Warrior's Princess Bride (21 page)

With some effort, she managed to lift her head at his approach. ‘How did you find me?’ She stared up at him, still astounded that he should be here at all. Benois pulled out a piece of white cloth from his wide leather belt. ‘I had this,’ he explained gently, the breeze sifting his hair, ruffling it, making him seem younger somehow. ‘It’s your veil…you used it to bind my shoulder. The fabric carried your scent,’ he added, noting her puzzled expression, ‘so the hound followed your track with no difficulty.’

‘I’m surprised you still had it,’ she uttered, studying the creased and bloodied cloth that hung between his fingers.

He smiled enigmatically, tucking the material down the front of his tunic, unwilling to confess that he had been reluctant to dispose of it; the material carried her perfume, a unique fragrance that he held dear to his heart.

‘And now,’ he said, bending down to swoop his arm beneath her hips, around her back, hoisting her high up against his chest, the hem of her
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falling back to reveal her small leather slippers swinging in the air, ‘you come with me.’

Tavia didn’t protest as he set her up on to his saddle, clutching uselessly at the pommel as the horse dipped sideways under her slight weight. But Benois kept one hand protectively at her waist, suspecting from her pale colour that she might fall, as he stuck his toe into the shining metal stirrup and swung his athletic frame on to the horse behind her. Too weary to object as his muscled thighs cupped close around her hips, or to even wriggle forwards to create some space between them, she merely subsided grate fully into the rugged haven of his chest. His arms came about her, expertly con trolling the reins to manoeuvre the animal out from the hostile under growth.

The sunlight, dappled under the trees, fired coppery sparks over Benois’s chestnut hair, stippling the bouncing motion of the horse’s mane with light. The damp earth on Tavia’s fingers began to dry out, and itch. She brushed at the loose soil, suddenly aware of the state of her nails, her hands, streaked with grime and blood. Pain pulsed through her temples with the steady jolt of the horse, and, without thinking, she raised her right hand to probe the wound annoyance.

‘Don’t touch it!’ Benois seized her fingers, drawing them down again. His large, steady fingers remained over hers. ‘Your fingers are so dirty, they might infect the cut. Don’t worry, I’ll clean it up later.’

‘I tried to climb out,’ she ventured, by way of explanation.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ he murmured. ‘You’re not the sort of maid who would accept such a fate so easily.’

‘The walls were so steep.’ A shudder squeezed her chest as she remembered. ‘I did give up in the end.’

Anger seized him as he thought of her, alone and frightened, at the bottom of the animal trap. ‘You kept your head, Tavia.’ He struggled to keep the emotion from his voice.

A thought gripped her; she half-twisted in the saddle. ‘You’re not taking me back, are you? You’re not taking me back to Dunswick?’

‘Not a chance,’ he promised, grimacing at the trembling in her body. ‘We ride to Langley’s castle, over the border. He’ll give us shelter, food.’

Reassured, Tavia shifted against him, vaguely aware of the panic that bubbled furiously at the edges of her sanity. ‘I thought no one would come for me,’ she blurted out suddenly. ‘I thought I would be left there…to die.’ Her voice rang with such a hollow, bereft note that he relinquished her hand, and brought his arm around, across her chest, hugging her close to him.

‘I would have found you, Tavia. I would have razed those woods to the ground to find you.’ A flare of passion furrowed the melodious timbre of his speech.

Tavia closed her eyes, savouring the feel of the man at her back, his strong arm around her, the warm play of sunlight on her face.

‘Why?’ she ventured, suddenly.

‘Why?’ he shot back, his tone un guarded, raw. ‘Because—’ Benois stopped.
Because I love you. I need you.
The words, shocking, vivid, burst into his brain. The silence shivered in the air between them. He knew he had to give her some explanation. ‘Because I do not wish to see you married to Ferchar,’ he supplied finally, knowing that now was not the time to tell her of his plan, not now, when she was tired and hurt.

