Meriel Fuller - The Damsel's Defiance

‘Are you sure?’ Maud’s voice heightened to a squeak. She moved toward the portly Archbishop, eyes alight with suspicion. Hugh held his ground.

‘Aye, my lady. I am quite sure. I have sat with your father this morn, while you changed, and heard everything he had to say. He said nothing about his successor. I assumed it would be Stephen.’

Maud hissed, a sharp intake of breath. ‘Nay, you could not be more wrong, my Lord. My cousin Stephen, Count of Blois? He couldn’t possibly be King.’

‘He is, was, your father’s favourite nephew. You and he were like brother and sister when you were growing up.’

Maud shook her head, bearing down on Hugh like a terrier. The Archbishop took a step back. ‘But I am the rightful heir, my lord Archbishop. Everyone in England knows that. God in Heaven, everyone in England has sworn to that!’

‘It would be unusual for the English nobility to accept a woman as Queen…’ the Archbishop rubbed his chin thoughtfully ‘…especially considering your marriage to the Count of Anjou.’

‘What has my marriage got to do with it?’ snapped Maud.

‘Anjou has always been an enemy of England and Normandy. Let’s face it, your father and your husband have not been on speaking terms recently.’

‘A minor issue, my lord. My father arranged my marriage to Geoffrey in the first place, seeking to achieve peace between Normandy and Anjou.’

‘And to some extent he has succeeded,’ Hugh agreed. ‘But I can’t see the English barons accepting an Angevin count on the throne of England.’

‘He won’t be on the throne. I will!’ Maud’s colour heightened in anger. ‘Praise Mary, am I to spend my day surrounded by fools?’

Robert stepped forward. ‘Hugh, I really think that—’

‘Don’t interfere, Robert, I am dealing with this!’ Maud shoved her rounded body in front of her half-brother. ‘Listen, my lord Archbishop—’ she jabbed him in the chest with a pointed finger ‘—contrary to what you know, or what you think you know, I am to be Queen of England and Normandy. My father wanted it, and he made sure all his barons and bishops knew it. And I don’t want anyone to hear of his death until I arrive in England with my father’s body. Do you understand?’

Hugh nodded, the folds of his double chin quivering. ‘I understand completely, my lady.’ He threw a sideways look at Robert, before addressing Maud once more. ‘Er, may I sit with your father until your ladies come?’

‘Granted. Robert will make sure you have everything you need.’ A thin wail reached her ears; Maud grimaced in irritation. ‘I suppose I’d better see how the children are faring.’ She sighed, turning to Robert. ‘And you’d better secure us a passage to England. As soon as possible.’

Beyond the granite town walls of Barfleur, beyond the marshlands, the forest spread out for miles and miles, a thick green cloak of vegetation, rising high over jagged granite outcrops only to plunge low into the deep valleys cut by fast-flowing rivers. Through the towering beeches and spreading oaks, their bare branches starkly delineated against the grey, lowering sky, Emmeline’s horse picked its way along a narrow, muddy trail alongside the River Argon.

She rode steadily, relaxing her body into the calm, rocking gait of her roan mare, her strong, delicate fingers controlling the reins with confidence. Despite her obvious unhappiness at Emmeline’s journey, Felice had known better than to try and dissuade her from approaching the Empress; she had encountered her daughter’s stubborn nature on too many occasions to know that she would persuade her otherwise. But her father, Anselm, God rest his soul, would have approved, of that Emmeline was certain. He had always been a man of action, never sitting around passively, waiting for things to happen. Ducking her head to avoid a low-hanging branch, she smiled softly to herself, knowing full well that he would not have endorsed her travelling alone. A shuddering breath took her by surprise; after all these years she still missed his steadying presence, his gentle teaching: a calming contrast to her more nervous, excitable mother.

As she rode, lulled by the persistent rushing of the river to her left, dark, rain-filled clouds began to fill the sky, dimming the forest beneath. Glancing up apprehensively, she kicked her heels into the warm flanks of the mare; she had no intention of being soaked to the skin. And then, as the wind grew stronger, against the frantic creaking of the bare branches above her head, she heard another sound. Jerking on the reins, she tipped her head to one side, trying to locate the noise. A chink of metal carried on the sharp breeze, the distinctive click of a bridle, then the murmur of voices approaching.

Heart crashing against her ribs, she threw one leg frontways across the horse’s neck, jumping to the ground in a swirl of grey skirts, favouring her good leg as she landed. Casting about frantically for a place to hide, she plunged upwards, scrambling up the steep slope that edged the track, trying to drag the roan into the trees as fast as she was able. Brambles ripped at her bliaut, her cloak, clawing at the cloth, preventing forward movement, scratching her face and snagging in her linen veil as her hood fell back. She stretched her hands out blindly and her fingers chafed against a jutting outcrop of granite: a huge piece of rock, at least the height and width of two men. Almost crying with relief, she pulled herself and the horse behind it. Twisting back to lean against the cool, hard rock, she tried to control her rapid breathing, a rising sense of panic in her chest. Only now did she begin to question the foolishness of travelling without an escort.

The voices, low and masculine, drew closer. Turning stealthily in her hiding place, her horse tucked out of sight behind her, Emmeline couldn’t resist a peek around the craggy edge. She had only just been in time. Around the corner came a pair of gleaming chestnuts…

Nay…it couldn’t be!

She recognised the insufferable Lord Talvas immediately. He rode up front, his bearing arrogant and imperious, a searching, questioning look upon his face. Had he heard her? His squire, Guillame, rode behind, his flaxen hair forming a stark contrast to the raven locks of his master. Emmeline shuddered, blood coursing through her veins. The black haze of beard that had obscured his features on the quayside had been shaved and now…She stared in amazement at the beautiful man below her. High cheekbones cast a faint shadow at the sides of his face, giving him a hungry, predatory look, offset by a square jaw. The narrow line of his top lip was complemented by a full bottom lip that curved seductively upwards at the corners.

A thrill of sensation flamed her skin, and she flung herself back into the shadowed security of the rock, pressing her forehead into the damp grittiness of the stone, inhaling the earthy, musty smell. She scrabbled for sanity. A strange fluidity had invaded her limbs, a flooding weakness that left her stunned. Talvas had changed his clothes—now there was no question that he was highly born. His tunic, the densely woven cloth slit from knee to waist at each side for ease of riding, was of sage green wool, intricately embroidered in gold at the cuffs and around the slashed neck. The sleeves of his darker green surcoat reached only to his elbows, showing off the longer, more richly decorated sleeves of his tunic. His short, blue cloak billowed out from his strong, wide shoulders, lined with fox fur and fastened at the neck with a jewelled brooch.

As the riders passed below, one of the horses whinnied softly, and her own horse nickered in reply, dropping its head down and pawing at the rustling leaves on the ground. Every muscle in Emmeline’s body clenched tight with awareness, with fear. She dared not move; maybe the men would not hear.