The Warrior's Princess Bride. Meriel Fuller
could be seen, climbing over the tops of the walls. The red-and-gold surcoats of Henry II, the English king, flashed menacingly as more and more of his men piled over the battlements. Swords clashed, echoing in her ears; men grunted with exertion as they fought for their lives. She jumped backwards, horrified, as a soldier’s body landed with a tremendous thump, inches from her feet, blood seeping through the metallic skin of his chainmail as he sprawled across the ground, arms and legs at hideous angles. A dragging weakness invaded her legs, and she swayed slightly, a sick taste in her mouth, before dropping to her knees beside the man, wondering how she could help him, touching the cold metal of his hauberk gingerly.
‘Get out of here, maid!’ Tis not safe!’ Another soldier jerked her up by her shoulder and shoved her back in the direction of the marketplace. ‘Save yourself, maid. It will not be long before they’re in here. Save yourself!’
‘But this man…’ She gestured at the soldier on the ground.
‘Was dead before he fell,’ the man replied bluntly. ‘We’re no match for these English devils. Now make haste!’
She ran then, sheer panic forcing her to move her limbs, to head for a place of safety. Too late to run home, the city was surrounded. Her breath came in great gasps as she fled along the narrow city streets, urging her muscles to work harder, faster. No time to warn her father; she just hoped he had managed to hide himself. Too bad her crossbow was still in the cart in which they had travelled to town; she had only thrown it in at the last moment, as another form of protection on their journey. If only she had it with her, then she could find a high spot and pick these barbarians off one by one.
The shouts at her back were gaining on her, intermingled with the distinctive thump of a battering ram on the solid wooden gates. Twisting her head back, she almost screamed out loud at the sight of the red-and-gold garbed soldiers, mounted on huge gleaming destriers, cramming into the other end of the narrow lane. They must have come in from another entrance!
‘God have mercy on me!’ Tavia whispered, ducking away to the right. Blood pumped uncontrollably behind her ears, in her brain. She bolted down an alleyway, hoping her direction would lead her away from the English, would yield up some place she could hide, could creep into until this nightmare was over.
And then she saw it. Her sanctuary, rising up before her, the one building that no enemy would dare to attack or desecrate with their barbarous ways. The church. Sobbing, half with relief, half with the effort of running so fast, she stumbled up the smooth, level steps, her toe tangling in the long hem of her bliaut. She wrenched the bulk of her gown away, her movements jerky with agitation, and climbed higher. The church would be her salvation. The great door of coarse oak yielded under her slight weight, and she fell into the dark haven, breathing in the heady smells of incense and balsam. Running along the aisle, she fell on her knees at the simple wooden altar and prayed for her life.
Behind her, the door swung back violently on its hinges, the harsh noise bouncing menacingly through the high vaulted spaces of the building. Sweat slicked Tavia’s palms as she clasped her hands tightly in prayer, her eyes closed. Every muscle in her body stretched with trepidation, with fear. If she didn’t look around, then it wouldn’t be real, it would all be a horrible dream.
A boot in her back kicked her prostrate on the altar steps. The pain radiated out from her spine, bruising her delicate skin. Shocked, aghast, scrabbling on her hands and knees, she tried scrambling to her feet, only to be kicked back down again, harder this time. She bit her lip, wanting to cry out at this brutal treatment, not wanting to give them the satisfaction. How dare they treat her so!
Still prone, she twisted her head. Five or six English soldiers stood over her, faces shadowed by metal helmets, the long nose-pieces obscuring their features. The memory of the soldier falling to her feet at the gatehouse shot through her mind. Rage, boiling rage, rose in her gut. ‘How dare you!’ she hissed, pushing one flat palm against the stone floor to lever herself up. ‘How dare you defile the sanctity of this church!’ The soldiers exchanged mock-innocent, wide-eyed looks, and guffawed. One leaned down and grabbed a fistful of her bliaut at her waist. Through the fabric, his knuckles ground into her flesh as her head jerked back with the ferocity of the movement.
‘Only if we kill you,’ the soldier ground out, the warm stench of his breath wafting over her face. ‘And we have no intention of doing that…yet.’ He threw her back, her head knocking against the side of the altar. ‘Geraint, you first.’ He gestured to the younger soldier at the back. ‘And make it quick…the rest of us want a piece, too.’
Geraint frowned at the older soldier, his manner hesitant. ‘But…le Vallieres said…’
‘He’ll never know…’ the older man snarled back, scratching absentmindedly at a day’s growth of beard. ‘Don’t you think we deserve it?’
Tavia began to shake, her body trembling all over. Her mind jumped and stuttered as she fought to make sense of what was happening. Never before had she felt so completely violated, so vulnerable. As the nominated soldier stepped forward, she forced her brain to think coherently, to think of a way out! Her fingers clung to the side of the altar, a thick, carved oak chest, covered with a linen cloth and, on the top, a heavy silver cross, ornately carved with an intricate filigreed design. As the soldier approached, she propelled her frightened body upwards, making a desperate grab for it. A blade hissed as her fingers curled around the weighty silver, as she swung it round with all her strength, aiming for the soldier’s head. He ducked and the cross sailed past the man’s helmet, landing with a deafening crash on the flagstones.
‘Feisty wench,’ a soldier muttered.
‘You might need some help with that one!’ another teased.
The young soldier grabbed the thick rope of her hair at the back of her neck, yanking her head back. The cold point of his dagger pushed at the delicate skin covering her windpipe.
‘We can do this one of two ways, maid.’ His narrow face gleamed with runnels of sweat, the filth of battle. ‘The easy way or the difficult way. Either way, the outcome will be the same. Your city burns around you, your townspeople have fled. There is no one to save you.’
‘I would rather lose my life than lie with the likes of you!’ Tavia spat out. But nerves made her voice quaver with fear.
‘Enough!’ Incensed, the soldier dropped the dagger, jabbing the toe of his boot into the back of one of her knees to send her flying backwards on to the stone. Her head thumped against the floor. Momentarily dazed, she watched as he lifted the hem of his mailcoat, ripping off his leather gauntlets to fumble with the belt of his trousers. Nausea rose in her stomach as she closed her eyes. Was this really to be her fate? To be raped by English soldiers and left for dead?
From the top of his chestnut destrier, Benois le Vallieres surveyed the devastation around him with a dispassionate eye. His men had done their job well. The reeking smell of burning thatch filled the air, air that moments previously had been filled with soldiers’ screams and shouts. Now the streets were empty, the townspeople trembling behind their flimsy doors, watching, wondering what the English would do next. Few had been killed in this attack; Henry’s intention was merely to frighten the young King Malcolm into some form of discussion about the ownership of these border counties. And, of course, Henry had hired his most trusted mercenary to carry out the mission, and would pay Benois well if the young Scottish king agreed to a meeting.
Benois rolled his huge shoulders forward, trying to ease the tension that pulled along the back of his neck. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept in a soft bed, or laid his head on a linen pillow stuffed with sweet-smelling herbs. At night he slept under canvas, alongside Henry’s soldiers; his meals were lukewarm and often unpalatable, if there was food at all depending on whether the supplies had reached the soldiers. But these hardships mattered not to him. He relished this relentless way of life: the remorseless pace of the marching; the continual harassing of the northern counties that fired his blood, and drove away those darker thoughts that he tried so desperately to forget.
A scream rent the air. Fingers gloved in leather curled around the reins as the stallion beneath him skittered