Captured by the Warrior (3 page)

Bastien adjusted himself in the saddle, the leather creaking with the movement. ‘Plate armour is too heavy, it weighs me down too much.’ The tint of a far-off memory laced his voice, the familiar whisper of guilt licking along his veins. After all these years, he just couldn’t forget.

‘So you said in France, young man,’ Richard chided him. ‘I’ve told you before, you take too many risks.’

‘And you move too slowly, laden down with all that steel,’ Bastien teased. ‘Admit that I’m quicker and faster than you in a fight.’

Richard smiled. His friend’s prowess on the battlefield was legendary. ‘Just make sure you don’t get yourself killed by your own foolhardiness.’

‘I’ll try not to,’ Bastien replied, dropping his visor down. But in truth he didn’t really care.

Alice helped her father erect the tent beneath a line of beech trees; their distorted, knotty roots afforded some shelter from the north, and the ground, though rough and sloped, was reasonable once she had kicked the stones out of the way. The stained white canvas flapped and strained in the breeze, the guy ropes pulling
insistently against the heavy stone that held them taut. Securing the door flap back with a leather tie, Alice stood for a moment, surveying the land below her. Over to her right, moving across the flat river valley that was the declared battle site, the Lancastrian army marched purposefully, their red tunics glowing in the rising sun, flanked on either side by knights on horseback. Outriders held banners aloft, triangular pennants flapping the colours of King Henry.

Fear bunched in her mouth. Through the shifting mist drifting from the river, she could see the Yorkists, mostly knights on horses, spread out in an imposing line along the opposite slope—hundreds of them. She closed her eyes, and ducked back into the tent to where Fabien laid out the tools of his trade.

‘God in Heaven, Father, there’s so many!’ Panic threaded through her voice.

Fabien surveyed his daughter critically; she had made an excellent job of disguising her sex, but his heart clenched with the risk he took by bringing her.

A large, leather hat completely covered her bright hair, the brim pulled low to shade her delicate features. Her brother’s cote-hardie was long on her, but did not look out of place, and the intricate pleating that fell from the shoulders, front and back, did much to hide her feminine curves. A thick leather belt secured this over-tunic loosely on her hips, and the hem fell so low, that only a glimpse of her fustian braies could be seen. Somehow, she’d managed to walk in Thomas’s big leather boots; they reached her knees, already dirty with mud.

‘Do you want to go home?’ he asked at last.

‘Nay!’ she shook her head vehemently. ‘I shall stay…and help you!’

‘That’s my girl!’ Fabien smiled back at her, hearing the courage in her voice.

For the next few hours, against the echoing backdrop of the battle raging in the valley below, against the shouts and the clashing of armour, they worked, patching up the soldiers and knights that were brought up the gentle slope. For that was all they intended: to stabilise any injury and to stop the bleeding, enough so that each man could be taken back to the safety of the castle. Alongside Fabien, Alice worked slowly and patiently, murmuring a question or a comment to her father now and again. Immersed in her work, she barely lifted her head when Fabien told her he was needed to attend to some soldiers on the battlefield.

‘Stay here until I come back,’ he entreated softly, slipping out through the canvas. Alice nodded vaguely in response, her tongue between her teeth as she concentrated on stitching up a long gash in a soldier’s arm.

The sun had risen to its highest point by the time Alice could take a rest. With nobody in the tent, she whisked off her hat, rubbing her face with one hand, trying to erase the stiff, exhausted feeling from her skin. A rawness pulled at her eyes; clapping the hat back on, she reached for the leather water bottle behind her and took a long, refreshing gulp. Replacing the cork stopper, she realised the sound from the battlefield had become noticeably subdued. No longer could she hear the roar of men as they rode into attack, or the clash of steel against
steel. Yet it had been a fair while since her father had left the tent—did he still tend the injured?

Alice stuck her head out through the canvas flaps. She had to go to her father, to find him, but the thought of tip-toeing through a field loomed before her as a daunting prospect. She gritted her teeth—think of Thomas. He would go to their father, he would find him. But Thomas was not here; it was her responsibility.

The spongy earth pulled at her boots as she advanced stealthily. In front of her, a high earth bank topped with a hedge obscured her view of the battlefield. Hoping it would also hide her from the enemy, she pulled herself up the loose earth of the bank, digging her fingers into the gnarled beech roots as a makeshift lever and hoisted her slight figure up to peer through the bare branches.

Bodies lay everywhere. A slight sound of horror emerged from her lips as she squeezed her eyes shut, unwilling to look at the carnage strewn before her. Her fingers curled around the branch, the twiggy whorls cutting into her flesh. How could she? How could she walk through these dead and dying men? And what if her father was one of them? The thought galvanised her—she had to find him! Through the net of branches, she could see a group of soldiers, King Henry’s soldiers, thank the Lord, making their way up the hill, battle-worn, bleeding, but thankfully alive. Springing down backwards, Alice entered the field through a gateway further down the bank, and began to pick her way warily across.