The breeze washed through the woodland canopy above them, sending a gentle sighing through the leaves. The shadows from the trees danced over their faces, the strong light throwing the bark on the wide trunks into an intense pattern of tiny creases and whorls. A sparrowhawk, body motionless, head turning in rapid succession of movement, yellow eyes hunting prey for his fledgling chicks, only heard the horse’s approach at the last moment. The white patches on his neck flashed as the large bird lifted off silently from the high branch, the dark bars of colour across his chest distinctive against the green of the forest.

Tavia followed the sparrowhawk’s dipping, swerving flight through the trees, its odd guttural chattering warning its mate of the humans’ presence. Even through the foggy layers of her exhausted mind, she knew Benois hadn’t answered her properly. A tiny part of her brain pleaded to go no further, to stop questioning him, and relish that sheer joy of just being within the circle of his arms. He had made it perfectly clear at Dunswick that he desired her, but was unable to give her anything more, preferring to resume his duties with King Henry and ride south.

‘Then I suppose I should say thank you,’ she mumbled. ‘Because if you hadn’t come to look for me…well, then…’ The sentence, unfinished, faded into a half-gasp, as she realised that if he hadn’t cared enough to look for her, then she would have died. ‘You saved my life,’ she said, finally, picking nervously at the thick soil under one of her nails. ‘Ada really wanted me to die.’

‘She wanted Ferchar for herself,’ Benois replied crisply, ‘and nothing, nobody, was to come between her and her marriage, not even the discovery of a long-lost half-sister.’ He ducked his head to avoid a low over hanging branch, inhaling the sweet scent of Tavia’s hair as his chin brushed the crown of her head. They fell silent, listening to the rhythmic sound of the horse’s hoof beats as he carried them south through the trees. The track had become easier to negotiate, running wide, clear through the forest, the earth hard-packed and dry.

As they emerged from the woodland, the land opened out before them, a wide river valley stretching horizontally before their eyes, with steep, rounded hills rising high into the bright, blue sky beyond.

‘The border,’ Benois announced, his eyes combing the range of hills before them, seeking the best possible route forwards. ‘We need to go up there, Tavia. Can you make it?’

‘Aye, I can,’ she said, with more fortitude than she felt. She could crawl up on her hands and knees if that’s what it took to escape Ferchar’s clutches.

In the slanting shadows of the late afternoon light, a warm hush fell across the land, broken only by the plaintive call of the curlews. The tops of the hills were flushed with a pinkish hue, an indicator of the indestructible granite stone that had formed the smooth curves.

‘We should reach Langley by night fall,’ Benois announced. ‘We can move faster over this open ground.’ Tightening his arm more securely about her waist, he kicked the horse into a trot. Tavia blanched at the sudden pain searing through her temple, the unexpected, jolting pace sending spirals of agony through her skull. She gripped desperately on to Benois’s forearm, the honed, interlacing muscles hard against her sweating palms as she tried to control her breathing. Her skirts, snatched by the wind, whipped out and back along the animal’s flanks, the hem flapping wildly against Benois’s braies. Nausea scratched at the parched lining of her gullet; she swallowed frantically, hoping she wasn’t going to be sick.

‘Tavia?’ Benois, shouting above the air rushing noisily past them, felt her body weaken against him. He yanked on the reins, hard, slowing the animal to a walk, before leaping off, moving round so he could see her face. A grey pallor cloaked Tavia’s skin as she looked towards him. ‘I don’t feel very well,’ she mumbled, her muscles screaming at her as she fought desperately to remain upright in the saddle.

‘I can see that.’ Benois cursed. ‘Come, you need to rest for a while.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled, as he reached up to lift her swaying figure down from the saddle, folding her into his lean frame as soon as her feet touched the ground. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m not normally like this.’

He smiled at her forced, practical tone as he half-carried her over to a large granite outcrop. ‘I don’t suppose you’re normally thrown down a hole and left to die,’ he said, settling her down on a cushiony mound of grass, so she could lean her head back against the craggy stone. Fetching his leather flagon from the horse, he held it up to her mouth, urging her to drink. The cool, refreshing water trickled down her throat, going some way towards restoring her equilibrium. Benois drew the flagon away, securing the vessel with a wide, circular cork.

