Captured by the Warrior (6 page)

‘Is this what you normally do, invade ladies’ chambers without knocking?’ she asked. Her clear lilt instantly condemned him.

His fingers dug into the pile of clothes in his hands, before he tossed them into the middle of the bed, a tumbled rainbow of silk and velvet. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said gruffly, ‘I thought you were still in bed.’ In truth, the guilt surging within him had won; he had wanted to see how the maid fared for himself and had collected the bundle of clothes from the maidservant on the way up.

Her eyes widened. ‘What, you mean so befuddled with the world that I wouldn’t notice whether you were in the room or not?’

He brushed away a cold drip of water that crept behind his ear. ‘Something like that,’ he muttered. Sweet Jesu! He wished fervently that she
was
still in bed. The last time he had seen her she had been bundled up from head to toe in boy’s clothes, but now? Now she stood before him in a gauzy shirt that barely reached her knees! Fashioned from a cotton lawn so fine, he could see every detail of her slender body, highlighted by the streaming sunlight that came through the windows at her back. He groaned inwardly as his body responded
to her shimmering beauty, her shining hair falling like spun gold over her shoulders. He longed to plunge his hands into it, to test its softness against his skin, to draw her sweet fragrance deep into his lungs… Stop! He wrenched his eyes away from her, pinpointed a knot of wood in one of the floorboards, forcing himself to trace the whorls and patterns of the grain, to slow his breathing. Hell’s teeth! Hadn’t he been with whores enough to stop his body responding to some stupid female?

Drawing at the very depths of his self-control, he forced his eyes back, compelling himself to focus on her face, her face only. He tried to ignore the jewelled depths of her periwinkle-blue eyes. Her skin, pale, pellucid, still bore the marks of the soldier’s attack, the large purplish bruise beginning to fade to a mottled yellow. Alice raised her fingers, touching the mark self-consciously.

Bastien strode over to the bed, began ruffling through the pile of clothes, a raft of irritation searing through his body. He was a soldier, for God’s sake, not some lady’s maid. He pulled a garment out, threw it in her direction with such force that she almost staggered back under the weight of the fabric. ‘Get dressed,’ he ordered, thickly. ‘The Duke wants to see you downstairs.’

‘Then maybe I should start with a gown,’ Alice said calmly, approaching the bed with soft steps. She laid down the cloak that Bastien, in his agitation, had thrown across to her, and picked up the dress that lay in a crumpled heap in the middle of the furs. As she reached down, the white linen of her shirt pulled back, revealing delicate forearms, her white skin laced with a tracery of blue veins. The rich mead colour of her hair rippled forwards tantalisingly as her head bent down with the movement.

His fingers itched, then, as if with a will of their own, they stretched out, brushed fleetingly against the silken strands, luxuriating in their softness. A faint smell of lavender lifted into the air, disturbed by his questing fingers. At his touch, she jerked her head up, backed away, astonished at the change in him.

‘Your hair…’ he whispered. His eyes burned down at her, desire evident in the emerald orbs. A log fell in the grate, the sound snapping across the stillness in the room.

Alice smiled broadly, trying to lighten the strange atmosphere. ‘I know…it’s a bit out of control.’ She pulled down on the strands, trying to smooth the curling mass. ‘My mother says she can’t do a thing with it.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ he said, then turned abruptly on his heel, left the room and closed the door with a sharp click.

T
he diminutive maidservant drove another long pin against Alice’s scalp, trying to secure the large heart-shaped headdress to Alice’s hair.

‘Ouch!’ yelped Alice, raising one hand as if to ward off the onslaught of another attack by a pin. ‘I really think it will stay on now,’ she continued, a note of pleading in her voice.

‘All done, my lady,’ the maidservant announced, stepping back to run a critical eye over her work, frowning. ‘Will you not let me pluck out those few hairs that are showing on your forehead? It would improve the look of the headdress.’

‘Absolutely not!’ Alice spun on the low stool to face the maid, touching her hand to the loose tendrils of hair that framed her face. ‘I know all the other ladies at court do it, but it’s not for me.’

