Captured by the Warrior (2 page)

Slowly, reluctantly, Alice compelled herself to focus on the men around her. Her heart plummeted. Five soldiers surrounded her, crowded in on her neat, seated figure, staring down at her with hungry, bloodshot eyes. Orange rust blighted their dented plate armour, mud and what looked like dried blood splattered their long cloaks; their surcoats were torn and dirty. White exhaustion clouded their faces, the shadowed hollows beneath their eyes only adding to their expressions of ruthless desperation. And on the front of their tunics, God forbid, the distinctive coat-of-arms of the Duke of York! Her eyes widened fractionally; these men were knights, not common soldiers, and as knights should be bound by the chivalric code, the first rule of which was to treat any woman with respect! A fierce, wild anger began to replace her initial fear; before anyone could stop her, she sprang to her feet, tearing at the gag across her mouth.

‘You will pay for this!’ Her eyes, flashing blue fire, swept derisively around the circle of men as she jabbed her finger at them. ‘I am under the protection of King Henry the Sixth himself, not some serving wench to be dallied with in the forest!’ Her voice was shrill.

The soldiers guffawed. One burly man stepped forwards, towering over her. ‘And what King’s protection lets a maid walk unaccompanied through the woods, tell me that, eh?’ He shoved at her harshly, causing her to stagger back into the younger knight, who caught her easily under the arms. ‘You’re the youngest, John, I suggest you go first.’

Bastien de la Roche drained the last drops of liquid from his leather flagon, before placing it back into the satchel at the back of his horse. Squeezing his knees, he set his animal in motion once more, slowly following a narrow trackway that skirted the edge of a forest. To his left, the land swept away in a series of gentle hills and hollows; to his right, the forest was alive with the sound of birds, a slight breeze riffling through the tops of the branches. It felt good to be back in England again. Almost. His mind paused, stilled for a moment on the distant memory. Nay, he would not think of that now.

He had forgotten how soft the land could look; the extended fighting in France had kept him away for too long. And now it was lost, all lost. France, the country that successive English kings had fought long and hard to keep, had finally slipped from their grasp. England had conceded victory to the triumphant French and now the English soldiers tramped home, despondent, defeated and often with no homes towards which they could head.

Under the restrained, jogging gait of his destrier,
the stallion that had carried him all the way back from France, he unbuckled the chin strap of his helmet, lifting it from his head. Tucking the visored metal under one arm, he pushed back the hood of his chainmail hauberk. The chill breeze sifted deliciously through his hair, and he pushed his fingers through the strands, savouring the cool release against his scalp.

Idly, he wondered where his soldiers had stopped in this vast forest. His horse had cast a shoe and, while a village blacksmith had fitted a new one, he had sent his soldiers on to rest, and eat. His men were keen to reach home; another two or three hours of riding would see them back at his estates in Shropshire. He hadn’t set eyes on his home for nearly two winters; now he relished the thought of good food in his stomach, fine linen sheets against his weary skin and a warm hearth, even if it did mean seeing his mother again. The time in France had been spent in a pointless circle of attack and retreat; some nights had been spent under canvas, with the rain beating hard and thick to soak the heavy material of their tents; other nights had seen him and his men ensconced in a hospitable castle.

A scream pierced the air. A woman’s scream. Further on, up to the right, a mass of rooks flung into the sky in one swirling, orchestrated movement, shaken from their tree-top perches. Bastien grimaced, nudging his horse in the direction of the sound; instinctively he knew that his men were involved. They were hungry, tired and dirty after the long months of campaigning in France—no doubt they believed English society owed them a little fun.

The springy turf muffled the sound of his horse’s hooves as he cut into the forest from the main path, sure
of his direction. Now he could hear the men’s voices, their ribald laughter echoing through the trees as they taunted some common wench. Dismounting swiftly, he secured his horse’s reins to a nearby branch and continued to approach on foot, his hand poised over the hilt of his sword.

