Captured by the Warrior (4 page)

He recognised her with a jolt. The same maid who had confronted his soldiers in the forest a few days back. The same maid he had kissed, to stop her endless scolding. Her name? Her name was Alice; he remembered the plaintive call through the trees. On that occasion, her shiny, honey-coloured hair had been bundled back into an expensive golden net and veil, but now it was coiled, pinned rigidly to her scalp, emphasising the fine, sculptured bone structure of her face, the high cheekbones, the wide, rosebud mouth. Baggy clothes disguised her slender shape, clothes more befitting to a yeoman farmer. The last time he had seen her, she had been dressed as a member of the nobility, her garments rich and fine. She had been bossy, argumentative but now, her face as white as milk, she was utterly vulnerable. What game did she play? Leaning over her, his hands cupped her shoulders, he shook her brusquely.

Her eyes opened.

The fierce blue of her eyes punched him hard in the solar plexus. Deep azure blue, like the sea on a calm, hot summer’s day. His gloved hands dropped from her shoulders, fell to his sides. Sweet Jesu! Framed by thick, spidery lashes, those burning, fathomless pools threatened to drag him under, sucking at the very core of his body, visceral, greedy. She squirmed beneath him, trying to release his weight upon her, slender curves against his own hardened muscles, and his body responded, flooded with unexpected desire. What was the matter with him, damn it!

He sprung to his feet, his only thought to create some distance between their two bodies. He had been too long
without the pleasure of a woman, that was the problem. Under normal circumstances there was no way such a maid would be attractive to him, little thing that she was, but with a mouth to command a whole army if he remembered correctly.

Her pupils dilated, widened, as she surfaced back to consciousness, struggling to focus on his face. He saw the fear in them, the fleeting panic as she recognised him, remembering once more the situation she was in, and some odd little whisper hinted that it might be kind to tell her not to fear him, that she was safe with him. But nay, he wouldn’t do that; kindness was not part of his nature.

‘I thought you were going to kill me,’ Alice breathed out in a whisper, her mind lurching back into searing consciousness. She lifted one hand tentatively to the back of her head; the long pins securing her hair dug painfully into her scalp, her head pillowed by the arching grass.

‘There’s still time,’ Bastien growled out. ‘What, in Heaven’s name, do you think you are doing? Shouldn’t you be tucked up in a woman’s solar somewhere, working on a delicate piece of embroidery?’

Head swimming, Alice forced herself to sit up. A clamminess coated her palms. ‘I told you,’ she stared mutinously at the ground. ‘I was out riding, and my horse threw me.’

Fern-green eyes raked down over her, over her faded, overlarge clothes, critical, assessing. ‘The last time I saw you, you informed my men that you were under the protection of the King himself, a lady of the royal court, no less.’ The wind ruffled his gilded hair, loose strands sifting like fine gold thread.

‘I am,’ she replied simply. ‘I am Lady Alice Matravers, under the protection of the King.’ Now she realised he was not about to kill her, some of her old confidence returned. ‘And you would do well to remember that.’

‘Oh, I would, would I?’ he drawled. Had women changed this much since he’d been away? He’d never met any lady quite as outspoken as this one. ‘Well, Lady Alice Matravers,’ he rolled her name out with sarcastic emphasis, ‘mayhap you could deign to tell me why you are out riding dressed as a boy?’

‘Dressed like this I can ride out on my own; I prefer it that way…it’s safer.’

He angled his head to one side, his eyebrows raised in exaggerated disbelief. ‘Not quite safe enough today, methinks.’

Nay, not safe at all, Alice thought, her exhausted brain skittering in all directions, searching for a way out of this mess, all the time thinking of her father, marching in line, moving further and further away. Mustering all her energy, she scrambled inelegantly to her feet, painfully aware of the difference in height between them, the top of her head teetering on a level with his shoulder.

The deep laurel of his eyes glimmered in the sunlight, edgy, unpredictable. His face held the sculptured contours of stone, and was just as unyielding. She was uncertain how to deal with men like this, men associated with weapons, with battle and the harsher realities of life. His very masculinity unbalanced her, made her doubt her own courage, her own determination. Every pore of him oozed power, and a dangerous arrogance that made her angry and fearful at the same time.

