Captured by the Warrior (7 page)

‘I beg your pardon?’ The Duke’s head swivelled round, his eyes narrowing on her. ‘Do you address me?’

‘Aye, my lord, I do,’ she replied boldly, although a violent trembling shook her knees. At her back, Bastien watched as she touched her fingertips to the table top, as if to keep her balance. Despite her bold move to address the Duke, she was terrified. A grudging admiration grew in his veins: she had courage, this maid, he had to admit. He chewed slowly on a piece of bread.

‘I could have you clapped in irons for the way you have just spoken,’ the Duke replied tartly. His voice, soft, sibilant, held a dangerous thread. ‘Or maybe sent to a nunnery to end your days. If you had been my daughter, I would have curbed your headstrong ways long before now—’ he threw an accusing look at her father ‘—for they will bring you nothing but trouble.’

‘Are you saying that it’s better to be meek and mild and just accept one’s fate?’ The words burst from her mouth before she had time to think.

‘Hold your tongue!’ the Duke snapped. A muscle jumped in his square-cut jaw. ‘This time, young woman, you will accept your fate, for I do have a plan that you will follow to the very last detail, otherwise…’

‘Otherwise…?’ Her voice emerged, small now, chastised.

‘Otherwise your father will die.’

Her muscles slackened, crumpled beneath her, and she fell back into the seat, her eyes darting from her father’s concerned face to the Duke’s arrogant profile.

‘Wh-wh-what?’ she stammered. Sickness roiled in her stomach.

‘Listen to me well, my girl. This country is in trouble. No one has seen hide or hair of King Henry for months. The barons are taking the law into their own hands, feuding, pillaging, kidnapping; it’s all happening right under the King’s nose and he doesn’t seem to care.’ The Duke sighed, leaning back in his chair to take a long sip from his pewter goblet. The rubies set into the thick stem flashed with a red brilliance.

‘Nay, it’s not true. Tell him, Father! Why, we saw the King not above a sennight ago!’ Even to her own ears, her words were slick with falsehood. Her mind scrabbled to remember the last time she had seen King Henry.

The Duke set his pewter goblet down with studied patience, turning his light-grey eyes towards her. ‘Do not feed me lies, young lady. Your father has told me of your close relationship with the Queen; I would use that to my advantage. You will return to court and find out what has happened to the King, find out what kind of mental state he is in.’

Beneath her fingers, Alice pleated, then unpleated the thick silk of her skirts. A cold stone of fear lodged in her stomach. She had heard Queen Margaret’s talk at court, of how she hated the Duke of York, the king’s cousin, convinced that all he wanted was to snatch the throne and be King of England himself.

‘You’re asking me to spy for you,’ Alice whispered.

‘Precisely.’

‘And you’ll keep my father a prisoner here until I come back with news.’

‘Why, you do understand quickly,’ Richard replied, a mocking smile on his face. His skin appeared stretched, taut, with the dark shadow of a beard about his jaw. ‘And if you don’t come back, why, then you will never see your father again.’

Tears welled in her eyes, and she hung her head, trying to hide her weakness, but her mind spun into action. How would they know that she brought the truth? She could return here with a bundle of lies to suit the Duke’s ear and secure her father’s release. What could be simpler?

‘And to make sure you bring back the truth—’ the Duke’s speech jerked once more in her brain ‘—I’ll send an escort with you. Someone I can trust.’ He placed great emphasis on the last word, indicating that he didn’t trust her in the slightest. ‘Someone to make certain that you don’t tittle-tattle.’

Alice lifted her pewter goblet, raising it to her lips. Some idiot of a soldier didn’t worry her; she’d be able to outwit him in an instant, and he would be none the wiser. The thought of escaping this place, of rounding up support for her father, imbued her with sudden confidence. She took a deep gulp, feeling the honeyed liquid slide down her throat.

‘Who’s the lucky man?’ As Alice set her goblet down, her eyes swept the room for a suitable candidate. Over there, lounging by the fire, a short man, with thickset brow and kind face—aye, that was the sort of person who could come with her. ‘I’m sorry, what did
you say?’ Suffused with her own plans, her burgeoning hope, she had failed to catch the Duke’s words.

‘Lord Bastien will go with you, naturally.’

Alice’s confidence drained from her limbs. Her father took her small, cold hands in his. ‘It will be all right, Alice, you’ll see.’

‘Nay.’ She jumped up, almost tipping her chair back with the violence of the movement, fixing her father with her imperious blue orbs. ‘Nay, Father, it will not be all right!’