He could hear a woman’s high tone, raised in trembling anger now after the high-pitched screaming, the clear, bell-like notes castigating his men with ferocious persistence. The main bulk of his tall frame hidden by the generous trunk of an oak tree, he slid his head around cautiously to gain a better view and almost laughed out loud. A maid, a noblewoman by the quality of her garments, stood to one side of the clearing, both hands wrapped around the hilt of a sword that was evidently too heavy for her. He recognised the sword as belonging to one of his men; she must have managed to grab it from one of them. The heavy blade dipped and swayed as her diminutive frame struggled to hold it horizontally, every now and again sweeping to the left, then the right with it, to ward his men off, to stop them from coming close. What utter fools his soldiers were! Sweet Jesu, there would be women enough on his estate to warm their beds—why couldn’t they have waited a few more hours?

The maid’s face glowed with a pearl-like lustre in the shadowed pale-golden light, her eyes wide and anxious as she stared at the semi-circle of soldiers. Her mead-coloured hair was caught back into a heavy bun at the nape of her neck, secured into a golden net. A silken veil fell in a series of stiff pleats from the simple heart-shaped headdress. Against the dusty, travel-stained gar
ments of his soldiers, she stood out like a bright jewel, an exquisite flower amongst common brambles.

‘I will take my leave now,’ she was saying, her small, oval face set with determination as she gave the sword another couple of swipes for good measure, ‘and you will not follow me.’ Behind the tree, Bastien grinned; from the expression on her face, it was obvious she had no idea what to do next. If she turned, then the men would jump on her; if she backed away, unsure of her path, then the thick undergrowth would prevent fast movement.

Bastien advanced stealthily into the shadows behind her, his step light assured as a cat. The mouths of his men dropped open in surprise at the sight of him; John, the youngest, began to blush. He knew he had done wrong and that they would pay for it. The maid retreated tentatively, the sword point drooping as her narrow shoulders and slim back began to close the gap between herself and Bastien.

‘And if any of you dare to follow me,’ the maid continued in her high-pitched, imperious tone…

‘…they will have me to deal with,’ Bastien murmured behind her.

Her lithe body jumped and turned, quick as a hare, bringing the lethal sword point slashing round. He grabbed the wrist that held the sword, squeezing the fragile bones that gave her fingers the strength to hold the weapon. Green eyes, flecked with gold, glittered over her.

‘Let go,’ he said, patiently, ‘I am not your enemy.’

The small bones in her wrist crushed under his strong fingers and the sword dropped into the under
growth, a slither of sound as the blade landed in a heap of brambles.

Alice’s mouth scraped with fear. Her eyes, darting sapphire, widened with a mixture of horror and rage as she gaped up at him, this man who towered over her, his broad chest covered by a white woollen surcoat bearing the personal seal of the Duke of York: the falcon and fetterlock. He stared down at her, down his proud, straight nose, his chiselled features accented by the verdant shadows. Within the hard, angular lines of his face, the shape of his mouth came as a shock. His lips were full, sensual, with the promise of an easy smile. Fixing her gaze on the ground, she cradled her wrist, trying to gather her scattered wits, to slow her racing heart.

Nay, this man was not her enemy, but it was a well-known fact that the Duke of York was not well liked by Queen Margaret, the King’s wife, who would always do her utmost to keep him out of King Henry’s circle of advisors. As the King’s cousin, as well as the top-ranking military commander in England, the Duke of York was favoured by the masses to be the King’s successor. And by wearing his seal, these men followed the orders of the Duke of York, as opposed to the King. Alice needed to tread carefully.

Chewing her lip, she wrenched her eyes upwards. ‘Your men…your men…’ she spluttered out, unable to elucidate the full awful truth of what his men had been about to do.

‘My men should have known better,’ the soldier began, shaking his rough blond head: an unexpected shaft of sunlight turned the strands momentarily to gold, surrounding him with an aura of light that magnified
the sheer size of his body. The hood of his chainmail hauberk gathered in metallic folds over his shoulders, emphasising the corded strength of his neck.

Alice gulped.

‘But they were only having a bit of fun,’ the soldier added pleasantly, folding his huge arms across his chest. In this curious half-light, the intense leaf-green of his eyes deepened, drawing her in reluctantly with their magnificent colour.

‘Having a bit of fun?’ she snapped out, clenching her fists against the folds of her gown, disbelieving this man’s audacious defence of his men. ‘My God! Have you any idea? Why, they nearly…they very nearly…!’

