The Damsel's Defiance

by Meriel Fuller

  Maud surveyed the scene with a haughty glance from her superior position at the top table, her mouth compressed to a thin line. Now and again, she muttered a few words to Robert who sat to her right, bending his head solicitously to her every word, a livid red patch marking his cheek. Nausea rose in Emmeline’s belly as she viewed the Earl from the far end of the table, the memory of his horrible words pursuing her down the corridor like a promise. She wondered how he had explained the mark on his face—would it jeopardise her chance of travelling with Maud?

  On her left, Talvas speared a piece of meat with his short hunting knife, the jewelled hilt sparkling in the candlelight. Since their hushed encounter in the antechamber, since he had all but dragged her into the hall, he had uttered not one word to her, his expression icy and withdrawn.

  ‘What happened between you and him?’ The roughness of his tone made her jump as he stabbed his gleaming knife point in the direction of Earl Robert.

  ‘I thrust a flaming torch into his face,’ she replied simply, shifting away from him as the curve of his elbow brushed her sleeve.

  Talvas raised his eyebrows. ‘Did you not consider what the consequences might be before attacking a member of the nobility?’

  She baulked at the censoriousness in his tone. ‘You have no right to criticise me!’ she hissed. ‘What did you expect me to do, roll over and take it?’ The tanned, lean angles of his face remained impassive, blank. ‘It was the only way.’ A note of desperation crept into her voice. ‘He wouldn’t let me pass…he…’ Her fingers shook. How could she tell him her reaction to the Earl had been instinctive, a conditioned reflex honed from her few years of marriage? She stared miserably at the congealing lumps of beef stew on her platter.

  ‘The way he regards you…I like it not.’ The abruptness in his voice surprised her, as did its content. She shrugged her shoulders, anxiety fizzing along her veins. Her fingers traced the gap between the oaken planks that made up the top table.

  ‘He makes me afeard,’ she admitted in a breathless rush. There! She’d said it. Let him laugh if he must.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Talvas replied. ‘I’m somewhat afeard of him myself!’

  Astonished, Emmeline trailed her gaze along the tall, brawny length of him, the bulk of his shoulders, the width of his chest. ‘You…? How can you possibly…?’ she stopped, a brief smile curving her lips. ‘You don’t have to humour me! I’m sure I’ll be able to handle him the next time.’

  ‘There won’t be a next time,’ Talvas replied, marvelling at the way her smile lit up her whole face, the look of an angel. ‘Either Guillame or myself will sleep before your chamber door tonight.’

  ‘There’s no need—’ she began, but he stopped her speech with a shake of his head.

  ‘Enough talking, mam’selle. Now eat up, for we leave for Barfleur early on the morrow, and I do not tolerate tardiness.’

  ‘I’ll be ready,’ she promised softly, relief etching her voice.

  Emmeline jerked awake, blood hurtling through her veins in panic. Frowning, she sat up abruptly, trying to catch the tail end of her nightmare, but the wisps of detail fled before her conscious mind could snare them. Pushing back her long hair matted in front of her eyes, she stared blankly into the dimness of her own chamber, her gaze seeking and then tracing over the familiar shapes around her. As her eyes adjusted to the half light, she threw back the bed furs, the bearskin pelt slipping under her fingers like velvet, and swung her feet carefully to the floor. Her right ankle ached in the cool draught that swirled about the oak planks and she grabbed a fur from the bed to throw over the thin linen of her nightgown. Tip-toeing toward the window, finding her way by instinct rather than by sight, she opened one of the wooden shutters and looked out.

  The chilly night air flowed briskly over her face, refreshing her skin, allowing her to compose her senses. Talvas and Guillame had escorted her back to Barfleur during the day, a journey of furious pace with little conversation. It had been as much as Emmeline could do to keep up with the incessant pace of the men, sensing their irritation as she slowed them up with the plodding steps of the grey palfrey. Now Talvas and Guillame lodged at the inn along the waterfront. Talvas had bid her good-night with a stern glint in his eye, promising to collect her in the morning to begin the process of loading the Empress and her party onto the ship.

