Warrior's Princess Bride (19 page)

‘I see.’ Henry waved his arm at one of the serving girls, a signal for his goblet to be filled with wine.

‘There’s more than first meets the eye between those two.’

‘Aye, you’d be right there,’ Henry agreed, remembering the passionate parting kiss he had witnessed some days earlier in the court yard. ‘I’d make haste with your wedding plans, Ferchar, if you’re not to lose a wife, and I’m not to lose a good soldier.’

Ada, listening idly to the men’s conversation, froze, realising in a moment the significance of Ferchar’s words.

A
da tore at one of the ivory combs securing her hair, wrenching furiously at the wine-dark strands as she tried to extricate it. A prong snapped under the ferocity of her action, falling to the wooden floor boards of the chamber, as her loosened braids tumbled down her back. Outrage seethed through her veins; pure, un diluted rage towards the half-sister who had catapulted so unexpectedly into her life. Her head pounded with the un fair ness of the situation; she would never have welcomed Tavia with such friendliness, such compassion if she had possessed some inkling of that scheming whore’s intentions. How dare Tavia steal Lord Ferchar from under her nose! Only she, Ada of Huntington, was destined to marry Lord Ferchar, not some low-born peasant chit!

Her maid, Beatrice, continued to fold garments care fully and calmly into an oak coffer at the side of the bed chamber, in spite of her mistress’s agitation. Over the years she had become accustomed to her Ada’s unpredictable rages and tirades, her erratic moods, her weeping, although of late her behaviour had worsened, becoming more frequent and un controllable. When Beatrice had finished her task, she closed the lid of the coffer. ‘Shall I help you prepare for bed, my lady?’ The servant moved quietly across the room, intricate Ada’s awkward, disturbed pacing with knowing eyes. She did well out of Ada, gaining a good deal more in the way of perks and gifts than the other servants in this castle. Ada was easy to steal from as well; as a princess she had so much, she never really noticed when items went missing, and if she did, Beatrice would explain, calmly and care fully, that Ada had probably displaced it during one of her ‘moods.’

Ada halted abruptly at Beatrice’s question, head snapping around, the puffy lines of her face set into a snarl. ‘It’s so unfair,’ she whined, her face chalk-white and strained in the candle light. ‘Ferchar is to be my husband, not hers!’

‘And so he shall be, my lady.’ Beatrice began to remove the pearl-studded gold pins that secured a few remaining braids to Ada’s head.

‘Nay! I heard them!’ Ada whirled away from her maid’s busy fingers, seeming not to notice as her hair dragged and caught on the pins. She turned, crouching like a caged animal, wagging one finger up at the other woman. ‘I heard them talking, Ferchar and King Henry. About how Ferchar wants Tavia’s money, and the only way to do that is to marry her! How could he want her, when he can have me?’

‘How could he, indeed?’ murmured Beatrice, keeping her response bland, non-committal.

‘Am I not more beautiful than she?’ Ada pouted her lips, a little greasy still from the meal she had consumed earlier that evening, and smoothed her hands over the magnificent spun silk of her gown, drawing attention to her slender curves. Her blue eyes hardened when Beatrice, picking up a hairpin from the floor, did not respond immediately. ‘Answer me, damn you!’ Ada’s voice lowered to a dangerous, sibilant hiss. ‘Am I not more beautiful?’

‘Oh, my lady, aye, of course you are!’ chimed Beatrice dutifully.

Ada lifted her hand, striking the maid’s cheek with brutal force. ‘You lie, damn you! You just tell me the words you think I want to hear! How shallow you are!’ Her voice changed, becoming lilting, sing-song. She sank to her knees, clasping her hands together over her chest, as if praying. Tears coursed down her cheeks, dripping dark blotches onto the floor boards. ‘Oh, Beatrice, forgive me!’ Ada clutched at the older woman’s skirts, her fingers nervous and fumbling over the coarse spun cloth. ‘I don’t know what ails me!’

‘You’ve just got yourself in another state, my lady.’ Beatrice patted her on the head. ‘I think nothing of it, remember. Don’t upset yourself.’

Ada raised her tear-stained face. ‘I don’t deserve you, Beatrice. You’re so good to me.’ And I make sure I’m amply rewarded for my pains, thought the maid smugly. She lifted one hand to her smarting cheek, touching it gingerly.

Head bowed, Ada shook her dishevelled locks, the curling ends moving across the oak floor boards with a swishing sound. ‘If only she hadn’t come,’ she mumbled into her chest, ‘if only she hadn’t come and upset everything, then Ferchar would still want to marry me.’ Ada clawed desperately for Beatrice’s gnarled, work-roughened hands. ‘We have to get rid of her, Beatrice. Tavia has to go.’