The gardens at Ludlow has been set out some years ago, in a formal pattern of rectangles and half-circles. Alice’s skirts whisked over the low box hedges as she walked angrily down one of the main paths. The edge of her sleeve caught a rose head in its final unstable moments as a flower, and the pink petals tumbled down, emitting a sweet heady perfume as they fell in her wake, showering the uneven stone path.

Footsteps descended purposefully on the steps behind her, following her.

She spun round, believing it to be her father, searching the blue-fringed twilight for his familiar silhouette.

‘Oh, it’s you!’ she blurted out, dismayed as she recognising Bastien’s bright hair emerging from the shadows.

‘I came to fetch you back,’ he explained, a weariness in his voice.

‘Oh, aye, I forgot. It wouldn’t do to let me out of your sight now, would it?’ she replied woodenly. ‘Don’t you realise this is all your fault?’ An owl hooted, eerie and chilling through the oak woods that surrounded the garden. The rushing sound of the river broke through the trees, continuous, insistent.

‘No doubt you have wrought some intricately ill-informed explanation.’ Bastien cupped her elbow gently and began to lead her back to the castle, his manner deferential, formal. He had to maintain this emotional distance from her; it was easier that way.

She ignored his sarcastic comment. ‘If you had let me go in the forest, then none of this would have happened. My father would not be a prisoner, I wouldn’t have to spy upon my friends…’ She wrenched her elbow away from him. ‘Tell the Duke you can’t do this, that you’re busy!’

‘I only wish I was!’ Bastien stopped for a moment. His breath puffed out, short bursts of mist in the chill night air. ‘Believe me, escorting a wilful young lady back to the King’s court isn’t my idea of a good time. But the Duke knows full well that I was intending to spend the winter on my estate sorting my affairs out.’

‘See, you are busy. Someone else needs to go in your stead.’

‘What, so you can give some poor unfortunate soldier the slip?’ he chortled, the iron mask of his reserve melting away. ‘I’ve only known you a handful of days, Alice, but even in that short time, I can read your mind.’

I can read your mind. The intimate words, husky and low, punched into her brain. Her hands flew up, covering her cheeks, as if trying to place a barrier between his large, imposing presence and herself. She didn’t want this, didn’t want him here, next to her, insinuating himself wholeheartedly into her life. The thought of him accompanying her back to Abberley filled her with horror. And then there was Edmund…

‘And how am I supposed to explain your presence?’ she asked desperately, her hands falling away from her
face. ‘Everyone will be most surprised that I have lost a father and gained a Yorkist thug in exchange. Edmund would certainly have something to say about that.’

‘Edmund…?’ He let the question drift over the evening air.

‘None of your business!’ Alice clamped her lips together, wishing she had never mentioned the name.

‘Ah, the young beau,’ he deduced quickly, alert to the tiny tilt of her head, the softening of her voice. ‘The man you intend to marry.’

‘The man I will marry,’ she corrected him. ‘Which will make it all the more difficult to explain you!’ She jabbed a finger into the middle of his chest; underneath the soft pad, his skin refused to yield: a powerful cage of muscle and rib, bound together by his innate strength. Alice dropped her fingers hastily.

‘I am the man who saved you from the evil clutches of the Duke of York and brought you home. It would be the least you could do to provide me with bed and board for a few days after such a daring rescue…’

‘Nay, nay…’ Alice backed away ‘…please tell me you jest.’ The very thought of him staying at Abberley, of having to be nice to him!

‘No jest, my lady, but the Duke’s plan in every detail.’

‘It won’t work, you’re completely mad, he’s completely mad!’

‘It’s a good thing I’m thick-skinned,’ he muttered. The wide span of his hands curved around her shoulders, the warmth from his skin flowing through the thin silk covering of her gown. ‘Listen, it’s not for ever, just until I have the information that the Duke needs. Then you need never see me again and can spend all your time with your pretty beau.’

The words rankled. ‘He’s not like that,’ she responded irritably, feeling the box hedge push its prickly leaves through the material of her skirts and into the back of her calves. She felt uncomfortable hearing Edmund described as her ‘beau’, for up to this moment he had been a friend, and nothing more. Why, it was only a couple of days ago that she had agreed to marry him! Bastien’s choice of words made Edmund sound like some sort of court fop. Unease sluiced through her veins, a trickle of doubt. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about; you don’t even know him.’