‘Calm yourself, mistress,’ he murmured, his voice neutral as he contemplated his men over the top of her head. Dark brown lashes framed his magnificent eyes. ‘Nothing would have happened here, believe me.’

‘Oh, you think to know your men so well, do you!’ Rashly, she poked a finger into his chest, her mind jolting as it registered the unyielding flesh.

Mild amusement mixed with astonishment crossed his sculptured features—the maid’s boldness was quite astounding. ‘I would run, my lady, run back to where you came from, before anything else happens,’ he advised coolly.

But she seemed not to hear his words, incensed that he seemed incapable of comprehending the severity of the situation. She whirled away from him, furious, challenging his soldiers. ‘Look at you, hanging your heads in shame—you know the truth, so why not tell him?’

‘Enough, mistress,’ Bastien said, more sternly now. ‘I will hear their story, and punish them accordingly.’

Alice spun back to face him, her hands planted firmly on her hips. ‘Which, in my opinion, should be nothing less than a horse-whipping.’

Bastien raised his eyebrows. ‘You seem to have a great deal of opinion for…a maid.’ A faint note of annoyance marked his reply; this woman was beginning to severely irritate him, with her argumentative tone and challenging manner. The relentless pace of the last two days travelling began to cloud his brain; he felt weary and in no mood to remonstrate. As far as he was concerned, women were only good for one thing, and even then he preferred them if they kept their mouths shut.

‘You need to understand, you need to listen to me…’ Her voice rang in his ears, scolding, reprimanding.

Self-restraint, laced tightly, unravelled. ‘Nay,’ he ground out dangerously, ‘you need to listen to me.’ His blond head dipped, one thick arm snared her waist, jamming her against the inflexible slab of his chest. His men cheered as he lowered his lips to hers, primitive, demanding, insistent.

He had meant to scare her, to stop that relentless tirade of speech that needled its way into his very soul, but the first touch of her soft sweet lips made him almost groan out loud with desire. Too long! He’d been too long without the pleasure of a woman. The gruelling days of battle, the dust, sweat and heat—all those memories faded, dwindled with the sweet smell of her skin, the luscious pliability of her slender frame hard up against his, the rounded swell of her bosom. Sweet Jesu! Desire rattled through his body, building steadily, inexorably.

Foolish! Foolish girl! Why hadn’t she kept her mouth
shut? Alice squeezed her eyes together, holding her body rigid as his lips came down over hers. She had a fleeting impression of wide green eyes, tanned ruddy skin, before his lips touched. Shock ricocheted through her veins at the impact, breath snatching in her throat as her heart thumped uncontrollably against her ribs. His mouth roamed against hers, wild, plundering; she crumpled against him, knees suddenly weak. Her mind scrambled, his lips luring her, drawing her towards the edge of a plunging abyss, a whispering place of tantalising promise, of…

‘Alice! Where are you? Alice…?’ A peevish, wheedling voice drifted over from the other side of the forest, calling.

Bastien tore himself away, breath ragged.

Alice reeled backwards, shaking, dazed. Senses shredded, she managed to lift one trembling finger towards Bastien, eyes hot with indignant accusation. ‘How dare you!’ she screeched at him, her mouth carrying the hot bruise of his kiss, her cheeks flushed with shame. ‘You insufferable pig! You tell me you’ll reprimand your men, and then you take advantage yourself! How dare you!’

‘Steady yourself, my lady.’ Bastien regarded her tensely. In truth, he was having trouble calming himself. He tipped his head on one side, listening. ‘Someone’s searching for you; go now.’

The deep cerulean pools of her eyes lobbed him one last stinging look, before she turned, stumbling away through the undergrowth towards her mother’s voice, veil sitting askew on her head.

‘Dear Lord, I thought she’d never stop!’ muttered one of his soldiers. ‘What a shame on such a beauty.’

Bastien followed the maid’s slender back retreating through the trees, her sparkling skirts flowing over the mossy ground. As soon as she was out of his sight, he told himself, he would forget her completely; women had no part to play in his life, especially bossy, unbearable girls who scarce came up to his shoulder. Women were of no importance, in his opinion. Not after what had happened with Katherine.

