The Damsel's Defiance (20 page)

‘Sweet Jesu,’ Stephen muttered, rising out of his seat, ‘that woman is breathtaking.’

At the women’s entrance, Talvas’s glance had merely grazed the familiar statuesque beauty of his sister, his heart almost ceasing to beat at the sight of Emmeline. The delicate green of her
bliaut
undulated seductively in the candlelight, flowing over her figure in graceful lines, emphasising the trimness of her waist, the gentle flare of her hips. Her blond hair, plaited and bound in complicated intricacy around her pale forehead, was covered with a single layer of diaphanous
silk, so fine that it floated around her head and shoulders like a glistening mist. Desire raged through him; the urge to grab her and run, run like the devil away from this crowd, away from everyone, threatened to overwhelm him. With studied determination, he placed his goblet carefully on the table, before pushing back his chair and striding from the dais.

He caught Emmeline’s hands, a light snare.

‘Talvas!’ She looked up in surprise, the rose of her lips curving into a smile, her eyes alight with longing, with love.

‘I haven’t seen you all day!’ he murmured, ducking his head slightly so only she could hear his words.

She reached up a hand to touch his face; his blood raced at the coolness of her fingertips against his cheek. Without thinking, he seized her to him, one thick arm around her waist as he pulled her, hip to hip, flank to flank, to place his lips against hers.

The great hall erupted, the crowd wild with excitement at the sight of their lord claiming his woman, clapping and stamping their feet on the grey flagstones.

‘Don’t keep her all to yourself, Talvas!’ Stephen shouted down from the top table. ‘Let us all raise a toast to Mam’selle de Lonnieres!’

As swiftly as the kiss had begun, it ended, Talvas tearing his lips away reluctantly. An expectant hush fell, all eyes resting upon King Stephen as, standing, he lifted his pewter goblet. ‘I raise my cup to Emmeline de Lonnieres, who risked her neck to oust the Empress Maud from her campaign against me.’

‘Emmeline de Lonnieres.’ The repetition of her name grew louder and louder, swelling to the rafters, carried on a hundred voices. Her fine, alabaster skin flushing from the attention, Emmeline smiled tentatively at the crowd, before turning to Talvas, conscious of his arm still around her waist. ‘They should be thanking you, too,’ she murmured, drinking in the
devastating sight of him in a well-fitting dark brown tunic, a black lock of hair falling over his brow.

He dipped his head to catch her lowered voice, savouring the sweet smell of her perfume: attar of roses. ‘Nay, my lady,’ he whispered back, ‘you deserve it.’ Seizing her left hand, he lifted her arm above her head in a gesture of salute, all but pulling her arm out of its socket.

‘Come on, you two,’ Matilda urged grumpily from behind Emmeline. ‘I’m hungry!’

Talvas stepped back to let Matilda past, his fingers tightening around Emmeline’s. ‘Come with me,’ he whispered. ‘I need to talk to you.’ Her green eyes darkened to deep lovat, the seductive timbre of his voice kindling her desire. ‘Come!’ he repeated urgently, sensing the hesitation in the elegant lines of her body. His eyes held hers as ribald laughter echoed around the hall—their exit would not go unnoticed.

‘Do you need a chaperon, Emmeline?’ Matilda, halfway up the steps, turned around when she realised Talvas’s intention.

‘Nay,’ Emmeline reassured her hurriedly, unwilling to draw more attention than was necessary to the situation. Talvas spun her in the circle of his arm, heading for the door at the side of the high dais, levering a blazing torch from its iron ring as she pushed her way through the curtain.

‘They think we’re up to no good,’ She breathed. ‘And after that kiss I don’t blame them.’

‘Let them think what they like.’ His eyes sparkled wickedly in the gloom, as he hustled her along the dark corridor and into the icy twilight of the kitchen garden. Through the glittering mounds of frozen, tilled soil they walked, heading for a carved stone seat at the end of the path that sat against the wall that encircled the whole castle. As they sat down, Emmeline could hear the sea on the other side of the wall, water plashing sloppily against the stones as the
tide rushed in. A chilly raft of breeze stung her bare throat; she shivered.

‘Here.’ Talvas undid the jewelled clasp at the neck of his short cloak, sweeping it around her shoulders before she had time to protest.

Emmeline shifted uncomfortably as the cold stone began to seep through the fabric of her
bliaut.
‘I love this place,’ She ventured, nervously. ‘Matilda and I spent a lot of time here while you were at Sedroc.’

Talvas leaned forward, resting his elbows on his widespread knees, studying the ground. ‘I missed you then,’ he ground out finally. The bright moonlight highlighted the severity of his expression. ‘Do you really want to go back to France?’

