‘What’s the matter…haven’t you seen a man stripped to the waist before?’

Alice bridled at the taunt in his voice, eyes snapping open once more. ‘What? Nay, don’t be ridiculous. Of course I haven’t!’ she blurted out.

Bastien’s eyes moved over her flushed face. ‘Of course, my apologies. I forgot.’

Lord, but she was beautiful, standing before him, her delicate build framed by the roughhewn oak of the door. The wide V-neck of her gown revealed an expanse of fragile skin below her neck, the dark fur edging the collar brushing against it. She had changed her gown, was now wearing one that fitted her exactly: his eye traced the rounded curve of her bosom, the fine seaming that followed the indentation of her waist. Something knitted within him, deep within the kernel of his heart, igniting a delicious energy, a need. Inwardly, he groaned.

Alice frowned. Forgot? What was he talking about?

‘I forgot you were an innocent.’ Bastien answered her unspoken question.

Captured by the Warrior
Meriel Fuller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author

MERIEL FULLER lives in a quiet corner of rural Devon with her husband and two children. Her early career was in advertising, with a bit of creative writing on the side. Now she has a family to look after, writing has become her passion. A keen interest in literature, the arts and history, particularly the early medieval period, makes writing historical novels a pleasure. The Devon countryside, a landscape rich in medieval sites, holds many clues to the past, and has made her research a special treat.

Novels by the same author:

CONQUEST BRIDE

THE DAMSEL’S DEFIANCE

THE WARRIOR’S PRINCESS BRIDE

Chapter One

Shropshire, England 1453

‘Sweet Jesu!’ Beatrice Matravers moaned with her usual peevishness, raising a quaking white hand to her high, unlined forehead. ‘This infernal bumping will be the death of me!’ As if acknowledging her curse, the cart lurched violently, causing Beatrice to reel against the padded interior. There she stayed, supported by the side of the cart, her eyes shuttered, her mouth twisted into a forbidding expression of grim dissatisfaction. Her maid, Joan, lolled at her side, deep in a comfortable sleep.

‘Take heart, Mother, try to rest.’ Alice Matravers leaned forwards, smiling, patting her mother’s knee by way of encouragement. The elaborate gold embroidery decorating Beatrice’s gown rasped against her fingertips. Alice sat back, raising one small hand to part the thick velvet curtains that covered the opening, trying to establish their location. Stifled by the warm, tense atmosphere of the cramped interior, she pushed her face out beyond the curtain, relishing the fresh morning air on her skin. Outside the day was clear, bright; the beech trees, dressed in their gaudy autumn colours, towered up and over the narrow track that ran through the forest, their trunks smooth boles of dark grey wood.

A thin trail of annoyance threaded Alice’s veins, the result of this long journey coupled with her mother’s continuous whining since they had left Bredon earlier that morning. She sighed. Her mother would have been far happier if Sir Humphrey Portman had found Alice more amenable, more fitting as a potential bride. There was no question that he had found her distinctly lacking in all the qualities needed to become the lady of a manor; why, he had positively scowled when Alice had marched confidently up to the top table, greeting him with a broad smile. The day had lurched downhill from then on.

‘We should be home by the four o’clock bell.’ Alice sagged back against the feather cushions, blinking rapidly to adjust her eyes to the dim, shadowed interior once more.

‘That is some consolation, I suppose,’ Beatrice replied faintly. Her wide blue eyes, the image of her daughter’s, swept over Alice with a mixture of irritation and puzzlement. ‘Of course, we would still be there if Sir Humphrey had found you more accommodating. I had hoped…this time…after our little talk…’ Beatrice’s words drifted off, disappointed.

‘I am sorry, Mother,’ Alice apologised. Guilt scraped at her insides. Her parents only held her best interests at heart: to see her happily married to a wealthy husband, a brood of smiling children clutching at her skirts. She wished for that as well, but with a man she could truly love, someone who would give her the freedom and independence to which she was accustomed, not some elderly suitor twice her age who would curb her ways in an instant!

