ‘We were just on our way, my lord,’ Tavia spoke gently, hoping to al le vi ate Ada’s mistake. ‘She had a little trouble finding me, that’s all.’

  ‘Just make sure we can find you, my lady. King Henry has persuaded me to give you more freedom than I would like.’

  ‘But it does no harm to rein these women in now and again,’ said Henry. He stared down his nose at Tavia, running his eye contemptuously over her neat figure.

  He disapproves of me, she thought, in shock. I wonder why? Benois obviously held his king in high esteem; for his sake, she wanted to as well, at least till Benois returned.

  ‘May I borrow the lady for a few moments?’ Henry turned to Ferchar, who inclined his head in agreement. Panic slid through her veins as Henry patted her arm in an avuncular fashion, despite being almost the same age as Benois, and began to steer her in the direction of the gardens. ‘Now, you think I am displeased with you, but I assure you, that is not the case.’ They walked past the southern end of the castle, the grey stone walls towering high on their left-hand side, until they reached the wide spread of the vegetable garden set between coarse stone walls. The garden had been laid out into a series of rectangular beds, uneven cobbled paths in between. Neat rows of vegetables sprang up from the rich, brown earth, not fully formed yet, pale green in their infancy. The spring sun had been unusually warm, encouraging the seeds to germinate earlier than expected. The fluttering green shoots of peas had already begun to twine up the hazel supports, bordered by the fleshy, rounded leaves of broad-bean plants. Tavia’s heart twisted suddenly, a pang of longing for the small vegetable patch at the cottage, a pang of longing at the image of her mother kneeling in the earth, planting.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,’ she said suddenly, realising King Henry was talking to her.

  ‘I said, “I don’t want you to get hurt”,’ Henry replied patiently, stopping for a moment. The white ermine of his short cloak ruffled in the breeze.

  She laughed. ‘I doubt Ferchar could do any more to me than he’s done already. Besides, it will all be over soon.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about Lord Ferchar,’ Henry cut in, a little tetchily, taking her arm and resuming his brisk pace. ‘I was talking about Lord Benois.’

  ‘Benois?’ Her voice curled over the sound of his name.

  ‘Aye. It appears there is something between the two of you. Yester day morning, I saw you…in the bailey.’

  ‘A kiss. It was nothing.’ A black bird, startled by their quiet approach, flew off, squaw king, seeking refuge in some nearby bushes.

  ‘Just so long as it is nothing. I hope you don’t expect him to commit to….well, marriage, for example.’

  ‘I don’t expect him to commit to anything!’ she pro tested. ‘Least of all, me! I am nothing to him!’

  It seemed as though Henry didn’t hear her words. ‘Because Benois would rather fall on his own sword than be trapped into anything so dull as the domestic apathy of marriage.’

  ‘Then it’s just as well I’m not planning on asking him,’ she quipped back, a peculiar constriction binding her chest.

  ‘He’d never marry, not after what happened to him…his family.’ Oblivious to her light-hearted reply, Henry made the pronouncement dramatically, as if she had no knowledge of Benois’s past.

  ‘I know what happened to him, sire, and I’m sorry for it.’

  ‘He told you?’ Henry’s keen hazel eyes narrowed, at once demanding more information. ‘He told you what happened to his family?’

  She nodded, amused by the look of puzzlement that crossed Henry’s face, before he recovered enough to begin speaking once more. ‘It was a horrible time, but because of it, he has become the greatest fighting man, the finest soldier I have ever seen.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that’s a good thing?’ she blurted out, astonished.

  ‘For me, aye, it is. And I don’t want that to change.’ Henry glared at her, his eyes piercing and intent. He’s warning me off, she thought in a flash; he wants me away from Benois. She took a step back, hesitantly, a sense of disbelief washing over her. Henry’s words held power and authority; he had known Benois for a long time, whereas she had known him…how long? Not above a handful of days. But since that kiss on the thresh old, some brief, in de finable hope had flared within her, had grown, fed by the tiny crumbs Benois had thrown to her as he bade her farewell. He had apologised for the way he had treated her when she had slept in his chamber; aye, he had scared her, but he had also awoken in her a craving, a need that would not disappear.

