The Warrior's Princess Bride

‘More,’ Dunstan commanded, shoving the empty, porridge-spattered bowl over the uneven planks of the table. She ladled the white, sloppy mess into the bowl and handed it back to him, grateful for the small routine chores that made her feel normal again, grateful for her father’s familiar rough treatment of her.

‘We’ll travel to Kelso on the morrow, take the wool there,’ her father announced suddenly, belching. ‘I made no coin yesterday because of the attack.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And I expect you to stay with me this time.’

Tavia whirled around, the spoon in her hand spattering white gobs of porridge on to the brown earth floor. ‘But, Father, it’s not safe!’ She quailed at the thought of travelling to town again. ‘All these attacks!’

Dunstan brought his fist crashing down onto the bare, worn planks. ‘You’ll do as I say, girl! I always knew you were lily-livered, just like that useless piece of womanhood lying over there.’ He poked a finger at her mother’s limp form on the pallet.

Tavia jutted her chin in the air, placing the spoon carefully down on the table and moving to her mother’s side, resenting her father’s accusation. She touched her mother’s forehead; the icy coolness of the skin came as a shock after her mother’s high temperature in the night. Tavia frowned. What was the matter with her? Suddenly her mother lurched upwards, her body snapping wildly from one side to the other, as she crossed her arms over her chest to claw at her shoulders with desperate fingers. ‘Get them off me! Get them off me!’

‘Shh! Calm down!’ Tavia whispered, sitting down on the side of the pallet and trying to draw her mother’s body into the circle of her arms.

‘My whole body is itching, it’s on fire,’ Mary moaned. Tears gathered in the corners of her wide blue eyes, as she concentrated on her daughter. ‘Help me, Tavia, please.’

Tavia jumped up, shocked at the deterioration in her mother’s condition and whirled around. ‘She needs a physician, Father. She can’t go on like this.’

‘Costs money,’ Dunstan spat out through a mouthful of porridge. ‘And coin is one thing we do not possess.’ He glared at her, the flesh on his face pinched and blotchy. ‘If only you had made more effort with Lord Greaves, then all our troubles would be over. We’d be living the life of a noble family if only you’d wedded him.’

Lord Greaves! Tavia recalled the bent, arthritic creature at least twice her age, eyeing her covertly in the marketplace on several occasions. He had been the last in a long line of potential husbands lined up by her father, rich woollen merchants who visited the stall on a regular basis, men who showed an interest in the weaver’s daughter.

‘He didn’t like the colour of my hair,’ Tavia replied, sweeping her father’s dirty bowl and spoon from the table, and plunging them in a pail of cold water to wash them. She scrubbed viciously at the clots of sticky porridge, the icy water stinging her hands.

‘And not just that,’ Duncan added. ‘Just look at you, so thin, scrawny. Men want women with a bit of flesh on them; they want sons, all of them. You don’t look fit to breed, girl.’

Tavia’s eyes darted to the gloomy corner as her mother moaned, restless on her pallet. ‘Surely we must have a few coins saved?’ She turned to her father in despair, the cloth between her fingers dripping on to the packed earth floor.

‘Nay! I told you! Can’t you use some of your herbs on her?’

‘Nothing is working.’ Tavia shook her head, thinking of all the different tisanes and poultices she had made up for her mother over the past few days. ‘Nothing works.’

‘Slut can die for all I care,’ Dunstan muttered into his beard.

‘What did you say?’ Tavia gaped at him, incredulous, unbelieving at the savage words she had just heard. Tossing the cloth into the pail, she stepped over to the table, thumping it with her small wet fist to get her father’s attention. ‘How dare you speak about my mother…your wife…in such a way? We need money, Father, and we need to send for a physician… now…today.’

Her father smiled, a narrow, mean curling of his lips. His pale, watery eyes were blank. ‘You’ll get nothing from me. Either of you.’

Tavia leaned her head against the ridged, nubbled back of a tree, and sobbed, hopelessness ripping through her chest like a knife blade. Speechless with anger at her father’s words, she had fled the cottage, seizing up her crossbow from behind the door before heading for the small thicket of trees in the corner of the sheep pasture. How dare he! How dare he treat them both like this? Refusing to lend her the coin to fetch a skilled physician that her mother so desperately needed! She took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to think practically, fingers curling around the smooth stock of her bow as it rested upon the ground. There must be another way.