‘Well, there’s always Edmund.’ Beatrice smiled wanly. ‘He’s keen to marry you, and he’s due to come into his inheritance quite soon. Although it will be less than all your previous suitors possessed.’ The blue shadows under her mother’s eyes seemed deep, heavy, evidence of countless nights without sleep. Even now, with the war in France at an end, there had been no news of Alice’s brother, who had left to fight for his country two years previously, and had still not returned.

‘Edmund’s a good man,’ Alice agreed. ‘It’s just that…’ How could she tell her mother that the prospect of marrying Edmund filled her mind with insipid pictures of unending dreariness? Comfortable, aye, but dull. She had known Edmund since childhood; she liked him, he was a good companion, but she did not love him. But her mother’s ravaged face forced her to reconsider; it would make both her parents so happy if she married.

‘…it’s just that, I don’t love Edmund,’ she blurted out finally.

Beatrice fixed her with red-rimmed eyes. ‘I’ve told you before, my girl, love does not, should not, come into it! We need coin, coin that your useless father fails to provide, and a rich marriage for you is the only way to acquire it.’

Alice bit her lip, frowning. In comparison to Sir Humphrey, Edmund appeared a far better prospect. And maybe, if they married, love would blossom between them. The weight of responsibility dragged at her shoulders. Abruptly, she stood, clinging on to the curtain for support. ‘I’m going to ride for a bit; I need some fresh air.’

As Alice swung down from the lumbering cart, her soft leather slippers sinking into the spongy ground, she half-expected her mother to call her back, to entreat her not to ride in the elaborate, fashionable dress that she had worn especially for this visit. But Beatrice seemed subdued, forlorn even, caught up in her own thoughts, and Alice was happy to leave her to them.

Seeing her spring down lightly from the moving cart, one of the escort soldiers shouted a brief command for the entourage to stop. Alice smiled gratefully up at him, picking her way carefully through the muddy ruts to the back of the cart where the soldier led her dappled grey mare. She knew, without looking down, that the long sweeping hem of her gown dragged through the mud; as she stuck her toe into the stirrup, the claggy earth smeared the bottom three inches of the beautiful green silk.

‘May I be of assistance, my lady?’ The soldier leaned forwards as if preparing to dismount, the smooth metal plates of his armour gleaming in the filtered sunlight.

‘Nay, no need,’ Alice reassured him hastily, swinging herself up into the saddle to sit astride. The soldier turned his face away, hiding a smirk; the lady Alice was well known for her tomboyish ways, which never ceased to cause amusement among the many members of the royal entourage.

‘Er…you may want to…’ The soldier indicated the vast bundle of skirts bunched around her slight figure.

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Alice grinned, wriggling in the saddle so that she could pull out the back of her gown, and then the back of her cloak, to lie flat across of the rump of the horse. ‘I’m not used to wearing these sort of clothes.’ Turning around, she shifted her balance as the entourage set in motion once more, pleased that she had possessed the forethought to wear a cloak for the journey, something her more fashionable mother refused to do.

Yet despite the cloak’s heavy folds, after the cloying heat of the cart she still shivered in the chill autumn air. Her mother had insisted upon her wearing an elaborate gown, sewn from an expensive silk velvet. A silver gilt thread formed the weft of the material, so the dress sparkled with every movement, but the lightweight material offered little protection against the outside elements. Accustomed to wearing more understated, practical clothes, Alice baulked against the ostentation of the garment. It represented everything she hated about living at court with King Henry and his French wife, Queen Margaret of Anjou: the vanity, the constant sniping and bickering of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, of which her mother was one, and the long hours frittered away in pointless needlework. Thank the Lord for her father, a physician to the royal court, who also found time to tend to the poor outside the royal circle. Much to her mother’s disgust, Alice would accompany him on these trips, dressed in her older brother’s clothes so as not to draw attention to herself. Thomas! Her heart squeezed painfully at the thought of her brother, his bright, laughing face flitting through her mind. As children, they had been constant companions, running wild through the royal forests, riding bareback, climbing trees. Thomas had forged a love of the outdoors in her, how to relish the wind in her hair, the fine rain on her skin. How she missed him!