‘What’s happening?’ She ran up to the soldiers, the air of defeat surrounding them like a cloak.

The tallest one eyed her warily, obviously puzzled by
the young boy’s presence in such a place. ‘They won, we lost. Simple as that.’ He spat on to the ground.

‘Then why—?’

‘Why aren’t we prisoners? They let the common soldiers go; it’s only the noblemen they want, and they’ve got them,’ the soldier growled out between his blackened teeth.

‘Let’s keep going,’ growled another, and made as if to push past her.

‘Wait a moment, please.’ Alice’s voice rose a little higher, and the tall man looked at her sharply. She lowered her head quickly, realising that her voice had been too high for a young lad. ‘Have you seen my father, the physician? Do you know him? He came this way to help tend some men.’

The soldiers looked at each other. ‘I’m sorry, lad, but he was taken, along with the rest of them. Look, over there.’

Alice screwed her eyes up against the freshening wind, following the soldier’s pointing finger to search the horizon. And then she saw it. A long snake of walking knights, trudging wearily away between the white tunics of the Yorkist horsemen. She hoped with all her heart that these soldiers were wrong, that her father wasn’t among them. But, for her own peace of mind, and for Thomas, she knew she had to find out for herself.

T
he loose chain of prisoners straggled up the hill, shoulders slumped, feet shuffling over the crumbling earth of the track. Yorkist soldiers flanked the line of men on either side, hemming them in with the strong, shining flanks of their destriers. At this shambling speed, the journey back to Ludlow and the Duke of York’s castle would take at least a day and a half, allowing for a night’s rest in between.

As they mounted the hill, the green lushness of the river valley receding, the countryside opened out, spread, studded here and there with a massive oak, or a small grove of beech trees. With the sun warming the back of his neck, Bastien pushed his soles against his metal stirrups, raising himself in the saddle to stretch and flex the muscles in his legs. He baulked at this ambling speed, more familiar with the rapid movement of professional soldiers, but he resisted the temptation to break into a full gallop to break the monotony of the journey.

‘I’m not sure about that one, my lord.’ Alfric, one of Bastien’s younger knights, rode alongside him at the back of the line of prisoners. He nodded towards an older man, not dressed for battle, who strode with the others. ‘Maybe we should let him go? He’s no knight.’

‘Nay,’ Bastien agreed, ‘but he’s certainly a nobleman.’ He pushed his visor upwards, relishing the fresh air on his skin, his high cheekbones still flushed from the exertion of the battle. ‘Look at his clothes.’ Although the man’s garments were of a simple cut, his cote-hardie was fashioned from a fine silk-woollen material, shot through with gold thread and his boots were of good leather. ‘And there’s another very important reason why we cannot let him go.’

Alfric’s eyes widened

‘He’s a physician,’ Bastien replied, grinning at the fervent curiosity in the young man’s face, ‘and obviously well known among these noblemen; most of them call him by his first name. He can help tend to the injuries…on both sides.’

‘They endured more losses,’ Alfric interjected. ‘A good victory, methinks.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ Bastien murmured, but a hollowness clawed at his heart. There was no joy in following the hunched, defeated knights as they bobbed forlornly in front of him, no elation in this victory. He was tired, that was all, tired of the endless fighting, the bloodshed, and he had had no time to rest before this latest fight against the House of Lancaster.

His head jerked around suddenly to the row of trees over to his right, catching a tiny movement out of the corner of his eye. The trees were a couple of fields away; he scanned the dark trunks, the hedgeline, unsure that
he’d seen anything—a flash…of blue, maybe? Something untoward, anyway, something not quite right. His green eyes narrowed, emerald chips as he pulled gently on the reins, slowing his horse.

‘What is it?’ Alfric hissed.

‘I think someone is following us,’ Bastien replied quietly. ‘Alfric, you stay here, maintain the rear guard. I’ll have a snoop around these woods.’ Knees gripping at the saddle sides, he yanked his helmet off, dumping the heavy, shining metal into Alfric’s lap. ‘Hold on to this, I have no need of it.’ Clods of earth flew up as Bastien kicked the horse into a gallop, thundering towards the tree line, reining in sharply at the serried oak trunks. The wood was overgrown, impenetrable; he would have to search on foot. Jumping down lightly, he secured the horse to a branch, noting the position of the sun to gain his bearings.

