The Damsel's Defiance (17 page)

‘A feast for sore eyes.’ he grinned. ‘Mayhap you would like to look around?’

‘May I?’ She blurted out, surprised. It was the last thing she had expected him to say.

He placed a hand on her horse’s neck, nudging the animal toward the wooden bar so he could secure the mare with a rope. ‘Aye,’ he replied, his eyes filled with a teasing light. ‘Just don’t buy anything.’

Emmeline threw her leg across the pommel, and slid down to the filthy cobbles. Her legs jarred as she landed awkwardly, heavily. Instinctively, Talvas caught her elbow, steadying her. She ached all over, unaccustomed to so many hours in the saddle.

‘This is too much for you,’ he muttered, almost to himself.

Immediately, she pulled herself straighter, ignoring the protesting scream of her muscles. ‘I’m fine, Talvas. I’m not used to riding so much.’

‘I still don’t agree with Stephen’s decision to send you.’

She lifted her wide green eyes to his, one hand on the rich wool of his sleeve. ‘It helps me,’ she whispered. ‘It helps me to forget.’

He squeezed her shoulder; the brief touch conveyed a welter of reassurance. ‘If you say so.’ The blandness of his tone indicated his disagreement. ‘Robert, could you fetch some food, while I escort my lady around the stalls? We don’t have much time—we must reach Sedroc by nightfall.’

Edgar nodded, moving off into the crowd toward an open area where a hog roasted over an open spit, pulling his hood sharply around his face, so his features were cast in shadow.

Emmeline watched Edgar’s back disappearing through the crowd, before raising her gaze to Talvas. ‘You don’t need to come with me, Talvas. This “lady” can take care of herself.’

He smiled. ‘I don’t doubt it, mistress. But these are troubled times, and I’d lief be by your side.’

‘I can’t imagine silks and satins would interest you.’

‘You’d be surprised what interests me, my lady.’ The lilt of his voice caressed her. He began to steer her toward the tables laden with fabric, an arm tucked through her elbow. Emmeline began riffling through the material, a sensual delight against her palms.

She laughed, suddenly. ‘If only my mother could see me now! She was always trying to persuade me to take more interest in my clothes, how I looked.’

Talvas watched the delight play across her fine features, pleased to see her relax a little, the hard lines of strain beginning to melt from her expression. Something caught his attention over her head; he jerked his chin up. ‘Looks like our friend needs me—the food is no doubt more expensive than he had coin for.’ he rested his blue eyes upon her. ‘You’ll stay here? I’ll be back in a moment.’

Emmeline dipped her head in agreement, aware that his presence cloaked her in a mantle of protection. Reluctant as she was to declare it, she was beginning to rely on him. Turning back to the silks, her eyes blurred with tiredness as she tried to absorb the rainbow hues of the material.

‘Not from around these parts, are you?’ The stall holder, a tiny woman with black shiny eyes set in a tanned, creased face, addressed her.

Emmeline’s brow creased with concern. ‘Nay…nay, I’m not.’

‘I thought as much,’ The crone replied, her tone loaded with significance.

‘What do you mean?’ Emmeline dropped her voice to a
whisper, leaning over the table to catch the woman’s answer. The fabric felt sticky under her palms.

‘If you were from these parts, you wouldn’t be travelling with that man!’

‘Who…Lord Talvas?’

The woman raised her eyes heavenwards. ‘Nay, lass, the other one!’

‘Robert of Ilminster?’

The woman cackled, throwing her spiky, whiskered chin up into the harsh winter air. The cackle turned into a hacking cough, and Emmeline bit her lip, impatiently waiting for the woman to speak again. ‘Come closer, maid,’ The woman said, when she’d finished coughing. She caught Emmeline’s forearm, and dragged her around the table with a surprising strength. ‘That man is Edgar of Waldeath, married to poor Lady Sylvie…’

The world dipped and swayed. Emmeline clutched the woman’s hand. ‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying the man’s notorious for his viciousness. No qualms whatsoever. They say he burned his own village just to draw in King Stephen.’ The old woman’s voice lowered to a whispered sibilance.