‘Aye, but I know you,’ he shot back, ‘and I know your demanding, wilful behaviour. No man in his right mind would put up with that, so your Edmund, well…all I can say is “good luck” to him.’ Bastien shrugged his shoulders.

‘That’s it! I’m not staying here to listen to this a moment longer!’ Alice pushed past his large frame, almost tipping herself into the flower-bed in the process. A shaft of pure rose scent burst into the air, strong and heady. ‘Edmund is not like that at all!’ she threw back over her shoulder before mounting the stone steps. Ahead of her, the arched doorway stood open, throwing out a shaft of warm light, like a beacon. ‘At least he knows how to treat a lady!’

In two short strides he was upon her, one hand gripping her upper arm, preventing forward movement. His distinctive smell of musky leather, spliced with a tint of mead, curled around her. ‘I would treat you like a lady…’ his voice lowered, a tantalising baritone ‘…if you behaved like one.’

T
he morning sun sent brilliant shafts of light streaming through the arched upper windows of the great hall, the rays refracting slightly through the brittle, hand-blown glass. Few people moved about; the hour was still early. One servant scrubbed down the well-worn planks of the trestle tables, the bristle brush swishing rhythmically across the wood, the water in the bucket sloshing noisily as the servant kicked it along the floor to keep level with his cleaning. Another servant swept the large flagstones clear of debris from the evening before, heaping together a mound of wine-soaked straw before lifting it into a barrow. The new fire burned merrily in the grate, the damp sticks crackling and spitting.

At the top table, Bastien sat alone. Finishing his breakfast, he pushed the platter away. The high collar of his shirt dug into his neck and he reached up to pull at it, to try to stretch the stiff linen. Inadvertently, his fingers brushed over the leather lace that he wore beneath, next to his skin. The familiar circle of gold
that dangled against his chest drew his fingers, almost against their will. Katherine! The name punched into his brain, clamouring, begging for attention. A raft of memory scythed through him, making him pull his fingers away abruptly, as if bitten. Why did he still wear it, if it caused him so much pain? He had hoped by this time the memories would have dulled, dwindled into the misty obscurity of the past, and the betrothal ring would remind him of the true love that had once been his. The fighting in France had helped; a mind totally focused on the intricacies of battle allowed little room to brood over what had happened. Yet even now, when he touched the ring, the memories leapt vividly into his brain as if they had happened only yesterday.

He needed to focus, to turn his attention to the task in hand. Where was the silly girl anyway? He’d sent the maid up hours ago to tumble her from her bed; he was damned if he was going to do it himself! Every bone in his body baulked against the Duke’s plan. He’d wrangled far into the night with Richard about the sense in taking the girl at all—surely it made better sense to keep her prisoner here, for Bastien to go as a messenger? But the Duke had been stubborn, adamant. ‘The Queen guards the King like a secret; no one has seen him for months. She is more likely to trust someone she knows. Think sensibly. The girl is a gift, our key to enter the House of Lancaster.’

His toes curled at the prospect of travelling at a snail’s pace; with the girl carried in a litter it would take an extra day, at least. No doubt she was fussing and flapping with her clothes right now, in anticipation of seeing her family and friends once more. Tipping his pewter goblet to his lips, he drained the last dregs of
mead, frowning. Somehow the thought of her preening before a looking glass didn’t quite fit with the maid as he had seen her yesterday: covered in mud, exhausted and dressed in boy’s clothes. He smiled to himself. She’d certainly have a lot of explaining to do when she arrived back home!

On the threshold of the great hall, Alice hesitated, courage draining from her limbs. What was it about this man that made her lose all sense of herself, become befuddled and gauche in his company? The sight of his big body sprawled comfortably into a high-backed oak chair made her want to run, run until she was sure he would never find her. As he tipped his head back to drink, the corded muscles of his tanned throat flexed, a picture of strength. Anxiety danced along her nerves, making her feel wobbly and uncertain. Her heart filled with foreboding—how could she leave her father with these barbarians? How could she travel with this man…all alone?

Bastien’s gaze slewed upwards, catching her slight movement in the doorway. The sturdy oak of the door framed her figure, dwarfing her even, making her appear small and vulnerable.

‘At last!’ he muttered, a thread of exasperation in his voice. ‘What in Heaven’s name have you been doing? We need to leave!’

‘I was saying goodbye to my father,’ she replied tersely. ‘I’m ready now, so let’s go. I for one would like to get this whole charade over and done with as quickly as possible.’