The bluntness of his question came as a shock, catching her unawares. She touched the bulky curve of his strong shoulder, feeling the tense, bunched muscles beneath. ‘Nay, I wish to stay here with you.’ A sense of utter release flowed out of her, a certainty regarding her future.

Her words settled upon him like silken cloth. Twisting his whole body, he gripped her upper arms, a spiral of joy bubbling in his chest. ‘Then you’ll marry me?’

The words hit her with the force of a mace. ‘Nay, Talvas, I’ll stay here on my terms. No betrothal. No marriage.’

He released her shoulders savagely, causing her to sway back with the movement and sprung from the bench. ‘Sweet Mother of God, I actually thought you would relent…what a fool!’ The feral roughness of his tone shredded her heart as he knocked his head with his fist.

Shocked, she reached forward with her hand, trying to calm him, trying to appease him. ‘Talvas…I thought you realised…Don’t be like this!’

‘Like what?’ he shot back bitterly, striking her fingers away. ‘I have lost too much before to not insist on wedlock, Emmeline.’

Utter desperation clouded her features, tore at her very soul. ‘But you wouldn’t lose me, Talvas…you don’t need marriage to keep me by your side.’

‘The Church would condemn your actions; you’d be treated like a whore if you don’t take my name…’ His voice deepened with guttural hoarseness. ‘I couldn’t protect you, Emmeline. I told you before.’

‘Since when have you cared what other people think, Talvas?’ Emmeline stood up, unsteadily. This bitter acrimony poured like acid onto the bond that had grown between them, eating away at those fragile strings of connection. Nausea swept through her as she felt herself losing him, of never seeing him again. ‘Can’t you see?’ Her voice wobbled with misery. ‘Talvas! I would be your wife in all but name!’

In the pearly luminescence of the moonlight, his eyes were bleak, saddened. ‘’Tis not enough, Emmeline. Not enough.’

N
ot far from the castle at Hawkeshayne, bordering a wide, downstream curve of the river, sat a vast wharfside area spread out over a flat area of shingle. The wharfside was a place of industry, a place well-known for its excellent craftsmanship, where Talvas had ships built to his design, either selling them on, or using the vessels for his own endeavours.

The wind sighed through the bare tops of the beech trees as Talvas led Emmeline along the narrow track through the forest toward the high warehouses that edged the wharves. With each step, misery welled in Emmeline’s chest as she followed the rigid line of his back, his every movement unyielding with anger. After he had left her bereft and speechless in the garden, she had raced back to her bedchamber, flinging herself fully clothed onto the bed, tears pouring down her face. How could Talvas be so unreasonable? How could he expect her to marry, after everything she had told him? Surely he of all people knew how she felt? Yet the thought of leaving him filled her with such pain that she wondered whether she could step up to the altar and take her vows once more. Tormented by self-doubt, thoughts looped continually
through her mind, nibbling and chattering at her. She hadn’t seen him for over a week, preferring to keep to the chambers allocated to her, trying to decipher the best way forward.

Talvas’s feet skidded as the path began to descend, the heavy mud clinging to the thick leather on the sole of his boots. He stopped, turning to Emmeline. ‘Watch your step here,’ he cautioned brusquely, reaching up his hand to help her down, avoiding her emerald gaze. The warmth of her fingers sent spirals of longing coursing through his lean frame and, inwardly, he cursed, dropping her hand and turning his back on her as soon as he knew she was steady. When Emmeline had approached him earlier that morn, his heart had lifted briefly with the thought that she might have changed her mind. But one glance at her pale, stony face made him swiftly realise his mistake. Beset with a polite formality, she had asked about the state of repairs on
La Belle Saumur,
as if there had been nothing between them, as if they hadn’t argued, her intention to return to France obvious in every gesture, in every word. Despite being irked by her cold, withdrawn behaviour, his every instinct yearned to race down to the wharfside and smash the vessel to pieces to prevent her leaving.

As Talvas strode on impatiently, Emmeline clutched at a gnarled, overhanging branch for balance and to catch her breath. Matching Talvas’s furious pace was difficult this morning, and, lagging behind dismally, she knew why. Matilda’s request for rags had highlighted the stark fact that Emmeline had had no need of them since she had come to England. Tossing and turning in her bed last night, Emmeline had tried to dismiss it, tried to focus on something else, until, with shaking fingers, she begun to count the days. The frantic summing up on her fingers had yielded a full-blown certainty: she carried Talvas’s child. Biting her lips against the boiling nausea in her stomach, she fought to place one foot before
another, her mind churning with the damning reality. The thought filled her with fear, with tearing panic. How could she tell him? If he knew about the babe, then he would compel her to marry, without a doubt. But to keep such knowledge from him would be beyond cruelty. Her lashes swept down briefly over her cheeks; racked by indecision, she followed his steps blindly.