  She realised now the contents of the vivid dream that had awoken her, the dream of her father’s death, an unforgettable repetition of the night his ship went down. She had been fifteen at the time, and standing on the shore with her proud mother and Sylvie, watching her father’s latest masterpiece, Le Poisson, depart from Barfleur. On board had been a good number of Norman and English nobles, happy and exuberant after another victory against the French king. Emmeline had watched the numerous barrels of wine ferried on board, no doubt to be drunk in celebration of the victory. Not one hour later, the same casks had bobbed amongst the mangled wreckage after the drunken crew had steered the vessel onto the treacherous rocks outside the harbour. All lives had been lost. Emmeline and her family could only watch in horror as the screams of the drowning men echoed over the noise of the crashing waves. She jammed her fists to her ears, trying to erase the memory of those terrible, tortured screams.

  Through the black, angular shadows of the town buildings, Emmeline stared out bleakly, catching the icy glint of the sea in the full moonlight. She couldn’t see the broad hulk of La Belle Saumur, but she knew the vessel would be in the sheltered waters of the harbour, bobbing at anchor. Knowing that sleep would continue to evade her, Emmeline closed the iron latch on the shutters firmly. She had to go out there, to familiarise herself with the vessel once more if she were to travel to England. She hadn’t been on board since her father’s death. It was a job she needed to do alone, and if she went now, it would be possible.

  Rummaging in her wooden chest, she found some of her father’s old clothes piled at the bottom; braies of a dull grey colour, a linen undershirt crumpled from disuse and a ragged woollen tunic, smelling slightly of damp. She dragged these items quickly over her head. Her own sturdy boots, and a wide leather hat clamped over her tightly braided hair and secured under her chin with a thin strap, completed the outfit.

  Heaving one of the smaller rowing boats down off the shingle to the single curling line of white froth at the sea’s edge, Emmeline wondered at the sanity of her idea. The weakness in her ankle made her movements unsteady and slow, her leather-shod feet slipping and sliding over the round pebbles as she inched the boat downwards. The smooth, glassy surface of the water should have made her feel less worried about her mission: in the flooding moonlight, the wind was a mere breath and La Belle Saumur appeared much closer than she had originally envisaged. But her hands still shuddered with effort as she gave the boat one last mighty push, at the same time throwing herself onto the seat and wedging the oars into the oar-locks. Her shove had created enough forward momentum to start her off and now she dipped the paddles in and hauled with all the strength she could muster.

  Emmeline rowed steadily, the rhythmic dipping and splashing of the oars lulling her, the competent stretching of the muscles in her shoulders and back making her revel in the power of her own body. Now and again, she turned to look at the great, brooding sides of La Belle Saumur lumbering out of the gloom behind her, assessing her direction.

  The rowing boat bumped gently against the side of the ship, and Emmeline grabbed at the frayed end of the rope ladder that dangled over the side to pull herself in. Securing her boat to an iron ring, corroded and flaky with orange rust and bolted to the ship’s side, she drew in the heavy oars and laid them securely in the bottom of the boat. Above her, the curved hull loomed. The rope ladder, manufactured from the finest Irish flax, slapped encouragingly against the side, urging her on. Chest pounding, jaw locked with steadfast determination, she launched herself at the ladder. Through the leather of her boots, the flexible rungs bit into the tender arches of her feet as she hauled her slender fr
ame up with difficulty, rolling over the wooden guard-rail to drop quietly on to the deck.

  Emmeline stopped, hot from the exertion. Since her foot had been damaged, she often had to work far harder to be able to do anything physical. Curse Giffard! Curse that man who had been her husband! Her rapid breathing boomed in her ears, blocking out all other sound. Her heart pounded and she grasped the guard-rail to steady herself, to catch her breath. She rubbed at the soft worn wood under her fingers. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to concentrate on the imperceptible rocking of the ship, the slight creaking of the timbers as the vessel moved against the swell. She opened her eyes to look around the once-familiar details of the ship, a ship that before her father’s death had been like a second home to her. How she had missed this! The curl and slap of the waves against the keel; the lowered main mast laid across the deck with the canvas sails furled neatly and tied up to the crossbar; the faint smell of wine spilt long ago in the hold. Here she had come as a child, helping her father or his captain and crew coil the ropes into neat piles, or listen to her father talk with the captain over his meticulous, hand-drawn charts about the weather, or the sea state, or of magical lands far away. Lost in memories, she fingered the amulet at her neck.