A
lice swept her eyes around the great hall at Abberley. Aye, it was all still there: the sumptuous intricacy of the huge tapestries hanging from floor to ceiling, concealing the uneven stone walls; the high dais at the far end where the King and Queen and their attending nobility sat above the murmured hubbub of people gathered together to eat. Pausing in the doorway, Alice attempted to draw some comfort from the familiar surroundings, but her perception seemed tarnished, different, somehow. She knew why—a pair of emerald-green eyes and a shock of tousled blond hair loomed with unnerving regularity across her vision, unsettling her normal confidence. Aye, and that kiss. That treacherous kiss.

Light filled the space, spilling out from a combination of rush torches slung into iron brackets along the walls, and a roaring fire. Soldiers and servants alike crammed along the wooden trestles in the main body of the hall, knives jamming into the large serving platters of steaming roast meat. There was Queen Margaret, her
small neat head held erect and proud as she listened to a nobleman at her side, her eyes wide and intelligent as she nodded in agreement once or twice. The height of the table obscured the round smooth bump of her pregnancy. Alice liked the young Queen, drawn by Margaret’s ambition and vitality; it was said that she had enough energy for both herself and her husband. Of King Henry, there was no sign. He had recently become unwell, and was confined to his chambers to recover.

‘Alice!’ A fresh-faced young man moved across her line of vision. Edmund! A sense of relief flooded through her, his jovial expression for a moment shutting out her unpleasant memories of the journey. ‘Alice, did you not see me waving? I saved you a place beside me over there!’ His open, candid features searched her face.

She laid a careful hand on his arm, allowing him to lead her around the edges of the hall to an empty table, mindful that her mother was up on the top table, and would be watching. Maybe if Beatrice saw her with Edmund, it would shake off her mother’s current mood. When Alice had finally returned to the cart in the forest, Beatrice had been furious, berating her for keeping the entourage waiting. Alice, humbled by her encounter, had crept to a corner of the cart without a word. Now, as she met Edmund’s warm brown eyes, she hoped his easy companionship would drive away the bad memories.

‘Tell me, what was he like?’ Edmund asked softly at her side. At one-and-twenty winters he was the same age as her, his rounded features holding the pink bloom of youth.

Alice jumped, needles of fear firing through her, fingers curling around a floury bread roll on her platter. How did he know? she thought frantically, her
scrambled brain trying to make sense of the question. An image of a strong, sinewy hand manacled around her own wrist intruded into her consciousness. A hard mouth upon her own.

Edmund nudged her with his elbow. ‘Sir Humphrey… Surely you haven’t forgotten about him already?’

‘Oh…yes!’ she gasped with relief, shaky laughter covering her confusion. ‘Oh, Edmund, he was well enough, but unfortunately for my dear mother, I wasn’t up to the mark, as usual.’

‘Well, thank the Lord for that,’ her companion breathed out. His plump fingers, whiter than her own, searched for Alice’s hand under the table, squeezing it gently. His shoulder nudged hers, close, insistent. ‘You know I’ve spoken to your parents…’

Alice’s heart flipped. Could she do this? Could she marry Edmund? Her eye searched along the row of nobles at the top table, found her mother’s anguished features, watching them. ‘I know, Edmund.’ She patted his arm, biting her lip.

‘You know I come into my inheritance soon; your parents would be well looked after.’ His brown eyes, riveted on hers, wavered momentarily, shifting to a point beyond her right shoulder.

‘Thomas…’ she breathed desperately, her toes curling in her shoes, as if providing a physical resistance. If Thomas came back, then he would provide for them, he would care for them in their old age. The responsibility on her to marry would lift, and she would have the freedom to do as she wished. But even as she had the thought, the small flame of hope in her belly flickered and died.

‘Marry me, Alice,’ Edmund urged, his voice low,
persuasive. ‘I will look after you…and your parents.’ His white fingers curled possessively around her sleeve, his smooth chestnut hair flopping over his forehead.

Alice took a mouthful of bread, chewing slowly. She had known Edmund since late childhood, when his father had become a knight for the King and moved his family to live at Abberley under royal protection. She and Edmund had immediately liked each other: they shared the same interests, of music, art and culture. True, she also enjoyed being outside, riding or walking, as opposed to Edmund, who preferred to stay inside, but that seemed to be the only difference in them. He was kind, considerate and gentle, and, unlike many of the potential husbands her mother had introduced her to, the same age as she.