  She sighed, a long tremulous breath. The fragile idea, the dream she had begun to nurture, shattered into a million tiny pieces, dust in the wind. In truth, he had given her little, yet unwisely she had taken his small gestures of kindness and assembled them into something more meaningful, something greater! How could she ever hope to turn Benois away from a world of soldiering? It was his life. By heeding King Henry’s words, she could leave now, before she made an even greater fool of herself, before Benois returned. And in order to leave, she would have to tell Ferchar the location of Earl Henry’s gold.

  Benois tightened the muscles of his honed inner thighs to squeeze his horse into a quick trot towards Dunswick Castle. Inside his steel helmet, his scalp felt sticky and hot; he longed to remove it and immerse himself in a cool bath. The ride back from the western border lands had been more than a day, over difficult, hostile terrain, yet all through that long journey, Benois couldn’t work out why Henry had sent him on such a fruit less mission. Malcolm hadn’t needed him—the young man’s powers of communication were perfectly adequate for the task; in fact, dressed in English colours, Benois’s presence had been more of a hindrance than a help, scaring people witless before Malcolm had had a chance to talk to them. After two days of marching from border castle to border castle, watching King Malcolm inform his people that King Henry now had control of the border lands, Benois made the decision to return to Dunswick to be with his king. And her.

  The early afternoon sun beat down on his back, and, all about him, people were bustling about the town, faces happy and smiling as they went about their daily chores. Without openly acknowledging Benois’s formidable presence, high on his black destrier, they made a path for him through the crowds, so he could reach the castle easily. He pulled lightly on the reins, slowing the horse to a walk as he approached the draw bridge to the castle, wincing at the pain in his right shoulder. Damn! He had thought the wound would have begun to hurt him less by now. The bundle of linens, wrapped over his shoulder and under his armpit to make a tight bandage underneath his hauberk, felt loose: it had come undone. His mouth tensed ruefully—only an amateur would have failed to notice the over-zealous guard at one of the border castles! Yet his mind had been else where, and he had caught the sword point at the top of his arm, as the weapon had dug up along the loose sleeve of his chain mail.

  The hooves of his horse clattering over the wooden drawbridge, his heart lifted at the thought of seeing Tavia again. The memory of how she had looked on the day he left remained vivid in his mind’s eye: her skin rosy and flushed from sleep, the sweep of lustrous fur around her shoulders emphasising the delicate bone structure of her neck. His heart quickened at the vision; he had wanted to seize her right then, sweep her up into his arms, and race upstairs with her, back to the downy, sweet-smelling warmth of her bed. He frowned, trying to dispel the tantalising thought, the voices in his head warning him, forcing him to remember what happened the last time with the maid! Pulling the horse to a stop in the inner bailey, he dismounted care fully, handing the reins to a groom. Lifting off his helmet, he pushed back the mail hood that formed part of his hauberk, shoving his hand through his hair, relishing the coolness of the breeze against his heated scalp. The inner bailey seemed quiet—where was she? He needed to see her, hear her ki
nd voice, touch her…nay, not that. But the least he could do was make sure she was safe. Striding up the steps two at a time, he swept into the great hall. At this hour, the massive, high-ceilinged chamber was empty, apart from two figures seated at the top table: King Henry…and Langley!

  ‘Langley!’ Benois hailed his friend, covering the length of the hall in just a few quick strides. He sprang up the wooden steps and on to the high dais, to clap his friend on the back. Langley glanced up, gave a sheepish smile. ‘I didn’t expect to see you!’

  ‘And I certainly didn’t expect to see you…so soon!’ Henry frowned, his expression stern. ‘Surely you haven’t managed to visit all the border castles?’

  ‘Nay, I haven’t.’ Benois threw himself into the chair next to Langley. ‘But Malcolm is still hard at it.’

  ‘Explain.’ Henry’s lips settled into a terse line.

  ‘Malcolm is doing a fine job on his own, Henry.’ Benois sensed his King’s irritation. He drank water thirstily from a pewter goblet in front of him.

  ‘I gave you an order, Benois,’ Henry replied slowly, ‘and I expect you to follow that order.’