Her mother’s head poked out from the cart, her jewelled U-shaped head-dress sparkling in the sunshine, the vivid material strangely at odds against the drab colours of the forest. The side pieces, attached to this padded roll, were each fashioned from a net of thin gold wire, covering her ears. Alice knew her mother’s hair to be the same burnished blonde as her own, but the fashion of the moment dictated that every scrap of a woman’s hair should be hidden. Alice stifled a giggle as she watched the head-dress snag on a loose thread of the curtain; this type of fashion was completely impractical for travelling.

‘Alice,’ Beatrice’s fractious tone whined over to her, ‘I need to rest for a bit. I feel sick.’

Alice’s heart sunk a little. She had hoped not to delay the journey any longer than was necessary, and was surprised her mother wanted to stop—there might be news from Thomas at home.

‘Could we stop here?’ Alice lifted her wide blue eyes up to the soldier beside her. ‘Maybe have something to eat? My mother needs to rest.’

Exasperation crossed the soldier’s face, swiftly suppressed.

‘I’m sorry,’ Alice mumbled, catching his expression. ‘I realise you and your men wish to return to Abberley as quickly as possible.’

‘No matter, my lady.’ The soldier’s face cleared. ‘But these are troubled times. I would not wish to tarry too long.’ He ran his eye along the serried rank of beech trees that crowded in along the sunken track. ‘There’s a clearing up ahead,’ he announced. ‘I’ll ride on and tell them to stop.’

Lady Matravers perched bolt upright on the woven wool rugs that Joan had spread out in the forest clearing. Now the servant was busily drawing out the many muslin-wrapped packages prepared for them by the staff in Sir Humphrey’s kitchens. He might be a miserable old bore, thought Alice, but he certainly didn’t stint on food. Her stomach growled at the sight of roasted chicken legs, rounds of creamy cheese and crusty bread.

At the sight of all the open packages, Beatrice shot her a loaded look, as if to say, ‘Look what you’re giving up’. Never had her mother’s disapproval been more apparent, more tangible.

‘Here, mistress, take some food, it will make you feel better.’ On her knees in front of the wicker basket, Joan passed across to Beatrice a flat pewter plate laden with delicacies. ‘And the same for you, my lady?’ The servant turned her well-worn features towards Alice, who loitered on the edge of the clearing.

‘Maybe later.’ Her limbs felt pinched, stiff after the long hours of sitting in the cart. Riding her horse had eased the feeling slightly, but the experience had been curtailed too soon to have any real benefit. ‘I think I’ll take a little walk.’

The dangling pearls attached to her mother’s head-dress swung violently, as Beatrice’s head bounced up, her eyes narrowing. ‘Then take a soldier with you.’

‘Oh, Mother, it’s not something I want a guard to see.’ Alice said, implying that her walk involved a matter of a more delicate nature.

‘Ah, I see…then Joan.’ Her mother floated one pale hand in the direction of the servant.

‘Mother…’ Alice smiled ‘…I’ll be careful. I’ll not go out of earshot. It’s perfectly safe.’

As she stepped away from the clearing, and her mother’s piercing regard, Alice drew in a deep lungful of the verdant forest air. Beech husks crackled beneath her slippers as her footsteps sank into the soft mass of decaying leaves and rotting vegetation. For the hundredth time that day, she cursed the inadequacy of her footwear; when she ventured out with her father, she always wore stout, laced boots.

Every now and again, the sunlight managed to pierce the thinning canopy above, sending a column of spiralling light down to the brown earth. Occasionally the sun’s warm fingers touched her face, reminding her of the balmy days of summer, making her want to shut her eyes and turn her face up to the light. Above her head, birds fluttered and chirruped, darting in and out of the branches, hardly heeding her quiet steps. The strain across her shoulders and neck began to diminish, released by the exercise, the tension of the past few days beginning to ease. At her back, she could still hear the low guttural tones of the soldiers as they ate their midday meal at the side of the track; she determined not to venture too far.