‘And now I’ll take my leave of you,’ she stuttered out formally, her words tinged with faint hope. If only he
would let her walk away, then she could double back and follow her father, with more care this time.

‘I think not.’ He grinned back at her congenially, arms folded high across his chest. In one swift glance he absorbed the peculiar details of her attire: the oversized cote-hardie engulfing her small frame, its countless pleats falling from the shoulder-line failing to disguise the narrowness of her shoulders. Her fustian leggings fell in loose gathers about her knees; both they and her leather boots were obviously too big for her. A leather bag sat on her right hip, the strap crossing diagonally across her chest. The woman was a puzzle; she was up to something, but with the battalion heading over the hill, he had no time at the moment to find out what it was.

‘I’m nothing to you,’ she whispered, her large turquoise eyes observing him warily. ‘Just let me go.’

‘You’re coming with me.’ He reached out and grabbed her delicate hand, crushing the soft fingers within his leather glove.

‘I will not!’ she protested vehemently, as he angled down to scoop up her fallen hat, wedging it tightly back over her head. The split side of his mail coat fell open beneath his white surcoat, revealing one long muscled leg encased in close-fitting linen braies. His strong thigh muscle strained against the thin gauziness of the material.

‘Keep that on, otherwise I cannot vouch for the consequences,’ he warned, ignoring her objections. ‘My soldiers are hungry men, in more ways than one, and there’s no telling what they would do at the sight of an available woman, albeit a scrawny one.’

Her temper ignited, hot, fuming; she twisted her
fingers in his grasp, throwing her body weight back to try to escape. The ligaments in her shoulder wrenched painfully, but his fingers held firm. ‘How dare you, you big oaf!’ she railed at him. ‘You can’t frighten me!’ She dug her heels into the ground as he started to pull her across to the place where his horse nibbled the grass. ‘I’m not coming with you, I’m not…oof!’

Her head spun crazily as, without warning, Bastien ducked, tucking his shoulder into her soft midriff, to sling her easily over one shoulder. Flailing wildly, her hands scrabbled for a hold against his broad back, fingers sliding over his surcoat to lodge, finally, in his leather sword belt.

‘You can’t…!’ she squeaked, outraged, as he tossed her up to lie face down over the neck of his horse.

‘Save your breath, my lady…I don’t have time for this now.’ He cut across her protestation, his tone bored, laconic. A heavy hand squeezing down in the middle of her back prevented her from slipping forwards as he mounted up behind her. Alice squirmed violently, wriggling under his grasp, blood rushing to her head, as she reached out to clutch on to the leather strap that held the saddle in place.

‘You’ll pay for this,’ she screeched up at him, her throat constricted, raw. ‘You’ve no right to treat me like this!’ Her head bounced against the sleek flank of the horse as Bastien kicked the animal into a trot.

She was rewarded with a short, emotionless bark of laughter. ‘I’ll treat you exactly as I like, my lady. And there’s not a thing you can do about it.’ He spurred his animal on into a full gallop, with no intention of making the ride back up to the line of prisoners any easier on his own captive. Alice held on grimly, her fingers knotted
into the girth strap, her whole body jolting uncomfortably, awkwardly. Yet there was no risk of her falling; in his fist, Bastien held on firmly to the back of her tunic, the fine blue wool bunched into his leather gauntlet.

The marching prisoners had reached the brow of the hill, approaching a knot of pine trees, their dense green forming a strong silhouette against the cerulean sky. The sun was high now, and beat down hotly on the soldiers’ heads, captor and captive alike. Alfric, bringing up the rear of the party, looked around for Bastien in concern; his master had been absent for a long time; he wondered whether to double back and look for him. He smiled in greeting as he spotted Bastien, and his horse straining up the hill to catch them.

‘So your hunch was correct…’ Alfric eyed the boy slung across the front of Bastien’s saddle ‘…but it seems your catch was small.’ Bastien grinned in response, a faint sheen of sweat shining on his face as he ground his fingers more firmly into the boy’s back to stop Alice wriggling herself free.

