The Damsel's Defiance

by Meriel Fuller

  Talvas’s breath caught. Her hair, darkened by the water, straggled out in ripples over the rough gathers of the towel, falling to her hips from the pale shimmer of her face. ‘What’s the matter, mam’selle?’ His voice spiralled sarcastically into her ear. ‘Suddenly regretting your generosity to the Empress now that I’ll be at the helm?’

  ‘It wasn’t supposed to be generosity,’ she spat back. ‘She was supposed to pay well for the privilege.’

  ‘You still have fifteen gold coins,’ he replied. The humour dropped from his face. ‘Your greed will get the better of you one day.’

  She wrapped the towel more tightly around her, her face flushing. He made her transaction with the Empress sound underhand and dishonest. ‘I have done nothing to be ashamed of.’ She drew herself up, conscious that Beatrice had retreated to a far corner of the room. ‘I realise that high-born nobles such as yourself would not dirty your lily-white hands with “trade”, but the rest of us have to earn a living. How dare you judge me!’

  Rocking back on his heels, Talvas stared at her vivid, animated features, her wide, determined eyes and knew himself to be chastised. In that moment he witnessed the raw tenacity and courage within the graceful lines of her face. The loosely woven folds of linen gathered around her shoulders to frame the delicate column of her neck, the pale colour of the fabric emphasising the heightened pink of her cheeks, the flashing emerald of her eyes. From deep within him, the beating lump that was his heart, a lump devoid of all feeling and emotion, softened imperceptibly.

  ‘I stand corrected,’ he demurred, grudgingly admiring her verve.

  ‘Beatrice can escort me to the great hall,’ she continued haughtily. ‘Now leave us be.’

  ‘As you wish.’ He ducked his midnight locks into a bow, before sweeping one last look over the tempting sight before him.

  As the door closed behind him, her lungs expelled a huge gust of air. Grasping the edge of the tub, the wood slipping beneath her fingers, she stepped out cautiously, mindful of her leg. Before she had time to catch the chill of the air, Beatrice had enveloped her in another large linen square and led her to a low stool in front of the fire.

  ‘That man,’ Emmeline said, almost to herself, but shaking her head at Beatrice.

  ‘He’s very handsome,’ the maid replied.

  ‘More like very irritating.’ Emmeline sat down smartly on the low stool as Beatrice began to run an ivory comb through her long tresses. When she had finished, the girl moved over to the oak coffer and, opening it, began to rummage through a rippling pile of clothes, before triumphantly holding up two richly decorated garments with a satisfied smile.

  ‘Here, my lady, these should suit.’

  Emmeline shifted her gaze, gasping. ‘Nay, Beatrice, they are too good for the likes of me. I shall wear my own clothes.’ She pulled her own threadbare linen chemise over her nakedness before the servant had time to argue and glanced around for her coarse woollen underdress.

  Dismay clouded Beatrice’s soft, rounded features. ‘I took the liberty of sending your garments to be washed. Mam’selle, they were caked in mud. Did I do wrong?’

  Emmeline shook her head quickly, anxious to erase the forlorn look on the servant’s face. ‘Nay, nay, forgive me, Beatrice. I’m not used to being looked after. Please, dress me as you wish.’

  Smiling, Beatrice dropped a loose undertunic of light green wool over Emmeline’s head. The customary tight sleeves accentuated the slenderness of her arms, the fragility of her wrists. Emmeline gaped in astonishment as Beatrice produced the overgown, a magnificent garment wrought of the finest pale gold silk. A thread of darker gold had been used to embroider a complicated pattern around the deep slashed ‘V’ of the neck and the hem-line. The same pattern decorated the wide, hanging sleeves, the points of which almost touched the ground. As Beatrice laced the sides of the dress, tugging the rich fabric into her slender curves, a sense of imprisonment fell over Emmeline. Her whole body yearned to jump up, yank away the restrictive garments and ride like mad from the confining walls of this castle, back to her home, her ship, back to where she was safe. Yet nobody threatened her directly unless…unless she counted Lord Talvas. In his presence her sense of vulnerability increased, a feeling of balancing along a very narrow ledge where her destiny was uncertain. She didn’t feel secure around him—the man unnerved her, threw her off course. It wasn’t just the castle she had to get away from, it was him.

