The Warrior's Princess Bride. Meriel Fuller
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low-grade wool of the hood that now gathered in heavy folds about her neck. Her eyes, huge orbs of sapphire, threatened to drown him in those deep pools of blue. He sucked in his breath, feeling the weight of guilt descend on his chest. It was she. The maid from the church. The maid who had haunted his dreams for the past sennight, the image of that slender wraith sprawled before the altar pricking his hardened conscience with spirals of concern. More than once he had caught himself wondering what had happened to her.
‘Do you know me now?’ Her voice held a low challenge, but he could tell from her rigid stance that she was afraid of him. Why did she want to goad him so much? It made him want to laugh. The top of her shining head barely reached his shoulder, and, he reckoned, casting a swift glance over her sylph-like frame, that his body weight was nearly twice hers.
‘Aye, mistress, I do remember you, more’s the pity. What in God’s name are you doing here?’
‘I should be asking you that,’ she replied, looping her arms defensively across her chest.
‘And dressed as a lad.’ The flint grey of his eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’
‘None of your business, soldier.’
‘It became my business when you almost shouted my identity to the whole castle.’
‘Well, it serves you right. You didn’t reckon on me being here, did you? Sorry if I’ve managed to scupper your plans.’ Tavia jabbed the words back to him, annoyance fuelling her speech. ‘What were you planning to do? Murder our king in cold blood?’
Her impassioned speech seemed to roll off his shoulders. ‘Since when did you become the King’s personal bodyguard?’ He smiled, the well-defined edges of his lips tilting upwards, making him appear younger.
A tiny frisson of excitement threaded through her veins. She shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to experience such strange feelings when she was trying to appear confident and in control. But without his helmet, the intimidating coat of chainmail, all those hideous trappings of war, he appeared softer somehow. She chewed at the corner of her lip, shaking her head slightly. What was the matter with her? Mother of Mary, this man was English, the enemy! She needed to alert the castle guard, have him arrested… But how, when his huge frame blocked the only way in and out of the stables?
‘Since people like you started attacking our towns, firing our houses, raping our women.’ Her condemning tones pulsated around the stable in answer to his goading question. ‘Who in the hell are you?’
‘My name is Benois le Vallieres, at your service.’ He nodded his head briefly, a scant interpretation of the more formal bow.
‘I have heard that name before,’ Tavia replied slowly, astonished, the beat of her heart starting to race. One hand flew self-consciously to the nick at her throat, nervous fingers touching the small cut.
He shrugged his shoulders, his eyes narrowing as he followed her movement. ‘No doubt. I am the Commander of the North. For King Henry’s soldiers.’
‘Then what are you doing here?’ she uttered, her voice shrill. An icy clamminess invaded her palms. God in Heaven! Benois le Vallieres! One of the most feared soldiers in the country. She had heard her father, and other townspeople, talk about him. Not just a soldier, she remembered them saying, but one of the Brabanters, notorious mercenaries who showed no loyalty, but fought for anyone who would pay the most.
He raked one hand through his brown, feathery locks. The cloth of his tunic strained over the bunched muscles in his shoulder. ‘Just having a look,’ he replied.
‘Just having a look!’ she squeaked back at him. ‘You expect me to believe that!’
‘Aye—’ he took one step closer to her ‘—I do.’
‘Don’t you threaten me,’ she warned. ‘Move back!’ She placed one hand on his chest, trying to force him backwards. He didn’t budge.
A roar rose up from the crowd outside, followed by excited cheering. Tavia knew her opportunity to enter the contest was slipping away, and the longer that this soldier, this Benois le Vallieres, kept her in these stables, the less likely she would be able to take her turn.
‘Let me go,’ she pleaded. ‘You don’t need me.’
His eyes glittered over her, frankly assessing, sweeping sensually down from her curiously coloured hair to the rounded toes of her leather boots. A slow-burning coil of delight ignited in her stomach, but she quashed it away smartly.
‘Oh, what a surprise!’ she taunted him, trying to appear confident, although reedlike fear quaked her voice. ‘I suppose I should expect nothing less from the likes of you! Have you come to finish what your soldiers started?!’
Benois glared at her in disbelief, then threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘You think I’m interested in bedding the likes of you? A common wench from the fields with barely an ounce of padding on her? You couldn’t be more wrong!’ He surveyed her coolly, tucking the arrow she had filched back into his belt. ‘I was merely thinking that, if I let you go, the first thing you’ll do is run out there and tell them who I am!’
‘Oh!’ Tavia’s face reddened slightly as she smarted from his insult. Taking a deep breath, she tried to recover her equilibrium. ‘Nay, you’re wrong. I’ll just carry on as if nothing has happened.’ She nibbled on a nail.
‘You expect me to believe that?’ he countered wryly.
‘You have to.’ Tavia took one pace closer to him. ‘You see, I have to take part in that contest.’
‘Why?’ he demanded, his attention snared by the rounded slenderness of her hips emphasised by the narrow fit of her braies. How could he ever have mistaken this maid for a lad?
‘Because I need to become a crossbow man for the King’s army,’ she replied, exasperated. ‘And if you don’t let me go now, I’ll miss my chance!’
Amusement bubbled in his chest at the severity of her expression, and he sighed deeply, narrowing his eyes to scrutinise her slim frame. Did the maid really think she could get away with something like this? That she could best a man in a contest? ‘Then I suppose I’ll have to trust you,’ he said. ‘But you’ll have to promise that you won’t give the game away.’
Tavia was already nodding. ‘I swear.’
‘You’d better put this back on, then.’ He reached around to pull her hood back over her head, his fingers grazing her cheek with a touch of fire. ‘It might increase your fortune.’ He didn’t sound hopeful.
‘I don’t need fortune,’ she shot back. ‘I rely on my skill.’
He raised one dark brown eyebrow at her boast. ‘I’m glad you hold yourself in such high esteem,’ he murmured. Hands on her shoulders, he pushed her gently out of the stables. She blinked in the daylight.
‘And remember, if you break your promise,’ he whispered softly in her ear, his breath caressing her skin, ‘you’ll have me to deal with. And believe me, it would not be a pleasant experience.’
Hands still shaking from her encounter with that barbarian, Tavia took her place once more in the queue shuffling slowly forward over the damp, slippery cobbles. She deliberately kept her head lowered, staring resolutely at the toes of her leather boots, unwilling to give Benois le Vallieres, should he still be watching her, any reason that she would give him away. She prayed ardently that the Scottish guards would have enough intelligence to stop him at the gate, and question him as to his identity, but, with a sinking heart, she knew Benois le Vallieres would outwit them.
When her turn came, she strode up to the rope line, slinging her crossbow forwards from the back of her shoulders, and pulling an arrow from the leather satchel at her waist. Placing one arrow carefully in the central groove of the bow, she raised the sights to the target, trying to keep her breathing slow and steady. Releasing the catch underneath with a slow squeeze of her fingers, the arrow flew straight and true, hitting the red circle painted