Tavia laughed, some of her colour returning as the pounding in her head began to recede. ‘Nay, I suppose you’re right.’

His rapier eyes were on her, checking, assessing. Her face, marred by the dried-up rivulets of blood from the wound on her head, seemed to be returning to its usual colour, a faint pink beginning to seep across her cheeks. ‘I’ll clean your wound when we reach Langley’s castle.’ He leaned forwards to push a strand of hair, rigid with blood, away from her face, concern shad owing his features.

‘I can do it myself,’ she announced, trying to inject a thread of strength into her voice. ‘You don’t need to bother with me once I’m there.’ Her voice sounded detached, wary.

‘Aye, I do.’ His voice, a liquid balm, played with her senses like sweet music.

She angled her head to one side, a puzzled smile on her lips. ‘I can’t under stand it, Benois, why you’re doing this for me. You couldn’t wait to be rid of me since…since…’ She pursed her full lips together, cheeks flaming at the vivid memory of their limbs entwined in the lush green vegetation of the woodland floor.

‘Since we lay together,’ he finished for her, impassively, watching her closely. His eyes sparked with desire, silver threads shot through granite. ‘I thought it would make things easier for you if I was gone from your life. Mayhaps I was wrong.’

Tavia studied the ground, shoulders hunching beneath the linen cloth of her
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, endeavouring to attach some meaning to his words. The rounded neck, slashed to a midpoint between her collarbone and her chest, sagged forward with the movement, hinting at the shadowed depth between her breasts.

‘Wrong? Are you saying that you made a mistake?’ She pressed her palm against the damp ground, the tough grass prick ling against her skin.

‘I’m a soldier, Tavia. I have lived my life by the sword since the age of nine. I never thought I would live any differently.’

‘It takes courage to change,’ she replied slowly, warily, thinking she was probably misinterpreting his meaning.

‘Aye, it does,’ he agreed. ‘And you have more of that than anyone I know.’ He wound his strong fingers around her own to assist her upwards. ‘Come, we need to keep going.’

‘Do you think Ferchar will come?’ Tavia asked hesitantly. Hand sliding from his, she rubbed it against her cheek, self-consciously, leaving a smear of dirt.

‘Without a doubt,’ Benois con firmed, starting to turn away in the direction of the tethered horse.

‘Then what’s the point?’ Tavia flung her hands out towards him, persuading him to turn back, to look at her. ‘What is the point in me running and running? I’m in the same situation in England as I am in Scotland.’

‘Not exactly. In England, the Scottish king and his regent have little power.’

‘So he’ll just take me back again.’

‘Not if you belong to another.’

‘Oh, Benois! Stop it! Stop talking in riddles!’ Frustration coursing through her bones, Tavia stamped her slippered foot against the short, tufted grass. ‘What do you mean “belong to another”? I belong to no one!’

‘I mean,’ he enunciated patiently, ‘that he can’t take you back to Scotland if you are married.’

Her eyes widened, doubtful. ‘But, Benois, who on earth would marry me?’

The wind, gaining strength as the sun began to set, grazed a ruddy colour across his high, sculpted cheek bones. The glowing light re in forced the shadowed indent beneath the sensuous arc of his bottom lip; she longed to touch it. Against the brilliant blue of the sky, he loomed above her, his hard, powerful frame impassive, formidable. ‘I would,’ he said simply.

P
alms scrabbling the rock behind her, seeking balance, Tavia’s mind tilted crazily with the full implication of Benois’s words. The sunlight burned brightly behind him, throwing the front of his broad frame into shadow, but she screwed up her eyes anyway, attempting to read his expression. Unsure how to react, she laughed un steadily. ‘Nay, don’t jest, Benois.’ Her voice rushed out, quavering with feeble surprise.

He took a step forward, turning slightly so his sculpted features moved into the light. His eyes narrowed, darts of quick silver energy. ‘No jest, maid.’ His heady, masculine aroma flared over her as he reached around her to clasp her hand, almost peeling her rigid fingers away from the granite slope. ‘Come, let’s talk as we ride.’