‘To draw in King Stephen?’ Emmeline repeated the woman’s words. God in heaven! She swallowed hard, trying to stop the ground from running away beneath her feet, trying to garner her thoughts logically. She twisted her head around, searching the crowd for Talvas’s sleek head, catching his tall, proud stance immediately against the white steam that arose from the roasting hog. He appeared deep in conversation with another man, a stranger. Edgar was nowhere to be seen.

‘So he supports the Empress Maud,’ Emmeline confirmed as she turned back to the old woman. ‘You are certain?’

‘Aye, maid. Just watch the way the townspeople follow him
with their eyes. Even though he’s dragged his hood low, and parades around in the colours of the King, we still know who he is. I’m surprised no one’s put a knife in his back.’

‘Talvas must know,’ Emmeline murmured almost to herself. She fought to quell the hysteria rising in her breast, fought to maintain her balance. ‘I must tell him, before it’s too late.’

‘Good luck, my dear.’ The old woman smiled tightly. ‘It’ll take a clever piece to outwit that one.’

Head reeling from the shocking impact of the woman’s words, Emmeline started to push her way through the smiling, chattering faces of the crowd, oblivious to everything except reaching Talvas. The woman’s words continued to flirt at the edge of her mind: Edgar was Sylvie’s husband, the husband she had never met. Trying to see over the heads of the mass of people she searched for the details that had become so familiar to her over the past few days: the seal-dark hair; the lean, hungry features; the flash of scarlet tunic. Nothing. How could she have lost sight of Talvas so easily? A wave of breathlessness slowed her step; the plethora of limbs and smells, the crush of people threatened to overwhelm her.

And then she saw him. Relief flooded through her. He stood alone, and she realised her opportunity to speak to him, without Edgar’s presence. With no great distance between them now, she tried to call his name, but the sound buried itself in the swell of bodies before he heard it. She reached out her arm, trying to attract Talvas’s attention, only to have it smacked ruthlessly down.

‘You know who I am, don’t you, you little bitch!’ A smooth, dangerous voice, Edgar’s voice, slurred in her ear, breath laced with drink. She jumped back, blood running cold at the spitefulness of the tone.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ She faced him
brusquely, dismay mingling with the utmost horror as she stared at his coarse, florid features.

His lips slobbered wetly, his hand still gripping her upper arm. ‘Don’t give me that rubbish!’ Edgar hissed. ‘I saw that old crone talking to you!’

‘I would never have found out what an evil man you are if she hadn’t!’ Emmeline threw the insult back, tired of pretending. ‘Let me go!’ She tried to tug her arm from his punishing grip.

‘Nay, my lady, we’ve come too far for that! I’ll not let you spoil my plans.’

‘I’ll say nothing,’ Emmeline pleaded, desperation clouding her voice. ‘Let me go, and you can disappear into the crowd. Lord Talvas will be none the wiser.’

Edgar’s sludgy brown eyes narrowed on her face. ‘But I need you, my little lady. You are my bait.’

She struggled violently at the words, but his grip increased in strength until it was almost unbearable. ‘Let me go!’ she shouted. ‘Talvas!’ The words died in her throat as Edgar buckled her around roughly, pinioning her back against him. The cold slick of a knife blade pressed against her throat.

As Talvas raised his eyes from his conversation, a look of horror crossed his face. He strode over, hand reaching for his sword. ‘Robert…what are you doing?’

‘Back off, Talvas,’ Edgar snarled. ‘Leave hold of your sword, and don’t come any closer. You wouldn’t want this little angel to have her pretty throat cut.’ he giggled suddenly, a childish, simpering noise that rang out oddly over the utter silence of the market-place. The tension of the unfolding spectacle had spread amongst the crowd and now, with curious eyes, they turned their heads to watch. The whole place held its breath.

