The Warrior’s Princess Bride

by Meriel Fuller

  Tavia shifted uncomfortably at the possession in his words. ‘What will King Henry say?’ she said, trying another tack.

  He frowned. ‘Why should he say anything? ’Tis my business, not his.’

  ‘But he is your king.’

  ‘Aye, but he is not my master; I am beholden to none, Tavia. I soldier for Henry because I choose to, not because of any need.’

  Beholden to none, she thought bleakly, recalling the time when she had first seen him, when he had strode up the aisle of the church, eyes shimmering with ire, to scatter his men like nine pins with the power of his presence. That was his life, no strings tying him to a home life, no commitments: a free spirit.

  ‘Why would you choose to fight as a soldier when you don’t have to?’ Her voice, low and melodious, crept in under his defences, issuing a challenge. The simple words shocked him, forced him to search deep for the true answer.

  ‘Because it helped me forget.’ His speech hung in the air, accompanied only by the haunting wail of a curlew. ‘But now, I am not so sure.’

  The horse, the muscles in its neck straining under the combined weight of two people, eventually gained the top of the ridge. Tavia’s eyes widened in admiration. Spread out below them, disappearing into a haze in the distance, lay England. The wind gathered strength up here on the ridge; Tavia shivered in her thin dress and cloak, Benois’s proposal repeating in her mind. Marriage to Benois would mean security, and protection from Ferchar, but, she realised with a bleak sadness, nothing more. Could she really enter a marriage without love?

  Benois brought both edges of his cloak around to the front of her, shielding her from the worst of the wind.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘what do you say?’

  The wind almost whipped her answer away, but he managed to catch the words. ‘Aye, I’ll marry you, Benois. As you say, it is the only solution.’

  The square silhouette of Langley Castle towered impressively against a pinkish sky shot through with a brilliant succession of blues. As the day drew to a close, the full moon began to rise, a huge white orb above rolling bands of puffy, purplish cloud, luminous in the translucent blue of the evening light. Below the castle, on a wide, level field used for fairs and tournaments alike, the first bonfire was lit: the signal for the celebrations of mid summer to begin. A great roar rose up from the waiting crowd; whereas before their expressions, in shadow, had been expectant, waiting, now their faces broke into wide grins and laughter in anticipation of the festivities to follow that evening.

  Lord Langley, hands clasped over his rounded stomach, replete from his evening meal, surveyed the scene from the top step at the main castle entrance. He gained great pleasure from watching his people enjoy them selves, knights and servants alike, all mingling together with the prime objective of having fun on this longest day. The sinking, golden light bathed the tanned, weathered skin of the peas ants, gilding their rough clothes. In the corner of the field, a band of travel ling musicians struck up a lively tune, and soon hands were joined in dancing. Langley smiled. These people worked hard for him all year, fighting his battles, tending his fields, as they had for his father before him; in his opinion, a few nights of celebration such as this were the least they deserved.

  ‘And so it begins.’ Langley adjusted his gaze to the owner of the soft voice at his side, skimming his eyes protectively over his wife, Sabine. Dressed in a flowing bliaut of rust-coloured wool that complemented her smooth black hair and ivory skin, Sabine was a true beauty. What a surprise it had been for everyone when the easy-going, slightly over weight Langley had made a match with the young French countess, Sabine de Brouillard. Many commented that such a union would not last. But in the two years of their marriage, Sabine’s loyalty and support to her husband could not be faulted. She tolerated his occasional buffoonery when others would have become irritated, and laughed at his gentle teasing.

  Langley’s eyes moved down wards to the point of his wife’s waist where her girdle had been slackened off, to hang below her burgeoning stomach. Her hands clasped the growing bump with care, and his heart swelled with pride; his first child would be born some time in the autumn, and he couldn’t wait, excited as a puppy.

  ‘Do you want to go down?’ He eyed the chaos on the field doubtfully, darting a protective glance back to his wife’s curving belly. The jubilant crowd seemed to have gained more energy now, the dances con ducted with more elaborate leaps and twirls, the noise level rising to match the effervescent mood. The wooden kegs of mead had been opened, and pewter tankards glinted in the sunlight as the honeyed nectar slipped down thirsty necks.

  ‘Let’s just watch from here a while,’ Sabine suggested, tucking her hands around her husband’s arm.

  Langley nodded in agreement, casting his gaze up to the battlements to make certain his soldiers still pa trolled. Despite the celebrations going ahead, he still felt uneasy. King Henry had left this castle several days earlier; he had received only one message to say that a deal had been struck with the Scots and the King still had not re turned. His eye traced the huge blocks of stone down wards, past the battlements, past the narrow, arrow-slit windows of the gate house to a lone horseman entering under the criss-crossed metal of the portcullis.

  ‘God in Heaven!’ He clutched at Sabine’s hands. ‘Benois!’