  ‘Mam’selle, your bag.’ Emmeline took the embroidered pouch gratefully, her thumb idly tracing over the familiar raised stitches that decorated the surface of the material, before she slipped her girdle through the two loops on top of the pouch. She twisted impatiently on the stool as Beatrice looped and braided the shining golden mass of her hair before securing a delicate silk veil to the top of her head with a circlet of filigreed silver. Long pins, topped with amethyst, held the veil in place.

  ‘Oh, my lady…’ Beatrice clapped a hand to her mouth as she viewed her work ‘…you are a beauty.’

  Emmeline frowned at the compliment, jumping up from the stool, attempting to smooth down the skirts that flowed out gently from her slender frame.

  ‘’Tis pretty,’ she acknowledged, ‘but I have no call for garments such as these. Now, as you have finished, mayhaps you could tell me the direction of the great hall?’

  Guillame gently led Talvas’s snorting destrier into the shadowed quiet of the vast stables of Torigny. The fresh, clean scent of hay mingled with the strong smell of horse sweat and manure; countless grooms, some not above six winters and shivering in their ragged clothes, ran hither and thither attending the many needs of the horses. Easing the large weight of the horse to one side by hefting his bulky shoulder into the animal’s flank, Guillame managed to secure the animal with a piece of flax rope to the iron loop set into the wall alongside the manger. He had managed to beg a half bucket of oats from the kitchen stores, knowing that the constant lengthy journeys from Torigny to the coast had taken its toll on the animals, both on Talvas’s powerful warhorse and his own nimble courser.

  Noting with content that both horses munched happily, Guillame began to work at the caked-on mud from the destrier’s coat, using a stiff-bristled brush that he had found hanging from a peg in the stable wall. It was difficult to see if his work made any difference; the stables were lit by a single torch, prudently slung in a bracket on the outside of the wide doorway, to prevent any stray spark landing on the hay. Relaxing into the rhythm of the work, Guillame jumped as Talvas stepped into the stable.

  ‘You astonish me, Guillame.’ A thread of irritability laced Talvas’s tone as he studied his squire’s industry. ‘Why not let one of the grooms do that?’

  Guillame smiled. ‘Nay, I prefer to do it. I know these animals.’ He paused in the repetitive strokes of the brush, aware that Talvas had not sought him out for idle chit-chat. ‘How was the Empress?’

  Talvas grimaced, moving into the dimness of the stables, his gaze darting quickly along the many stalls to check that they were alone. All the grooms seemed to have disappeared, no doubt keen not to miss the evening’s feasting. ‘That stupid chit,’ he said, finally, ‘I should have left her on the road!’ He thumped his fist against one of the wooden uprights that supported the stable roof.

  ‘I assume you refer to Mam’selle de Lonnieres?’ Guillame confirmed quietly, smiling to himself as he resumed his brushing. He was used to Talvas’s ways; as young boys they had trained as knights together under the auspices of Talvas’s father, Count Eustace of Boulogne, and had remained friends ever since.

  ‘Who else?’ Talvas replied, exasperated. ‘Who else could thwart our plans so?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘She has only agreed to loan her ship to transport the Empress back to England. Christ in Heaven! It’s the last thing that we want! The last thing that Stephen wants!’ He bashed his fist against the upright once more.

  Guillame frowned. ‘It’s my fault. I should not have spoken of the Empres
s so openly on the quayside.’

  ‘You weren’t to know it would lead to this.’ Talvas rubbed his chin distractedly. ‘I had to offer to captain the vessel. Now Maud has made up her mind to travel to England, Stephen would want me to keep an eye on her. Maud seems to trust me at the moment.’

  ‘Do you think the Empress will do anything?’

  ‘She says the journey is to bury her father in England. Who knows what she might do otherwise? She keeps her secrets to herself.’ Talvas stared at the horses for a moment. ‘Christ, who could believe such an unassuming chit could cause so much mayhem!’

  ‘The Empress?’ Guillame teased.

  ‘Mam’selle de Lonnieres!’ Talvas raised his eyebrows in exasperation.

  ‘It’s been a long time since a woman moved you in such a way,’ Guillame stated calmly.

  ‘Moved me to want to strangle her, you mean!’ Talvas grinned, a flash of even white teeth in the gloom that made his face seem younger. ‘She is infuriating, I’ll grant her that! Maud is adamant she is travelling…so we must travel with her.’

