Мериел Фуллер – The Warrior's Princess Bride (страница 2)
‘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
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
‘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 on the cobbles. Benois pushed his toes against the stirrups, raising himself in the saddle to pivot his long, lean body this way and that, trying to locate the source of the sound. He had believed all his soldiers to be out of the city by now, but he could hear guttural shouting, the noises of a scuffle coming from over to his left. He dismounted in a single, stealthy movement, dropping to his feet with barely a sound, leading his horse along a narrow, shadowed passageway to a church. Loosening his hold on the reins, he strode up the steps, pushing one large fist against the iron-studded door to throw it open.
The ribald laughter hushed immediately. His men, Geraint, Arnaud, Jean-Paul, gaped back at him, jaws dropping open, forming a mute tableau of surprise. And below them, spreadeagled on the floor, a maid. His heart jerked in shock, in anger.
‘Let her go.’ His order, sharp and commanding, rapped out from the doorway. The young soldier’s hands fell away from his belt. His dagger slipped from nerveless fingers, its blade 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.