Over to her right, she caught the faintest sound of water: the high, bubbling notes capturing her interest in an instant. She pushed off the open path, through the undergrowth, all the time checking back to make certain of her direction. Brambles caught at her cloak, low branches snagged at her simple head-dress, but Alice would not be deterred.

And there it was. Water gushed over a rocky outcrop, bundling and frothing down into a small pool, trickling away into a narrow stream. The noise of the water drowned out all other sounds in the forest, and she felt herself mesmerised by the melodic bubbling and churning of the water, enchanted by its supine fluidity.

A sweaty hand clamped over her mouth. ‘Got you!’ A rough voice jagged at her ear, as she was pulled unceremoniously backwards, away, away from the water, away from the track where the cart and her mother waited.

A searing panic vaulted through her limbs, her blood slackening with fright; she wrenched her shoulders first one way, then the other, trying to loosen the man’s fearsome grip. An odious stench of masculine sweat overlaid with a clinging smell of stale grease assailed her nostrils as the man hauled her backwards, her heels bumping, dragging uselessly against the earth. Thick clammy fingers dug into the softness of her cheek, the palm clenched so tightly across her mouth and nose that she found it difficult to breathe. A huge arm circled the upper part of her body, clamping her arms firmly to her sides, preventing her from trying to raise them up to dislodge the hold.

Then the man’s grip was suddenly released and she was sent spinning to the ground in a flurry of rich embroidered skirts. A chorus of ribald male laughter encircled her; her heart skittered with jerky fear. How many? she wondered. How many men stood above her, laughing at her? For a moment she lay there, face down in the wet leaves, the smell of rotting vegetation climbing in her nostrils, the damp seeping into the bodice of her gown, before the same fear galvanised her, forced her to lift her head. In a quick movement, she pushed herself up on her arms, twisting around, opening her mouth to scream and scream. The sound reverberated in her ears, a piercing, desperate noise—surely someone would come to her aid!

‘Shut the silly bitch up, for God’s sake!’ The order was swift, threatening.

One of the younger men bent down, binding a length of dirty rag across her mouth, his fingers snagging in the back of her veil as he tied a crude knot. He sniggered as she shook her head this way and that, trying to prevent him from tying the gag. ‘Looks like you’ve picked us a feisty morsel—’ the young soldier finished the knot and murmured approvingly, touching the silken skin of her cheek ‘—and a pretty one too.’

Slowly, reluctantly, Alice compelled herself to focus on the men around her. Her heart plummeted. Five soldiers surrounded her, crowded in on her neat, seated figure, staring down at her with hungry, bloodshot eyes. Orange rust blighted their dented plate armour, mud and what looked like dried blood splattered their long cloaks; their surcoats were torn and dirty. White exhaustion clouded their faces, the shadowed hollows beneath their eyes only adding to their expressions of ruthless desperation. And on the front of their tunics, God forbid, the distinctive coat-of-arms of the Duke of York! Her eyes widened fractionally; these men were knights, not common soldiers, and as knights should be bound by the chivalric code, the first rule of which was to treat any woman with respect! A fierce, wild anger began to replace her initial fear; before anyone could stop her, she sprang to her feet, tearing at the gag across her mouth.

‘You will pay for this!’ Her eyes, flashing blue fire, swept derisively around the circle of men as she jabbed her finger at them. ‘I am under the protection of King Henry the Sixth himself, not some serving wench to be dallied with in the forest!’ Her voice was shrill.

The soldiers guffawed. One burly man stepped forwards, towering over her. ‘And what King’s protection lets a maid walk unaccompanied through the woods, tell me that, eh?’ He shoved at her harshly, causing her to stagger back into the younger knight, who caught her easily under the arms. ‘You’re the youngest, John, I suggest you go first.’

Bastien de la Roche drained the last drops of liquid from his leather flagon, before placing it back into the satchel at the back of his horse. Squeezing his knees, he set his animal in motion once more, slowly following a narrow trackway that skirted the edge of a forest. To his left, the land swept away in a series of gentle hills and hollows; to his right, the forest was alive with the sound of birds, a slight breeze riffling through the tops of the branches. It felt good to be back in England again. Almost. His mind paused, stilled for a moment on the distant memory. Nay, he would not think of that now.