‘Just let her go, Robert.’ Talvas sounded calm, but never in his life had he felt more powerless, so unnerved by the situa
tion before him. The gossamer threads of trust between himself and this woman had grown and strengthened to a tangled complexity, a bond impossible to sever. Fear slicked his heart, breath caught in his chest as he clenched his fists in a futile gesture of anger at the sight of Emmeline’s pale, slender figure jammed up against this snarling thug. If only he could pluck Emmeline from those brawny arms that held her, yank her to safety. But the knife glinted in the weak sunlight, its flashing blade taunting him, jeering at him. He knew that a single nick would kill her.

‘Nay, Talvas, I’ll not let her go,’ Edgar sneered in answer. ‘And it’s Edgar, not Robert. Edgar of Waldeath.’ The crowd gave a subdued gasp of surprise. The name was notorious in these parts.

‘What do you want, Edgar? Money?’ Talvas tried to guess at Edgar’s full intention, tried to keep him talking, his mind all the while trying to work out a way of freeing Emmeline.

‘Nay, Talvas, I want far more than that. I want King Stephen. It will be easy for you to fetch your brother-in-law to me. Give him in exchange for this pretty maid and she’ll walk free.’

‘He’ll never meet with the likes of you,’ Talvas sneered back, unable to keep his temper at bay.

‘Then this little bird will die,’ Edgar replied. He smiled, his lips tight with cunning. ‘And if I’ve guessed aright, you’ll do anything to save her. I’ve seen the two of you together. And a delectable piece she is, too.’

Concern etched Talvas’s features. Never before had his loyalty been so sorely tested, especially over a woman. Like a blow, he realised the powerful web in which Emmeline had entangled him. He gave his head a slight shake, almost disbelieving that he had to choose between the King and this woman. He forced himself to keep his voice level as he gave his answer. ‘I’ll do it, Edgar. On one condition.’

‘Name it.’

‘That the maid is not harmed. In any way.’ The meaning of Talvas’s words was unmistakable.

Edgar giggled. ‘Oh, what a shame. I must admit, I am tempted. She’s far more attractive than her sister ever was.’

Rage boiled in Talvas’s gut as he took a step forward, not thinking. The knife pressed deeper into Emmeline’s throat and she squeaked in surprise at the sear of pain.

‘Calm down, Talvas. I want Stephen, not a night of fun.’ Edgar started to back his way to the edge of the square, dragging Emmeline with him, her body bouncing like a limp rag doll at his side as she tried to keep her feet on the ground. ‘Meet me on the morrow, up by the stand of pines on the hill yonder. If you are not there by the time the noon bell sounds, with King Stephen, then this maid will die.’

E
dgar hauled Emmeline along the narrow, oppressive streets of Wareham, ducking through alleyways, stumbling over uneven patches of ground, his grip around her elbow never lessening in its ferocious hold. Overhead, the sky began to darken, thick clouds driven in by the stiff westerly breeze, promising rain. She lost count of the times her shoulders, her elbows, bumped and scraped against a rough stone wall, a sharp corner of wood. Edgar obviously held a clear knowledge of the back streets of Wareham, and had no intention of allowing Talvas the slightest chance of following them. At last, as he pulled her along a dilapidated row of tumbledown cottages, he suddenly shoved at one of the low doorways with his shoulder and all but threw her into the gloomy interior.

‘Say nothing,’ he whispered threateningly, waving the knife at her as he struggled with the heavy iron bolts on the inside of the door. Emmeline stared in dismay around her. The room—the kitchen, she supposed, although the black grate of the fire lay cold—had a sad, unlived air, and was lit only by two small windows at the front, the apertures criss-crossed by iron bars, hung with thick cobwebs. She shivered.

‘Sit down,’ Edgar ordered, pointing at a high-backed oak chair in the middle of the room. Apart from a long trestle table it was the only other item of furniture.

