coarse fabric of his tunic. A heady scent of earth mingled with horse rose from his torso, the heat from his skin penetrating the loose weave easily, warming the skin on her face.
‘Can’t take any sort of competition, I’m afraid,’ the man was explaining. ‘I’ll take him home.’
The brazen insolence of the man! Her fear began to drop away, to be replaced with a wild, boiling rage. She swivelled her shoulders ineffectually within the powerful hold of his arms, first left, then right, desperate to break the imprisonment, but to no avail. Lifting one foot, she stamped down hard, feeling a small sense of gratification as she made contact with a set of toes.
‘Enough!’ he ordered, releasing the clamp of his hand on the back of her head.
‘Let me go!’ she stuttered out against his chest. ‘I can’t breathe!’
In reply, he swung her off her feet, throwing her over his shoulder carelessly, like a sack of grain. One hand crushed into the back of her knees, preventing any movement of her lower body while her head bumped painfully against the breadth of his shoulders. The blood rushed to her head, prickling uncomfortably behind her eyes, as she heard the crowd laugh and chortle, thinking they were witnessing some long-standing argument between friends. How could she convince them that he was not who he seemed? That he would probably slay them all in their beds if given the chance! The rapid pace of his stride prevented her from even lifting her head to scream out, her head bouncing against his spine like a wooden puppet.
At his back, the man carried three arrows stuck into his wide leather belt, the feather ends of which threatened to tickle her nose. In a moment, she realised her opportunity. As the man ducked slightly, as if avoiding a low lintel, she tugged on one of the arrows, very, very slowly.
‘Now,’ he murmured, ‘who in God’s name are you?’ He bent down, sliding her slender frame back over his shoulder to set Tavia on her feet, as she tucked the arrow that she had pulled from his belt behind her back. The scent of hay filled the air, a fragrant aroma of summer grass mingling with the more acrid, earthier smell of horse manure. He had brought her into the castle stables! In the half-light, the shadowed angles of his face appeared dangerous, menacing, his rapier-like gaze shining like chips of ice as he studied her. Though her legs trembled, a volatile mixture of fear and anger bubbled inside her, driving her on.
‘How could you forget?’ she shrieked at him like a banshee, bringing the arrow around from her back to drive it into his shoulder.
The iron point, glinting dully in the sepulchral gloom, never touched his flesh. With astonishing speed honed from years of fighting, he wrenched the weapon from her hand, casting it away into a heap of straw. She felt herself gripped, twisted violently, her right arm pushed up into the small of her back.
‘You’re hurting me!’
‘Tell me who you are!’
‘My name is Tavia of Mowerby—now will you let me go?’
The hands dropped immediately, his gruff voice genuinely surprised at the high, lilting tones. ‘You’re a maid?’
He shoved the hood from her face, his lean fingers grazing the soft red sheen of her hair. The pale marble of her skin gleamed with an angelic luminosity, the ethereal nature of her features emphasised by the low-grade wool of the hood that now gathered in heavy folds about her neck. Her eyes, huge orbs of sapphire, threatened to drown him in those deep pools of blue. He sucked in his breath, feeling the weight of guilt descend on his chest. It was she. The maid from the church. The maid who had haunted his dreams for the past sennight, the image of that slender wraith sprawled before the altar pricking his hardened conscience with spirals of concern. More than once he had caught himself wondering what had happened to her.
‘Do you know me now?’ Her voice held a low challenge, but he could tell from her rigid stance that she was afraid of him. Why did she want to goad him so much? It made him want to laugh. The top of her shining head barely reached his shoulder, and, he reckoned, casting a swift glance over her sylph-like frame, that his body weight was nearly twice hers.
‘Aye, mistress, I do remember you, more’s the pity. What in God’s name are you doing here?’
‘I should be asking you that,’ she replied, looping her arms defensively across her chest.
‘And dressed as a lad.’ The flint grey of his eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’
‘None of your business, soldier.’
‘It became my business when you almost shouted my identity to the whole castle.’
‘Well, it serves you right. You didn’t reckon on me being here, did you? Sorry if I’ve managed to scupper your plans.’ Tavia jabbed the words back to him, annoyance fuelling her speech. ‘What were you planning to do? Murder our king in cold blood?’
Her impassioned speech seemed to roll off his shoulders. ‘Since when did you become the King’s personal bodyguard?’ He smiled, the well-defined edges of his lips tilting upwards, making him appear younger.
A tiny frisson of excitement threaded through her veins. She shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to experience such strange feelings when she was trying to appear confident and in control. But without his helmet, the intimidating coat of chainmail, all those hideous trappings of war, he appeared softer somehow. She chewed at the corner of her lip, shaking her head slightly. What was the matter with her? Mother of Mary, this man was English, the enemy! She needed to alert the castle guard, have him arrested… But how, when his huge frame blocked the only way in and out of the stables?
‘Since people like you started attacking our towns, firing our houses, raping our women.’ Her condemning tones pulsated around the stable in answer to his goading question. ‘Who in the hell are you?’
‘My name is Benois le Vallieres, at your service.’ He nodded his head briefly, a scant interpretation of the more formal bow.
‘I have heard that name before,’ Tavia replied slowly, astonished, the beat of her heart starting to race. One hand flew self-consciously to the nick at her throat, nervous fingers touching the small cut.
He shrugged his shoulders, his eyes narrowing as he followed her movement. ‘No doubt. I am the Commander of the North. For King Henry’s soldiers.’
‘Then what are you doing here?’ she uttered, her voice shrill. An icy clamminess invaded her palms. God in Heaven! Benois le Vallieres! One of the most feared soldiers in the country. She had heard her father, and other townspeople, talk about him. Not just a soldier, she remembered them saying, but one of the Brabanters, notorious mercenaries who showed no loyalty, but fought for anyone who would pay the most.
He raked one hand through his brown, feathery locks. The cloth of his tunic strained over the bunched muscles in his shoulder. ‘Just having a look,’ he replied.
‘Just having a look!’ she squeaked back at him. ‘You expect me to believe that!’
‘Aye—’ he took one step closer to her ‘—I do.’
‘Don’t you threaten me,’ she warned. ‘Move back!’ She placed one hand on his chest, trying to force him backwards. He didn’t budge.
A roar rose up from the crowd outside, followed by excited cheering. Tavia knew her opportunity to enter the contest was slipping away, and the longer that this soldier, this Benois