  A tiny noise, a scratching, caught her attention, almost imperceptible against the familiar background sound, but definitely there. Hesitating, fear holding her to the spot, Emmeline scanned the deck, eyes scouring in panic for clues to its origin. The stark moonlight highlighted the depths of every corner, every shadow, making it easy to see. The noise came again—a small click, then a muffled curse and the sound of something falling. Emmeline’s hands flew to her mouth, effectively subduing the bubbling scream that threatened to emerge. Nausea punched like a fist into her stomach, a spill of dread snaking through her limbs, unbalancing her, unnerving her. The tales that Captain Lecherche continually plied her with, tales of thieves and robbers plundering ships along this coastline, suddenly seemed horribly real. Evil men with no thought on their minds but to steal lucrative cargo; human life would hold no meaning for them. But surely Captain Lecherche would have made certain that all the cargo had been unloaded? It was unusual for him to have left anything of value on board.

  Emmeline could see now that the hatch, in the middle of the ship, stood open. Someone moved about down below, and now approached the wooden ladder to come up on deck! Without conscious thought, adrenalin firing her steps, she staggered across and kicked the slatted doorway shut with her good foot, scarcely aware of the smothered oath below as she moved lopsidedly back along the deck, stepping instinctively between the lines of ropes. The hatch door crashed open behind her, just as the moon moved behind a cloud to throw the ship into dim shadow. Her heart lurched as she searched frantically for the top of the rope ladder, but the sudden darkness made the task almost impossible.

  ‘Come here, you little varmint!’ a man’s voice bellowed behind her, deep and gruff. A prickling sweat broke out over Emmeline’s skin. Heavy feet thudded behind her, covering the short distance between stern and bow with speed. She would not be caught by this trespasser, this lowly thief who would think nothing of slitting her throat from ear to ear! A hand touched her shoulder and then…

  ‘Merde!’ The man crashed to the ground behind her. Praise be to God that some ropes had been left lying about. In a twinkling, before her pursuer had time to rise, Emmeline swung herself over the side of the ship and jumped, feet first, into the freezing black sea.

  As the water closed over her head, she praised her seafaring father for teaching her to swim from an early age. Kicking her feet out in a strong scissor motion, she pushed to the surface carefully, unwilling to give away her position. Dashing the stinging salt water from her eyes, she trod water, trying to gain her bearings. La Belle Saumur bobbed some fifteen feet beyond her right shoulder. But where was he? Emmeline swam gently into the lee of the ship, a shadowed place where the newly emerged moonlight wouldn’t touch her. The rowing boat must be further along: she needed to reach it and strike out for shore, away from that giant hulk of a man who would surely kill her! Her chest constricting with the coldness of the water, Emmeline worked her way along the dark hull, touching her fingers to the side of the ship every now and again as she swam. It was difficult to see clearly, so much so that she almost squeaked in surprise as her outstretched hand grazed the side of her rowing boat. Sighing with relief, aware that the cold water had started to affect the mobility of her limbs, she reached up to the oarlock with her fingers.

  ‘Got you!’ Large fingers fumbled against her own, seeking to take a firmer grip. Mother of Mary! Why hadn’t she seen her pursuer climb into the rowing boat? Panic flamed her mind; wrenching back violently, she struck away into a powerful backstroke. She heard a muffled curse, the creak of the iron ring as the rope was released. Realising she had to get out of sight, she tucked her body into a neat dive, wriggling her feet to shed her cumbersome water-filled boots. Her only option was to swim to shore; it was close enough for her to hear the waves crashing onto the beach and she was a strong swimmer. With Fortune, it would be difficult for him to see her, a small figure obscured by the darkness of the water, as long as she didn’t turn around so he could catch the paleness of her face.