Emmeline sat. She had no intention of riling this man; the dangerous insanity in his eyes was all too apparent. The soreness at her neck, a legacy of his sharp knife, kept a heightened flow of adrenalin coursing through her blood. Despite her annoyance, she remained silent as he bound her legs and arms to the chair, using thick ugly knots that tightened into her delicate flesh.

‘All done,’ Edgar announced, standing back to admire his handiwork. ‘I’d like to see you escape from that!’ Reaching down to a leather bag previously dumped by her feet, he lifted out a calfskin flagon, taking a large swig. He belched.

A huge sense of injustice, of acrid indignation, swept over her; in a moment she had forgotten her promise to remain silent. ‘You came prepared,’ She uttered, unable to contain her sarcasm.

Edgar grinned nastily, appraising the pearly white column of her throat, marred by a line of blood, his gaze trailing down the slender figure encased in the lichen green gown. ‘It always pays to have a bolt-hole in times like these. This house belongs to my friends and me…and not a soul in Wareham knows about it.’

‘How could you have known that Talvas and I would travel this way?’

Edgar sat down on the earthen floor, leaning his back against the wattle-and-daub wall, a wall mottled by patches of damp and mouldy lime plaster. He turned the knife continually, restlessly, in his hands, as if desperate to use it. ‘I returned home yesterday to find my castle full of Stephen’s soldiers…and the King himself,’ he replied, his eyes intent on the knife blade. ‘By not showing my face, I learned a great deal about Stephen’s plans for you and Lord Talvas.’

‘You’re a traitor to the King.’ And a bully, just like Giffard, she thought.

Edgar’s lips wrenched into a lopsided smile. ‘The man is a usurper; Maud should be Queen. But he won’t be King for much longer, maid, if my plans go aright. Lord Talvas will bring him straight to me.’

‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ Emmeline shot back. ‘Why would Lord Talvas exchange the King for a commoner like me?’

‘Because I’ve seen the way he looks at you, talks to you. And I’ll wager there’s more than the eye can see between the two of you.’

A damning flush crossed her face. Edgar hissed with laughter, a guttural sibilance. ‘I knew it! I knew I was right! He’s bedded you, as well, has he not?’

‘None of your business!’ she flashed back.

Edgar hoisted himself up from the earthen floor. ‘Shame I can’t have a piece of you.’ Panic fizzed through her veins at his words, her hands tightening imperceptibly around the curved ends of the chair arms as he placed one hand on her knee. The smooth fabric of her
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snagged on the coarse skin of his palm as his hand travelled up her thigh. His breath, thick with the stench of rotten food, washed over her. Nausea roiled in her stomach. ‘Or maybe I will,’ he murmured. ‘After all, who’s to know?’

‘What did Sylvie ever see in you?’ Fear forced her mind to think, to prepare herself, as her muscles tensed in agony, trying to escape his lecherous touch.

Edgar lifted his hand away. ‘You mean, what did I ever see in her? That silly bitch nearly betrayed me in the end. After everything I’ve done for her, given her!’

‘What do you mean, “betrayed” you?’ Emmeline asked slowly, seizing on his words. She could hear her heart thumping, slowly, steadily.

‘She knew I’d come back home. I saw the look on her face as she watched me sleep. She was going to run to the King, tell him who I was, and what I’d done. Luckily I stopped her just in time.’

‘Stopped her?’

He lifted his hands, began to crunch his knuckles one by one. ‘Strangled her with my bare hands. I found it easy.’

Emmeline moaned in shock, her head dropping forward at the impact of his words. Dear, sweet, brave Sylvie! She had tried to warn them! She hadn’t taken her own life after all!

From his pocket he produced a strip of dirty white linen. ‘I’ve had enough of this prattling.’ He tied the cloth over her mouth, tightly, so she could not utter a sound. She twisted her head, trying to indicate it was too constricting, but he merely laughed. ‘That should keep you quiet until I return.’ he pushed his face up close to hers, so close she could see the grease-filled pores of his pockmarked skin.