  Detaching himself from his wife, he bounded down the stone steps, landing with an ungainly thud on the greasy cobbles of the inner bailey.

  ‘Benois!’ he shouted, marching over to the steaming, sweating horse. Appalled, he realised the animal carried not one, but two people. A woman, set in front of Benois, drooped forward alarmingly.

  ‘Benois! What in Heaven’s name…?’ Langley caught the bridle, halting the horse in a jangle of metal. With a jolt, he recognised the woman: it was the maid who duped them, the maid whom Benois had promised to escort back to Dunswick!

  ‘Fetch me a priest…now!’ Benois, his voice deep with con trolled urgency, sprang down to the cobbles.

  ‘What’s the matter with her?’ screeched Langley, peering at Tavia’s pale face, her eyes closed. ‘Is she dying?’

  Benois grinned, suddenly, unexpectedly. ‘Of course not, Langley. I’m going to marry her!’

  ‘Forgive me,’ Langley gasped, relieved. ‘I did not realise.’ He stared un certainly at Tavia’s chalk-white skin, her face streaked with blood, her wide skirts creased and stained with soil. From beneath her hemline, hanging forlornly against the horse’s flank, her leather shoes peeped out, the pointed toes sodden with water and mud. He noticed that Benois kept one hand on her, preventing the exhausted girl from pitching forwards on to the ground.

  ‘Er…maybe we could clean her up a bit,’ Langley ventured, annoyance. ‘Maybe…a bath, and a bed for the night? My priest can marry you tomorrow.’

  ‘Nay,’ Benois bit out. ‘It must be this night.’ On the periphery of his vision, Benois noticed Sabine’s distinctive figure start to descend the steps. Inwardly he groaned. Sabine was well known for her fussy, interfering ways—the less she was involved in this the better.

  ‘Tell me what’s going on!’ Langley demanded.

  Benois nodded, explaining the events that had led up to this night.

  ‘So she was a princess all along!’ Langley’s eyes widened as Benois told him of Tavia’s real identity.

  ‘Greetings, Lord Benois.’ Sabine had crossed the court yard, coming to stand next to her husband. ‘I trust we find you in good health?’

  Benois bowed a little awkwardly, as one arm still clasped protectively around Tavia.

  ‘Our friend is to be married,’ Langley explained.

  ‘To her?’ Sabine raised one dark eyebrow, peering at Tavia’s crumpled form. ‘She looks half-dead. She can’t marry looking like that!’

  Vaguely aware of the conversation bubbling around her, it took a supreme effort of will for Tavia to raise her head, to study the people around her. ‘Looking like what?’ she managed to blurt out.

  Sabine stepped over t
o the side of the horse, assessing her with dark, oval eyes. ‘We need to get you cleaned up, my dear,’ she said in a friendly tone. ‘You need a dress, some flowers…’

  ‘And I tell you, Sabine, there’s no time for such fripperies,’ interrupted Benois. He gathered Tavia up, lifting her off the horse, setting her down gently on the cobbles. ‘Langley, fetch that priest of yours, and I’ll clean her up.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll show you the way,’ Sabine suggested, although in her mind she had already chosen the very dress that Tavia should wear.

  With Benois’s arm about her, Tavia negotiated the castle steps, scrabbling to bring some clarity to her be fuddled brain. She felt completely at odds with the merry festivities happening around her, events progressing at break neck speed with which she struggled to keep up. Maybe the cut on her head had addled her brain, she thought, stumbling over the thresh old and into the great hall of the castle, grateful for the constant support of Benois’s hard frame as he hoisted her against him. The toned muscles of his arm flexed and strained against her slim back.

  In contrast to the Scottish castle at Dunswick, the interior of Langley Castle appeared bright and welcoming. Light flared out every where, from huge rush torches flung into iron loops along the length of the hall, from a wealth of candles stuck into elaborate candelabra positioned around the top table to the warming comfort of a well-stoked fire in the fire place. Gigantic tapestries hung on the walls, stretching from ceiling to floor, their vivid, intricate colours woven over many years by the noble ladies of the castle. It gave the whole hall a soft, embracing ambience, an ambience that Dunswick Castle had lacked. Glancing about her with pleasure, Tavia suspected the strong influence of Sabine in the design of this room.

  They followed Sabine’s sweeping skirts, her expression decisive and efficient as she led the way to the bed chambers on the upper floor, accessed by a spiral stair case in one of four turrets. Lifting her heavily ringed hand and pushing against the first door she encountered in the upper corridor, Sabine paused for a moment, facing Benois, her manner brisk. In the half-light, her skin appeared exotic, slightly bewitching, her large oval eyes con tem plating the man before her.

  ‘Let me tend to her,’ Sabine offered, her eyes still on Benois, while she held her hands out to Tavia. ‘I have asked the kitchens to send up hot water for a bath.’

  ‘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.’