Beside her, Edmund watched her closely. If only the girl would agree! He had to physically prevent himself from drumming his fingers on the tablecloth, frustration mounting in his gullet. His uncle’s generous offer would not be around for ever; somehow, he had to persuade her. He knew her mother was willing—he had seen the flare of greed in her eyes on her return this evening when he mentioned the amount of money he would receive—now all that remained was to gain the agreement of this stubborn maid!

‘Am I such a bad prospect?’ he asked, holding one hand to his chest—a theatrical gesture of false sorrow. A huge sapphire ring glittered on his little finger.

Alice laughed. ‘Nay, you’re not.’ She took a deep gulp of wine, setting the goblet back on the table with studied determination, pulling her spine straight at the same time, making a decision. ‘I will marry you, Edmund.’

A heaviness weighed down Alice’s eyelids as she attempted to open them the following morning. Her sleep had been restless, worn through with the uneasy threads of half-snatched dreams, dreams fringed with the anxious memories of the day before. She had tossed and turned in the stuffy curtained interior of the four-poster bed, thumping the goose-down-filled pillow with an impatient regularity. Everything had become irritating: the crackle of straw in the mattress beneath her, the bunched lumpy feathers beneath her loosened hair, the shouts of the soldiers piercing her consciousness at some ungodly hour…

Soldiers…?
Alice bounced upright, the rippling cascade of her hair spilling on to the bedcovers, sparkling in tangled glory. Flinging back the furs, the linen sheet, she sprang from the bed, fighting her way through the heavy curtains. Her full-length nightgown billowed out over her bare toes as she flew over the wide elm boards to the window casement, pressing her nose up against the thick, uneven panes of hand-blown glass. Nothing. Her sleep-numbed fingers fiddled with the iron latch, pushing the window open so she could lean out. The chill morning air stung her heated face and neck. Eyes watering, she dashed the wetness away and looked down. Soldiers filled the inner bailey, their red surcoats vivid in the luminous pre-dawn light, their armour glinting dully. Grooms ran hither and thither, fetching fearsome-looking weapons, adjusting buckles on saddles and stirrups and attaching saddle bags with practised efficiency. Cold fear slid through her veins: these men were preparing for battle.

Throwing a simple gown over her voluminous
nightgown, Alice yanked her unruly hair into a braid, binding the curling end quickly with a leather lace. Pulling open the door, she raced down the corridor to her parents’ chamber. With her mother’s elevated status as one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting came all the associated privileges of such a position: warm, well-appointed rooms, as well as clothing and food.

‘Father!’ Alice burst into her parents’ room without knocking. Fabien Matravers, busy at a table by the window, lifted his weary eyes to acknowledge his daughter with a smile. He raised a finger to his lips, nodding in the direction of the bed, where her mother slumbered. Clamping her lips together to prevent her next question, Alice closed the door quickly and tiptoed over. The table held a collection of medical equipment: bandages and salves, sewing needles fashioned from animal bone, and fine thread made from sinew. These items were disappearing one by one as her father packed up a sturdy leather satchel.

‘What’s happening?’ Alice whispered, her periwinkle blue eyes wide, curious.

‘’Tis what Queen Margaret feared, ’tis what we all feared.’ Fabien’s face clouded. ‘The Duke of York has challenged the King’s leadership, now that we have lost France. He has mounted an army, and awaits the King’s men on a high plateau not far from here.’

Alice nibbled at a fingernail. ‘Will King Henry fight?’

Fabien’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Nay, not he, lass. You know he’s…he’s not well at the moment. But the Queen is fully aware of the situation; she intends to send two or three of the King’s more loyal dukes.’ He tucked the last roll of bandage into a corner of the
satchel and sighed. ‘I only hope that this will be enough. The Duke of York’s men are notorious for being savage fighters.’

Alice’s heart lit with excitement. ‘Let me come too, Father. Please.’

But Fabien was already shaking his head, his hands stilling momentarily as he looked at his daughter. In the light beginning to filter in at the window, the grey streaks in his hair seemed more prominent, the lines on his face more pronounced. ‘Nay, Alice,’ he said finally. ‘The battlefield is no place for a young lass. Especially one that is betrothed.’

Alice gasped, colour flushing into her cheeks. ‘You know!’