‘There’s more than meets the eye with this one,’ he explained, ‘and I aim to find out precisely what it is.’

At his words, Alice moaned inwardly. Why, oh, why did it have to be him? Why not some bumbling, ignorant soldier who she could outwit in a moment? Her whole body ached from being continually pounded against his horse’s flank, the muscles in her back and neck stretched almost to screaming point. The warmth of his big body pressed into her back as he leaned down low over her, his mouth close to her ear. ‘Now, do you promise to be a good girl and walk nicely with the rest of the prisoners?’ His hot breath caressed her lobe, silky,
seductive. Her heart jolted, despite his mocking, taunting tone and she bit her lip, trying to ignore its rapid beating. Anything, she thought, she would promise anything to be away from him and his annoying presence! ‘Aye!’ she forced out, her throat dry, scratching.

‘Do you promise?’ he repeated lightly.

Sweet Jesu! He was infuriating! The blood sung in her ears at his patronising tone. ‘I promise,’ she muttered, lamely.

Relief whooshed from her lungs as he pulled gently on the bridle, not bothering to dismount as he dragged her off haphazardly. Disorientated, her head whirled dangerously, the blood rushing back to her limbs; she swayed. His hand gripped her shoulder, steadying her for a moment. ‘If you value your well-being,’ he reminded her once more, ‘then keep that hat pulled low.’ She had scarce time to nod, to indicate that she heeded his words, before he gave her a rough shove towards the line of shuffling prisoners.

The low curve of the sun brushed the hill tops, turning their smooth slopes into purpling lush-green velvet, when the order came from the front of the line to halt for the night. After tramping all day across the hills, the Yorkists had finally led the prisoners down into a wide, wooded valley, through which ran a small river. It was an ideal place to stop; a place where the horses and men could drink and wash, and sleep in the soft, cushiony grass of the flat meadows beside the water.

Alice’s eyes felt hollow, burnt out with weariness. More than anything she wanted to fold her knees and drop at the next step, but the urge not to show any form of weakness, any clue that might single her out from the
rest of the men, was far stronger. She was in no doubt that her captor was a man of low morals and low principle: he would most likely take great delight in seeing her humiliated in front of his men. That one thought forced her to keep her back ramrod straight and her shoulders square, and to push her feet one in front of the other, over and over again. No longer did she secretly sweep the crowd for a glimpse of her father; now all her energies were devoted to saving her own strength. Her feet ached the most, ached from the strain of trying to keep on her oversized boots that slipped and wallowed with every step; no doubt her heels were peppered with blisters. She was hot, hungry and thirsty, but she would not give up.

From his vantage point at the back of the line, Bastien studied the maid. When he had first met her, a spoiled rich girl dressed in all her finery and lost in the forest, he had dismissed her from his mind instantly. But now? Now she presented him with something of a puzzle; a puzzle dressed in boy’s clothes and striding along with the rest of the men as if it were a routine activity for her. Why, they had covered nearly twenty miles today—the majority of women would be mewling wrecks by now. His own mother, Cecile, would barely totter more than a few steps before lifting one limp, white hand to be assisted into a litter, to be carried everywhere, like a child. His lips curled at the unwanted memory. Since his older brother’s death, she had become even worse, hardly able to walk at all without assistance. Yet if he were around, which was seldom, she would whip her head around with such force it would stun everyone, and fix him with a baleful eye, pinning her younger son down with such bitter
accusation, such acrid blame that it knotted his stomach for days. Cecile had chosen to punish him for what had happened, but surely the guilt that he carried around, day after day, was punishment enough?

H
uddled in the voluminous folds of the cote-hardie, Alice closed her eyes momentarily, head resting in the cradle of her arms balanced on her upraised knees. Up to now scant attention had been paid to her and she hoped by this position to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Every muscle in her body ached; her stomach growled with hunger. The woollen fabric of the cotehardie tickled her nose, the tangy smell reminding her of her brother. Mother of Mary, she wished he were here now; he would know what to do. She prayed fervently that he had somehow survived the war in France, that he was alive somewhere and would come back to them eventually.