‘Hush, my lady, you’re exhausted, that’s all. It will all seem a lot better in the morning.’

Ada’s fingers snaked around Beatrice’s wrist in a punishing grip, her nails digging into the servant’s soft flesh. ‘Nay, Beatrice! It will not be better in the morning!’ Ada was almost shouting now. ‘Because she will still be here!’

Someone rapped sharply at the door; both women jumped. Then came Tavia’s voice, low and in sis tent. ‘Ada, are you there? I must speak with you.’

Ada’s head jolted up, her eyes wild, unfocused. ‘Tell her to go away. Tell her that I cannot see her at the moment.’

Beatrice placed heavy hands on her mistress’s shoulders, steady, reassuring. ‘Let’s see what she wants, my lady.’ She leaned over, whispering into Ada’s ear, ‘You never know, it may be to your advantage.’ Ada smiled, her eyes adopting a positive gleam. Taking charge, Beatrice pulled on Ada’s hands, helping her up from the floor, leading her over to sit on the edge of the bed, on top of a pile of glossy furs. Moving over to the sturdy iron-riveted oak door, the maid clicked the latch upwards, allowing Tavia to slip in.

‘Thank you,’ Tavia said, recognising Ada’s servant. Her eyes sought her half-sister in the gloom, trying not to betray her shock when she spotted Ada, sitting at the end of the bed. Her face was covered in red patches, almost as if she’d been crying; her hair was dishevelled, hanging over her shoulders in unruly curls. ‘Why, Ada, what’s the matter?’

‘You tell me, Tavia,’ Ada responded, her tone laden with annoyance. ‘I thought you, of all people, should know.’

‘Nay, I do not know,’ Tavia replied care fully, wondering whether she had made the right decision in coming to Ada. But her half-sister, however fragile in character, was her last hope in escaping this place, and Ferchar; she had to try.

‘You’ve stolen Ferchar from me!’ Ada’s voice rose petulantly, like that of a small, spoiled child.

‘Now, now, mistress, don’t you go getting yourself upset again.’ Beatrice moved comfortingly to Ada’s side. ‘Best you just declare your business, my lady, and then be off. My mistress has worked herself up into a real state over this whole thing.’ Her beady eyes glowered at Tavia.

‘But, Ada,’ Tavia choked out, astounded, ‘I have no intention of marrying Lord Ferchar! That’s what I’ve come to see you about! I need your help!’

‘What about asking Lord Benois?’ Ada replied. ‘It hasn’t escaped anyone’s notice that you seem to spend a lot of time with him.’

Tavia picked at a loose thread on her bodice, desperately trying to ignore the hurt, the rejection that flooded through her slim frame. ‘He’s helped me on a couple of occasions. But he has other business to attend to now, for King Henry.’ Her own pride pre vented her from asking him for help; the less he knew about her plans now, the better.

‘So he’s abandoned you to your fate,’ Ada responded, a cruel lilt to her voice.

Tavia grimaced. ‘A fate that I have no plans to be a part of. Ferchar can keep the fortune for all I care. I just want to be away from this place.’

‘Ferchar always gets what he wants,’ Ada said, smiling slowly. ‘He’ll find you in the end.’

‘That’s why I need to get as far away as possible,’ Tavia explained. ‘Somewhere that he’ll never think of looking.’

‘Then I think I can help you, Tavia.’ Ada spoke slowly, as if the idea was forming at that moment in her mind. ‘I have an idea that will suit both of us—you will disappear and I will marry Ferchar. Just as it should be.’

The royal forest, which for decades had provided the kings of Scot land with rich, prolific hunting, expanded out to the west of Dunswick: vast, undulating slopes of woodland teeming with deer and wild boar. No one was allowed to hunt here except with the king’s permission; anyone caught poaching would be punished severely. As Ferchar rode, intricate his master huntsman to the entrance of the forest, he silently congratulated himself on being able to offer the English king a proper finale to all their negotiations. King Henry was known for his passion for the hunt; the excitement on his face had been palpable when Ferchar had made the suggestion the evening before.

From the early hours of this morning, when the dew lay heavy on the grass before steaming gently in the strong rays of the rising sun, the master of the hunt had been striding through these forests. Watching and working with his two most trusted blood hounds, he found the scent of the quarry, noting the location and direction of the fresh tracks. Without this man’s skill and fore thought, Ferchar and his noble assembly could be riding for hours with no hint of a quarry. The master had returned during break fast, nodding and smiling, indicating the promise of a good chase ahead. Now, up ahead of the horses, the hounds strained and pulled on their horse-hair leads, eager to be off, to pick up the scent, to sprint through the wood lands with their powerful, honed bodies.

