The Damsel's Defiance (4 page)

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.

But Talvas was already pulling on the reins, lifting himself easily in the saddle, twisting sinuously around with his hand on his sword hilt, trying to locate the sound. Guillame drew his sword with a silken hiss.

‘Who goes there?’ Talvas shouted roughly. The low timbre of his clear voice echoed in the valley. ‘Show yourselves or we’ll root you out!’

Perspiration gathered in her palms: she had no wish to be pursued like hunting quarry. She knew they would outrun her within moments. ‘’Tis I, Emmeline de Lonnieres.’ Her voice emerged as a pathetic squeak, and she cursed herself for it. She began to climb down, slipping and sliding through the dense vegetation. Talvas flipped an irritated glance back at his squire, who raised his shaggy blond eyebrows.

‘The woman on the quayside,’ Guillame murmured, sheathing his sword and dismounting.

‘Don’t remind me,’ Talvas grimaced as he followed the maid’s descent with a resigned air. Trust his luck to tangle with this harridan once again! But as she burst out on to the track, her horse pushing up behind her, threatening to topple her over, he had to work hard not to laugh out loud. Brambles clung to the delicate cloth of her veil, the thin wool of her cloak; brambles, no doubt, that had caused the nasty-looking scratch on the bloom of her rounded cheek. Her forehead appeared to have some sort of dark-grey grit embedded in it.

‘And where are the others?’ Talvas demanded, crossing his arms across the pommel and leaning forward.

‘The others?’ She frowned, her huge green eyes perplexed. Against the richness of the men’s garb, her grey worsted
bliaut
appeared shabby, yet it had been the best of her meagre collection of garments when she had dressed that morning. Her underdress, of dark brown, was of slighter better quality, but only the tight sleeves were visible, emerging from the long, drooping sleeves of the
bliaut.

Talvas’s eyes lit with blue fire. ‘Don’t tangle with me, mistress!’ he chastised her. ‘Where is your escort?’

‘I don’t have one.’ Emmeline shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. The cold mud of the track began to seep through her thin leather soles.

Talvas raised his eyes heavenward. ‘She doesn’t have one,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Now why don’t I find that hard to believe?’

Emmeline caught the high level of condemnation in his tone. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ she replied, defensively.

‘Then why were you hiding up there?’ His booted foot in the shining metal stirrup was on a level with her shoulder as he bent down suddenly, tugging at a bramble caught in her linen veil. She bit her lip slightly, trying to resist the urge to back away, to run. His fingers brushed against her cheek, cool and determined. Flushing under his touch, she refused to meet his eyes, letting out a tiny sigh of relief when he suddenly threw the bramble into the river. ‘Answer me, mistress,’ he demanded softly.

‘You could have been friend or foe.’ She concentrated on the scuffed toe of his leather boot.

‘Exactly.’ Talvas slapped the reins from side to side as his horse grew restless. ‘Have you any idea of the dangers in travelling alone? God in Heaven, woman, even I am sensible enough to take an escort!’ He nodded briefly at Guillame to demonstrate his point.

‘I can take care of myself.’

Talvas swept his azure gaze over the small, slight figure,
deliberately allowing his eyes to travel disparagingly from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. ‘Given what I have seen of you already,
mam’selle,
I sincerely doubt it,’ he responded indifferently. Sweet Jesu, why should he even care? He should just leave her here alone, and to hell with the consequences! ‘Where are you headed?’

She hesitated, reluctant to divulge her destination. Behind Talvas’s head, profiled in stark detail against the steel-grey clouds, the green tops of a clump of fir trees swayed violently, shaken by the force of the gusting wind. From the top of a nearby beech tree, nude of leaves, a batch of crows rose loudly, screeching.

‘You keep us waiting,
mam’selle.
’ Talvas glowered at her mute, shuttered expression. Insolent chit! He’d witnessed better manners from his deckhands. He stared at her, a petite virago bristling with hostility, her stunning eyes flashing green-emerald. This reaction to him was unusual. Usually the fairer sex wished to know him better, but he always refused to let down his emotional guard. It suited him favourably, to have this little witch hate him so.

She stepped back without thinking, her heels hitting the solid rock that bordered the track. Talvas wore the expression of a man who would wait all day for the correct answer: the harsh line of his mouth, the rapier glint of his eye—all denoted a character who would not give up easily.

Emmeline sighed. ‘I travel to Torigny.’ She hunched into the meagre wool of her cloak, annoyed with herself.

‘Torigny, as we are.’ The wind ruffled the sleek darkness of his hair. ‘How strange that we should find ourselves upon the same route. You must allow us to escort you.’

But she was already shaking her head. ‘Nay, my lord. I would only hold you up. Let me go on my way and have nothing more to do with me.’ Mother of Mary! Would she
never be free of him? Her right ankle was beginning to ache unbearably.