She shuffled uncomfortably, the moisture from the damp ground beginning to seep through her braies. A knotty root from the wide oak behind her pushed uncomfortably into her right hip. Lifting her head, she scanned the seated prisoners, searching, scouring the gathering for her father. A tall, lean figure snagged her
eye; her heart plummeted as she recognised the knight in charge: Lord Bastien. He moved among the Yorkist soldiers, gave terse orders to various men, his every move practised, efficient. His lips twisted with irritation as he saw one soldier fumble with lighting a fire; in one swift movement he had dropped to his haunches to strike his own flint with a blade. His large hands cradled the spark in the puff of dried grass, nurturing the flame until it danced and crackled through the kindling. An animal energy seemed to course through his body, a dynamism that fired all his movements with an effortless grace. A lick of desire coursed through her; she ducked her head, remembering his big body pinning her own to the ground, straddling her. A memory she wished fervently to forget.

The smell of meat cooking made her lift her head once more, her mouth watering. Every sinew in her body ached with the pain of walking, ached with the need for some sustenance. Surely they would be fed? The Yorkist soldiers gathered around the main cooking fire, the thin line of smoke rising up to mingle with the darkening haze of the evening. Sitting cross-legged, their helmets glinting in the grass beside them, they swigged from leather flagons, and carved off hunks of roasted meat with their knives to chew heartily, lips slick and shiny with grease.

Starving, Alice also chewed at the inside of her lip, aware of a low muttering to her right from the other prisoners. A soldier barked across at them to be quiet. Was this how it was going to be? Were the prisoners to receive no food at all? Anger flowed up in her, replacing the gnawing hunger. She had little knowledge of such things, but she was certain that all nobles, be they pris
oners or not, were treated with deference and courtesy. Surely it was part of the knight’s code?

Suddenly one of the prisoners clambered to his feet, beginning to pick his way towards the Yorkist soldiers. He seemed older than the rest, and was dressed in fine clothes, not chainmail…her father! Alice’s breath stopped in her throat. She knew what he was doing, but she feared for his safety with these low-born thugs. Approaching the fire, her father spoke in low tones, deferential, and nodded towards the roasting meat. A hum of appreciation rippled through the watching prisoners. One burly soldier put down his leather flagon with studied deliberation, wiped his greasy hands down the front of his woollen braies, and eased himself into a standing position. He stared at Alice’s father with a blank, insulting sneer. Then he raised his fist and punched him, hard, straight in the face. Her father reeled backwards, clutching his cheek. The soldier moved forwards, making as if to hit him again. But he didn’t get the chance.

Alice cannoned into the back of the soldier with a force that surprised even herself. Her blood fired, coursing hard and fast through her veins, replacing the dragging exhaustion that had plagued her earlier. She wasn’t about to sit around and let her father be kicked down like a mangy dog!

‘Leave him alone,’ she yelled huskily as the soldier staggered sideways. ‘You have no right to treat prisoners this way!’ The man recovered his balance, coming towards her, a snarl on his face.

‘I’ll show you how we treat prisoners!’ he growled out, his voice thick and guttural. He had no intention of being made a fool of in front of his fellows, who smirked and sniggered by the fire.

Alice kicked out at his shins, as he smacked her across the face. The soldier’s surly face, his mean, narrow eyes, blurred before her. Her head spun wildly as the impact sent her reeling, pain buzzing in her jaw, her cheek. For a moment, the world went black, then resurfaced in a cloud of dazzling stars. She fought to keep herself on her feet. Was she awake, or asleep? Alice shook her head, trying to recover her senses, lifting her arms above her head as she saw the thick fist begin to descend once more.

‘Enough!’ The sharp order sliced through the night air. Alice sensed, rather than saw, Bastien’s big body come between the soldier and herself. ‘Go and sit down…now,’ he commanded Alice and her father. His voice held the thread of steel. Limbs turning to water, knees barely holding her upright, Alice followed her father back to a spot underneath an oak tree, and sat down before she collapsed. Her hands shook with fear, body trembling with the shock of being hit. Her jaw throbbed.

‘Thank you,’ her father said. ‘Thank you for taking the risk for me.’