‘Ah, well, I’ve done my best then, my lady,’ the maidservant responded doubtfully. She chose not to ask about shaving the lady’s eyebrows off; her ques
tion would most likely be met with complete outrage. Yet it was what all the noblewomen chose to do; it was the fashionable look. This lady’s eyebrows might be finely arched and coloured a rich sable, but most ladies preferred to shave them off, and redraw high arches using a fine charcoal pencil. The maidservant picked up an oval looking-glass, its frame and handle made of smooth animal horn, and offered it to Alice, who gently pushed it away.

‘Nay, I know what I look like,’ she explained her rejection. Bastien’s compliment of her hair still sung in her head; her surprise at his utterance flowed in her blood, making her wonder at his words. He was wrong, of course. Her mother continually berated her for not following the court fashion, and she knew the women giggled and pointed at her hoydenish ways. But no matter, she knew there was more to life than just sitting around looking beautiful. Every time she went anywhere with her father, she honed her skill as a physician, sucking up knowledge like a sponge. Only this time she seemed to have received more than she bargained for.

The restrictive head-dress and heavy veil pressed down on her head, pulling cruelly at her hair, emphasising her feeling of imprisonment. Her gown, too, was of an elaborately embroidered silk, the loops and whorls of golden thread adding to the weight of the skirts. She felt unbalanced, as if she could hardly stand up, let alone walk. Her own mother would clap her hands together with joy if she could see her now, wearing the height of fashion; what irony that she was wearing these clothes behind enemy lines. She frowned. Both her mother, and
Edmund, would be frantic with worry now, probably sending out a search party at this moment.

Edmund. The man she had agreed to marry. Her mind rummaged through the chaos of the past few days, through the shock of capture, the exhausting march, searching for the details of Edmund’s face, his gentle brown eyes. But every time she caught the faintest trail of him, the weak image was nudged away by an insistent, demanding pair of green eyes. Damn the man, that he had the power to corrupt her thoughts!

‘Are you ready, my lady?’ the maidservant enquired.

‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ Alice smiled tautly at the girl. ‘You’d better lead the way.’

The maidservant nodded. ‘I was told to make sure you arrived safely at the great hall, my lady.’

‘Oh, really? To make sure I don’t slip away?’ Alice replied, studying the rising colour in the girl’s cheek. ‘Fear not. There’s not much chance of me fleeing dressed in these clothes.’

The maidservant hoisted a blazing torch out of its iron holder, and pulled the door open, holding the flame aloft to lead the way down the steep spiral stairs. Alice’s fingers trailed along the damp stone wall as she descended, countering her feeling of unsteadiness. The torch threw strange, flickering shadows up and down the stairwell, making the stone glisten under its shuddering light. Despite knowing her father to be in the great hall, Alice could not shed the feeling that she descended slowly to her doom.

After what seemed like an eternity, the maid halted before a wide, Gothic-arched doorway. Placing the torch carefully in an empty iron bracket at the side of the oak door, the maid turned the handle and pushed the door
open slightly. ‘The great hall, my lady,’ she announced in a sonorous whisper. ‘I’ll leave you now.’

Heart thudding with—what…anticipation, a fear of the unknown?—Alice teetered on the threshold, allowing the sounds of merrymaking from the hall to wash over her: the click of dice, the roars of laughter and the light, bouncing tones of music. Her customary self-confidence drained away; she was about to enter a roomful of strangers—nay, not just strangers, but her enemies too, men who wished to harm her King. She edged backwards into the corridor. The maid had disappeared, no doubt assuming Alice would enter the great hall with no argument. But no, that was not how it was going to be!

Heart rate quickening, Alice turned, walking down the corridor with light rapid steps, skirts swinging forcefully. Now she would escape; she would seize this moment when no one was watching her. Her father obviously thought that by being pleasant to these barbarians, they would let him go; Alice was not so sure. Hopefully, dressed as she was, she would be mistaken for one of the ladies in the Duke of York’s court, allowed to come and go as she pleased. Her pulse beat wildly in her throat and at her wrists. She had almost gained the small door at the far end of the corridor, its rectangular outlines looming out of the dimness towards her. Her salvation.