Tears of frustration welled in her eyes as Edgar shot the bolts of the door and slipped out, as she heard the heavy clunk of a key turn in the lock from the outside. She had little idea how long Edgar would be, or what his plans might be for the night. Talvas would come for her, of that she was certain, but when? She had no intention of sitting around waiting for her captor to return. She began to try and rock the unwieldy chair from side to side, but it seemed impossible to move, fashioned from solid oak.

Panting from the exertion, she rested a while, casting her eyes about the forlorn little room to discover some other means of escape. In the crepuscular gloom of the chamber, a deep-set square of window set high on the north wall snared her glance…and gave her renewed hope. The bristly flax of the rope scraped at her flesh as she pulled and wrenched at the complicated, but inadequate knots that pinned her wrists
to the chair arms. As the rope burns drew blood, she gritted her teeth against the pain—she had to escape this place, convinced her fate was to be raped, or murdered, or both. She had to find Talvas, wanted to find Talvas. An overwhelming desire to sink into the warm comfort of his arms flooded through her; the image of his dancing eyes in her mind giving her renewed hope and energy.

‘There he is now!’ whispered Guillame, his breath emerging in white clouds into the icy night air. The gold pin securing the sides of his cloak at his throat glinted in the moonlight, the only evidence of his movement as he blended the height and breadth of his body into dark shadow.

‘Let’s get him!’ Talvas muttered at Guillame’s back, leaning his body forward, ready to spring at the man who had dragged Emmeline away.

‘Nay, friend, stay back!’ Guillame warned quietly. ‘Let him move away a bit. He’s sneaky, he could double back easily if he sees us. He may even have someone else in there, holding a knife to Emmeline’s throat. If we attack him within earshot, he could shout back and—’

‘Don’t say it!’ Talvas gave a deep, shaky breath. He tore his hood back from his head, shoving his fingers through his hair. ‘I’ve got to get her out of there!’ An edge of instability suffused his voice, a mark of desperation.

‘I know, Talvas,’ Guillame replied, his tone calm and reassuring. ‘And we will get her out. The trick is not to kill her in the process.’

Talvas nodded curtly, unable to speak. He’d been relieved when Guillame and a few of Stephen’s soldiers had arrived in Wareham just moments after Emmeline had been seized. Guillame had taken charge while Talvas’s mind had scrambled with an untested, untried emotion.

‘There’s no way we’ll go through that door without a key,’ Guillame continued. ‘There’s no windows at the front, and the door is heavy with iron straps. We must get the key from Edgar—’

‘And drag the whorehound to the gallows,’ Talvas growled. The image of Emmeline’s slender body being dragged from the market-place in Edgar’s barbaric grip replayed endlessly in his mind.

They followed Edgar from a distance, keeping their steps soft, aware that on the still night air, the slightest sound would carry. They communicated with gestures, with signals that indicated a long friendship, one of trust and loyalty. As Edgar stepped along a narrow path that led down into a valley wooded on either side with spindly birch, they jumped on him.

‘Got you, you bastard,’ Talvas yelled, launching onto Edgar’s back and bringing him down spread-eagled into the mud. He sat heavily on Edgar’s back, wresting the man’s arms back and pinning them solidly with his weight. ‘Get the key, Guillame!’

‘It’s too late, Talvas.’ Edgar lifted his head, spitting out bits of mud, as Guillame ripped Edgar’s leather pouch from his belt, tipping out the contents. ‘I knew you wouldn’t keep your word. I killed her after I’d had my fun. The maid’s dead.’

Talvas closed his eyes momentarily, unbelieving of the raw pain that coursed through him. ‘You lie, you snivelling dog!’ he shouted. Enraged, he sprung off the man, yanking Edgar into a standing position. Guillame, rifling through the contents of the pouch spread out on the ground, shook his head. ‘The key’s not here.’

‘Where is it?’ Talvas demanded. One fist gripped Edgar at the throat, a bunch of cloth in his hand as the other reached for his knife. ‘Maybe this will make you talk.’