She hardly dared speak, deliberately keeping her head lowered, cradling her swelling cheek beneath the shadowy brim of her hat. When her voice finally came, it was thin and tentative. ‘Father, it’s me.’

Her father’s body tensed with the jolt of recognition; she heard the sharp intake of breath. ‘Alice?’ he said faintly. She nodded her head, imperceptibly.

‘Good God!’ he murmured, but it was impossible for him to say anything further, too dangerous. Now the Yorkists had finished their meal, they had begun
to patrol the area, circling the prisoners like carrion around dead meat. Yet, unseen by the others, her father’s hand reached out across the grass to seize her fingers, to squeeze some reassurance into her frozen veins. She drew comfort from his touch, knowing that somehow, and in some way, they would extract themselves from this mess.

Stretched out on his back, his head propped comfortably by a wide trunk of oak, Bastien’s thoughts prowled unceasingly through the scenes of the day, scattered images continually shot through by a pair of limpid blue eyes. He sighed, turning on to his left side, then adjusting a few moments later to lie on his back. In retrospect, life in France now seemed gloriously uncomplicated. At least there, on the other side of the Channel, women had behaved like women. He had never known a maid to behave in such a way before, with such bravery, or foolishness. How different she was from Katherine. Katherine. His fingers sought the leather lace tucked into his tunic, the cold metal of the betrothal ring. Pain lanced through him, the pain of loss, of bereavement. He would never know such beauty, such love again.

Opening his eyes, shoving the shrouded memories from his brain, he explored the darkness above, trying to gain some meaning from the maid’s behaviour. Why had she leapt to save the older man, when he had warned her to keep a low profile? Either she was profoundly dimwitted, which he doubted, owing to the dexterity of her speech, or there was some other reason. His fingers dug into the soft, damp ground beneath as he recalled the sheer horror he had experienced when the soldier had hit her.

Bastien had been high on the hillside when it happened, his eyes sweeping the area for any sign of attack, his body restless, uneasy. Yet the girl screeching by the fire had drawn him immediately into a powerful sprint; he saw her jump on the soldier from behind, dragging down at his arms…and had tasted fear, like iron filings in his mouth. What a fool the girl was!

Around him, sprawled haphazardly amidst cloaks and blankets, the men slumbered, some snoring gently, others muttering in their sleep. After the stiff breeze earlier, the air had calmed to stillness. Sounds seemed more rounded, amplified, by the utter quiet. The flow of the river plashing against the rocks was interspersed occasionally by the screech of a lone owl, or a furtive rustling of an animal in the undergrowth behind him. Bastien tracked the stars in the sky, searching for and naming the familiar constellations in an attempt to force his mind to drift off. But it was hopeless. Why had the maid leapt to the defence of the older man like a stone from a catapult? Slowly he turned his head to the left, in the direction he knew the girl to be, then propped himself up on one arm, his eye roaming over the sleeping bodies, hunting. Yet it wasn’t her smaller profile that gave away her position, it was the clear, bell-like tones of her voice, carried to him in a whisper on the night air. Hell’s teeth!

Bastien vaulted upwards, his approach stealthy and efficient. His target, the two figures in the moon-shadow of the wide oak, lay as if sleeping, but Bastien knew better. At the sight of him, the old man’s eyes flashed with alarm; he murmured a low, swift warning. Crouching, Bastien clamped his hand to the maid’s mouth as she twisted her head back to see who it was. Under his
touch, her body jerked with fright, her soft lips moving tentatively against the inner creases of his palm. An unexpected warmth flooded his body, sensual, erotic; his heart thudded. He dismissed it, bending down to whisper in the girl’s ear, ‘We need to talk.’ A light flowery perfume rose from the skin of her neck, rose into his nostrils, assailing him. He dragged his head upwards, away, away from the temptation of that wonderful scent. At Bastien’s words, the old man seized his forearm, shaking his head, his eyes full of concern.

‘She’ll be safe with me, on my knight’s oath,’ Bastien reassured him as he hauled Alice up, one hand under her upper arm.

