Captured by the Warrior (18 page)

‘Oh, my dear, I had no idea you were feeling like this!’ Mary pulled her into a big hug, as Alice wept uncontrollably on her shoulder. ‘You have got yourself in an awful state, haven’t you? Now, come on, calm down, I’m sure you have it wrong.’

Alice shook her head miserably in response.

‘Nay, you definitely have it wrong. Why, even the Lady Cecile noticed that he had eyes only for you. Come on, dry your eyes.’ Mary plucked a large, clean handkerchief from one of the voluminous pockets in her skirts, and Alice lifted her damp face, accepting it gratefully.

Stepping back out of Mary’s comforting arms, Alice wiped her face and blew her nose decisively. A drifting rootlessness had possessed her since Bastien’s departure, a gaping uncertainty about the future. He had asked her to stay, and stay she would, if only to be told by Bastien the words she dreaded to hear: that no future existed for the two of them together.

‘I’m sorry, Mary.’ Alice handed back the creased linen square.

‘Ah, there you are!’ Both women turned in unison at the familiar shrill voice in the doorway. Lady Cecile
moved gracefully into the kitchens, her pinched smile overlaid with a trace of irritation. Her shrewd green eyes clamped onto Alice. ‘Why must you persist in these menial tasks, girl? I have enough servants to perform such duties.’ She folded her pale hands across the countless pleats that fell from the high, tightly fitted waistband of her gown.

A wan smile tugged at Alice’s features. ‘I was keeping Mary company.’ She hadn’t seen very much of Bastien’s mother in the past few days, and had assumed that the older woman preferred to be alone.

‘Well, come and keep me company. I’m sitting all on my own in the solar. If you’re intending to marry that son of mine, then I think I need to know you a little better.’

Untying her apron, Alice’s hands stilled on the linen strings. ‘I beg your pardon?’

Cecile raised non-existent eyebrows, the thin skin of her forehead wrinkling upwards like old parchment. ‘You heard me well enough, girl.’

Mary nudged her in the elbow. ‘You see, Alice. I’m not the only one to have noticed. Everyone has seen it except you.’

Except that you didn’t see him in the chapel, Alice thought limply. You didn’t see him. Even I thought there was a chance before then, a chance that we could be together. But it was obvious both Mary and Lady Cecile had made up their minds and she was too exhausted and confused to argue with them.

‘Come, Lady Alice, let’s leave this place.’ Cecile whisked a disparaging glance around the cluttered kitchens, the rank of copper pans shining from the wall next to the cooking fire, a servant scrubbing energeti
cally at some pots in the deep stone sink. Her critical gaze moved back to Mary. ‘Tell that cook, wherever she might be, that I want to speak to her. This place needs some sorting out.’

Placing her apron on the table, Alice threw an apologetic glance towards Mary.

‘Go on,’ Mary whispered in response. ‘You’re doing her good; I haven’t seen her this happy for ages.’

Alice followed Cecile’s nimble figure down the corridor, blinking in the dim light after the brightness of the kitchens. The older woman carried herself ramrod straight, her head held high. Every detail of her elaborate attire was perfect: the tiny pearls sewn in lines across the fashionable turban headdress, the stiff, pressed edges of the high, linen collar that she wore, the knife-sharp pleats of her bodice. Alice drew level with her as they emerged into the hallway, and instinctively turned to the right, thinking they would mount the stairs to the solar. Cecile laid one bony hand on Alice’s forearm, stalling her.

‘There’s something I wanted to show you, before we go up. I think you might find it interesting.’

‘What is it?’ Alice hesitated.

Cecile tapped her nose, adopting a teasing girlish tone that sat at odds with her starched, formal demeanour. ‘Oh, Alice, I didn’t really want to spoil the surprise.’

Alice hung back, unsure. There had been too many surprises recently.

Cecile laughed, a brittle, tinkling sound echoing up to the high vaulted ceiling. ‘Don’t be silly.’ She clutched at Alice’s sleeve, her claw-like fingers digging in to the fine silk velvet. ‘You trust me. You know more than
anyone how much I want to make it up to Bastien, after all these years of estrangement.’

Alice curled her toes up in her thin-soled shoes, embarrassed by her hesitation. She could hold her own against Cecile, surely? They were equally matched in height and weight. And Bastien’s mother seemed to be making a great effort to change, despite her autocratic ways.

‘I wanted to show you a place where Bastien and his brother Guillaume used to play; a special place that I thought you might like to see. I go there myself, sometimes.’