They emerged from the gloom of the trees and onto the gentle slope of the open foreshore: a narrow strip of shingle that bounded the powerful, strong current of the river. The tide was out at the moment, and the vast flats of mud made strange creaking and sucking noises as they walked past, each silent, caught up in their own thoughts. Curlews lifted their long, spindly legs to pick their delicate way through the mud, their black outlines stark against the silvery grey flow of the water. Emmeline lifted her face, the fresh sea air brushing her skin, quelling the sickness in her stomach.

‘Over there.’ Talvas pointed at the impressive line of warehouses, their outlines sharply delineated against the billowing grey sky. Emmeline nodded, pulling the sides of her cloak closer together, relieved that she didn’t have to walk much farther. The energy had sapped quickly from her body on this walk, leaving the muscles in her legs depleted of all strength, trembling from exertion.

‘What ails you?’ Talvas rapped out roughly, a restraining hand on her upper arm as he checked the grey circles beneath her eyes, the whiteness of her skin. ‘Make haste, Emmeline; I haven’t got all day.’

She flinched under the cut of his words; but after her rejection of him he had every right to be angry with her. How angry would he be if she failed to tell him about the small life that grew within her? She had lain awake for most of the night, her mind racked with uncertainty. Could she really leave, go
back to France, without saying anything? Could she really take another baby away from the man who had suffered so much with the loss of his first child? Stumbling over the coarse, ridged grass of the estuary, she honestly did not know the answer.

The sweet smell of wood shavings filled her nostrils as she entered the first warehouse, her eyes alighting immediately on the familiar, elegant lines of her ship.

Propped up by wooden stands,
La Belle Saumur
seemed enormous, her hull exposed when normally it would be covered by water. Men worked all around her, some hammering the last carefully curved planks around the bow, others busy up on deck, planing down wood to a silky smoothness. Noticing Talvas, a few of the men grinned and waved before returning to their work.

‘She’s all but finished,’ Talvas said reluctantly, pushing at a pile of frothy woodshavings with his toe.

‘So I can see.’ Emmeline’s voice echoed dully in the huge space. Her heart plummeted at the impact of his words. If
La Belle Saumur
was nearly finished, then there was nothing to prevent her departure. Tears bubbled up, blurring her vision, and she stepped forward blindly, thinking to hide her sadness by running her fingers over the mended hull.

‘She’s beautiful,’ she murmured. Why had she even approached him this morning to ask about her ship? Was she completely foolish? All she needed now was some space in which to think, to think what was best for all of them: her, Talvas, and their child.

‘Thank you for repairing her. It means much to me.’ Her fingers drifted instinctively over the silky wood, before she turned to face him. He caught the fragile smell of her perfume, the single pearl of a tear in the corner of her eye.

‘Then why are you crying?’ he murmured, touching his
fingertip at the corner of her eye. The diamond tear sparkled in the light.

‘I’m not.’ She dashed a hand to her face. ‘The strong light is making my eyes water.’

Inside his heart clenched with wretchedness, with the desolate pain of a loss that had yet to happen. He kept reminding himself that it was better this way, for if she wouldn’t agree to marriage, then it was preferable that she left. He set his face into a blank mask, lifting his eyes to the mast. ‘A new sail, as well,’ he added, remembering the white wisp of her body pinned to the mast on that terrible night at sea.

‘When can we put her on the water?’ She struggled to maintain the formal conversation.

Talvas shrugged his shoulders. ‘Tomorrow, if you like. This harbour will protect the vessel from any storms.’

She nodded, remembering the huddle of boats against the jetty. ‘Then I suppose I’ll have to find a captain, a crew, to take me back to Barfleur.’ She laughed, joylessly, the sound brittle in her ears, speaking words that hid her heart’s true direction to cover up her indecision, her dilemma. ‘Mayhap you would help me find someone?’

The strained, translucent quality of her skin bewildered him; she appeared weary, almost beaten, the wide, earnest green eyes bereft of their usual sparkle. Why did she persist with this stubbornness, this refusal to trust him, to marry him? He ached to hold her in his arms, to tell her all would be well, but he knew he deluded himself. Pain lacerated his innards as his mouth twisted in answer. ‘You’ll be lucky to find anyone at this time of year; at Yuletide, people want to be with their families.’

‘So you will not help me.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ve better things to do with my time than assemble a crew for you.’ She flinched at his callousness, the icy tone of his speech engulfing her with a
sense of loss, of sadness. Her shoulders slumped forward with an air of dejection.

His fingers clenched into his palms at the sight of her demeanour; his voice dropped to a savage whisper. ‘You bring this on yourself, Emmeline. It doesn’t have to be like this! One word from you and you could change everything. Just one word.’ The raw hurt that laced his words kicked her in the gut. Unable to speak, her throat gripped with heartache, she shook her head, not knowing what to do, tears of silent agony pooling in her eyes.