Her white fingers reached out to turn the handle, made contact with the forged iron ring. Oiled on a regular basis, it slid easily around, and she pulled… Suddenly a muscled arm shot forwards over her shoulder and smartly slammed the door shut again.

‘And where do you think you’re going?’ His hot breath touched her ear; the skin on the side of her neck
tingled. Alice eyed the massive palm in the centre of the door, and knew, without looking, to whom it belonged. Tears of frustration wetted her eyes…she had been so close!

She twisted angrily, trapped between Bastien’s huge frame and the thick door behind her. In the half-light, she caught the gilded gleam of his eyes, smelled the heady scent of his masculine aroma.

‘I was trying to leave,’ she admitted, turning her palms heavenwards. ‘I thought I had a chance.’ Her voice sounded small in the cavernous confines of the passage.

‘Did you think that we might have forgotten about you?’ He tilted his head to one side in question, the high-rolled neck of his gypon creasing with the gesture. ‘Do you honestly think we are that dim-witted?’

‘I don’t credit you with much intelligence,’ she replied, sourly, annoyed that her escape attempt had been foiled. ‘You Yorkists are known as men of war, who would kill first and ask questions afterwards.’

‘Is that your own opinion, or one that you have gleaned from the tittle-tattle of others?’ His well-defined lips twisted into a mocking smile.

She placed her hands on her hips, indignant. ‘I don’t listen to gossip! Nay, I’ve seen how you treat your prisoners; I saw the wounds you’ve inflicted on our soldiers on the battlefield…it’s enough.’

‘So you have formed your judgement on the basis of one battle, and on the hasty actions of one soldier?’

‘I’ve helped my father many times; I’ve seen more than just one battle.’

‘Hah!’ he laughed, a short, caustic noise. ‘You speak like a veteran soldier.’ He leaned in closer to her, the
taut angles of his face just inches from her own. ‘Yet all you are is a maid completely out of her depth. Stop trying to second guess everything; in this situation you cannot win.’

Alice sagged back against the door, defeated. ‘It was worth a try,’ she muttered, her blue eyes flashing up at him, acutely aware of the closeness of his chiselled features. She swallowed; her throat was as dry as a husk.

‘Has life at court become a little bit tedious?’ he chided her. ‘Is that why you persist in putting yourself in danger?’

‘Nay!’ she protested. Why did he have to be so close? ‘I do it because I want to learn! My father teaches me, so I can heal people too!’ He made her sound like she was a child, a bored wanton out for a bit of fun. He couldn’t be further from the truth.

He glared down at her, blond strands of hair falling down across his forehead. This woman was impossible, frustrating; he couldn’t label her, neither lady, nor peasant. She was so unlike any woman he had ever met before. How different she appeared even now! In the upstairs chamber, clad only in that diaphanous shirt, she had been free, flowing, her hair loose and tumbled. His throat constricted at the memory. Now her beautiful hair was hidden beneath an elaborate padded head-dress, her svelte curves emphasised by the fitted seams of the gown. The wide, curving neck of the dress displayed an expanse of white throat and neck, a frantic pulse beating rapidly at its base. A pang of longing for her faded linen shirt scorched through him. She was close, too close!

‘Come on,’ he muttered abruptly, turning on his heel. ‘The Duke is anxious to speak to you.’

She trailed after him miserably, her feet dragging.

‘You seem to have slowed down a bit since we marched to Ludlow,’ he muttered drily, halting up ahead in the passage to wait for her.

‘It’s the gown,’ she explained, frustrated. ‘It’s like walking in thick mud.’

He smiled at her analogy, catching at her hand, intending to speed her up, to help her, he wasn’t sure which. ‘You would never have escaped wearing that,’ he chuckled, almost to himself. His lean, sinewy fingers tightened around her palm; a spark leapt up her arm, encircling her heart, burning.