‘You need to eat something.’ It was an order, not a request. He came down the steps and strode towards her, covering the distance between them with a grace
ful, loping stride. Like an animal, she thought suddenly, supple and strong.

‘Since when have you become so concerned with my well-being?’ Alice taunted, tilting her head to one side. As she moved over the threshold, a shaft of sunlight fell across her face, emphasising the flawless quality of her skin. It appeared almost translucent, the colour and lustre of a pearl: creamy-white with a delicate rose flush beneath the cheeks. Even the fading bruise on her jaw-line could not diminish her natural beauty. For a moment, his eyes drank in the beautiful sight, all speech stopped. The pads of his fingers tingled, wanting to touch; he curled his fingers in, forming rigid fists at his side.

‘Since you became useful to us,’ he replied bluntly. ‘I can’t have you fainting away in the middle of the journey.’

‘I’ve never fainted in my life!’ she snapped back. The hanging pearls adorning the net that held her hair in place shook violently with the movement of her head. From a central parting, her thick blonde hair had been looped into a smooth coil at the nape of her neck, secured with pins before the net was positioned. Yet the coil seemed quite loose, almost haphazardly pinned up. Idly, Bastien wondered if she had done her hair herself, eschewing the services of a maid.

‘Apart from the moment when you thought I would cut your throat. And when the Duke asked your name, in the courtyard.’

Her mouth turned down at the corners, grudging agreement. ‘Apart from then.’

His green eyes sparkled with victory. ‘Well,’ he con
tinued mildly, ‘I can’t force you to eat. Let’s just hope you don’t slow us down.’

Alice stepped back, turning to lead the way to the inner bailey, disliking the feeling of him hulking over her. All along the corridor, he followed her, unspeaking, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled with the awareness that he was there, behind her, the rounded leather toes of his boots whispering against the flowing hem of her skirt if her step lagged.

Outside, the cool autumnal air seemed saturated with the rain that had passed over in the night, a cloying wetness that seeped into her bones. Alice hunched into her short blue cloak, now cleaned of the dirt gathered from the march to Ludlow. Most noblewoman never wore cloaks, as they travelled in litters and rarely spent any time outside in bad weather. A seamstress at Abberley had made the garment for her, after Alice became tired of becoming soaked and cold on the many expeditions with her father. Now it sat rather strangely over the more formal gown supplied by the Duke of York’s castle.

A groom stood at the head of Bastien’s stallion, holding the animal steady as it pawed impatiently at the cobbles. Beside him, two packhorses waited patiently between the traces of a brightly covered litter.

Alice stopped in her tracks, surprised, turning her face up to Bastien. ‘I have no need of a litter,’ she exclaimed lightly. ‘I will ride!’

‘Ride?’ Bastien observed her bright face closely. A honeyed wing of hair was beginning to loop down below her ear. Was she jesting with him? No woman of quality travelled on horseback, especially if the journey was destined to be long. True, noblewomen would hunt on horses, but were never in the saddle for a long time.

‘Aye, you know, on a horse,’ she replied, a teasing note in her voice. Her delicate, rose-tinted lips curved into a smile. ‘Like this. You remember, I’ve done this before.’

Before he could stop her, she bolted for his own horse, his
warhorse,
placed two hands on the saddle and vaulted into position, scissoring her legs mid-air so that one leg came down either side of the horse, perfectly in position. Bastien had a fleeting sensation of rippling skirts, a flash of white stocking covering a fine-boned ankle.

The groom’s mouth dropped open, and his hands released the reins in surprise.

For a moment, Bastien was totally stunned, the sight of Alice’s thin leather slippers resting comfortably against his horse, jarring with every sense of normality. Her tricks in the forest, when she had been disguised as the lad, returned to him with a horrible clarity. Dressed as a woman, he had forgotten her previous strength and agility, and now, it caught him completely by surprise.

In the forest, his horse had tried to buck her off. And it was happening again. The destrier shook its head violently, jangling the bit between his teeth, as Alice pulled on the reins, intending to ride around in a circle of victory, to prove to Bastien that she could ride, she was as good as any man. To her dismay, the horse had other ideas, pawing the ground fretfully, before rearing up on his hind legs, wanting to throw off her slight weight. Surprised by the surge of upward movement, she started to slide backwards in the saddle, slowly at first, then faster, backwards…

‘Release the reins, I have you.’ The order was rapped, sharp and hard, into her left ear.

Two firm hands clasped around her waist, the ultimate humiliation.