Allowing him to lead her, Tavia stepped un steadily over the ground, uneven in places, the hem of her
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scratching against the stiff, bleached grass. Hands firm around her waist, he boosted her up into the saddle once more, springing up behind her in one effortless motion. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, twining the reins around his hands, the thin strips of leather threading through his tanned fingers, ‘we’ll only go at a walking pace, but it will make us slower.’

Tavia scarcely heard his explanation. How could he talk so easily about the speed of the horse, when they had been talking of marriage just moments earlier? Her mind still reeled, hopelessly trying to clutch at some constant, some strand of reality that she could hold on to, be safe.

‘You must be completely mad,’ she uttered, suddenly.

‘I beg your pardon?’

She plucked at a loose thread on her girdle. ‘You must be completely mad to want to marry me.’

His laughter rumbled against her spine. ‘Probably. But as far as I can see, I’m the only solution to your problem right now.’

Heart plum meting, she chewed her bottom lip as reality sloshed over her. He made the whole thing sound like a business transaction. How could she have ever considered that it would be anything else between them? The fledgling hope in her chest, hope that had known life for a few brief moments, faded away. He spoke of marriage as a solution, as a way out for her, and not what it could have been, a binding contract between two people who loved each other. He certainly didn’t love her, he never had, and he never would.

She hitched her shoulders up, deliberately keeping her tone level, offhand. ‘And what if I refuse?’

He gave a short bark of laughter. ‘I credited you with more wit than that, Tavia. You need to find a husband, and you’ll need to find one quickly before Ferchar shows up.’ His chest pressed against her back, heating the tense muscles that pulled at her backbone, as the destrier began to climb the steep incline at the base of the border ridge. His breath grazed the sensitive lobe of her ear as he leaned into her. ‘And I haven’t exactly noticed a queue of suitors to your door,’ he whispered pointedly. She wrenched her head away, annoyed, as he chuckled.

‘I don’t want your pity!’ She drew herself up, erect, proud, a position difficult to maintain as the horse’s broad back sloped away alarmingly beneath her.

‘I don’t pity you, Tavia,’ Benois replied, trying not to laugh out loud at Tavia’s attempts to keep her body away from touching him. ‘But I do want to help you.’ Besides, he thought, I don’t want anyone else to have you.

‘Help? Have you so little belief in me that you think I can’t survive on my own?’

He gazed down at her soft hair, itching to caress it. Over the past few days, this woman had proved her inner strength to him time and time again. ‘You are a survivor, Tavia, there’s no doubt about that. You’re a brave, courageous woman—’ his praise flowed over her ‘—but this time, you need my help. I can protect you.’

Tavia shifted uncomfortably at the possession in his words. ‘What will King Henry say?’ she said, trying another tack.

He frowned. ‘Why should he say anything? ’Tis my business, not his.’

‘But he is your king.’

‘Aye, but he is not my master; I am beholden to none, Tavia. I soldier for Henry because I choose to, not because of any need.’

Beholden to none, she thought bleakly, recalling the time when she had first seen him, when he had strode up the aisle of the church, eyes shimmering with ire, to scatter his men like nine pins with the power of his presence. That was his life, no strings tying him to a home life, no commitments: a free spirit.

‘Why would you choose to fight as a soldier when you don’t have to?’ Her voice, low and melodious, crept in under his defences, issuing a challenge. The simple words shocked him, forced him to search deep for the true answer.

‘Because it helped me forget.’ His speech hung in the air, accompanied only by the haunting wail of a curlew. ‘But now, I am not so sure.’

The horse, the muscles in its neck straining under the combined weight of two people, eventually gained the top of the ridge. Tavia’s eyes widened in admiration. Spread out below them, disappearing into a haze in the distance, lay England. The wind gathered strength up here on the ridge; Tavia shivered in her thin dress and cloak, Benois’s proposal repeating in her mind. Marriage to Benois would mean security, and protection from Ferchar, but, she realised with a bleak sadness, nothing more. Could she really enter a marriage without love?