Needing to steady her anger, she unwound the white veil from her hair, tying the cloth around the tree trunk. Firing her crossbow had always calmed her, channelling her vision on the target in front, slowing her breathing. Oft-times, when she found her father’s temper too much to bear, she had come out to these woods, sending arrow upon arrow into the trees; constantly honing her skill made her feel more secure. Indeed, it was because of her father’s behaviour that she had learned to shoot; the urge to protect her mother, and defend herself, had become paramount in her life. She had never needed to use the bow against him…not yet, anyway.

Placing the knot in the centre of the trunk to form a makeshift bull’s eye, she paced back over the open ground, away from the thicket, her wide skirts flaring over short, sheep-nibbled grass. Determination clouded her delicate features, small lines of strain etched around her mouth. Yesterday, she had felt so useless, so unable to defend herself in the face of those English barbarians; she couldn’t let something like that happen again. Her chest constricted with the memory. How stupid she had been to leave her bow in her father’ cart; if the weapon had been at her side, she could have picked them off, one by one, including him, that barbarian leader, the man with midnight eyes.

From the leather satchel slung diagonally across her back, she drew out one arrow, tipped with white goose feathers. She placed the crossbow on the ground, upending it so the curve of the weapon faced downwards. Putting her toes either side of the stock kept the weapon steady, so she could draw back the sinew cord and hook it over a notch at the top of the bow.

Slotting the arrow into the central groove, Tavia raised the bow to eye level, willing herself to concentrate, to focus on the target. Her sight narrowed on the knot, the tied ends of the veil fluttering either side of it. Her fingers sought the lever underneath the bow, the lever that would lower the notch and release the cord, which would in turn send the quarrel into the target. Taking one deep breath, she squeezed.

The arrow flew straight, its iron tip landing in the middle of the knot with a dull thud. In a moment, she had re-armed the weapon, sending another, then another arrow straight to the centre of the target.

‘When you’re done with wasting your time out here, mayhap you’d get your backside in the house, girl! There’s work to be done!’ Tavia jumped as her father’s strident tones cut through the stiffening breeze as he lumbered over the field. Her shoulder muscles tensed as she lowered the crossbow and turned.

Dunstan eyed the three arrows in the target, then spat derisively on the ground, his face ugly with lines of hostility. ‘Wasting your time out here with that damned thing!’ His mouth curled down with miserable resentment.

‘It’s no waste if it saves my life one day,’ she replied mutinously, resisting the inclination to take a step back from her father’s scowl, ‘or the life of another.’

‘It’s no use unless you’re a man,’ her father cackled. ‘With a skill like that you’d earn good money.’ He nodded towards the arrows pinning the linen knot to the bark.

Behind her, a slight breeze sighed through the treetops, like water running over stones. ‘What are you saying?’ Tavia asked, her tone careful.

Dunstan laughed nastily. ‘King Malcolm’s worried. He’ll pay anything for good marksmen. With these attacks from the English, he’s losing longbow men every day. Soldiers armed with a crossbow are far more effective.’

‘So how does one become a bowman for the King?’ She made a huge effort to keep her voice level, calm.

Her father peered at her suspiciously. ‘He holds a weekly contest. Any competent marksmen can turn up and have a go. If the King and his commanders think anyone is any good, they’ll sign you up immediately.’

‘And how much does he pay?’

‘Nine pence a day.’

Tavia’s eyes widened. ‘A small fortune!’ Her heart began to pound.

‘One that we’ll never have if we stand here prattling all day,’ Dunstan said roughly. ‘Come, girl, there’s work to be done.’

The imposing walls of Dunswick Castle stretched up high from a craggy promontory of basalt rock, towering above the patterned roofs of the town. The thick buttresses, constructed of huge square blocks of stone larger than a man, seemed to grow up out of the rock on which the castle perched to form an intimidating, impressive defence.

Shielding her eyes against the bright April sunlight, Tavia followed the wheeling flight of the crows as they circled in the air currents above one of the four corner towers. The screeching of the birds, a sad and lamenting lilt, did little to boost her confidence. Hesitating on the main bridge that led into the town, she swallowed, her throat tightening with an unusual dryness. She picked unsteadily at a loose patch of pale green lichen on the flat stone that topped the bridge wall.

When she had arisen that morning, long before dawn had spread its faint light through the hills and dales, she had felt composed, beset with iron-clad determination about the task she intended to undertake. Dressing hastily in some of her father’s cast-off clothes, discovered at the bottom of an oak coffer, she had started the fire and porridge so as not to draw her father’s anger. As long as he was warm and could fill his belly, then he would not think to question his daughter’s whereabouts. Planting a light, farewell kiss on her mother’s brow had only served to strengthen her resolve; with dismay, she noticed the skin on her mother’s hands had erupted into savage blisters.