He had forgotten how soft the land could look; the extended fighting in France had kept him away for too long. And now it was lost, all lost. France, the country that successive English kings had fought long and hard to keep, had finally slipped from their grasp. England had conceded victory to the triumphant French and now the English soldiers tramped home, despondent, defeated and often with no homes towards which they could head.

Under the restrained, jogging gait of his destrier, the stallion that had carried him all the way back from France, he unbuckled the chin strap of his helmet, lifting it from his head. Tucking the visored metal under one arm, he pushed back the hood of his chainmail hauberk. The chill breeze sifted deliciously through his hair, and he pushed his fingers through the strands, savouring the cool release against his scalp.

Idly, he wondered where his soldiers had stopped in this vast forest. His horse had cast a shoe and, while a village blacksmith had fitted a new one, he had sent his soldiers on to rest, and eat. His men were keen to reach home; another two or three hours of riding would see them back at his estates in Shropshire. He hadn’t set eyes on his home for nearly two winters; now he relished the thought of good food in his stomach, fine linen sheets against his weary skin and a warm hearth, even if it did mean seeing his mother again. The time in France had been spent in a pointless circle of attack and retreat; some nights had been spent under canvas, with the rain beating hard and thick to soak the heavy material of their tents; other nights had seen him and his men ensconced in a hospitable castle.

A scream pierced the air. A woman’s scream. Further on, up to the right, a mass of rooks flung into the sky in one swirling, orchestrated movement, shaken from their tree-top perches. Bastien grimaced, nudging his horse in the direction of the sound; instinctively he knew that his men were involved. They were hungry, tired and dirty after the long months of campaigning in France—no doubt they believed English society owed them a little fun.

The springy turf muffled the sound of his horse’s hooves as he cut into the forest from the main path, sure of his direction. Now he could hear the men’s voices, their ribald laughter echoing through the trees as they taunted some common wench. Dismounting swiftly, he secured his horse’s reins to a nearby branch and continued to approach on foot, his hand poised over the hilt of his sword.

He could hear a woman’s high tone, raised in trembling anger now after the high-pitched screaming, the clear, bell-like notes castigating his men with ferocious persistence. The main bulk of his tall frame hidden by the generous trunk of an oak tree, he slid his head around cautiously to gain a better view and almost laughed out loud. A maid, a noblewoman by the quality of her garments, stood to one side of the clearing, both hands wrapped around the hilt of a sword that was evidently too heavy for her. He recognised the sword as belonging to one of his men; she must have managed to grab it from one of them. The heavy blade dipped and swayed as her diminutive frame struggled to hold it horizontally, every now and again sweeping to the left, then the right with it, to ward his men off, to stop them from coming close. What utter fools his soldiers were! Sweet Jesu, there would be women enough on his estate to warm their beds—why couldn’t they have waited a few more hours?

The maid’s face glowed with a pearl-like lustre in the shadowed pale-golden light, her eyes wide and anxious as she stared at the semi-circle of soldiers. Her mead-coloured hair was caught back into a heavy bun at the nape of her neck, secured into a golden net. A silken veil fell in a series of stiff pleats from the simple heart-shaped head-dress. Against the dusty, travel-stained garments of his soldiers, she stood out like a bright jewel, an exquisite flower amongst common brambles.

‘I will take my leave now,’ she was saying, her small, oval face set with determination as she gave the sword another couple of swipes for good measure, ‘and you will not follow me.’ Behind the tree, Bastien grinned; from the expression on her face, it was obvious she had no idea what to do next. If she turned, then the men would jump on her; if she backed away, unsure of her path, then the thick undergrowth would prevent fast movement.

Bastien advanced stealthily into the shadows behind her, his step light assured as a cat. The mouths of his men dropped open in surprise at the sight of him; John, the youngest, began to blush. He knew he had done wrong and that they would pay for it. The maid retreated tentatively, the sword point drooping as her narrow shoulders and slim back began to close the gap between herself and Bastien.

‘And if any of you dare to follow me,’ the maid continued in her high-pitched, imperious tone…

‘…they will have me to deal with,’ Bastien murmured behind her.

