The Warrior's Princess Bride. Meriel Fuller

clattering against the stone floor. Silence, laced with thickening guilt, cloaked the church. Benois’s frame filled the doorway, a giant silhouette against the daylight, his broad shoulders almost touching the sides of the arch, long legs spread wide across the threshold.

      ‘Get out.’ Benois stepped to one side, folding his arms impassively over his chest.

      The soldier closest to Tavia bent down to pick up his knife. ‘You’d better say your prayers now, virgin,’ he whispered. The soldiers scuttled out, heads hanging, shamefaced as they passed their commander.

      As he turned to follow his men out of the church, his mouth taut and white with rage, Benois glanced back at the maid lying under the north window. In the dim light, filtered through the narrow arched slits, he could just make out the slender figure crumpled up against the altar, the stark whiteness of her face like a ghost against the grey backdrop of stone. Although her eyes were open, she made no move to scramble for cover, or to hide. Benois frowned, irritated by his own uncustomary behaviour. He didn’t have time for this now, but if his soldiers had gone too far…?

      His men were descending the steps, blinking in the bright sunshine, their guilt evident by their shuffling steps, their mumbled excuses. Instinct told Benois to leave the maid; he had already given the order to retreat, and his soldiers would be gathering beyond the gates of the city, ready to ride back to Chester. And yet it was he who had given the command for no bloodshed in this attack on the city, no raping and pillaging. There was something in that still, pale face that made him hesitate, causing him to spin on his heel and stride up the aisle, pulling his gloves off decisively as he approached the altar steps.

      The maid was of peasant stock, judging from her clothes. Her booted feet stuck out from a bliaut ragged with patched-up holes. The dress bagged around her thin frame like a sack; it had obviously been made for someone far larger than herself. The linen scarf that covered her hair had fallen back in the scuffle with his men to reveal her dark wine-red hair.

      Her light blue eyes stared past him, unfocused, as he bent over her, unsure what to do. Since fighting for Henry, he had tended to avoid the company of women, finding physical pleasure only in his swift visits to whores, and now, he, Benois, most feared commander of Henry’s northern battalions, had no idea what to do next.

      He patted her on the cheek. Nothing. Seizing her by one shoulder with his great hand, he shook her, not gently. No reaction. He began to shake her a little more. Suddenly she began screaming hysterically, like a wild woman, a banshee—a high-pitched screeching like an animal howling in pain. He winced, pulling back slightly, trying to retreat from the noise that threatened to blow his eardrum.

      ‘Get away from me…you…barbarian!’ she stuttered the words out, a piercing wail, jerking upwards from her prone state to shove her hands up towards his chest, trying to push him away. She struggled against him, throwing her shoulders back and forth, trying to dislodge his hold. He dropped his grip on her shoulder immediately, sitting back abruptly on to his heels.

      ‘Easy, maid. I have no wish to hurt you,’ he muttered, amazed by the luminous quality of her skin, the beauty of her face, set in a perfect oval.

      She focused on him then, shaking with horror, her wide cerulean eyes lit with fear. Tears welled in the corners, threatening to spill over, and her hands flew to her face, as if she couldn’t bear to look at him. Tears bubbled through her fingers, dripping over the fine bones of her hands, splashing to the floor in great, dark spots.

      Benois shifted uncomfortably. His calf muscles began to cramp in this crouched position. She seemed to be in one piece; maybe he should just go.

      ‘You’re inhuman,’ the maid blubbed out. She jabbed a finger in the direction of the door. ‘Those men…were inhuman!’ Her whole body quivered with terror.

      ‘Did they hurt you?’ Benois frowned. Scanning her neat figure, he could find no evidence of attack, no reason why this maid should weep so much. The noise of her crying made him feel graceless, inept. It was a long time since he had offered a woman comfort, sympathy, and he wasn’t about to start now.

      ‘Nay.’

      The single word was enough for him. Benois sprung to his feet, eager to leave, his huge, bear-like frame towering over the forlorn, seated figure. He was reluctant to spend time dabbling in pleasantries with a peasant girl. At his movement, she turned her large, aquamarine eyes up to him. The glossy wings of her hair parted over her forehead, forming a shining auburn frame to her terrified expression. ‘They hurt me,’ she added, ‘but not in the way you imply.’

      ‘Good.’ He nodded curtly, his tone matter-of-fact, abrupt. ‘Then, as you appear to be recovered, I will bid you good day.’

      Tavia’s eyes widened, chips of sapphire staring at him in puzzlement, as if unable to comprehend his words. ‘Recovered…?’ Her voice rose a couple of notches as she struggled to speak. ‘Are you completely insane?’ She tilted her head back, pointing at the thin line of blood trickling down her neck with one grimy hand. Her pink fingernail quivered against her pale skin.

      Benois shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ve seen worse.’ He clamped his lips together in a furious line. His soldiers were trained, professional men; men who should have known better.

      Tavia viewed the man in astonishment, unbelieving as to his remorseless words. He stood before her, this barbarian of a man, without a hint of apology for his men’s actions. In the half-light, she could decipher no hint of his visage, except for his mouth, clamped firmly into a cruel, thin line. The silver metal of his helmet covered his head, the glittering skin of his hauberk shone out from beneath a short cloak of ermine, lined with red silk. The fine wool of his tunic bore the colours of Henry II, two lions embroidered in heavy gold thread across the breadth of his chest.

      She folded her hands together in her lap, trying to still their trembling. Her voice, when it emerged, was a low whisper of condemnation. ‘So you don’t care one jot that your soldiers chased a woman into a church, kicked her down to the floor and threatened to rape her at knifepoint?’

      No, he didn’t care. ‘Those men will be punished.’ His answer was terse. Why did he even offer this woman an explanation?

      ‘I thought I would be safe here,’ she murmured. Tavia tipped her head back, the cut on her throat smeared red across the graceful line of her neck. ‘But they followed me, pursued me, like I was their quarry…’ Her voice wavered as she fought back fresh tears, fighting to maintain some sort of composure. ‘Your men are animals.’

      The lick of contempt in her tone squeezed his chest. ‘Aye, they are,’ he replied grimly. The tiny metal loops of his chainmail glittered as he reached down from his lofty height to help her up. His extended hand loomed before her, tanned and sinewy, the fingers surprisingly fine and tapered for such an oaf of a man. She didn’t want to accept his help, but the strength had run from her legs like water.

      ‘Come on,’ he said, irritated. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

      The curtness of his tone stung her and she sneered at his hand as if it was a piece of rotting meat. ‘I don’t need your help,’ she lobbed back at him. ‘Just leave me!’

      With a grunt of annoyance, he seized her wrist, hauling her roughly to her feet, before turning on his heel, and sweeping out of the church.

      Tavia leaned shakily against the altar, blood pumping furiously through her veins. She closed her eyes for a moment, shuddering with relief, tracing her palm tentatively. Her skin still burnt with the force of the man’s grasp, the imprint of his hand. But something was amiss. His palm had not been smooth against her own, but ridged and dented as if the skin had been through a mangle. A touch she would never forget.

      Chapter Two

      Tavia jerked awake, her heart banging out a jittered rhythm. Through the hazy layers of consciousness, soldiers continued to chase her through the church, a pair of ferocious slate-grey eyes leading the pursuit. She blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the frightening image, peering into the gloom of the cottage that was her home. Reaching out to touch the cool, gritty