Benois brought both edges of his cloak around to the front of her, shielding her from the worst of the wind.

‘So,’ he said, ‘what do you say?’

The wind almost whipped her answer away, but he managed to catch the words. ‘Aye, I’ll marry you, Benois. As you say, it is the only solution.’

The square silhouette of Langley Castle towered impressively against a pinkish sky shot through with a brilliant succession of blues. As the day drew to a close, the full moon began to rise, a huge white orb above rolling bands of puffy, purplish cloud, luminous in the translucent blue of the evening light. Below the castle, on a wide, level field used for fairs and tournaments alike, the first bonfire was lit: the signal for the celebrations of mid summer to begin. A great roar rose up from the waiting crowd; whereas before their expressions, in shadow, had been expectant, waiting, now their faces broke into wide grins and laughter in anticipation of the festivities to follow that evening.

Lord Langley, hands clasped over his rounded stomach, replete from his evening meal, surveyed the scene from the top step at the main castle entrance. He gained great pleasure from watching his people enjoy them selves, knights and servants alike, all mingling together with the prime objective of having fun on this longest day. The sinking, golden light bathed the tanned, weathered skin of the peas ants, gilding their rough clothes. In the corner of the field, a band of travel ling musicians struck up a lively tune, and soon hands were joined in dancing. Langley smiled. These people worked hard for him all year, fighting his battles, tending his fields, as they had for his father before him; in his opinion, a few nights of celebration such as this were the least they deserved.

‘And so it begins.’ Langley adjusted his gaze to the owner of the soft voice at his side, skimming his eyes protectively over his wife, Sabine. Dressed in a flowing
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of rust-coloured wool that complemented her smooth black hair and ivory skin, Sabine was a true beauty. What a surprise it had been for everyone when the easy-going, slightly over weight Langley had made a match with the young French countess, Sabine de Brouillard. Many commented that such a union would not last. But in the two years of their marriage, Sabine’s loyalty and support to her husband could not be faulted. She tolerated his occasional buffoonery when others would have become irritated, and laughed at his gentle teasing.

Langley’s eyes moved down wards to the point of his wife’s waist where her girdle had been slackened off, to hang below her burgeoning stomach. Her hands clasped the growing bump with care, and his heart swelled with pride; his first child would be born some time in the autumn, and he couldn’t wait, excited as a puppy.

‘Do you want to go down?’ He eyed the chaos on the field doubtfully, darting a protective glance back to his wife’s curving belly. The jubilant crowd seemed to have gained more energy now, the dances con ducted with more elaborate leaps and twirls, the noise level rising to match the effervescent mood. The wooden kegs of mead had been opened, and pewter tankards glinted in the sunlight as the honeyed nectar slipped down thirsty necks.

‘Let’s just watch from here a while,’ Sabine suggested, tucking her hands around her husband’s arm.

Langley nodded in agreement, casting his gaze up to the battlements to make certain his soldiers still pa trolled. Despite the celebrations going ahead, he still felt uneasy. King Henry had left this castle several days earlier; he had received only one message to say that a deal had been struck with the Scots and the King still had not re turned. His eye traced the huge blocks of stone down wards, past the battlements, past the narrow, arrow-slit windows of the gate house to a lone horseman entering under the criss-crossed metal of the portcullis.

‘God in Heaven!’ He clutched at Sabine’s hands. ‘Benois!’

Detaching himself from his wife, he bounded down the stone steps, landing with an ungainly thud on the greasy cobbles of the inner bailey.

‘Benois!’ he shouted, marching over to the steaming, sweating horse. Appalled, he realised the animal carried not one, but two people. A woman, set in front of Benois, drooped forward alarmingly.

‘Benois! What in Heaven’s name…?’ Langley caught the bridle, halting the horse in a jangle of metal. With a jolt, he recognised the woman: it was the maid who duped them, the maid whom Benois had promised to escort back to Dunswick!

‘Fetch me a priest…now!’ Benois, his voice deep with con trolled urgency, sprang down to the cobbles.

