Captured by the Warrior (5 page)

I wasn’t thinking, she mused silently. I saw my father, my own kith and kin in trouble and I had to help him. Alice raised her chin, pulling her spine straight. ‘I was not going to sit by and watch that man being beaten to a pulp.’

‘I wouldn’t have let that happen.’

‘What?’ she replied, appalled, her voice rising a couple of notches as she stared up into his tanned face, her eyes wide with bright intelligence. ‘You mean you saw what was going on and you did nothing to stop it? How could you be so callous?’ Her expression held nothing but accusation, blame. Anger flared over him, unearthing memories he didn’t want: his mother’s bitter voice, her cold stare.

He leaned down so his face was on a level with hers, his own expression blank, hostile. ‘The Lancastrians are our prisoners,’ he reminded her, rigidly. ‘This is how prisoners are always treated.’ And worse, he thought silently.

His face was inches from her own, but she held her ground, incensed by what he had told her. Her earlier fear of attack had disappeared; he obviously had no feelings towards her as a woman—indeed, he seemed to have no feelings at all, for anybody. Her fingers curled, compressing into her palms, clenching her resolve. She knew he was annoyed, sensed the ripple of irritation
seizing his body, saw it in the diamond sparkle of his eyes. Yet something pushed her on; a sense of righteous indignation, of some higher moral code, she knew not what.

‘You should be ashamed of yourself. Those men are human beings, just like you and me, and should be treated with respect and courtesy.’ She exhaled, her breath expelling from her lungs with force: she hadn’t realised how tightly she had been holding it.

Her words needled him. Everything about this situation was so wrong; he couldn’t remember a time when he had heard a woman speak thus, or behave in such a foolishly courageous way. She had put aside her own safety in order to help another human being, and had suffered the consequences. Cupping her shoulders, he gave her a rough shake; the fragility of her shoulder bones under his touch surprised him, and he dropped his hands immediately. ‘You meddle in matters that don’t concern you.’ Although his voice remained low, she caught the warning.

‘What would you have me do, my lord? Sit back and watch that old man punished, all for want of a morsel of food? If I am there, watching, then it concerns me.’ Unable to bear the merciless sparkle of his regard any more, she lowered her head to stare at the ground.

‘And that’s where you should have stayed. Watching.’ Faced with the rounded crown of her hat, Bastien struggled to comprehend her motives. He stared down at her, frustrated, wondering at the secrets that danced in her head. ‘You’re in a tricky enough predicament as it is. Why make it worse?’

She couldn’t tell him. If the House of York knew the identity of her father, then they would know how
important he was to them. He was close to King Henry, as was she, and that would put a price on his head, for sure. She had to throw Bastien off the scent, distract him, somehow.

Alice jerked her head up. ‘And it was you who put me in this predicament, my lord! You could have let me go in the forest. You could let me go now.’

Aye, he could have. But there was something about this maid that made him want to keep her by his side, something about her enigmatic, puzzling nature that made him hesitant to release her. He told himself it wasn’t because of those wide cornflower blue eyes, or the sweet curve of her cheek as she turned her head from him, because he wasn’t affected by such things. Certainly, he took his pleasures as readily as the next man, but on an impersonal level only—no involvement, no responsibility. It suited him that way.

‘And if I let you go now, you would carry on following us, until you’re spotted once more,’ he replied. ‘And it might not be me who finds you next time.’

‘Are you telling me I should be
grateful
that it was you who picked me up?’ She toed the ground, releasing the dank, powerful smell of mossy earth.

He grinned, briefly, the lopsided twist to his mouth lending him a boyish expression. ‘Other men might not have treated you as well, once they knew your true identity.’

‘You think you have treated me well? Why, the way you’ve hauled me about—!’

‘Is nothing, compared to what other men might do,’ he warned her.

‘Come, let us go back, and sleep. And remember, don’t try anything stupid again. I’ll be watching you.’

He led the way back through the scrambling, moonlit undergrowth, safe in the knowledge that she would follow him, that the older man in the group of captives meant something to her. He knew that she withheld information from him, and that was why she had to stay; but the vaguest niggle in his conscience told him that wasn’t the only reason he was reluctant to let her go.