After the clamour and mayhem of the battle, he relished the quiet hush of the forest, the damp smell of the vegetation crushed beneath his boots. Despite his muscles easing, every sense remained open, alert to the tiniest noise, the smallest movement. He was certain now that he’d seen a glimmer of blue in his peripheral vision; if someone was tracking them, then he would find them. Bastien plunged through the thick undergrowth, brambles tearing at his surcoat, snagging in his hair. For a moment, he stood still, listening, hearing only the marching feet and shouts of the army he’d just left.

The breeze lifted the branches, a sighing sound. And then he heard it. A cough, hurriedly smothered. Bastien smiled to himself, locating the position instantly, beginning to pad forwards on silent feet. If the years of war
had taught him anything at all, it was how to approach the enemy without being heard or seen.

As she watched the large knight break away from the back of the prisoners, Alice’s heart plummeted with fear, annoyed with herself that some noise, some moment of inattention, had led to her being spotted. Up to now, she had been congratulating herself on how well she was managing to keep up without being seen.

Her natural athleticism, so heavily condemned by her mother and the other ladies at court, served her well, enabling her to sprint across the fields, to jump and climb. Many happy days in her youth had been spent with her brother, scrambling through the forests and valleys, much to her mother’s disgust. Now that she was older, and had to behave in a manner befitting a lady at court, she relished any opportunity to be in the open air, to race about.

Except now…now it had all become a bit more serious. Her palms scraped against nubbled bark and her knees wobbled as she peeked around to see where the knight had gone. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but he was too far away for her to determine exactly what it was. Now would be the time to turn and run, to speed all the way home and raise the alarm. But nay, she told herself sternly, that was the way of the weak and she had travelled too far to abandon her father when she was so close. Lord knows what they would do with him!

Edging carefully around the trunk once more, Alice saw that the knight had left his horse in the open field at the forest boundary, the bridle looped casually over some low-hanging branches. The glow of an idea kin
dled in her mind. Certain that the knight had entered the very depths of the forest, Alice inched forwards. If fortune smiled on her, the Yorkist numbskull would become hopelessly lost, or caught in an animal trap, enabling her to escape.

She endeavoured to keep her breathing deep and even, not easy as fear whipped around her veins, making her jittery, nervous. Blinking, she tried to focus her vision, scanning her immediate environment to ensure she didn’t catch against anything that would make a noise, or tread on any dead twigs. Before her, not far now, the destrier pawed the ground, shaking its head, the bit jangling menacingly between its huge yellow teeth. The animal was enormous, powerful, a warhorse in every muscle, every sinew of its well-built frame—very different from the docile mares she was used to. Alice swallowed, the saliva in her mouth all but dried up. She paused, unsure, until the distant shouts of the army reminded her that her father marched along with them—wasn’t that reason enough to overcome her fears? Thomas would do this, Thomas would rescue him! Her brother’s voice echoed in her mind, urging her on, giving her the conviction she needed, that she was able to do this. She had to climb on that horse, and ride like hell after him!

A few feet from the horse, still hidden in the shadow of the trees, she halted again, listening carefully. Nothing. The silence loomed in her ears, an eerie quiet. She wanted the knight to thrash about, to make a noise, so that she could be certain of how far away he was. If anything, it was too calm, too hushed. Sweat sprung to her palms as she contemplated the enormity of her actions. No matter that Thomas had taught her a hundred times
how to vault on to the back of a horse—this time, it was different.

In a flash, her poised figure erupted into a sprint, leaves crunching under her feet as she covered the small distance between herself and the animal. Before the horse had time to look around, to even deduce what was occurring, she placed two palms flat on the horse’s shining rump and jumped. A shout from behind burst into her brain, and she snatched for the bridle, breath punching into her lungs as the leather strap broke free from the branches. Clamping her knees to the horse’s sides, she dug her heels viciously into its flanks, unable to reach the stirrups. Her head and neck wrenched back wildly as the horse, unnerved by her unfamiliar weight, her clumsy handling, leapt away at speed.

Alice prided herself on being a fast runner; indeed, in previous years her lean, agile frame had been known to beat half the boys in the castle. But Bastien, despite his broad, muscular build, was a lot faster. The crackle of leaves underfoot had drawn his attention, followed by the glimpse of blue clothing as the boy shot towards
his
horse! For that was all he chased: a weedy stripling of a lad, not some grizzled, bloodthirsty assassin, as he’d been expecting, determined to drive an arrow into the Duke of York. He almost spat on the ground with disgust! But when the lad took a flying leap on to the back of the horse, anger rose in his gullet, spurring him into action. Thought he to steal his horse, did he? The impudent lad! He crashed through the undergrowth, low branches breaking against his arms, his body, as he ran out over the open ground.