Fabien nodded. ‘Edmund came to me last night, to tell me.’ He smiled, his mouth creasing up at the corners. ‘And I gave him my blessing. As I give you mine now.’ He leaned down, planted a soft kiss on his daughter’s forehead, smoothed her wayward blonde hair with one hand. ‘Your mother is relieved,’ he added.

Alice frowned, fiddling with the curling end of her loose braid. A curious reluctance sheared through her, a reluctance to share in her father’s obvious joy at the news of her marriage. ‘I suppose it was inevitable.’ Uncertainty weighed her voice.

Fabien caught her glum look. ‘Is it not what you wish?’

Alice’s head snapped upwards. The last thing she wanted was to load any further worry on to her parents. ‘Nay, of course not, Father. It’s happening so fast, that’s all.’

Fabien’s head whipped around at another shout from below. He touched his daughter’s cheek. ‘I have to go,
Alice. We will talk again about this…I wouldn’t want you to enter into anything you’re unsure about. And marriage is a huge undertaking.’

She nodded, distracted by the sounds outside the window. ‘Please let me come, Father.’ Already she had a sense that times such as these, helping her father, supporting him, would dwindle and eventually die out, even with a liberal husband such as Edmund. ‘I’ve been with you before,’ she reminded him. ‘I—’

Fabien stopped her sentence with a hand on her arm. ‘Aye, you’ve come with me to the village or to some minor skirmish between two landowners.’ His blue eyes, set in his tanned, weathered face, regarded her gently. ‘Your skills are excellent, daughter, but I would not lose another child on the battlefield.’

Alice stepped quickly around the table, coming to her father’s side. ‘Don’t speak like that, Father! We don’t know that he’s dead!’

‘We’ve had no news for two years, Alice. What am I supposed to think?’ His quiet burr hitched with emotion as he recalled his son, Thomas. He smothered a deep sigh, unwilling to show the depth of his true feelings to his daughter.

‘I miss him too, Father, but until we hear definitely, I cannot believe that he’s dead.’ Alice’s voice held the edge of conviction. ‘Look, you need me with you; I’ll wear some of Thomas’s clothes. Nobody will have any idea.’

Fabien laughed, patting Alice’s hand. A sense of elation crowded into her chest; she knew she had won.

To the south of Ludlow, the lands belonging to the Duke of York stretched away in a series of low, folded
hills, green and fertile. Balanced on the edge of slopes, or flat in the valley bottoms, the fields were small, bounded by hawthorn-sharp hedging and narrow, stony lanes. High on one of the ridges, where the west wind blew the horses’ tails into fans, dark strands against the clear blue sky, two riders sat, almost motionless, surveying the land spread out beneath them.

‘Ah, it’s great to have you back in England!’ One of the horsemen, Richard, the Duke of York and cousin to the King of England, slapped Bastien companionably on his back.

‘I thought I’d come home for a rest!’ Raising his visor, Bastien grinned at his friend, the metal of his helmet cold against his cheek. He hadn’t even returned to his own manor, having been waylaid by the Duke as they had passed through Ludlow.

Richard gave a swift snort, his square-shaped face set into a scowl. ‘’Tis unlikely we’ll have much rest with that feeble-minded cousin of mine in charge of the country. He’s let the land go to the dogs, the barons are feuding under his very nose, and what does he do? Nothing!’ His dark hair, untouched by grey despite being Bastien’s senior by ten years, stuck out in tufted spikes from under his helmet. ‘I need to see the King, Bastien, to talk to him, but his Queen protects him like a child. She won’t let me near. The only way is to openly challenge the House of Lancaster in battle.’

Bastien shrugged his shoulders. ‘So be it, my lord. My men are willing and ready, although they are tired from the long march home.’ As he was, he thought wearily. Yet he sensed the frustration, the annoyance emanating from the Duke, and understood his motives.

Richard ran a critical eye over Bastien. ‘Still not wearing full armour, I see.’

Bastien openly shunned the body-plate armour worn by most knights, preferring to wear just chainmail over a padded gambeson with a steel helmet. By contrast, Richard wore a full set of plate armour that had been made especially for him: breast and back plates, articulated steel gauntlets covering his whole arm, and leg pieces attached to the front of his shins by leather straps.