Meriel Fuller - The Warrior's Princess Bride

The question hung on the princess’s lips, warranting some sort of answer. Tavia felt awkward, unwilling to be drawn so quickly into the princess’s confidence. Aye, at this first meeting, she liked the maid, but friends? It was too soon to make that judgement. A quiet desperation lurked around Ada’s eyes, her neediness like an empty bucket that Tavia doubted she could fill. Not knowing how to reply, Tavia smiled lightly.

‘Ferchar will be my husband. He loves me, dotes on me…and I love him.’

‘I’m happy for you.’ Ada’s words meant nothing to her.

‘He’s so strong, so decisive, a natural leader.’ Ada’s voice rose a notch, hissing slightly with undisguised elation. ‘Why, he even picked out this gown for me this morning!’ She smoothed her hand over the soft wool of her skirt.

‘He makes a good regent,’ Tavia agreed, startled by Ada’s curious dependence on Ferchar.

‘He’d make an even better king!’ Ada blurted out, then clapped a hand over her mouth, before clutching weakly at Tavia’s sleeve. ‘I’ve said too much. Forget my words, Tavia!’ She glanced hurriedly around the room, checking to see if they had been overheard.

So that explained Ferchar’s over-protectiveness of the Princess Ada, thought Tavia. He wanted the maid for himself, for a wife, and wanted to keep her safe. He had obviously already gained Ada’s undeniable loyalty; the girl appeared infatuated with him, despite him being at least twenty winters older than her.

‘Your words are forgotten, my lady,’ Tavia replied brightly. ‘Do not think on it again.’

Underneath the magnificent wooden arches of the great hall at Langley Castle, Benois stabbed his jewelled eating knife into a piece of cured ham and put it between his lips, chewing thoughtfully. Below him, in the main body of the hall, his soldiers ate alongside the peasants that worked in the castle fields, hungrily devouring the huge platters of food that seemed to emerge continually from the kitchens.

‘Ah, Benois, back already!’ Lord Langley, a well-known supporter of King Henry, bounced up the stairs to the top table. ‘How are you enjoying our hospitality?’ He slapped his friend companionably on the back.

‘It’s much appreciated, Langley.’ Benois leant back in his chair. ‘After all those nights spent in cold tents with less than agreeable food, I thank the Lord that you are on our side.’

‘And fortunate that I own a castle on the English side of the border that’s not many miles from Dunswick.’ Langley grinned, lifting a slice of chicken on to his plate.

‘That, too.’ Benois laughed, the taut skin of his face stretching over his high cheekbones.

‘So, what did you find out? They obviously didn’t realise who you were.’

‘Hmm! I was lucky. Although one person did recognise me.’

‘Who on earth? No one knows you in Scotland!’

‘No one, it seems, apart from one completely annoying, interfering, god-forsaken maid!’ Benois replied. A pair of blue eyes shining from a luminous, pearl-like face swam into his memory. ‘She nearly wrecked the whole plan!’

‘But how in God’s name did she know you?’

Benois sighed, breaking off a chunk of bread from the round loaf on the table. ‘The maid was captured by my men in our earlier raid on Dunswick. I caught them just in time. She remembered me from then.’

‘Unlucky,’ Langley surmised. ‘But you still managed to avoid being caught.’

‘Aye, although the wench nearly stabbed me with one of my own arrows. The woman is a termagant!’

Langley tipped his head back and roared with laughter. ‘I like it. The magnificent Brabanter mercenary floored by a woman.’

‘Nearly,’ Benois corrected, smiling. He remembered the supple feel of the girl’s body against his own as he had wrenched the arrow from her hand, crushing her easily into him, stopping her struggles.

Langley observed him closely. ‘From your expression it seems the encounter was not entirely unpleasant.’

‘It was certainly surprising.’ Benois grimaced. ‘It’s not every day you find a woman wanting to become a royal bowman.’ He tucked his eating knife back into his belt. ‘Or boasting of her expertise as if she were a skilled marksman.’ He wondered how she had fared in the contest.

‘She sounds perfectly intriguing,’ Langley replied. ‘I should like to meet her.’

‘Unlikely. Once they discover she’s a woman, she’ll be sent packing.’ Why did he even care? He pushed his plate away, annoyance creasing his brow. Why did the infuriating chit suffuse his thoughts so?

‘So what did you find out?’ Having loaded his plate while standing up, Langley flung his rather portly frame into the carved oak chair next to Benois, grabbing a hunk of bread to chew ravenously. ‘Lord! I’m starving.’ Crumbs of bread scattered over his chin and down the front of his tunic.

Benois traced one fingertip along the polished wood of the table. ‘The Scots intend to spirit Princess Ada away from Dunswick tomorrow morning, so that we have no chance of kidnapping her.’

‘And your plan is…’

‘To be there before they leave.’ Benois’s lips curved up into a slight smile. ‘The King and his regent were discussing the plan right above me, as I was waiting to shoot.’ He shook his head, ‘You’d think they would be more careful.’

‘Do you think the plan will work?’

Benois angled his head on one side. ‘I’ll get the Princess, if that’s what you mean. But whether it will persuade Malcolm to hand over the lands…well, I’m not so sure.’

‘King Henry has ordered it…and the young Malcolm adores his older sister. I swear he would so anything for that maid.’ Langley picked up a pewter jug of honeyed mead.

‘That may be so…’ Benois watched the shiny liquid slide into Langley’s goblet, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see. But I, for one, see no joy in looking after a weeping, pathetic princess for weeks on end.’

‘It won’t come to that.’ Langley hefted the jug in Benois’ direction. ‘Do you want some mead?’

‘Nay…thank you.’ Benois placed his extended palm over the top of his pewter goblet. ‘I have water to drink.’

Langley thrust a hand through his wayward blond hair. ‘You intrigue me, Benois. In all the time I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you touch a drop of drink. Are you a monk, or something?’

Benois’s fingers stiffened imperceptibly around the stem of his engraved goblet. A muscle jumped in the tanned skin of his cheek. ‘It’s a long story,’ he replied at last, letting out his breath from his lungs slowly. He picked up the goblet and took a long, cool gulp. ‘There’s just one thing I need you to do for me, Langley.’

‘Name it.’

‘You need to come with me and my men to kidnap the princess. I have no idea what she looks like.’

Away to the east of Dunswick, the land rolled away as a mass of undulating hills topped with purple heather and smooth slopes, a much gentler contrast to the high, barren crags and windswept moorland to the north of the city. Fastflowing rivers, the water leaping and twisting around jagged rocks and stones, intersected the velvet green of the hills. Red deer roamed the countryside, seeking shelter in the forests of oak and birch, before fleeing as a herd across pastureland at the slightest scent of danger.

The day was warm, holding the promise of summer within the cloudless blue sky. Above Tavia’s head, sunlight shafted through the pale green canopy of the trees, highlighting the dark sentinels of trunks below. Gritting her teeth, Tavia balanced precariously atop the docile roan mare, clutching ineffectively at the bunch of reins at the horse’s neck, trying to concentrate on the soft, rhythmic plodding of the horses’ hooves in the spongy vegetation beneath. Her thigh muscles ached already, and they had only been travelling for a short time.