  Benois set the goblet down, placing it back on the table with deliberate slowness. His eyes glittered like chips of honed granite. Henry recoiled, flinching back into his seat under Benois’s crushing regard. Caught in the middle of the two men, Langley cleared his throat.

  ‘I realise, of course,’ Henry’s voice faltered, ‘that I am in no position to insist that you follow my orders.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’ Benois’s response was clipped. ‘I have no wish to fall foul of you, sire,’ he continued respectfully, ‘but there was no need for you to send me on such a mission.’

  ‘Maybe there was,’ murmured Henry.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘That woman will make a fool of you, Benois. You came back because of her, didn’t you?’

  Benois leaned back slowly in his chair, his eyes sweeping Henry’s face. ‘So that’s it.’ He smiled briefly, shaking his head. ‘I never suspected you to be the jealous type, my lord.’

  ‘Sacré bleu!’ Henry swore. ‘Benois, this is no laughing matter—she will ruin you, make no mistake of it! Once your mind becomes distracted with a woman, you will lose your skill, your prowess on the battle field!’

  ‘And what makes you think I want to carry on with a life like that?’ Benois said slowly. ‘I’ve spent all my years fighting your battles for you; maybe it’s time for a change.’

  Henry’s eyes darkened. ‘I knew it! I knew she’d crawled under your skin!’

  ‘Where is she?’

  Langley began to rip a bread roll into small pieces, white crumbs scattering over the dark oak of the table.

  ‘Look at you, man, you’ve gone soft in the head over that girl already.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Benois repeated, standing bolt upright from his seat. ‘Henry, tell me, where is she?’

  Chapter Fourteen

  The sunshine percolated through the fresh young growth burgeoning on the spreading oaks and spindled birch, reaching down to the arching fronds of the ferns on the woodland floor. The trees were alive with birds, calling and whistling over the frilling tops of the branches, whilst in the under growth, they foraged in the deep piles of decaying leaves. Through the dappled shadows of the wood, Tavia steered the grey palfrey with confidence, trying to ignore her restive heart, trying to prevent her thoughts from straying from their current purpose. She had found the wooded valley easily, intricate the route she had oft taken with her mother in her mind’s eye. It had been only when Tavia had discovered the true identity of her father that the significance of her mother’s destination had become clear.

  Behind her, Ferchar snorted with laughter at some jest, no doubt ribald, that his soldier related to him. He had been de lighted when Ta via had told him she knew of the location of her father’s treasure, and had begun making preparations immediately for the short trip. Tavia tried to keep her balance as the mare began to descend on the narrow path, hooves slipping a little on the loose stones over the dried earth. This track would eventually lead to the valley floor. Tavia’s thigh muscles protested pain fully as she gripped the saddle under her, the weight of her body thrown back awkwardly. Would she never be come accustomed to this accursed riding? An image of Benois thundering into the bailey on his midnight black destrier flew into her mind—an image of man and animal working in perfect harmony together, a symbol of power and grace. She hoped, wherever he was, that he was safe. Her heart flipped lopsidedly; she chewed her lip, hoping she had made the right decision in breaking her promise to him, by going to Ferchar before he returned. She hunched her shoulders forwards, but, nay, she had done him a favour—in truth, would he really care? More like he would be glad to see the back of her.

  ‘How much longer, my lady?’ Ferchar’s shout took on the petulant whine of a child.

  ‘Not much further, my lord,’ Tavia replied, keeping her eyes firmly ahead so she would not fall off the horse. ‘If I remember rightly, the place lies at the bottom of the valley.’

  ‘You’d better remember rightly, my lady,’ Ferchar blustered, ‘or I’ll clap you in irons for leading us all on a wild goose chase.’

  Tavia began to feel more stable as the horse levelled out onto the path along the bottom of the valley. All around her, the fluttering wood anemones spangled across the valley floor, scattered like white stars on a green back ground. Tavia swept her gaze around in awe at the beautiful sight: the filtering light, the delicate petals…

  ‘Is it here?’ Ferchar rapped at her. She hadn’t been aware of her horse stopping.