‘Your man knows his job well,’ Henry commented, naturally addressing the compliment towards Ferchar although the pale-faced Malcolm rode on the other side of the regent. All three men had dispensed with their destriers, the horses they normally rode in battle, and instead rode the smaller coursers, their muscled, agile frames ideally suited for the quick turns and fast gallops through the trees.

‘Aye, he’s been in the royal employ since he was a boy,’ Ferchar explained, shifting irritably. He was certain his groom had not fastened the saddle correctly underneath the horse; he seemed to lean too much on to one side, and his right hip ached with the effort of keeping his balance central.

Henry edged his horse closer. ‘And have you told Mistress Mowerby the good news yet?’

Ferchar shot a covert glance behind him, making certain that the ladies followed at a discreet distance. He smiled, re assured that Ada rode close by his future wife’s side. He had given Ada the task of making sure she didn’t let Tavia out of her sight, and, as usual, Ada had been pathetically grateful to him for giving her such an important job. He knew he could trust Ada; after all, he had schooled her to do his bidding ever since their father had died. His gaze narrowed suddenly at the sight of Benois riding just behind the ladies, the sunlight bouncing off the jewelled hilt of his sword.

‘Nay,’ Ferchar answered finally, ‘I thought I would save that piece of information until you, my lord, journeyed south. It would be best if she had no allies in the castle, no one to help her should she choose to flee.’

‘You mean Benois le Vallieres.’

‘Precisely.’

Henry adjusted his position in his saddle, patting Ferchar on the back. ‘Have no fear, my friend. I will ride south on the morrow, and Benois will ac company me.’

‘Just make sure he does,’ Ferchar muttered.

Bouncing clumsily along side Ada, Tavia gripped the reins of her courser with tense fingers, wondering if she could trust her new-found sister. All morning, Ada had been nothing but helpfulness, helping her dress in clothes that would carry her through a long journey, packing her saddle bags with food and water as well as some of the precious gem stones that Ferchar had grudgingly handed back to her. In her chamber the previous night, Ada and Beatrice had outlined their plan of how Tavia was to escape. Under the ruse of going hunting, Ada and Tavia would ‘become lost’ and Ada, who knew the layout of the woods well, would lead Tavia to a trusted man servant who would ride south with her, and to freedom. Tavia’s mind scram bled with all the fine details of the plan, trying to ignore the enormity of the decision she was about to make. But Benois’s rejection of her had effectively made up her mind. She had tried, and failed, to fight for his love; she was not about to humble herself any more.

‘I didn’t think hunting would be your favourite pastime.’ Benois rode up along side her, his lean figure relaxed, graceful in the saddle. He wore no hat, nor helmet, chestnut hair flaring in the strong light, and, as he lifted his hand to shield his eyes, she traced the powerful sinew in his wrist, remembering the gentleness of his fingers.

Her hands clenched around the reins; refusing to look at him, she studied the nodding mane of her horse. ‘And I thought you’d be gone by now.’

‘I suppose I deserve that,’ he murmured under his breath.

‘What do you expect, Benois?’ she retaliated, not wanting Ada to overhear. ‘That I’m going to speak to you with a civil tongue after…after…’ She stopped, the words clawing at her throat. Tears prickled at the bottom of her eyes.

‘I suppose I just wanted to make sure that you were all right.’ In truth, he wasn’t certain how to broach the subject that he had tossed and turned with all night; he knew he had to tread care fully, an approach with which he was not familiar.

Tavia’s head shot up, faint blue circles sketched below her eyes. Yet he couldn’t stop thinking how beautiful she looked, her eyes burning like sapphires in the white marble of her face as she addressed him in a chanting, caustic tone. ‘Oh, aye, I’m just fine,’ she replied. ‘Apart from the fact that I’m about to be tied into some dreadful marriage with…him!’ She nodded brusquely up ahead to wards Ferchar, identifying the object of her sentence.

‘Hmm.’ Benois rubbed his chin, as if considering her words. ‘I see your point.’ He yearned to tell her that she was safe, that his night of wakefulness had forced him to come to a decision, but he had to wait until she was alone to tell her.

Her brows drew together, a fierce condemning line. She pulled at his sleeve, fingers digging into the hard muscle under the fabric of his tunic. ‘Do you dare to jest, Benois? It’s no laughing matter, I can assure you!’ Guilt licked her heart, but she quashed the sentiment promptly. It was better that Benois had no idea of her escape plan; indeed, what would be the point in telling him? He didn’t care about her anyway.

‘Nay, you’re right, it is no laughing matter. But there may be a way out.’ His deep-set, hawk eyes searched her face with a knowing intensity.