Meriel Fuller - The Damsel's Defiance

Talvas angled his head back to drink deeply from his leather flagon. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he passed the vessel to Guillame, before pinning her with brilliant accusing eyes. Greedy little wench! They were all the same, these women; behind their beauty lay black, avaricious hearts—grasping, money-grabbing characters who would stop at nothing to achieve what they desired. Gold was the only thing that seemed to make them happy; not the other things in life, like love, or trust, or friendship. He watched Emmeline’s small white teeth take a neat bite out of her apple, tracing the fine bones in her fingers down to the fragile wrist encased in serviceable brown cloth.

She had left him because of money, the maid he had intended to marry all those years ago. Her ambition was evident from the start, from the moment he had first witnessed her fair beauty at his parents’ home in Boulogne, but his own stupidity blinded him to her true character. Employed as a lady’s maid to his mother, that maid had set about seducing him, and he, at eighteen winters, had been utterly captivated. Ignoring the worried frowns of his parents as they witnessed the constancy of his wooing, he chased after her slender figure, the bright gold of her hair, her quick smile. Their betrothal had been a time of great celebration, of festivity, especially as she carried his child, and they had agreed to formally marry when he won his spurs, his knighthood.

Talvas drew a deep, uneasy breath, feeling the air hitch in his throat. And then they had argued. Despite his parents’ wealth, he was determined to make his own fortune in life, in building and owning ships. She would not agree, wanting him to take the estates and coin that his parents offered him. Suddenly, two weeks after his daughter was born, she broke the betrothal, leaving him for a rich English nobleman, taking his newborn daughter with her. He had never seen them again. He cursed under his breath. The sharp wits and fair looks of Mam’selle de Lonnieres reminded him of that maid, of that girl from long ago who had ripped his life apart and torn it to shreds.

The sea had become his mistress, the wildness and unpredictability suiting his restless, adventurous spirit. He would take risks, uncaring as to the consequences, preferring the challenges of the sea to the domestic luxuries of home life. Women became faceless; mostly he ignored their company, except for physical solace—couplings that meant nothing to him. It mattered not; it helped him forget. No woman would ever make a fool of him again.

‘Talvas?’ Guillame’s voice broke into his thoughts over the constant rushing of the river. ‘Do you think we need to move on?’ He threw a look at the lowering sky.

‘Aye, let’s go.’ Talvas sprang to his feet, annoyed with himself for dwelling in the past. That time in his life was over, finished; he would do well to forget it completely. ‘Mam’selle de Lonnieres, have you eaten enough?’ his voice barked at her.

Emmeline threw her apple core over her shoulder and into the river. The stale bread that formed the remainder of her meal would stay firmly hidden in her bag. She had no intention of bringing out such humble fare when the men’s meal had been so lavish. But Talvas swept up her bag from the ground, turning it upside down and shaking it.

‘Is that it?’ he demanded, as Emmeline’s horrified stare riveted on the lump of bread, crumbs spattering out onto the dark red linen of Guillame’s cloak, forlorn evidence of her lack of nourishment. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she explained, a dull flush staining her face as she grabbed the bread, ashamed, and held it against her. ‘Please don’t…’ pity me, she wanted to say, but the words would not come.

‘You’d better eat that on the way, mam’selle. I don’t want you falling off your horse with hunger. We’ve still a way to go.’ Talvas chucked the satchel back into her lap, scooping his cloak from the ground and striding over to where his horse waited patiently.

Guillame was already leading her roan over to where she sat; now, he helped her up with an easy smile and boosted her into the saddle.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured gratefully. ‘You have better manners than your master.’

Guillame’s large hazel eyes assessed her gently. ‘Don’t judge him too harshly, mam’selle. He means well.’ He patted the neck of her mare.

‘Guillame, get a move on,’ Talvas shouted over. ‘Stop fussing over the maid!’ Sprinting over to Talvas, Guillame jumped into his saddle, pulling on his reins to steady his horse. Shielded from Emmeline by Talvas, he looked askance at his master.

Talvas frowned. ‘I know that look, Guillame—what ails thee?’

Guillame acknowledged Emmeline with a slight incline of his head. ‘That maid…’

‘What of her…?’

‘I didn’t see it before, but just then, up close, well, she looks remarkably like…’

‘Do not speak that name, Guillame. Never speak it!’

Emmeline’s eyes widened in amazement as she stared up at the castle of Torigny. It rose, fortresslike, from the surrounding forest vegetation, stretching above the tree tops to perch high on a craggy granite outcrop. Built directly onto the jagged contours of the rock, the smooth, slick face of the grey, angular walls glistened with a smattering of rain. The metallic gleam of the sentries’ chain-mail could just be seen through the deep crenellations at the top of each of the four towers. The red flags, the symbol of the Empress and her husband, Count Geoffrey of Anjou, fluttered vividly from the top of the towers, spots of brilliant colour in the bleakness. Behind the castle, behind this impressive symbol of power, the village of Torigny straggled out behind along a ridge in the gathering gloom, a jumbled collection of cottages and huts, woodsmoke already beginning to stream from the holes in the thatched roofs.

Emmeline drew a deep, teetering breath, her horse slowing to a stop as if sensing her trepidation as they approached. The persistent drizzle had finally worked its way through the fabric of her cloak and now crept, damp and clammy, through the soft material of her bliaut.

‘How do we get in?’ she called ahead to Talvas, viewing the towering promontory before them.

‘We must ride around to the front gate, through the town,’ Talvas explained. Pulling on his reins slightly, his leather saddle creaked as he turned toward her, his horse’s pace slackening. ‘There’s no access from this side.’ In the dusky half light, she could scarcely decipher his features, just the brilliant flash of his cerulean eyes and the suggestion of a smile. Emmeline shivered, her muscles aching from the long ride. Talvas caught her movement. ‘Having second thoughts?’ he murmured quietly. ‘’Tis formidable, is it not? Like its owner.’

‘Are you trying to scare me?’ Emmeline replied firmly, ignoring the fiery leap of fear in her veins. She lifted her arm to rub the back of her neck, trying to ease the tension.

‘Nay, mam’selle, just trying to prepare you. Come, we must continue if we are to arrive before darkness falls completely.’ Emmeline kicked her horse into a gentle walk, reluctantly acknowledging her private relief at their escort. She sincerely doubted that her courage would have pushed her to enter such a castle on her own.

Once through the town, the small party started to ride up the steep ramp to the castle entrance, until their horses’ shod hooves began to slip on the greasy cobbles.

‘Let’s dismount,’ Talvas suggested, his cloak flowing out as he swung his leg over the horse’s rump. ‘The going will be easier.’ Emmeline nodded, aware of the precipitous drop on either side of the slope; there was a distinct possibility of plunging into the undergrowth far below. Before them, two sentries stood guard at the outer gatehouse, the metallic skin of their full armour shining against the bright red of their surcoats emblazoned with the royal arms of King Henry. The two gold lions stood out against the background of red, one lion representing England, one representing Normandy. Both guards stood immediately to attention when they recognised Lord Talvas, remaining still until he and Emmeline had passed under the heavy portcullis before raising a hand in greeting to Guillame.