‘What’s the matter with her?’ screeched Langley, peering at Tavia’s pale face, her eyes closed. ‘Is she dying?’

Benois grinned, suddenly, unexpectedly. ‘Of course not, Langley. I’m going to marry her!’

‘Forgive me,’ Langley gasped, relieved. ‘I did not realise.’ He stared un certainly at Tavia’s chalk-white skin, her face streaked with blood, her wide skirts creased and stained with soil. From beneath her hemline, hanging forlornly against the horse’s flank, her leather shoes peeped out, the pointed toes sodden with water and mud. He noticed that Benois kept one hand on her, preventing the exhausted girl from pitching forwards on to the ground.

‘Er…maybe we could clean her up a bit,’ Langley ventured, annoyance. ‘Maybe…a bath, and a bed for the night? My priest can marry you tomorrow.’

‘Nay,’ Benois bit out. ‘It must be this night.’ On the periphery of his vision, Benois noticed Sabine’s distinctive figure start to descend the steps. Inwardly he groaned. Sabine was well known for her fussy, interfering ways—the less she was involved in this the better.

‘Tell me what’s going on!’ Langley demanded.

Benois nodded, explaining the events that had led up to this night.

‘So she was a princess all along!’ Langley’s eyes widened as Benois told him of Tavia’s real identity.

‘Greetings, Lord Benois.’ Sabine had crossed the court yard, coming to stand next to her husband. ‘I trust we find you in good health?’

Benois bowed a little awkwardly, as one arm still clasped protectively around Tavia.

‘Our friend is to be married,’ Langley explained.

‘To her?’ Sabine raised one dark eyebrow, peering at Tavia’s crumpled form. ‘She looks half-dead. She can’t marry looking like that!’

Vaguely aware of the conversation bubbling around her, it took a supreme effort of will for Tavia to raise her head, to study the people around her. ‘Looking like what?’ she managed to blurt out.

Sabine stepped over to the side of the horse, assessing her with dark, oval eyes. ‘We need to get you cleaned up, my dear,’ she said in a friendly tone. ‘You need a dress, some flowers…’

‘And I tell you, Sabine, there’s no time for such fripperies,’ interrupted Benois. He gathered Tavia up, lifting her off the horse, setting her down gently on the cobbles. ‘Langley, fetch that priest of yours, and I’ll clean her up.’

‘In that case, I’ll show you the way,’ Sabine suggested, although in her mind she had already chosen the very dress that Tavia should wear.

With Benois’s arm about her, Tavia negotiated the castle steps, scrabbling to bring some clarity to her be fuddled brain. She felt completely at odds with the merry festivities happening around her, events progressing at break neck speed with which she struggled to keep up. Maybe the cut on her head had addled her brain, she thought, stumbling over the thresh old and into the great hall of the castle, grateful for the constant support of Benois’s hard frame as he hoisted her against him. The toned muscles of his arm flexed and strained against her slim back.

In contrast to the Scottish castle at Dunswick, the interior of Langley Castle appeared bright and welcoming. Light flared out every where, from huge rush torches flung into iron loops along the length of the hall, from a wealth of candles stuck into elaborate candelabra positioned around the top table to the warming comfort of a well-stoked fire in the fire place. Gigantic tapestries hung on the walls, stretching from ceiling to floor, their vivid, intricate colours woven over many years by the noble ladies of the castle. It gave the whole hall a soft, embracing ambience, an ambience that Dunswick Castle had lacked. Glancing about her with pleasure, Tavia suspected the strong influence of Sabine in the design of this room.

They followed Sabine’s sweeping skirts, her expression decisive and efficient as she led the way to the bed chambers on the upper floor, accessed by a spiral stair case in one of four turrets. Lifting her heavily ringed hand and pushing against the first door she encountered in the upper corridor, Sabine paused for a moment, facing Benois, her manner brisk. In the half-light, her skin appeared exotic, slightly bewitching, her large oval eyes con tem plating the man before her.

‘Let me tend to her,’ Sabine offered, her eyes still on Benois, while she held her hands out to Tavia. ‘I have asked the kitchens to send up hot water for a bath.’