Meriel Fuller - The Warrior's Princess Bride

Ferchar had insisted that she rode. Princess Ada was well known for her excellent horsemanship, and it would look strange if she rode in an ox-cart, or was carried in a covered litter. Luckily, her horse seemed happy just to follow the horse in front. It seemed as if once she had agreed to Ferchar’s proposal, he had insisted on a great deal of things. In the past day, he had schooled her in the ways of being a Scottish princess, reeling off strings of facts and family members that he obviously expected her to remember.

Tavia sighed, taking in a deep breath of the pure forest air. At least she appeared as a princess, although she felt awkwardly formal in the Princess Ada’s clothes. Next to her skin, she had been allowed to wear her own threadbare linen chemise; apart from that, everything else had been replaced. Her stockings, spun from the finest silk thread, caressed her legs as she wiggled her toes in shoes of the softest, most pliable leather. She thought of the thick, unyielding leather of her old boots, boots that let in the cold and water when she plodded through the hillsides after her father, tending to the sheep or working in the garden. Her underdress was of wool, dyed a lichen green, and fitted her body like a second skin, the tight sleeves emphasising the fragility of her arms. The bliaut , laced tightly with leather strings on each side of her waist, was dyed a darker green with long, teardrop-shaped sleeves that hung to the ground. It was these sleeves that would be her undoing, Tavia decided. Unused to such trailing appendages, she continually tripped over them, much to the amusement of King Malcolm and his sister, and to the disgust of Ferchar.

The soldier in front raised his arm, halting the entourage. He leaned forward, dismounting clumsily, as if he, too, were suffering from being in the saddle too long. Tavia frowned. Ferchar had obviously picked the most incompetent soldiers to accompany her on her journey to nowhere, to give the enemy more chance of kidnapping her. The situation would have been laughable if she hadn’t been so scared.

‘Let’s rest a while here,’ the soldier announced gruffly.

Tavia’s horse plodded gracefully to a halt, without her needing to do anything. She was about to slither down from the back of the animal, when another soldier appeared at her side to help her down. She had almost forgotten—she was a princess. Her legs nearly collapsed beneath her as her feet touched the ground, and she clutched on to the soldier for a moment, before sinking gleefully down on to a cloak that had been spread out over the damp earth.

‘How many?’ Langley whispered, his broad, affable features obscured by his steel helmet.

Supporting the rangy length of his body against the ribbed bark of a trunk, Benois flung himself back against the tree before answering, ‘Four, maybe five.’ He held a finger to his lips. Somewhere, high above them, the distinctive sound of a cuckoo resounded through the forest. Moving swiftly and decisively, Benois climbed back to where Langley and the rest of the English soldiers waited in the trees. The harsh lines of his face lightened into a smile.

‘I had no need of you after all, Langley. My apologies for dragging you out. The princess sits amongst those rough soldiers like a rose amongst the thorns. She should be easy to pluck.’

‘Then let me have the honour of escorting her,’ Langley requested. ‘You are not renowned for your chivalry around the fairer sex.’

Benois agreed without hesitation. ‘I grant you that, Langley. Though why you spend your days in courtly inanities is beyond me.’

‘Because it’s enjoyable, maybe?’ Langley raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re so caught up in your missions for Henry, that you don’t give yourself time to relax, indulge in banter with the ladies, or give yourself any time to think.’

‘That’s just the way I like it.’ Benois’s voice held a guarded quality.

Langley shook his head, uncomprehending. His friend was so different from him; the decisive mind, the quick restless energy that drove Benois to accept more and more assignments from the English King, sat in complete contrast to his own more relaxed behaviour.

‘You know me, Benois,’ he said, looping his fingers into the reins to steady his horse as the animal pawed the loose ground beneath its hooves, ‘much prefer the fireside to the saddle.’

‘Then let’s get this over with,’ Benois suggested, vaulting on to his horse, and beginning to urge his black stallion down the narrow path that led to the bottom of the valley, and the glade where the princess sat. ‘And remember, you take the princess and ride with her back to your castle. My men and I will hold off the soldiers, to give you time to flee with our prize.’

As the bloodcurdling shouts reverberated up and down the valley, Tavia threw the leather flagon to the ground and sprung to her feet. This was it! Her heart began to pound with anticipation, nerves, she knew not what. The distinctive red-and-gold surcoats of the English soldiers flashed in the sunlight as they careered haphazardly down the slopes, nostrils flaring on the horses as the animals snorted with excitement. Instinct told Tavia to run, but she stopped herself, remembering Ferchar’s words. Act like a princess, a lady, he had urged her. Act like a simpering fool, more like, she sputtered under her breath. What normal person wouldn’t want to bolt when faced with barbarians such as these?

‘Get behind us, my lady!’ begged the older soldier who led the party. Tavia moved back dutifully, amazed that the soldiers who escorted her had no idea that she was not the princess. She felt almost sorry for them as she watched them draw their swords, the metal blades winking as they braced themselves for the attack.

And then she saw him. Oh, mother of Mary. Not him.

Benois le Vallieres charged full tilt at their small group, his body lying flat against the back of his galloping horse as its hooves sent clods flicking up from the spongy grass. She would know him anywhere now: the defiant cleft on his chin, those high, slanted cheekbones, that burly frame that dwarfed all the men around him. Fear knotted her stomach and she clenched her hands together, her palms slick with sudden sweat. He would know her, she was certain of it. There was no doubting the man’s intelligence. He would see through her disguise, and return immediately to Dunswick in the hope of kidnapping the real princess. And Tavia knew that Ferchar needed at least a day to take Ada to safety. She would lose the coin that he had promised her. Unless…

Dragging the heavy encumbrance of her cloak from her shoulders, Tavia backed away slowly, before turning to sprint off into the darkness of the forest.

Benois’s sword clashed heavily against the sword of his Scottish opponent with an ugly ringing sound. He hefted the weapon into the air once more, thrusting forwards with the great blade, slashing with a diagonal motion, first left, then right, moving with the skill and grace of a man honed by years of fighting. In contrast to the cumbersome movements of the soldier he fought, every manoeuvre he made appeared precise, using the least amount of energy to produce the greatest effect. In a few moments, Benois had reduced his opponent to a sweating, frightened animal.

‘Langley! Leave him to me!’ he shouted, aware that his friend was embroiled in a swordfight on his right. ‘Fetch the princess!’ Benois’s sword snared his opponent’s weapon, whipping it away into the undergrowth. Breathing heavily, the soldier sank to his knees, raising his hands up limply. Poking him with the point of his sword, Benois indicated the soldier should join his fellow countrymen, who sat huddled miserably on the ground, heads bowed, defeated. In a few moments, Langley’s opponent also surrendered, scurrying away on his hands and knees to join the group.