Don’t believe him! Don’t! Alice wanted to scream and shout at her father, as Bastien led her away in to the forest. Don’t let me go with this thug! She hung back, deliberately slowing her steps as Bastien jerked her along, his fingers tight on her wrist. Oh God! she thought, her imagination looming with foreboding images of her fate. This was it! This was how she must pay for her stupidity, her utter, utter foolishness! Digging her heels in with even more force, Alice twisted her wrist this way and that, trying to loosen the muscular hold.

‘Oh, for pity’s sake, stop resisting me, will you?’ Bastien stopped abruptly, impatient with her dragging steps. ‘We need to be out of earshot.’ So they can’t hear my screams, she thought wildly, tears beginning to run down her face. His grip lessened slightly as he spoke and, seizing the opportunity, she wrested her hand with a sharp tug, freeing herself momentarily. Spinning on her toes in the loose leaves of the woodland floor, she
made as if to run, but Bastien caught her in an instant, one huge forearm looping around her waist.

‘Hell’s teeth! I have no time for this!’ he growled out, hauling her backwards, her toes flailing in the air. ‘Stop behaving like a ninny! I’ve told you, I’m not going to hurt you!’ Slammed up against his body, she caught the musky scent of his skin, a seductive mixture of woodsmoke and leather. Swinging around, he carried her before him with a powerful stride before dumping her down in a small clearing much further down the river.

‘The noise of the water will drown our voices,’ he explained, perusing her wan, exhausted face. In the moonlight, he could see the tears tracking down the exquisite lustre of her skin, over the purpling mark caused by the soldier. Exasperated, he shoved one hand through his hair, the movement ruffling the golden tendrils. He wore his hair shorter than most men, cut to the nape of his neck to expose the tough, lean line of his jaw. ‘What in Heaven’s name is the matter with you? I only want to talk to you.’

‘I don’t believe you!’ she sobbed out breathlessly. ‘Look at the way you’re treating me! You’re a thug…like the rest of your soldiers.’ Her lissom frame vibrated with fear. Did she really believe he would attack her? His hands moved to her upper arms, to steady her, calm her. ‘Nay…you misunderstand,’ he murmured mildly.

But Alice refused to hear him, her mind whirling with stark images of what she thought was about to happen. She made a last, desperate bid for freedom. ‘For your information…I am betrothed, you know…and he…he…my betrothed…’ she struggled to find the words, for in her heart she struggled with the concept
that Edmund would be her husband ‘…wouldn’t be very happy with what you’re about to do.’

‘And what am I about to do?’ Bastien tried to look stern, but in reality, he was finding it extremely difficult not to laugh. Under the white sheen of moonlight, the contours of his face seemed carved, sculptured from granite.

‘You’re…you’re…’ Alice hiccoughed ‘…going to…’ She stopped. A frown creased her brow. Something wasn’t quite right. Surely he would be throwing her to the ground right now, trying to tear her clothes off? The very thought made her blush furiously, and she studied her feet, praying that he couldn’t see her face in the moonlit shadows.

‘Methinks you flatter yourself, my lady,’ he replied, his tone faintly insulting. ‘You’re far too short for most men’s tastes. And dressed in all that garb you resemble little more than a suet dumpling. Hardly seductive.’

Dumpling? His words sent a storm of angry humiliation through her. ‘How dare you speak to me so! You’re outrageous!’ she reacted instinctively.

‘Would you rather I raped you?’ he asked slowly, shockingly, his face looming close to her own. Her mouth closed with a snap as she caught the feral glitter in his eyes. She shook her head at his words, drawing away from him slightly. ‘I thought not,’ he continued, ‘so let’s hear no more on the subject.’ He tilted his head in the direction of the camp. ‘Tell me, why did you leap to that older man’s defence back there?’

Alice touched one finger to the side of her mouth, throbbing and sore from the impact of the soldier’s fist. ‘Your soldier hit him, because he asked for some food.’

‘Even after I warned you not to draw attention to
yourself?’ The bruise on her mouth appeared as a dark splotch, mottled in this light, lines of blood creasing her lip. Guilt laced his gut. He should have stayed with the group; the Duke of York’s men were renowned for their cruelty. He should have been on his guard. ‘It was a foolish thing to do,’ he murmured. ‘What were you thinking?’