Her lithe body jumped and turned, quick as a hare, bringing the lethal sword point slashing round. He grabbed the wrist that held the sword, squeezing the fragile bones that gave her fingers the strength to hold the weapon. Green eyes, flecked with gold, glittered over her.

‘Let go,’ he said, patiently, ‘I am not your enemy.’

The small bones in her wrist crushed under his strong fingers and the sword dropped into the undergrowth, a slither of sound as the blade landed in a heap of brambles.

Alice’s mouth scraped with fear. Her eyes, darting sapphire, widened with a mixture of horror and rage as she gaped up at him, this man who towered over her, his broad chest covered by a white woollen surcoat bearing the personal seal of the Duke of York: the falcon and fetterlock. He stared down at her, down his proud, straight nose, his chiselled features accented by the verdant shadows. Within the hard, angular lines of his face, the shape of his mouth came as a shock. His lips were full, sensual, with the promise of an easy smile. Fixing her gaze on the ground, she cradled her wrist, trying to gather her scattered wits, to slow her racing heart.

Nay, this man was not her enemy, but it was a well-known fact that the Duke of York was not well liked by Queen Margaret, the King’s wife, who would always do her utmost to keep him out of King Henry’s circle of advisors. As the King’s cousin, as well as the top-ranking military commander in England, the Duke of York was favoured by the masses to be the King’s successor. And by wearing his seal, these men followed the orders of the Duke of York, as opposed to the King. Alice needed to tread carefully.

Chewing her lip, she wrenched her eyes upwards. ‘Your men…your men…’ she spluttered out, unable to elucidate the full awful truth of what his men had been about to do.

‘My men should have known better,’ the soldier began, shaking his rough blond head: an unexpected shaft of sunlight turned the strands momentarily to gold, surrounding him with an aura of light that magnified the sheer size of his body. The hood of his chainmail hauberk gathered in metallic folds over his shoulders, emphasising the corded strength of his neck.

Alice gulped.

‘But they were only having a bit of fun,’ the soldier added pleasantly, folding his huge arms across his chest. In this curious half-light, the intense leaf-green of his eyes deepened, drawing her in reluctantly with their magnificent colour.

‘Having a bit of fun?’ she snapped out, clenching her fists against the folds of her gown, disbelieving this man’s audacious defence of his men. ‘My God! Have you any idea? Why, they nearly…they very nearly…!’

‘Calm yourself, mistress,’ he murmured, his voice neutral as he contemplated his men over the top of her head. Dark brown lashes framed his magnificent eyes. ‘Nothing would have happened here, believe me.’

‘Oh, you think to know your men so well, do you!’ Rashly, she poked a finger into his chest, her mind jolting as it registered the unyielding flesh.

Mild amusement mixed with astonishment crossed his sculptured features—the maid’s boldness was quite astounding. ‘I would run, my lady, run back to where you came from, before anything else happens,’ he advised coolly.

But she seemed not to hear his words, incensed that he seemed incapable of comprehending the severity of the situation. She whirled away from him, furious, challenging his soldiers. ‘Look at you, hanging your heads in shame—you know the truth, so why not tell him?’

‘Enough, mistress,’ Bastien said, more sternly now. ‘I will hear their story, and punish them accordingly.’

Alice spun back to face him, her hands planted firmly on her hips. ‘Which, in my opinion, should be nothing less than a horse-whipping.’

Bastien raised his eyebrows. ‘You seem to have a great deal of opinion for…a maid.’ A faint note of annoyance marked his reply; this woman was beginning to severely irritate him, with her argumentative tone and challenging manner. The relentless pace of the last two days travelling began to cloud his brain; he felt weary and in no mood to remonstrate. As far as he was concerned, women were only good for one thing, and even then he preferred them if they kept their mouths shut.

‘You need to understand, you need to listen to me…’ Her voice rang in his ears, scolding, reprimanding.