The wistful air of Cecile’s words pulled at Alice’s heart. This woman meant no harm; she was merely trying to help Alice connect with the family, with Bastien’s past. Cecile’s shoulders wilted slightly, her fingers fiddling nervously with her rings. And in that single gesture of self-consciousness, Alice’s guarded heart succumbed, went out to this poor woman, who had lost one son, and was desperately trying to win back the affection of the other.

‘I would love to see it.’

A wide, undulating river flowed steadily at the northern end of the manor, its shallow banks on the opposite side frilled with drooping willows, their leafless fronds tickling the surface of the water. The feeble warmth of the autumn day was dropping fast now, the sun low on the horizon. Cecile led Alice to the back of the manor, where the river slapped up against the steep, sheer sides of an old perimeter wall.

‘I had no idea the water came this close!’ Alice exclaimed.

‘The original castle was built on a bend in the river; it provided an excellent defence in times of attack,’ Cecile explained. ‘My two boys used to love it when they were young; they came down here all the time.’ A gentleness embraced her voice. ‘They had a little boat, which they would tie up here.’ She pointed down to the right, to an uneven flight of steps disappearing into the slopping waves of the river, to an iron ring set in the stone wall.

‘They used to argue about who would hold the oars,’ she continued, her tone adopting a sing-song musing quality. Alice shivered; despite the rays of the setting sun shining on the two women, there was no warmth in the air.

‘It’s a beautiful place,’ she agreed with Cecile, ‘but don’t you think we should go back now? It’s getting late.’

‘They used to hide from me, you know.’ Snared in her own memories, Cecile seemed not to hear Alice’s words. Her eyes acquired a distant far-away expression. ‘Look, down here.’ She began to descend the stairs, her hand moving along the stone wall to keep her balance, not noticing how the long sleeves of her gown trailed through the slippery green slime that coated each step.

The undulating movement of the black, murky water against the stone wall made a jerky, smacking sound. Apprehension washed over Alice; she wanted to support Cecile, but maybe dragging up old memories was not helping the older woman. Cecile reached out for the iron ring in the wall, pulled it, and to Alice’s surprise, a small door opened in the stone. ‘See?’ Cecile glanced up at Alice triumphantly, her face white, strained. ‘I haven’t forgotten after all these years! Oh, the times I spent call
ing those two scamps! And they would be hiding in here, playing their games, dreaming their dreams!’ She leaned inside the dark interior, the stiff pleats of her veil scraping against the top of the doorway.

‘It’s exactly the same, the same as when they played in there.’ Cecile withdrew from the small chamber, her expression clouded with memories.

‘I think we should go back now, my lady,’ Alice announced practically from the top of the steps. Fear grew like a hard lump in her chest. ‘Why not come back and look at it in daylight?’

Two deep creases appeared between Cecile’s high-drawn eyebrows. She frowned at her hands, studying them closely. ‘My ring!’ she gasped in horror. ‘My wedding ring. I’ve dropped it!’ She ducked her head and shoulders back through the wooden door. ‘It’s so dark, I can’t see anything.’ Encased in the stone chamber, her voice emerged as a muffled moan. ‘It’s the ring that Guy gave to me, I can’t lose it! I just can’t!’

Galvanised by Cecile’s distraught tones, Alice sprang down the steps. ‘Let me look, my lady. You’re too upset. Look, careful now, I’ll swap places with you.’

Cecile backed out carefully from the chamber, pale, distracted, visibly shaking. Tears squeezed from her eyes, already red-rimmed. ‘You’re a good girl, Alice, such a kind nature.’ She moved up one step, allowing Alice to bend her head, to look inside the dark, dank space. Her voice changed swiftly, thick and dark, guttural with hate. ‘My son doesn’t deserve you.’ With one almighty heave, Cecile pushed at Alice’s unsuspecting back, tilting her off balance, bundling her into the chamber. Before Alice had time to blink, or breathe, or
wonder what in Heaven’s name had happened, Cecile had slammed the door shut, and bolted it from the outside. ‘And he’s never going to have you.’

‘Cecile!’ Alice shouted. ‘Let me out, let me out of here!’ In the rancid blackness, she twisted her body around, pummelling the thick, intractable wood with her fists.

‘Not a chance, my child.’ Cecile slumped against the outside of the door, the jewels on her head-dress fiery sparks in the dimming light. She wiped away the faint sheen of perspiration peppering her forehead. ‘I promised myself I would have my revenge on Bastien if it were the last thing that I do. And with you, I have my revenge.’ Cecile’s voice moved over her like poison, seeping into her pores, leaving a sharp, sour taste in her mouth.

‘Nay! You don’t! You have it all wrong! I mean nothing to him! He still loves Katherine!’ Incensed, Alice threw her shoulder against the door, bruising the soft flesh.