He waggled a finger at her. ‘Nay,
mam’selle.
Despite the fact that you are clearly one of the most insufferable, pigheaded women I have ever had the misfortune to meet, I have a duty toward you.’

She closed her eyes. Maybe this was all just a bad dream.

‘Aye,
mam’selle.
’ His words bore a thread of steel. ‘As knights we have a duty toward unaccompanied women. Especially young widows whose new-found independence has obviously gone to their heads.’

Reeling at his words, she clung to her horse’s neck to balance herself. ‘How do you know I’m a widow?’ Her voice sounded high and sharp in the damp air.

‘A lucky guess.’ He chuckled. ‘What did you do to the poor man? Cut him to shreds with your tongue?’ He and Guillame guffawed loudly.

Emmeline pursed her lips together, fury welling in her slender body. ‘Knights of the realm indeed!’ she scoffed. ‘I don’t believe a word of it! And I don’t have to put up with this treatment…this boorish behaviour! Let me pass!’ She tried to shove Lord Talvas’s massive black stallion out of the way with her body weight. He grabbed hold of her upper arm, hauling against the flank of the horse.

‘If it’s pretty manners and fine ways you’re after, then you’ll not find them with me,’ he growled. ‘But, aye, I completed my training, and swore my allegiance to the chivalric code, for what it’s worth. And you, mistress, are wasting our time with idle chitchat.’ Without warning, he swung low and grabbed her round the waist, lifting her in one easy movement to dump her on her horse. ‘You’re coming with us, and that’s an order.’

S
till rankling from Lord Talvas’s boorish treatment of her, Emmeline urged her mare forward. Fixing her gaze on the gentle, undulating motion of the horse’s neck, she tried to steady her breathing. How dare he pick her up like a sack of grain and throw her into the saddle? How
dare
he? His arrogant demeanour brought memories of her husband, Giffard, to mind. She would do well to remember what happened in that marriage, living through two years of taunting, verbal abuse, slaps and pinches. She endured it for her mother’s sake, as Giffard had brought money to the family, money that cushioned them through the first lean months after her father’s death. But Giffard drank, and began to drink more heavily as she avoided his advances until, one day, he had pushed her down the stairs. Emmeline had broken her ankle in the fall, but he’d kept her prisoner in the house for several days while she lay at his mercy, in agony. The bone had set awkwardly, leaving her with a permanent limp.

Fortune had been on her side, for less than a sennight later, hunters had carried Giffard’s dead body into the kitchen and laid him out with a deference he did not deserve. From that
day on, she had vowed never to be controlled again, not by anyone. This man, Lord Talvas, this hulking stranger who towered over her, who glared at her with eyes of cornflower-blue, behaved exactly as Giffard had done. She could scarce remember the last time a man had touched her, yet this oaf seemed to make a habit of manhandling her, almost as if to prove his physical strength. High-handed, domineering, he was a man used to being in charge. And yet…and yet there the resemblance ended. Physically, there was no comparison. Giffard had been short, much the same height as herself, his torso running easily to fat as he approached forty winters, his massive hands continually clenched into hamlike fists. For a long time after his death, her nights were haunted by his white fleshy jowls, the sickening smell of cider brandy. She winced at the memory, dragging herself back into the present, the muddy track, the hissing sibilance of the river beside them, the great forests looming up to her right. She wouldn’t go back to that horrible time, a time when she had cowed under Giffard’s beefy fists, spent countless evenings scarcely able to move for the bruises on her body, lived in fear for her own life. She would not let it happen.

Emmeline followed Lord Talvas, bound up in her silent thoughts, while Guillame brought up the rear, the narrow track compelling the group to ride in single file. Above them the grey clouds gathered heavily, every now and again a few spots of rain falling. Emmeline prayed fervently they would reach Torigny before the heavens opened, conscious of the thin material of her cloak. She reminded herself once more why she undertook such a journey: not just for herself and the coin, but for her sister. Sylvie, who she had laughed and played with as a child; her sister, who was now in terrible trouble.

As Talvas rode in front, he dipped his head to duck beneath a low-hanging branch, rainwater springing from the soaked
leaves to spangle his shoulders with shining droplets. Emmeline idly studied the muscular cords of his strong neck, just visible under the brim of his hat, before wrenching her gaze away from the broad set of his shoulders to focus on the rolling rump of his horse. How could this man, a man she had met just yesterday, have insinuated himself so completely into her life?

Having ridden for an hour or so, the group rounded a bend in the track and came upon a shallow bank of pebbles that ran down into the river. Talvas threw up his arm to stop the horses, turning in his saddle to address them.

‘Let’s stop here. The horses need to drink.’