Self-restraint, laced tightly, unravelled. ‘Nay,’ he ground out dangerously, ‘you need to listen to me.’ His blond head dipped, one thick arm snared her waist, jamming her against the inflexible slab of his chest. His men cheered as he lowered his lips to hers, primitive, demanding, insistent.

He had meant to scare her, to stop that relentless tirade of speech that needled its way into his very soul, but the first touch of her soft sweet lips made him almost groan out loud with desire. Too long! He’d been too long without the pleasure of a woman. The gruelling days of battle, the dust, sweat and heat—all those memories faded, dwindled with the sweet smell of her skin, the luscious pliability of her slender frame hard up against his, the rounded swell of her bosom. Sweet Jesu! Desire rattled through his body, building steadily, inexorably.

Foolish! Foolish girl! Why hadn’t she kept her mouth shut? Alice squeezed her eyes together, holding her body rigid as his lips came down over hers. She had a fleeting impression of wide green eyes, tanned ruddy skin, before his lips touched. Shock ricocheted through her veins at the impact, breath snatching in her throat as her heart thumped uncontrollably against her ribs. His mouth roamed against hers, wild, plundering; she crumpled against him, knees suddenly weak. Her mind scrambled, his lips luring her, drawing her towards the edge of a plunging abyss, a whispering place of tantalising promise, of…

‘Alice! Where are you? Alice…?’ A peevish, wheedling voice drifted over from the other side of the forest, calling.

Bastien tore himself away, breath ragged.

Alice reeled backwards, shaking, dazed. Senses shredded, she managed to lift one trembling finger towards Bastien, eyes hot with indignant accusation. ‘How dare you!’ she screeched at him, her mouth carrying the hot bruise of his kiss, her cheeks flushed with shame. ‘You insufferable pig! You tell me you’ll reprimand your men, and then you take advantage yourself! How dare you!’

‘Steady yourself, my lady.’ Bastien regarded her tensely. In truth, he was having trouble calming himself. He tipped his head on one side, listening. ‘Someone’s searching for you; go now.’

The deep cerulean pools of her eyes lobbed him one last stinging look, before she turned, stumbling away through the undergrowth towards her mother’s voice, veil sitting askew on her head.

‘Dear Lord, I thought she’d never stop!’ muttered one of his soldiers. ‘What a shame on such a beauty.’

Bastien followed the maid’s slender back retreating through the trees, her sparkling skirts flowing over the mossy ground. As soon as she was out of his sight, he told himself, he would forget her completely; women had no part to play in his life, especially bossy, unbearable girls who scarce came up to his shoulder. Women were of no importance, in his opinion. Not after what had happened with Katherine.

Chapter Two

Alice swept her eyes around the great hall at Abberley. Aye, it was all still there: the sumptuous intricacy of the huge tapestries hanging from floor to ceiling, concealing the uneven stone walls; the high dais at the far end where the King and Queen and their attending nobility sat above the murmured hubbub of people gathered together to eat. Pausing in the doorway, Alice attempted to draw some comfort from the familiar surroundings, but her perception seemed tarnished, different, somehow. She knew why—a pair of emerald-green eyes and a shock of tousled blond hair loomed with unnerving regularity across her vision, unsettling her normal confidence. Aye, and that kiss. That treacherous kiss.

Light filled the space, spilling out from a combination of rush torches slung into iron brackets along the walls, and a roaring fire. Soldiers and servants alike crammed along the wooden trestles in the main body of the hall, knives jamming into the large serving platters of steaming roast meat. There was Queen Margaret, her small neat head held erect and proud as she listened to a nobleman at her side, her eyes wide and intelligent as she nodded in agreement once or twice. The height of the table obscured the round smooth bump of her pregnancy. Alice liked the young Queen, drawn by Margaret’s ambition and vitality; it was said that she had enough energy for both herself and her husband. Of King Henry, there was no sign. He had recently become unwell, and was confined to his chambers to recover.

‘Alice!’ A fresh-faced young man moved across her line of vision. Edmund! A sense of relief flooded through her, his jovial expression for a moment shutting out her unpleasant memories of the journey. ‘Alice, did you not see me waving? I saved you a place beside me over there!’ His open, candid features searched her face.