‘He loves you, Alice. I could see it. I could see it in his every word towards you, in his every gesture—he loves you. I loved Guillaume and he took him away from me. That gives me the right to take you away from him.’

‘It does not give you the right! You’re wrong about him and me!’ Fury brought Alice’s voice to a high-pitched volatile squeak. ‘You couldn’t be more wrong!’ Sobbing with frustration, Alice sank down on to the stone floor, her head in her hands.

‘Goodbye, my child,’ Cecile chanted, smiling wood
enly at the bolted door. Checking that all her rings were in place, she made her way quickly up the steps, her step light. Revenge was certainly sweet.

I
n the corridor outside King Henry’s chambers, Bastien waited. He sat on the low stone window ledge opposite the door, arms crossed high over the pleated folds of his tunic, his long legs stretched out across the polished wooden floor. He hoped today would be the last day of negotiation, that the lengthy discussions between the Duke of York and the Queen about who would rule the country whilst King Henry was ill would finally come to fruition. Impatience made him restless; for the first time in his life he found himself not wanting to be at the Duke’s side, despite their friendship. He wanted to be with her, with Alice, and he wanted it with all his heart. These machinations of power meant nothing to him; all he wished for was to be set free from his duty to Richard so he could return to Foxhayne, to her.

He stuck a hand through his hair, pushing the blond locks away from his forehead, ruffling them. These last few days away had been torture; he constantly wondered what Alice was doing, what she was thinking. The sweet
memory of her soft touch, her captivating expression, the light fragrance of her hair as it brushed against his chin—all taunted him, pulling his mind constantly away from the task in hand. Only weeks ago such distractions would have irritated him, but now, now he cherished them.

The door clicked open, and the young Queen Margaret emerged with a group of ladies-in-waiting. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and her slender frame bowed with fatigue. Her pregnancy protruding out from the pleated front of her gown only served to make her look more fragile. Bastien felt some sympathy for her; she had a lot to bear for one so young. The last few days had taken their toll, but she had fought for her side competently, arguing strongly for the rights of her husband, and for any child that she might bear. Her chin jutted in the air at the sight of Bastien; she had not forgiven him for his earlier deception, and no doubt regretted entertaining him on that previous occasion when Alice had brought him under false pretences into the castle.

Beatrice Matravers was among the ladies accompanying Margaret, bringing up the rear of the group, carefully shutting the door behind her. Her eyes skimmed over Bastien’s hulking frame leaning against the windowsill, failing to connect him with the man who had ostensibly rescued her daughter. She merely saw him as another of the Duke of York’s thuggish henchmen. Did she have any idea where Alice was now? Surely Edmund must have told her that the plan to marry Alice to old Felpersham had failed?

Beatrice’s mouth dropped open in shock as Bastien stood up, gripping her sleeve with strong fingers, hindering any forward step.

‘I need to talk to you,’ he ground out, one fist curling at his side. He had promised himself he wouldn’t throttle her, for Alice’s sake.

Eyelashes fluttering with panic, Beatrice stared wildly at the rest of her party disappearing down the corridor, gowns like colourful butterflies against the dark wood panelling. She opened her mouth to scream, the red wax she had applied to her lips bleeding into the thick white powder on her skin.

‘I need to talk to you, about Alice.’

Beatrice snatched her lips shut at his gruff words. Two bright spots of colour appeared on her cheeks, rash-like, frenzied. She sucked in a fitful, jerky breath. ‘What do you know about Alice?’

‘I know what you did.’ His voice carved into her.

‘Wh-what?’ she replied, her tone faltering. Her blue eyes raked his face, trying to place him, to remember.

‘And I know where she is.’

Beatrice swayed, clutched at his arm. ‘Oh, my darling girl. Is she…is she…?’

‘She’s as well as can be expected.’ His voice emerged, clipped, condemning.

‘Tell me where she is.’ Beneath her thick powder, Beatrice’s skin had turned ash-grey.

‘Later,’ Bastien said, disengaging her clutching fingers from his sleeve. ‘We’ll talk later.’ Putting one hand in the small of her back, he propelled her along the corridor. ‘I’ll find you.’

He was watching Alice’s mother vanish through the door at the end of the corridor, when the Duke burst out from the King’s chamber’s, his square-shaped face wreathed in smiles.

‘’Tis done.’ He approached Bastien. ‘The Queen and
the Bishop have agreed to my rule, for the moment. The King is still quite insensible.’ Richard clapped Bastien heartily on the back. ‘I would never have achieved this without you, Bastien, I thank you for all your support, especially…’ The Duke paused, cocking his head sideways, brown eyes twinkling.