  Holding her expensive gown high above the damp flagstones, Emmeline trod quietly in her borrowed shoes of soft leather. The rush torch in her left hand spattered, spitting loose cinders, filling the air with the smell of rancid animal fat. Sounds of the feasting carried through the rank air: occasional bursts of laughter, the sweet notes of harp and lyre. Lifting her head, she tried to decipher the direction of the sound. The castle seemed to be an interminable labyrinth of dark, narrow passages, each twisting and looping back on themselves to confuse the unsuspecting visitor. As she descended a narrow stairwell, the sounds faded and she stopped abruptly, intending to retrace her steps.

  ‘Good evening, mistress.’

  Emmeline whipped round in shock as the low, grating tones of Earl Robert fell upon her. His thin, spindly frame stood at the top of the narrow steps, blocking her exit. His mean little eyes roved her small frame greedily, sucking in the details of her exquisite attire. ‘I see Beatrice managed to find you some suitable garments.’ He dropped down one step. ‘Most suitable.’ An edge of excitement stained his tone. Emmeline curled her fingers into her palms, willing her heart to slow down.

  ‘It was most kind of her,’ Emmeline replied blandly.

  ‘They really suit you very well.’ The Earl descended the last two steps, raising bony fingers to touch her cheek. Emmeline wrested her head back, almost knocking it on the wooden door behind her. ‘To walk around the castle on your own is dangerous. Let me escort you to the great hall.’ A false inflection marked his tone; he intended nothing of the kind.

  ‘I must go.’ A scratching fear lined her throat.

  ‘I think not, my lady. Your beauty draws me and I would have a slice of it.’

  ‘Nay…nay!’ She backed away, only to have the iron rivets of a door press into her back. ‘Let me pass, my lord.’

  ‘Not until I have a kiss…and a promise.’ He smiled suggestively at her, openly staring at the curving swell of her breasts. ‘Come, mistress, no one would know.’

  ‘I will tell your sister, the Empress!’ she threatened.

  ‘Hah! Do you think she really cares about the likes of you! All she wants is your ship, and she will stop at nothing to reach England! Besides, she would not deprive me of the occasional dalliance.’

  Emmeline stared at his gaunt, raw-boned expression, watched the anger fleck his eyes. God in Heaven, the man was exactly as Giffard had been.

  ‘Yield, my lady, otherwise I may not be able to answer for my actions.’ She caught the stale scent of his breath as he whispered in her ear. ‘I could break you with one blow—is that the way you want to play it?’

  ‘I don’t want to play at all!’ Emmeline thrust the burning torch into the Earl’s face. Howling in pain, he staggered to one side, hands covering his eyes as Emmeline sprung up the steps, the smell of burning hair acrid in her nostrils.

  ‘I will have you, you little bitch!’ he screamed after her.

  With no torch, Emmeline ran blindly, swiftly, albeit with a peculiar, loping style. She pushed herself on, stumbling around corners, tripping over uneven flagstones, desperate to find some kind of light to run toward. But everywhere was pitch-black. Fear knocked at her chest as Earl Robert’s outraged bellows pursued her down the corridor, closely followed by his pounding footsteps.

  ‘Oof!’ She ran straight into a hard, unyielding body. Sweet Jesu! How had she been so wrong as to her direction? Surely Earl Robert had been behind her? Immediately she began to struggle, to hit out against the broad frame that held her close, lifted her, carried her easily toward a side-chamber. She kicked his shins with her toes, wriggling and writhing, but to no avail. The door thudded behind her.

  ‘Nay…nay…you will not touch me!’ she yelled. ‘I am Emmeline de Lonnieres, not some base-born serving wench!’

  ‘Then stop behaving like one!’ a cool voice poured into her ear. ‘And stop shouting! Your cries will lead him straight to you!’ She slumped, quivering with relief. It was Talvas, Talvas who held her firmly by the shoulders, keeping her upright.

  ‘I—’

  ‘Hush!’ The single word unfurled round her like a balm. Great arms of unbreakable power girdled tight around her back and chest as Earl Robert blundered along the passageway outside, his progress marked by guttural curses and heavy breathing. And then…nothing. The silence grew in the small room, a powerful, expectant silence, swollen with tension.