Bastien’s eyes flicked to the groom, a silent instruction:
hold the horse steady,
as he swung Alice back from the horse. As soon as her slippered feet touched the ground, she rounded on him.

‘You didn’t give me a chance! He needed time to become familiar with me!’ Alice stared up at Bastien, lifting one small white hand to loop a loosened strand of hair back behind her ear.

‘He threw you off the last time, and he’ll throw you off again, given half a chance,’ Bastien replied quietly. ‘He’s not the sort of horse to try your stunts on; he’s only used to me and my command.’ Bastien contemplated her neat head, resisting the urge to push in another gold hairpin that seemed to be nudging its way out. ‘The groom can fetch you a more suitable horse, and then we can start.’

Alice shrugged her shoulders, deflated. ‘I
can
ride.’ She had embarrassed herself in front of him, wanting to prove herself, and it had all gone wrong. She lifted one hand self-consciously to her hair, jabbing a pin back into her bun where it had dislodged itself. Looking down at the top of her neat head, Bastien could see it was not the only hairpin to have come adrift.

‘Aye, you can,’ he agreed, ‘but maybe not that one.’ His eyes crinkled upwards at the corners, the hint of a smile. ‘We’ll find you another,
more suitable
horse, and then we’ll be on our way.’

The narrow path, weaving around and about the great trunks of oak and beech, forced the horses to walk in single file, with Bastien leading the way. The track was
little used, and remained dry under the dense canopy of trees which made the going easier. Alice hoped that Bastien was sure of his direction; she certainly did not want to become lost…with him. His dark presence made her jumpy, skittering her normal self-control, reducing her to a mass of contradictions.

Down to Alice’s left, the valley sides dropped steeply, leading to the banks of a fast-flowing river, the boiling water jumping and splashing over great slabs of rock, creating plumes of froth that spat up into the air. Deciduous trees clambered along the water’s edge, gnarled boughs of oak dipping into the rushing water, interrupting the flow.

And up ahead, Bastien’s straight, rigid back. She had stared at it for hours; her eyeballs felt dry, itchy. He had dispensed with his woollen cloak, rolling it up and securing it with leather straps at the back of his horse. His surcoat was fashioned from a plain green velvet, and shorter than normal to make riding easier. A wide leather belt secured the tunic just below the waist before it flared out to end at his knees. His head was bare, and when the weak autumn sunlight poked through the trees, it lit upon his short, ruffled hair, burnished with streaks of copper.

Since the groom had brought a docile grey mare out for Alice to ride, and helped her to mount up, Bastien had not said another word to her, had not even turned his head to see that she was following. He simply expected her to keep up. She wondered if he would notice if she started to drop back; the temptation was to look for a suitable gap in the trees to make a bolt for freedom. But the horse she had been given was slow, and would
never be able to outrun Bastien’s powerful stallion. He would catch her in moments.

Alice hoped they would stop soon. A dryness invaded her mouth; she needed a drink. Above the forest canopy, the sun had already begun to descend from its zenith; it was past noon. To her relief, as the trees began to thin out and the path dropped closer to the river, Bastien twisted in the saddle towards her.

‘We’ll stop down there.’ He pointed down at a flat, grassy area beside the water, where the grass grew long and lush, before leading his horse into the middle of the area. His saddle creaked as he leaned forwards, scissoring one leg over to dismount. He let the reins drop, allowing his horse to crop at the grass in freedom. Quickly, Alice slithered off her own horse, not wanting him to help, or to witness her untidy dismount. She landed in a flurry of skirts, wincing slightly as her aching muscles protested. Despite telling Bastien she could ride, she honestly couldn’t remember the last time she had ridden so intensively over such a long time. The ligaments in her legs seemed to have tightened in all the wrong places; and now, as she walked to the spot where Bastien had spread a rug across the grass, they screamed out at the unfamiliar activity.

‘Come, sit and eat,’ Bastien commanded her, his moss-green eyes sparkling over her. ‘I’m famished, and so must you be, having eaten no breakfast.’

He began to unwrap the muslin packages: floury rounds of bread, hunks of fresh cheese, cold roast chicken. Alice’s stomach grumbled.

‘The Duke’s servants never stint on good food.’ Bastien stretched out his body on one side of the rug, propping his head up with his left hand, and bit into a
chicken leg. Alice threw back the hood of her cloak, kneeling down on the rug. Her knees sank into the damp ground through the woollen fabric. Eagerly she reached for a bread roll, lifting it to her lips, before she noticed Bastien smiling at her.