Now, as she yanked the hood low over her delicate features, she wondered about the success of her proposed endeavour. When her father had spoken about the contest to find more crossbow men for the King, he had no knowledge that his words, spoken with derision, had given her a solution to finding the money to pay for a physician’s visit to her mother. She would enter the competition, disguised as a young boy, and hopefully be picked as a good shot. Once in the service of the King, she would earn enough in a sennight to hire a competent physician. Only then would she leave and return to her home in the hills.

The outer bailey thronged with people, a profusion of noise and colour. Green-and-gold tunics clashed with ladies dressed in sumptuous gowns glowing in a vivid array of colours. Rich cloaks of fox, ermine and bear contrasted strangely with the drab hues of the peasant clothes, some not more than rags hanging off a thin frame. Backing into the wall of the bailey, Tavia spotted a set of steps to her left and she leaped up, grateful for the easy vantage point. From here she could see the raised platform, tented with a heavily embroidered linen, on which the nobility sat. The fresh-faced King Malcolm, his bright red hair glinting in the sunlight, sat next to his regent, Ferchar of Strathearn. Tavia remembered the outcry when Malcolm’s father, Earl Henry, younger brother to King David of Scotland, had died before he could succeed to the Scottish throne. Luckily, King David had arranged for Ferchar to manage the affairs of the state until Malcolm reached an age when he could take full responsibility.

A huge, round archery target had been set up in front of the dais, and already men were taking their place behind the rope line, lifting their bows and shooting. Some attempts drew guffaws of derisive laughter from the crowd of onlookers; others received cheers of admiration. Tavia sprung down from the steps, relishing the comforting bump of her crossbow slung over her back, and started to make her way through the mêlée, heading for the straggling queue that had formed behind one of the castle soldiers.

‘Name?’ the soldier asked, scarcely looking at her when she had finally shuffled her way to the front of the queue.

‘William of Saxonby,’ she lied, trying to keep her voice as low and as gruff as possible.

‘Bit young, aren’t you?’ The soldier laughed, showing a full set of rotten teeth. ‘Does your mother know where you are?’

Tavia chose to ignore the soldier’s taunt, pretending to turn her full attention to the contestant about to shoot. The man, wearing a coarse woollen tunic of dull grey over a pair of well-worn braies, stood well over six foot; an impressive figure despite his tattered garments. Handsome, too, Tavia decided, studying his side profile covertly. As the man raised his bow, pulling back the arrow with ease, the hood of his tunic fell back slightly, revealing chestnut hair as sleek as sable. Angular cheekbones highlighted the raw beauty of his face, the proud, straight ridge of his nose, the up-tilted corner of his mouth.

A rose tint of embarrassment flooded her cheeks, and she ducked her head guiltily, ashamed at her overt perusal of the man. She needed to remember why she was here, not become entranced by another contestant! Besides, she usually showed no interest in the opposite sex, or, rather, they showed no interest in her. Despite her father’s obvious attempts to marry her off to some rich suitor, the initial attraction of her physical beauty was quickly overshadowed by her wilful, determined manner. Inwardly, she cared not one jot. It bemused her completely that anyone should be enamoured of her, let alone want to marry her; men oft regarded her flagrant red hair as a curse, or even the sign of a harlot, and her scrawny frame was just too lean for most men’s tastes.

The man released his arrow, letting it fly towards the target, where it landed, a few inches wide of the bull’s-eye. Hah! He might appear to be a masterful shot, she thought, but I would best him any day. She watched as he pulled his hood sharply over his head once more, striding over to pull his arrow out of the target. Tavia frowned. Was there something familiar about the man? Surely she would remember meeting someone who was quite so huge? A debilitating weakness swept through her knees as the man turned back, heading straight for her. His massive frame drew alongside, and, in a hazy bubble of disbelief, she studied the slippery cobbles intently, willing him to pass by, to ignore her.

‘Good fortune, young man.’ The giant grabbed her hand to shake it. ‘I hope you have better luck than me.’

In that fleeting, terrifying moment as he had turned back from the target she had known who he was. His grip had served only to confirm his identity. The noise that surrounded her receded, as his hand curled around hers, the furrowed scarring on his palm scorching her own. Tipping her chin, she sought his face within the woollen shadows of his hood, the glint of those feral slate eyes, the forbidding mouth.