The Damsel's Defiance (7 page)

‘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 gracefully 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.’

T
he 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.

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 frame 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.