  ‘A little further.’ Tavia tapped her heels lightly against the horse’s flanks to urge the animal forwards. To her right, the rushing, warbling notes of a stream drifted into the air…There! The spreading oak, ancient in form, the breadth of its trunk patched with the pale blue-green florets of lichen rose before her: the key to her freedom. Her eye darted to a curious outcrop of rock, shafting upwards on a slant from the ground, its riven surface deco rated with the softer shapes of ferns and mosses. Reining in the horse, Tavia swung her leg forwards over the horse’s neck, jumping down neatly to the spongy ground. Without waiting for Ferchar, she forged her way through the under growth, the low plants catching at her hem, the pungent scent of wild garlic filling the air. Reaching the rock, she worked her way around until arriving at a jagged crevice just big enough for her to crawl into. Tavia hesitated, unsure, as Ferchar, flanked by two burly soldiers, crashed to her side. Wiping the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his surcoat, he stared expectantly at her, pale eyes brimming with excitement.

  ‘Go on!’ He choked the words out. ‘This is it, is it not?’

  Dryness invaded her throat, as she ducked her head, using both hands on the rock either side to ease herself into the narrow space. Under her fingers, the rock felt cold, gritty, uninviting. A smell of dank, rotting vegetation pervaded the air, as she felt her way along the rock. She was certain this was the place, so certain that she could almost feel her mother’s presence in this tiny cave—was this where the lovers had met? She smiled to think of them together.

  ‘Have you found it?’ called Ferchar, his voice muffled from outside the cave. Tavia, running her fingers along the wet shale, chose not to reply. At her level, the rock was smooth-faced, but, raising her arms upwards, she realised the crevice was deceptive, for the sides of the cave stretched high above her head. Lifting her eyes in the gloom, she peered upwards into the darkness. And there it was.

  On a narrow ledge, just above the top of her head, sat an iron strong box, rectangular, with a heavy metal hasp sealing the lid, flecked with orange rust.

  ‘I’ve found it!’ she squeaked, squeezing her way out of the entrance, blinking in the daylight. ‘But it’s too heavy for me to lift down.’

  ‘Get in there!’ Ferchar growled to the stronger-looking of the two soldiers. The man looked doubtfully at the size of the cave entrance before managing
to wiggle himself inside and extract the strong box. Bending at the knees, he placed the box before Ferchar. The other soldier fetched his mace from the horse, and smashed down on the lock. The sound reverberated about the woods, bouncing back from the solid trunk in a cacophony of noise. After a few minutes of heavy bashing, the lock disintegrated in a shower of iron flakes.

  Ferchar sprung down, his bony fingers throwing back the lid. Tavia gasped. The two soldiers took a step back in awe at the sight. Ferchar just smiled and plunged his hands into the pile of glittering jewels, crowns, rings, neck laces, all wrought from the finest gold and silver. ‘My God!’ he breathed, ‘I’ve actually found it.’ His hands moved reverently over the strings of pearls, the filigreed brooches studded with rubies, with sapphires, his fingers encountering a single piece of parchment, folded, nestling amongst the jewels.

  ‘Tavia.’ Ferchar read the words written on the outside of the paper, handing it to her with scarcely a glance, unable to wrench his eyes from the glittering tumble of gem stones.

  Tavia broke open the red seal of wax, stamped with Earl Henry’s coat of arms, and unfolded the parchment, a nervous shake to her fingers. Powerful black marks rose up from the paper… ‘I can’t read it.’ She looked up, disappointed.

  With an impatient snort, Ferchar snatched it back, scanning the con tents. ‘“To my darling daughter, Tavia,”’ he intoned derisively. ‘“If you have found this box, then I must be dead, and I’m sorry that I couldn’t have known you better. Unfortunately, my cir cum stances dictated that the situation between your mother and me could not have been different. I have always loved your mother and you, and whatever path you choose in life, the contents of this box belong to you…” Pah!’ In disgust, Ferchar threw the note to the ground. Tavia bent and picked it up, folding it so she could tuck it into the pouch hanging from her girdle. A warm glow surrounded her heart—Earl Henry had loved her mother, deeply, of that she was certain.