His long, powerful strides covered the distance easily. If his horse had been at full gallop, then he would
never have caught them. But luckily, his highly strung, temperamental animal decided to act up, bucking and side-stepping under the unknown rider. The boy was obviously having trouble trying to stay on the destrier’s back, kicking in vain with his heels, while clinging to the reins and mane with small, pale hands. In one fearsome, full-length leap, Bastien was upon him, gripping at the youth’s arms to drag him bodily from the horse. Man and boy fell in a graceless, clumsy heap, a tangle of legs and arms thumping heavily on to the ground, into the shining windswept grass. The lad struggled violently, trying to punch out with his fists, his puny legs kicking out in chaotic, laughable randomness. In a trice, Bastien twisted the lad so he lay face down in the dew-wet pasture, his arms locked up painfully behind his back, and sat astride the boy to prevent all movement.

Nose and mouth choked full of dank, slimy grass, the cold press of earth against her cheek, Alice realised she was beaten. Hot tears sprung beneath her eyelids, tears of frustration, of desperation. She bit her lips against the painful agony of her arms, as, with one fist, the man wrenched them up between her shoulder blades. Sheer arrogance had led her into this situation—an errant, idiotic belief that she could outwit, and outrun, any man. What a fool she had been! The oaf astride her, the man whose brawny thighs pressed hard against her buttocks, her hips, was nearly twice the size of her and clearly, unfortunately, not stupid.

‘Who are you?’ he was shouting at her now. ‘What do you want with us?’ With her mouth jammed into the ground, she was unable to answer, merely shaking her head in futile desperation. Deftly, he flipped her on to
her back, a movement so swift that she barely registered the slight release of his weight before it descended heavily on her once more. Dismay blotted her senses as she recognised him… Nay, not him! That rude arrogant knucklehead she had encountered in the forest, the man who had kissed her! God forbid that he should recognise her; admittedly, he had let her go once, but now the House of Lancaster and York were fighting, she doubted such luck would come her way again. His massive chest and shoulders towered over her, forming a dark, intimidating shape against the periwinkle blue of the sky.

‘Who are you?’ he asked again, gauntleted fingers digging painfully into the small bones of her shoulders, lifting her upper body off the ground and thumping it down once more, hard. The rock-hard muscles of his thighs flexed against the outer softness of her hips with the movement, and she flushed painfully at the intimate contact. Never before had she come into such close proximity to a man! A prickling of unwanted sensation peppered along her veins, a sense of…what was it? Excitement? Her eyes squeezed shut in shame as the touch of his mouth broke into her memory.

‘My name is Duncan of Abbeslaw,’ she responded at last, deliberately keeping her voice low, gruff. ‘I was out hunting, when you attacked me—’

‘When you stole my horse,’ Bastien broke in, correcting her, his voice grim. One big palm still held her pinned to the ground by one shoulder. Amazingly, her large hat had stayed on throughout the whole encounter, the double knot in the leather lace tied under her chin firmly in place.

‘Aye, I’m sorry about that, my lord,’ her words stum
bled out, breathily. ‘I was thrown from my own horse, and when I saw your horse standing—’

‘Stop it!’ He cut her short harshly, his tone abrasive, blunt. ‘You’ve been following us for miles—did you really think we wouldn’t notice?’ He ran a derogatory eye over the bright blue of her cote-hardie, as if to indicate the stupidity of her choice in clothing. ‘Who are you spying for? Who’s paying you?’ Her blood froze as she heard the slither of a knife, and suddenly he was up against her, the ice-cold blade at her throat, his left forearm pressed painfully along her chest. His breath was warm against her cheek. ‘Tell me,’ he demanded, his voice stern, forceful.

Panic danced in her brain, rattling her senses—did he really intend to kill her? The prick of the knife against her windpipe certainly indicated his intentions. Tears slid from beneath her lashes; now, she was truly frightened. ‘It’s not what you think,’ she stuttered out. ‘Take my hat off…you’ll see who I am.’

Frowning, still keeping his blade at the boy’s throat, Bastien wrenched at the large hat, the leather strings straining, cutting into the soft white skin of the boy’s throat. Frustrated at the tight lacing, he used his knife to slice roughly through the leather strips, pulling the head covering away. As the strings released under the swift movement of his blade, Alice fainted dead away, truly believing he would cut her throat.

He stared at her in astonishment. A maid! Sweet Jesu! How had he never guessed at the lad’s true sex? It all made sense: the lad’s pathetic attempts to fight back with puny arms and legs, and the lack of a weapon, and aye, he knew it now, the supple contours of the body beneath him. He had merely intended to frighten the
boy into speaking, but now, gazing at the pale white oval of the girl’s unconscious face, he felt oddly guilty.