‘And I need something to eat,’ Guillame added, nudging his horse forwards over the open patch of grass to the water’s edge. Dismounting, he undid the heavy iron buckle on the flat leather bag that lay across his horse’s rump to draw out two cloth packages. ‘Looks like the innkeeper’s wife packed us a good lunch, my lord.’ He threw one of the packets over Talvas, who caught it deftly. Emmeline urged her mare to the river’s edge, feeling at odds with the easy camaraderie of these men. Although she did business with the merchants, she normally avoided all male company, and now a wave of self-consciousness consumed her. As she released the reins, Talvas appeared at her side, his broad shoulders on a level with her thigh.

‘Can I be of assistance?’ he asked formally. Blue eyes held green.

She stared at him in surprise, unused to accepting help from men. ‘Well…I…’ she stumbled over the words, acutely aware of his nearness, his heart-stopping, saturnine face. ‘Nay, I can manage.’ She jumped down hurriedly, lest he should put his hands upon her again. Talvas tilted his head to one side, observing her with a mocking smile.

As her feet hit the ground at a strange angle, Emmeline
knew instantly that she had rushed the dismount. Pain shot through her weak ankle, causing her to stumble onto one knee.

‘Steady,’ Talvas murmured. Swiftly, he grabbed her beneath her elbows to help her to her feet. ‘What ails thee, mistress? Are you hurt?’ He bent down and lifted the hem of her
bliaut
to reveal slim calves encased in brown knitted stockings.

Emmeline bit her lip, trying to shove his hand away. ‘Get your hands off me,’ she said angrily. ‘How dare you! I’m perfectly well, I just landed awkwardly, that’s all!’ She hated his concern, resented his nearness. He smelt of the sea; that fresh, briny tang that made her think of wide open spaces, of surf crashing onto pebbles.

Guillame had spread his cloak upon the ground, and was now opening the muslin packages to reveal floury rounds of bread, creamy cheese and chicken legs. Emmeline’s mouth watered as she eyed the succulent food.

‘Did you think to bring any sustenance?’ Talvas asked, dropping her hem back into place. ‘Or do you wish to share ours?’ He watched the flush in her cheeks subside gradually. How she hated his touch!

Emmeline had already detached the satchel from the back of her horse. ‘I have sufficient, thank you.’

‘Then sit.’ Talvas gestured toward Guillame’s cloak.

She hesitated, reluctant to walk under his searing regard, knowing he would see her limp.

‘Go on, then,’ he urged, ‘Guillame doesn’t bite.’ he stepped over to his horse, unstrapping his leather drinking flagon with deft fingers. Quickly, she lunged forward, almost falling onto the cloak in her haste to reach it before he turned round. Guillame, munching steadily on a chicken leg, seemed absorbed in his own thoughts and her ungainly advance passed without notice.

‘So, what business takes you to Torigny?’ Talvas asked
conversationally as he settled himself on his own cloak beneath a large oak and began to unwrap the white muslin package. Stretching out his long legs before him, strong muscled legs encased in fawn-coloured wool and cross-gartered with leather strapping from ankle to knee, he threw her a questioning glance.

‘My own,’ she shot back, her fingers fiddling with the stiff clasp on her leather satchel, avoiding his bright searching eyes. The pain in her ankle had subsided to a dull ache; her diaphragm relaxed as she began to breathe more easily.

Talvas laughed, a booming, generous sound, the fine lines around his eyes crinkling with humour. He shook his head in disbelief at her reticence. ‘Then let us guess,’ he said. Leaning back against the wide, nubbled bark of the tree trunk, he folded his arms, raising his eyebrows slightly in mock challenge. ‘Now, Guillame, before us we have a most unusual maid, a maid who appears to abide by her own laws, without thought to her own safety, or propriety…’

Emmeline drew herself up, about to protest, but Talvas raised a flat palm to silence her. ‘A moment, mistress, let me finish.’

‘She owns her own merchant ship, her life is on the quayside with the merchants and the deckhands, yet she travels, unaccompanied, inland. For what, pray tell?’

‘To visit a relative?’ suggested Guillame, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of bread.

‘Or to visit someone she has never met before?’ drawled Talvas. He tipped his head back, a feral glint in his blue eyes, and smiled.

‘You know!’ She narrowed her eyes. How she disliked the way he played games with her!

‘I guessed, and your reaction has just confirmed it,’ he replied lazily.

A rose-tinted flush spread over her cheeks. ‘I overhead your squire say that the Empress needed a ship and I thought—’

‘You thought you’d made some easy coin,’ he snapped back.

Emmeline glowered at him. He made her plan sound mercenary and underhanded, as if she were trying to trick the Empress! ‘I thought, maybe, that we could help each other,’ she tried to explain, before ducking her head to concentrate on extracting an apple from her satchel.

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.