‘There’s no point, Talvas. Let her body rot there till she’s
a pile of dry old bones,’ Edgar squeaked, as the point of Talvas’s knife jabbed into his throat.

‘Tell me where the key is,’ Talvas repeated, his voice deadly calm.

‘You’ll never find it!’ Edgar lifted his right arm and threw a heavy iron object spinning into the scrubby brambles at the side of the path. Guillame followed the path of the key with his eye, throwing his body after it before it disappeared into the dark thicket.

Talvas grabbed a fistful of Edgar’s tunic at the neck, all but lifting the stocky man from the ground. ‘Much as I’d like to slit your throat from ear to ear,’ he snarled, ‘the law of this land prevents such action.’

‘I’ve found it!’ Guillame hoisted one arm jubilantly, the dull gleam of metal between his fingers indicating the retrieval of the key.

Talvas did not raise his eyes from Edgar’s face. ‘The sheriff of Wareham will keep you under lock and key until you can be tried for treason at King Stephen’s court.’

‘Never!’ breathed Edgar. In desperation, he lunged backwards, pitting his whole body weight against the strength of Talvas’s hold. The heel of his foot jarred against a stone and he stumbled in his efforts, yanking Talvas off balance. The two men plunged together onto the damp ground, Edgar struggling to extricate himself from Talvas, Talvas trying to pull the knife out from where it had lodged between the two men. Rolling away from Edgar in one swift movement, Talvas realised it was too late; the knife had plunged into Edgar’s heart as the men had struggled.

King Stephen stood before the wide wooden doorway of Waldeath Castle, his thick blond brows knitted together in a disapproving frown that marred his customary benign
features. A vague headache troubled him; he raised one hand to his forehead, trying to erase the pain as he viewed the sight below him, at the bottom of the steps. His light blue eyes rested on the figure of a tall, statuesque woman, who smiled up at him coyly with cobalt eyes, her ebony braids partially obscured by a white wisp of veil.

‘Matilda,’ he breathed. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I was bored of sitting in Winchester, not knowing whether you’re dead or alive! I’d much rather be with you!’

Stephen sighed. ‘It’s not safe, Matilda.’ he swept his hand over the burnt-out village of Waldeath, the huddle of cottages still smoking slowly. The acrid smell of charred thatch and wood hung like a shroud in the damp air. ‘Maud’s spies are everywhere. And you, as my wife, would be a prime target.’

‘It’s not safe anywhere, Stephen,’ His wife cajoled, her face lit with challenge, ‘so I’d as lief be with you.’

Stephen sighed. Around Matilda, his soldiers dressed in red surcoats were already mounting up, making ready for the march to Sedroc, to flush Maud out. The confines of the inner bailey rang with the shouts of his men as they steadied their horses, their chain-mail glinting like fish scales in the lucid morning light, the bosses of their kite-shaped shields gleaming.

Stephen winced at the brilliance of the scene, his headache intensifying as he shook his head dubiously. ‘It wasn’t a good idea for you to come here. It’s too dangerous.’

‘So dangerous that you sent my brother Talvas on a mission with a maid, so I hear?’ Matilda cocked her head on one side. The fine silk of her veil flowed out to one side, exposing the shining black of her hair.

Stephen coloured. ‘The messenger yesterday claimed the maid has been captured by one of Maud’s men…which is why we must make haste!’

‘And what of Talvas? Where is he?’

Stephen bit his lip under his wife’s unerring azure gaze. God in heaven, she could be stern at times! ‘I have no news of him,’ he replied lamely.

‘Mother of Mary! Stephen!’ Matilda blazed at his evasiveness, thrusting her embroidered leather slipper into the stirrup, the elegant folds of her russet cloak falling back to reveal a sumptuous
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of red wool. ‘Help me up on to this horse. Talvas could be dead for all we know!’

‘’Tis unlikely,’ Stephen demurred, coming down the steps to boost Matilda’s light frame into the saddle, realising he had no choice but to take his wife with him. ‘I know of no man more fortunate than your older brother.’