An air of festivity spread through the great hall; servants carried in armfuls of glossy ivy, the green shining leaves offset by clusters of dull black berries, and wrestled with spiky bundles of holly as they attempted to hang them from the walls. The leather curtain that covered the doorway between the hall and the outside courtyard flapped continually with people coming in and out. Smiling contentedly from the high dais, Matilda chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bread, nodding her approval as the decorations began to transform the grey austerity of the hall. She loved this time of year, the celebration of Yule, the time when the nights drew in and the fires burned high, and loved it even more this year as she and Stephen would be staying at Hawkeshayne with Talvas.

‘I’m pleased Emmeline decided to stay awhile.’ Matilda turned to her brother, who sat further along the long, oak table, engrossed in the estate accounts with his bailiff.

‘Hmm?’ replied Talvas, absentmindedly, his attention on the neat list of figures that the bony fingers of his bailiff pointed out to him. The early morning sun poured through the windows, their shallow arches set high into the grey stone of the hall, sending shafts of light down onto the trestle tables, some still crammed with peasants breaking their fast.

‘Are you listening to me?’ Matilda raised her voice.

Talvas lifted his head reluctantly from the parchment, keeping his finger on the numbers he discussed with his bailiff. Confident that his capable manservant would oversee the sowing of the crops, he had only to agree the outline plan for the year before escaping to sea once more.

‘I hear you, Matilda.’ The note of patience in his voice stretched thin.

‘Are you pleased that Emmeline is staying on?’

Talvas began sorting through the papers, the large pieces of parchment starting to cover a large part of the oak table. ‘The maid has little choice: the weather is too inclement to return to France at the moment.’ In truth, after she had made her feelings clear about marriage, he wanted her to leave. Every touch, every glance from the maid filled him with a grim despair, a constant reminder of her imminent departure.

‘Since when has the weather stopped her? She would go if she really wanted to.’ Matilda speared a piece of sliced ham with her jewelled eating knife. ‘Nay, I think she stays for a different reason.’

Talvas nodded at his bailiff, who made a few marks on one of the pieces of parchment, then whipped his blue eyes round at his sister.

‘Emmeline stays because she has no choice, not because she wants to.’

‘She stays because of you,’ Matilda announced.

A wild, incomprehensible anger seized him. He rose abruptly, almost knocking the bench over with the violent movement. ‘There’s nothing between us, d’you hear?’ He glared at Matilda, mouth twisting in annoyance. ‘For pity’s sake, cease your meddling!’

He had scarce seen Emmeline in the past few days. She had avoided his company, choosing to keep to the chambers allo
cated to her, or the women’s solar on the first floor. If by chance they came together, they acted as strangers, their behaviour beset with a jerky formality that knifed his heart. Whatever ties had existed between them now seemed severed, the flimsy lines of connection stretched so taut it seemed the slightest breeze could shred them. He knew better than to pursue her now, now her mind seemed set on returning home. Better to ignore his feelings for her, to parcel them up and tuck them away in a faraway place, buried for ever.

Emmeline descended the steep steps carefully, one hand skimming the curve of the damp stone wall in case she lost her footing. With every step, her heart thumped in nervous anticipation, at the thought of the commitment she was about to undertake. The stormy weather over the past few days had given her time to think; now her mind was made up. Her blood plummeted around her veins at the enormity of the decision she had taken, formed in the dismal half light of dawn. She would tell Talvas about the child, and if he insisted upon marriage, then so be it. It was no longer her choice to make; she had another life to think of now. If staying with Talvas meant marriage, then she would go through with it, despite all her misgivings. The thought of a life without him was intolerable.

‘I thought she’d eaten in her chamber…as usual,’ Talvas muttered as he spotted Emmeline’s slender lines framed in the doorway of the great hall. He began to gather his papers together, much to the astonishment of his bailiff who had been about to explain the crop rotation for spring.

Matilda placed a hand on his arm. ‘Stay, Talvas. Don’t offend her by rushing from the room.’

‘She is more likely to run, if she sees me,’ he responded gruffly.

But his mouth opened in scowling surprise as he tracked
Emmeline’s progress toward the top table. The elegant lines of the heather-coloured
bliaut
smoothed over her slender curves, the tips of the long, exaggerated sleeves almost touching the flagstone floor. Delicate filigreed embroidery looped and twirled fine stitching along the cuffs of the sleeves, the sweeping hem of the gathered skirt. She appeared as an early spring flower, trembling and radiant in the first pale rays of sunshine, her milk-white skin causing her eyes to burn with jade fire, setting off the rosy pink of her lips. As she walked to the high dais, it seemed the whole hall held its breath, just for a moment, in appreciation of her delectable beauty.