‘Especially?’ Bastien supplied.

‘Especially as you obviously have other things on your mind.’

Bastien grinned; it would be pointless to deny it. ‘Is there much more to be done here?’

‘Nothing that I cannot do myself, or with the help of my aides. You have done more than enough. Now go and saddle up your horse and claim that maid of yours.’ Bastien was already striding off down the corridor. ‘And don’t forget to invite me to the wedding!’ Richard called after him.

Alice’s mother was easy to find, her bird-like figure perched on a bench in the gardens, twisting her fingers first one way, then the other. She sprung up at Bastien’s approach, then sat down again abruptly, as if all her strength had suddenly failed her.

‘I only did what I thought was best for her.’ In the flimsy morning air, her voice echoed shrilly. ‘What was best for all of us.’ Her breath surfaced, misty wraiths on the cool air, and she shivered, clutching her slim arms about her. ‘With Thomas gone, we had no one to support us, no money of our own. Alice was prepared to marry Edmund, but when he confided in me that he had no money of his own, and that his uncle had offered—’ she ducked her head in shame ‘—I thought…I thought…’

Bastien threw his satchel on to the ground by the
bench; it landed with a scuffling sound, scraping on the gravel pathway. His large frame loomed over Beatrice, shadowing her. ‘How could you have let her go with that man? And all for money.’

‘Nay! Not just for the money. I couldn’t curb her ways, she wouldn’t be told; I had to do something, she was running wild! Edmund told me that his uncle was a decent, law-abiding man; he assured me that he was!’

‘He lied. That snivelling, two-faced boy lied to you. Have you seen him?’ Bastien paced up and down the path in front of her.

Beatrice raised one tentative hand to her head, checking her veil, patting the delicate fabric in place. ‘Nay, he never returned. I assumed he’d decided to keep all the money for himself.’

Bastien stopped, spun around lightly. His calf-length leather boots strained with the rapid movement. ‘Didn’t you once think about what you’d done, about how she might be feeling?’ His piercing tone slashed into her.

She hunched away, wincing, cowering from his furious expression. ‘Oh, my lord, I think about her every day.’ Big fat tears began to run down her face, creating runnels through the layer of white powder on her skin. ‘I love her, I love my Alice. I pray she can find a space in her heart to forgive me for what I have done.’

Bastien’s eyes travelled over her forlorn, drooping figure. ‘Oddly enough, you seem to have bred a daughter with an amazing capacity for forgiveness,’ he replied grimly.

‘I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,’ Beatrice kept saying, over and over again. ‘I’ve already told Fabien; he’s angry with me, frantic with worry. Now that all the business with the King is over…’ she waved one feeble
hand in the direction of the castle ‘…he intends to ride to Felpersham’s castle tonight.’

‘She’s not there.’

Beatrice lifted one trembling hand to shield her eyes as she looked up at him. ‘Where is she?’

Bastien sighed. He lifted his head, watched the puffy clouds scudding across the sky. Beatrice Matravers seemed truly sorry for what she had done. He hoped he was making the right decision.

‘I’ll take you to her.’

Bastien slowed his horse to a walk beneath the trees, tall stately oaks that formed a deciduous forest to the east of Foxhayne. Leaning forwards, he patted the horse’s neck, feeling the animal’s sweating coat beneath his fingers. He had set a relentless pace from Northampton, leaving the lurching cart carrying Alice’s parents far behind. They were happy to follow at a more sedate pace, grateful to him for saving their daughter, looking forward to seeing her once again. As he left them, they had been talking quietly together, Beatrice weeping a little in her husband’s arms. Bastien knew that, despite what Beatrice had done, their relationship would soon be mended. Fabien Matravers’s kind, generous spirit would make sure of that.

Foxhayne lay quietly under the hazy cloud of noon; he suspected most of the workers would be eating their lunch at this hour. How different his feelings were from the last time he had approached, in a mixture of trepidation and curiosity, with Alice’s soft frame folded against him. As he trotted into the courtyard, a stable lad ran out to meet him, nodding furtively at Bastien before
taking the reins of his horse. Bastien began to remove the leather satchels from the back of the saddle.

The main door of the house was wrenched open on its hinges.

Bastien turned, a smile on his lips, expecting to see Alice. His heart perched on the edge of happiness, of joyous expectation at seeing her once more.

He saw Mary.

Mary, his mother’s servant, her mottled pasty skin ravaged by tears and fatigue, her fingers bunching continually into the folds of her apron.

‘Oh, my lord, my lord!’ She stared at him, hollow-eyed, quaking.