  With his arms still cradling the diminutive maid, Talvas was acutely conscious of her soft body melding to his chest, the rose perfume of her hair rising in the air around him. The need to crush her feminine curves to his muscular length, to bury his face in the glistening coils of her hair, flooded his senses; his reaction made him angry. His arms dropped.

  ‘Thank you.’ The delicate lilt of her voice filled the icy darkness, seeking him out.

  ‘’Tis no matter.’

  ‘I was trying to find the great hall.’ She felt the need to explain, to give him reasons.

  ‘On your own.’ His voice snaked out from the shadows, inflexible with scorn. ‘I thought you said Beatrice would escort you?’

  ‘I just said that to get you out of the chamber. I have no need of Beatrice to lead me from one side of the castle to the other.’

  ‘I should have insisted,’ he murmured in the darkness.

  ‘Why would you?’ she threw back, surprised. ‘You are not my protector.’ Nay, he was not. Then why his desire to be at her side, to shield her from harm, to watch over her? ‘It was a simple enough task, my lord, one I could easily do on my own.’

  ‘And if I hadn’t come along?’ Talvas stepped closer to her sylphlike frame, enticingly shadowed in the half light. He wanted to shake her, force her to admit her vulnerability, her stupidity. ‘What would have happened, mam’selle?’

  A hot tide of humiliation washed her skin. ‘I owe you no explanation, my lord,’ she replied tartly. ‘It’s enough that I got away from him. Now, shall we go?’

  ‘What would have happened, mistress?’ His repeated question ground into her. The heat from his breath stirred her veil; he stood too close!

  ‘I know not.’

  ‘Don’t play me for a fool, mistress. He would have dragged you into a nearby chamber, thrown up your skirts and—’

  ‘Stop! I don’t want to hear it!’

  ‘Because it’s the truth?’ His intoxicating scent of leather, overlaid with a tang of the sea, wrapped around her. A strange kindling sensation sputtered and flared along her veins. What was happening to her?

  ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she whispered. A tremulous fluidity entered her limbs, threatening to buckle her. Her heart raced. He stood but a handspan away, but she still couldn’t see his face.

  ‘Because, mam’selle, you are a danger to yourself. You’re a woman, you haven’t the physical strength to fight in a man’s world.’ His fingers itched to curve around her small body, the memory of her slender frame rising gr
acefully from the bathtub jarring his memory.

  ‘I’ve been doing it since my father died.’ The amulet at her throat cooled her heated skin.

  ‘Do you want me to prove it?’ As if under a spell, his fingers touched the velvet bloom of her cheek.

  ‘I…’ The words died in her mouth as his large hands cupped the perfect oval of her face and lifted her mouth to his. His firm lips brushed over hers—a fleeting, seductive graze that slammed flames of desire straight to her heart. That was all that he had intended, the briefest kiss to teach her a lesson, to expose her vulnerability. Yet from the moment his lips met hers, an overwhelming desire to crush her light frame to his, to feast himself on her delicious curves, to utterly vanquish her, threatened to break down his own hard-won defences.

  He pulled away.

  Bereft at the loss of his touch, Emmeline stared at his shadow, confused, angry. How could she have let him touch her like that? Hadn’t she learned anything from being in that hateful marriage with Giffard? All men wanted to control, to curb, to possess. She wanted none of that. Hot, angry tears welled in her eyes as she fumbled along the wall for the door latch; she had to get out, to go. Her fingers found the latch at the same time as his did; their fingers locked, his cool and strong, hers warm and yielding. She wrenched her hand away as if stung.

  ‘Don’t you ever, ever, do that again,’ she whispered, a shuddering eddy marking her voice.

  He yanked the door open. The light, filtering down the passageway from the great hall, threw his features into strong relief. It was if they had been carved from stone: his mouth set in a grim line, his eyes hard and angry.

  ‘’ Tis a promise.’

  Chapter Six

  The greasy smell of roasted hog thickened the air of the great hall, mingling with the honeyed scent of strong mead and eye-smarting wood smoke. From time to time a huge billow of smoke belched out from the fireplace set into the thick wall stones, filling the space with a warm fog that lent the scene a dreamlike quality. Chatter and laughter spilled from the long trestle tables, trestles crowded with people whose livelihoods depended on the castle and its lands. Young knights who had sworn fealty to the Empress’s husband, the Count of Anjou, jostled for space with the peasants who tilled the soil.