I
n the hazy heat of an early autumn afternoon, the imposing structure of Ludlow Castle seemed to drift on a raft of white mist: a magical, ethereal place. Yet there was nothing insubstantial about the towering, fortress-like walls, the square-cut crenellations. The fortified stronghold of Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, rose impressively from a rounded green hill, overlooking the River Teme. The sheer, soaring walls, built from purplish stone, glowed with pink hues in the sunlight. The Duke’s flag flapped listlessly in the occasional breeze, the black needlework of the falcon and the fetterlock stark against the white canvas background. No one could doubt the power of the Duke of York, even without this impressive fortification; tales of his notoriety were tittle-tattled with glee within the court of Henry, although not within the King’s or his feisty wife’s hearing.

Tramping steadily after her father, Alice tried to damp down the fear that clambered in her throat. Ever
since they had been roused by a soldier’s sword-point at dawn, and forced to march northwards without a bite to eat, the opportunities to escape had been few and far between. Indeed, if she admitted it, they had been nonexistent. The soldiers had kept them in close formation, stopping only once for a glug of water from a leather bottle passed around the prisoners, before driving them on to Ludlow. Despite being late in the year, the day had been unseasonably warm, and now, as she forced her feet to step the last few yards towards the castle gatehouse, beads of sweat begain to trickle down her face from the constricting band of her hat.

Her mind descended into a fug of listlessness; a combination of the perspiration and dirt coating her skin, the cloying heat, made her sway, lose her balance momentarily. Upright, she told herself grimly, remain upright. She had only herself to blame for the mess she was in. At this very moment Alice longed for the quiet serenity of the women’s solar at the royal court: the peaceful stitching, the gentle, lilting conversations, the wonderful smell of the beeswax candles. How laughable that she craved something that she so often kicked against! Licking her parched dry lips, she fought to control the nausea rising in her gullet, fearing what lay before her. Despite her waywardness, she realised with horror how sheltered her life had been, cloistered in the pretty, protected ways of the royal court; now a shrouding vulnerability swept over her, leaving her raw, exposed.

Following the line on horseback, Bastien watched Alice sway, and deliberately turned his head away. He curled his ungloved hands around the reins, feeling the leather bite into his palms, annoyed that, throughout
the journey, she had continually pulled his gaze. He told himself it stemmed from a polite, formal deference he would extend to any woman, rather than from any genuine concern. In truth, it was a long time since he had experienced any dealings with women, apart from the occasional dalliance with a camp whore, and around Alice, his manners felt rusty, unused. Still, he had fought too many battles, and seen too many good men die, to be concerned about the finer details of how to treat women properly. He simply didn’t care any more. All he knew was that he had warned her enough times to keep quiet; now it was up to her. He wasn’t about to leap to her defence again. Yet as he tracked her stumbling, listing gait, he realised she was exhausted. Why, she was half the size of some of his soldiers, yet had kept pace with them nigh on a full day! He supposed it was an adequate punishment for her recklessness in pursuing them in the first place.

As he and Alfric beside him chivvied the prisoners through the shadowed recess of the gatehouse and into the brightness of the inner bailey, a short, stocky man barrelled forward to greet him.

‘Richard!’ Bastien grinned at the Duke of York, jumping down from the saddle and handing the reins to a waiting groom. ‘I wasn’t certain that you’d be here.’

Richard clapped him on the back. ‘Naturally I would be here to congratulate you on your victory! I’m only sorry I couldn’t be there myself. Looks like you had an excellent morning on my behalf.’ He nodded approvingly at the prisoners jostling together on the cobbles. ‘What a fine bunch. And all ransomable for a pretty sum, I’ll be bound.’

‘I haven’t collected the names yet.’ Bastien was aware
of a curious detachment. Normally he was excited as Richard about their success in battle; they had fought together often, ever since the day the Duke had spotted the innate talent in the keen battle-hungry lad, and trained him up to be one of the finest commanding soldiers in England.

‘Well, let’s collect them now,’ Richard said briskly, striding towards the group. ‘As soon as we have names, we can send ransom notes to their families, and extract some money from them.’

Not that he needed it, mused Bastien. The Duke was one of the richest men in England—richer than the King himself, some said. But his grudge against the King grew wider and deeper every day and his loyal supporters were anxious about the mounting crisis towards which the county was heading under King Henry’s weak leadership.