  Her legs kicked vigorously against the weight of the waves; the buoyancy of the water imbued her with a strength and agility she couldn’t hope to possess on land. Whenever she swam, she felt whole again, transported to an idyllic time before her marriage to Giffard, before her father’s death. Despite the stinging cold, she revelled in the sheer fluidity of her body. Fear that her pursuer might be directly behind her lent her speed, her supple arms drawing her slender frame silently through the water with a practised, streamlined stroke. The few lights of Barfleur drew her, fronted by the lace frill of waves nestling the shore that pulled at her, beckoned her. And then a sound, a sense of something dark and relentless looming up behind, and then a hand on her back, grasping, bunching the tunic into the curve of her spine. God in Heaven! He had caught her! Her feet flailed and thrashed uselessly at the water, trying to lever herself away from the punishing grip. Hot tears sprang beneath her lashes as, against her best efforts, she felt herself being hauled, slowly and inexorably, into the boat. The fight drained from her limbs, the adrenalin that had spurred her on now replaced by a debilitating exhaustion. Sodden and weak, Emmeline slumped face down on the bottom of the rowing boat, breathing heavily, refusing to open her eyes, refusing to acknowledge what she already knew. The man in the boat was Talvas of Boulogne.

  She should have been relieved; at least this man wouldn’t cut her throat. But her courage shrivelled; the urge to throw herself to the inky depths once more threatened to overwhelm her. Powerful hands grabbed her shoulders, turning her over roughly, knocking her head against the wooden bottom of the boat.

  ‘Come on, sit up!’ The harsh cadence of his voice bit into her as he shoved her to a seated position. As the moon came out once more from behind the swirling cloud, Emmeline’s delicate features were revealed. He sucked his breath in sharply. She had lost her hat in the jump to the sea, and now her braids clung to her scalp. As his gaze raked her frozen face, the proud set of her neat head, the slash of his dark brows drew together at the sight of her, shivering uncontrollably. For a moment he forgot where he was, what he was supposed to be doing, transfixed by the sight of this dishevelled water sprite, by the sight of the water-darkened braids tumbling over her shoulders, the pearl-like gleam of her neck against the stark white of the linen chemise. The deep ‘V’ of the chemise gaped at her throat, hinting at the sensual curves beneath as the wet material clung to her slight figure, highlighting the soft curves of her breasts. His groin tightened; he cursed under his breath, surprised at the physicality of his reaction to her. Not since…nay, he would not, could not think of that woman now!

  ‘Mayhap you would like to tell me what you are doing?’ he said softly, letting out his breath in a low whistle. ‘It’s not every day I pull a mer
maid from the sea.’

  ‘It’s not every day I jump into it!’ she retorted, wishing that she was anywhere but here. ‘W-w-what in the name of Mary are you doing here?’

  ‘Maybe I should ask you the same question?’ Talvas responded. ‘You, mam’selle, have an uncanny knack of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ How dare he! He made it sound that it was all her fault that he was on her ship. Setting her mouth in a mutinous line, she refused to acknowledge her relief at seeing Talvas as opposed to some gap-toothed, snarling criminal with a knife in his hand.

  ‘I own that ship,’ she spluttered angrily, ‘and have a perfect right to be on it. You, however, have no such right!’

  ‘You misunderstand me, mam’selle,’ he replied slowly, as if talking to a dim-witted child. ‘Only a fool would have jumped into waters such as these.’ He began to row to shore with practised efficiency.

  ‘I’m no fool,’ she responded automatically, vaguely aware that she had lost all sensation in her feet. The oars dipped and plashed rhythmically.

  ‘Then why do such a thing?’ His tone smoothed over her like velvet, neither critical nor concerned. ‘The temperature is enough to finish a full-grown man, let alone a chit of a girl like you.’

  ‘I thought you were going to kill me! I thought you were a thief, a robber, or worse!’

  ‘And you didn’t stop to find out?’

  ‘I didn’t want to wait around and have my throat cut!’ Emmeline shook uncontrollably now, her teeth chattering loudly together. Hunching her limbs into the core of her body, she tried to warm herself. Talvas caught her movement.