Dropping the bag, he sprinted towards her, leaping up the steps in two strong strides, grabbing her upper arms, supporting her. ‘Mary! What in God’s name is the matter?’

Mary’s head lolled; he gave her a little shake. ‘Tell me,’ he said more calmly, ignoring the lick of fear in his veins, ‘tell me what’s happened.’

‘It’s your mother,’ Mary stuttered out. ‘She’s locked herself in her chambers; she refuses to come out.’

Bastien laughed, a slashing hollow sound. ‘So what’s new? She often does that.’

Mary withered visibly. ‘I think she’s done something dreadful.’

‘What? What is it?’

‘We can’t find Alice.’

Fear snipping at his heels, his mind tottering on the brink of crazed disbelief, Bastien fought for logic, for the cool control for which he was renowned. It could not be true; Mary must have it wrong! Striding across the hallway, he bellowed orders left and right to the
milling servants, to look, to search for, to find Lady Alice. Like a soul possessed he tore up the stairs to his mother’s chamber, pounding on the door with his great fists, shouting, yelling at her to open up. Blood hurtled through his veins at a frenzied pace. Alice! Alice! his mind screamed at him, what has she done to you? His guts roiled—he should never have left her!

The door would be secured with a length of wood fitted horizontally into two iron brackets either side of the frame. On his orders, two burly servants raced upstairs with a sturdy length of tree trunk: an effective battering ram. The three men worked together, their combined strength pounding at the door until the top planks splintered; Bastien reached in, down, to toss the wooden barricade away.

He stepped into his mother’s chamber.

Closed, locked shutters made the room dismal, gloomy, stifled with acrid air. His eyes searched the shadows, heart thumping heavily in his chest. Cecile lay on the bed, sprawled, a frail, shrunken figure, still wearing her gown, her head-dress, her shoes. Her eyes were closed, her white skin stretched taut over the bones of her face; with a jolt he thought she was dead until he caught the faint rattle of breath emerging from her partially open lips.

As Bastien approached, her eyes snapped open, intent, glittering evil.

‘You’re too late.’ The words rasped out from dry, cracked lips; a bitter uneven gasp.

Reaching down, the blood pummelling the inside of his ears, he seized her shoulders, crushing her thin bones beneath his fingers, and shook her, hard. Her head bounced back on the pillow. ‘What have you done
with Alice? What have you done?’ A guttural rawness soaked his voice.

A wavering cackle escaped Cecile’s mouth. She seemed to be having trouble breathing, her chest caving deeply with every shaky intake of air. ‘Oh, this does me good, Bastien,’ she wheezed. ‘This is what I wanted, to see you suffer like this.’ Her eyes narrowed, gimlets of hatred. ‘Just as I suffered when you took Guillaume away from me.’

‘You’ve punished me enough for that,’ Bastien replied grimly, his face a mask of anguish.

Cecile’s lips grimaced, a semblance of a smile. ‘Nay, not enough, my dear boy,’ she mocked, ‘not enough.’

His hands leapt to her throat, tanned, sinewy hands against her scrawny neck, wanting to throttle her, to squeeze every last breath from her body. But his hands fell away as she laughed in his face, the uncontrolled, maniacal laugh of the truly mad. ‘I’ve saved you the job, dear son. I’ve drunk enough poison to kill several men. I’ll be gone soon, to join your brother.’

‘Where…is…Alice?’ he bawled at her, heart cleaving with desperation, springing back from the bed. ‘Tell me, please, before it’s too late!’

Cecile raised a finger to her lips, coquettishly. ‘Now, that would be telling! Without her, you will suffer, just as I have suffered.’

Futility slashed at his face. ‘Nay, she’s not dead!’ he bellowed at her. If he spoke the words often enough, then maybe it wouldn’t be true.

‘Aye, she is. Or at least, she soon will be.’ A fit of choking drowned out her last words.

Bastien paced the room, frantic, ripping open the shutters to stare out. The normality of the bright blue
sky, the small figures of people working in the fields below mocked him, laughed in his face. How could he make Cecile tell him? His mother had nothing left to live for. His mind scurried through the nooks and crannies of his home, through dusty stairwells, into disused rooms. Where? Where was Alice? Cecile would not have gone far with her—where could she have taken her?

At his back, Cecile’s breathing laboured. It would not be long now. His heart splintered, vitality draining from his legs, his arms, the thought of losing Alice almost too great to bear. Whirling around, his gaze travelled the length of his mother’s body. Even in the throes of dying, she was perfectly turned out: jewelled head-dress, expensive gown, shoes threaded with silver, the pale leather soles turned towards him.