‘Scribe!’ Richard clicked his fingers, and instantly, a pale-faced, harried-looking man scurried to his side, carrying a quill and a book of parchment. Beside him walked a small boy, carefully carrying an earthenware pot of ink as if it were precious gold.

‘Holy Mary,’ Richard barked, braking his stride sharply before Alice’s diminutive figure. She stood drooping at the end of the lined-up prisoners. ‘They’re sending them young these days, are they not?’ He threw the comment back at Bastien, then turned to address the boy. ‘How old are you?’

‘I’m one-and-twenty, my lord,’ the lad mumbled back.

‘Hm! Older than you look, then.’ The Duke appeared puzzled. ‘You seem mighty short for a lad that age. What’s your name?’

No answer. The lad stared resolutely ahead, eyes seemingly fixed on a distant horizon. Bastien frowned, a small crease appearing between his fine green eyes. Why did she not give a false name, and be done with it?

‘I said…’ the Duke leaned into the boy’s face ‘…what…is…your…name?’

For a moment, the lad stood there, resolute, before his whole body seemed to fold in on itself, looping around in a soft spiral, before crashing down on to the cobbles. It happened so suddenly that no one had time to act, to leap or grab, and now all eyes were riveted on the lad that lay on the ground. Nay, not a lad. A maid!

Alice’s hat had dislodged itself in her fall, and now lay some feet away from her crumpled body. Her golden hair, intricately braided, shone brightly in the sunshine, the severe style exposing the gentle line of her jaw, the smooth curve of her cheek. The older man, the one she seemed so familiar with, had dropped to her side, his fingers on her neck, finding her rapid pulse, assuring for himself that all was well.

He turned exhausted eyes up to the Duke. ‘This has gone on long enough,’ he muttered. ‘My lord, may I present my daughter, the Lady Alice Matravers.’

‘Good God, man, what were you thinking?’ The Duke, his weatherbeaten faced creased with astonishment, glared down at Bastien, sprawled languidly in an oak chair by the fire in the great hall.

Bastien stretched his long legs out in front of him, his thigh muscles straining a little after the battle followed by two days’ riding. Against the dusty leather of his boots, the stone floor gleamed a shiny grey; despite
his reputation as a warlord, Richard always insisted on the highest of standards when at home. Bastien stared into the flames, continually damping down the guilt that flared within him, every time he thought of that woman.

‘Well?’ The Duke, his stocky build dwarfed by the massive stone fireplace behind him, hankered for an answer.

Bastine shrugged his shoulders, mouth twisting wryly. In contrast to the Duke’s tetchy movements, he seemed calm, unmoved. ‘I suppose I thought to teach her a lesson,’ he replied finally. The image of the girl’s limp body, her head lolling back over the crook of her father’s arm as he carried her up the stairs, ran through his mind. He shifted against the hard wooden back of the chair. Lord, but these seats were uncomfortable!

‘What! By dragging her through the mud and the mire? By subjecting her to the rough, untethered ways of our soldiers? I haven’t dared ask about the state of her face… Did you do that?’

‘Nay! Never!’ Bastien’s head shot up. ‘She meddled in a situation that she shouldn’t have. Richard, she was the one spying on us, following us. Should I have just let her go?’

Richard rested his hand on the carved stone ledge above the fire, the flames picking up the gold trellis-work embroidery on his cote-hardie, making it sparkle. Around them, on various trestle tables and benches, the soldiers relaxed, engaged in dice games, or light banter with the servants of the castle. Already the mead was flowing, in celebration of their victory, and every now and again a burst of raucous laughter would rent the air.

‘Nay,’ said Richard. ‘You did right to bring her along.
But maybe not in that manner, forcing her to walk all that way with no food.’

Bastien stood up, raking his hair with his fingers, as he stood head and shoulders higher than the Duke. ‘Sweet Jesu! Richard, you’re making it sound as if I took the girl out of her bed, dressed her in those ridiculous boy’s clothes and forced her to come with us. She was the one who put herself in that position. And I say she got everything she deserved. A woman should know her own boundaries, and by overstepping them, should know what to expect.’