Crowds of people thronged about the great hall, full of the Duke’s soldiers and their prisoners. Alongside them sat the usual retainers of the castle: the servants, the estate workers and some of the villagers, too poor or too ill to provide for themselves. The air was thick, muggy from the fire smoke and the combined breath and sweat of the crowd. Raising the long sweeping hem of her gown to negotiate the wooden steps to the high dais on which the nobility sat, Alice was glad of Bastien’s supporting hand on her elbow.

The Duke of York sat in the middle of a long length of oak table, talking animatedly to her father. Why, to look at them it could have been that they were the best of friends chatting and laughing with each other. But Alice noticed the lines of strain around her father’s mouth, the redness around his eyes, and knew that he was not finding the conversation easy.

‘Sit here,’ Bastien ordered curtly, indicating an empty high-backed chair next to her father. His elbow nudged hers as he flung himself into a chair next to her. Alice
slipped into her chair gracefully, her skirts settling around her in graceful folds.

The Duke, who, with her father had watched her approach, smiled at her. ‘Well, my lady, are you well rested?’ He ran appreciative eyes over her attire. ‘I see the servants have found some appropriate garments. Doesn’t she look well in them?’ The Duke glanced at her father for agreement.

‘She looks much better,’ her father agreed, taking her small hand in his: a sign of silent support. With that gesture, Alice’s heart lightened. They would come through this together. But when she looked into her father’s eyes, she realised something was wrong; his whole demeanour seemed humbled, chastened. She caught the merest shake of his head, and realised she couldn’t ask him all the questions that tumbled in her brain.

‘Help yourself to something to eat,’ the Duke advised her, ‘and then we will talk.’ He resumed his conversation with her father, and Alice was left staring at her empty pewter plate, her stomach churning with nerves, with fear. If only she could read her father’s mind!

‘What’s going on, Bastien?’ In her panic, she appealed quietly to him, sitting on her right. Suddenly the man who had taken her prisoner, who had dragged her through the mud and mire of the countryside and treated her hardly better than a common peasant appeared before her as her ally, her haven. To rely on such a man was the last thing she wanted to do, but, adrift in this uncertain situation, it seemed her only course of action.

Bastien had already loaded his plate: slices of roast chicken, crusty bread rolls and a pile of cooked vegeta
bles formed a colourful mound before him. He shrugged his shoulders at her low question. ‘You know as much as I do, maid. Where the Duke is concerned, his plans are often not revealed until the very last moment.’ He grinned, the smile lighting his face, lines crinkling out from the sides of his eyes. ‘Always keeps his enemies guessing…and keeps them on their toes.’

Her wide blue eyes swept over his face. ‘But we mean nothing to him,’ she hissed. ‘He can’t keep us here for ever. What would be the reason?’

Bastien stabbed his knife into a chunk of chicken, slicing a small piece off. A glorious scent arose from the woman next to him; a heady combination of rosewater, of lavender—she smelled like a summer’s day. Shifting uneasily in his seat, he chewed slowly, methodically, willing himself to remain unaware, to still his heightened senses. Don’t become involved, the logical side of his mind shouted at him, this maid’s business is none of your concern. Why was she any different from the other women he had met over the years? She was not important.

‘Listen, my lady, it’s nothing to do with me,’ he growled at her. ‘All I want is a decent meal and some good wine, without you prattling away beside me!’

‘Very well!’ Alice stared in silent fury at the shining wood, the sparkling pewter-ware before her. She was sick of being treated like this, of being pushed around, of being told to wait, told to speed up. Despite her mother’s best efforts to the contrary, she had been brought up to know her own mind.

Alice slapped her hand down on the table and stood up abruptly, turning towards the Duke. Red spots of colour bloomed across her cheeks. Bastien watched her
jerky movements with mild amusement—just what did the girl intend to do now?

‘My lord, I demand to know what you intend to do with us!’ Alice cut across a conversation that the Duke held with a nobleman on the other side of him.

Her father tugged at her arm. ‘Alice, sit down, do!’

‘Nay, Father, I will not!’ She didn’t look at him, fearing her courage would fail before Fabien’s gentle look.