‘You’re too harsh, Bastien.’ The look in the Duke’s eyes hinted at something else.

‘I stepped in when it was absolutely necessary. It could have been a lot worse.’ Suddenly the fire warming his right flank seemed too hot; he stepped away, creating distance between himself and the Duke.

‘Even so, I think you have let your past colour your judgement.’ The Duke’s tone was softer now. ‘Not all women are like your mother.’

‘That woman has nothing to do with this,’ Bastien snapped. ‘It’s a completely separate matter.’

‘If you say so,’ replied Richard, in a tone that clearly implied that he didn’t agree. ‘Anyway, despite your best efforts, it’s a good thing you managed not to kill the Lady Alice.’

‘Give me one good reason why.’ Bastien let out a long, deep breath.

‘Because she is about to become extremely useful to us.’

Fabien ran another approving glance around the room to which he had carried his daughter a few hours
earlier. A fire had been hurriedly lit in the brick fireplace, fresh linens already adorning the four-poster bed. Through two large rectangular windows, the evening sun streamed, throwing shafts of light through the warped glass and across the polished wooden floor. ‘Why not eat up here, daughter, in the comfort and privacy of this chamber?’

‘What? And leave you to face the enemy on your own?’ Alice bounced up in the bed, propping herself up against the pillows. A rosy blush had returned to her cheeks; her eyes had lost their dull glitter, regaining their customary periwinkle sparkle. One of the maid-servants had painstakingly released all the tightly bound plaits while she had lain, exhausted, in the bed, and now her hair flowed over her shoulders like liquid honey.

Fabien smiled at his daughter’s misplaced protective instinct. ‘I’m sure I’ll manage to survive with them.’

‘After the way they treated us on the march? Father, who knows what will happen?

‘You mustn’t judge the whole of the Yorkist army on the actions of one wayward soldier, Alice. The Duke of York is a fair man.’

Alice reached out to touch her father’s hand. ‘You’re too kind, Father. I know it’s what Mother says all the time, but you are too forgiving.’

‘It’s what makes me a physician and not a soldier.’ Fabien smiled down at her. ‘If you’re determined to come down, then I’ll go and find a servant to help you.’

As the heavy elm door closed with a sharp click of the ironwork latch, Alice flipped back the fine linen sheets that lay across her, and swung her feet to the floor. All her garments had been removed, save for the linen shirt that she had worn under her tunic. She relished the cool
air against her bare feet and legs, standing up tentatively. Her head felt clear, full of energy, the previous swimming sensation having completely disappeared. She hoped her father would return soon with something to wear; it was one thing to be near naked in one’s home, but in that of the enemy?

Alice moved over to the window, looking out. The view was breathtaking, stretching out for miles over the lush grassland that bordered the river: a rich patchwork of greens and yellows, some fields stacked with stooks of straw, some grazed by a herd of cattle. And in the distance, the blurred bluish outlines of the hills, and beyond, Alice’s home.

Behind her, the door opened. Alice turned, expecting a fresh-faced maid with an armful of clothes. At the sight of Bastien, his large frame filling the doorway, her heart plummeted, then leapt once more in exhilaration. Her lips parted, as if to speak, but although her scrambled brain could find the words, she couldn’t seem to put them in any order. The top of his head grazed the top of the doorway, the shine of his golden hair leaping out against the silvered oak of the lintel.

‘Oh!’ she stuttered, a hand to her mouth, unsure what to say next, aghast that her legs seemed to have started trembling again.

Bastien had changed his clothes, all the trappings of war replaced by softer garments. His tunic bore no embellishment, but was cut from a fine silk velvet, the pleats falling from the shoulder emphasising the impressive breadth of his chest. A leather lace fastened the tunic at the front; somehow Alice couldn’t imagine him fiddling with all the tiny buttons so favoured by the nobles at court.

She drew a deep shaky breath, trying to gather her senses into some sort of order. His wet hair was raked back against his scalp, exposing the lean angles of his jaw. And even though they stood a few feet apart, she could smell the sweet, water-infused scent of his hair, almost taste the dampness of his skin. A coiling heat wound slowly in the pit of her belly—what on earth was the matter with her? And now he was staring at her, staring at her as if he had never seen her before in his life.