She laid a careful hand on his arm, allowing him to lead her around the edges of the hall to an empty table, mindful that her mother was up on the top table, and would be watching. Maybe if Beatrice saw her with Edmund, it would shake off her mother’s current mood. When Alice had finally returned to the cart in the forest, Beatrice had been furious, berating her for keeping the entourage waiting. Alice, humbled by her encounter, had crept to a corner of the cart without a word. Now, as she met Edmund’s warm brown eyes, she hoped his easy companionship would drive away the bad memories.

‘Tell me, what was he like?’ Edmund asked softly at her side. At one-and-twenty winters he was the same age as her, his rounded features holding the pink bloom of youth.

Alice jumped, needles of fear firing through her, fingers curling around a floury bread roll on her platter. How did he know? she thought frantically, her scrambled brain trying to make sense of the question. An image of a strong, sinewy hand manacled around her own wrist intruded into her consciousness. A hard mouth upon her own.

Edmund nudged her with his elbow. ‘Sir Humphrey…Surely you haven’t forgotten about him already?’

‘Oh…yes!’ she gasped with relief, shaky laughter covering her confusion. ‘Oh, Edmund, he was well enough, but unfortunately for my dear mother, I wasn’t up to the mark, as usual.’

‘Well, thank the Lord for that,’ her companion breathed out. His plump fingers, whiter than her own, searched for Alice’s hand under the table, squeezing it gently. His shoulder nudged hers, close, insistent. ‘You know I’ve spoken to your parents…’

Alice’s heart flipped. Could she do this? Could she marry Edmund? Her eye searched along the row of nobles at the top table, found her mother’s anguished features, watching them. ‘I know, Edmund.’ She patted his arm, biting her lip.

‘You know I come into my inheritance soon; your parents would be well looked after.’ His brown eyes, riveted on hers, wavered momentarily, shifting to a point beyond her right shoulder.

‘Thomas…’ she breathed desperately, her toes curling in her shoes, as if providing a physical resistance. If Thomas came back, then he would provide for them, he would care for them in their old age. The responsibility on her to marry would lift, and she would have the freedom to do as she wished. But even as she had the thought, the small flame of hope in her belly flickered and died.

‘Marry me, Alice,’ Edmund urged, his voice low, persuasive. ‘I will look after you…and your parents.’ His white fingers curled possessively around her sleeve, his smooth chestnut hair flopping over his forehead.

Alice took a mouthful of bread, chewing slowly. She had known Edmund since late childhood, when his father had become a knight for the King and moved his family to live at Abberley under royal protection. She and Edmund had immediately liked each other: they shared the same interests, of music, art and culture. True, she also enjoyed being outside, riding or walking, as opposed to Edmund, who preferred to stay inside, but that seemed to be the only difference in them. He was kind, considerate and gentle, and, unlike many of the potential husbands her mother had introduced her to, the same age as she.

Beside her, Edmund watched her closely. If only the girl would agree! He had to physically prevent himself from drumming his fingers on the tablecloth, frustration mounting in his gullet. His uncle’s generous offer would not be around for ever; somehow, he had to persuade her. He knew her mother was willing—he had seen the flare of greed in her eyes on her return this evening when he mentioned the amount of money he would receive—now all that remained was to gain the agreement of this stubborn maid!

‘Am I such a bad prospect?’ he asked, holding one hand to his chest—a theatrical gesture of false sorrow. A huge sapphire ring glittered on his little finger.

Alice laughed. ‘Nay, you’re not.’ She took a deep gulp of wine, setting the goblet back on the table with studied determination, pulling her spine straight at the same time, making a decision. ‘I will marry you, Edmund.’

A heaviness weighed down Alice’s eyelids as she attempted to open them the following morning. Her sleep had been restless, worn through with the uneasy threads of half-snatched dreams, dreams fringed with the anxious memories of the day before. She had tossed and turned in the stuffy curtained interior of the four-poster bed, thumping the goose-down-filled pillow with an impatient regularity. Everything had become irritating: the crackle of straw in the mattress beneath her, the bunched lumpy feathers beneath her loosened hair, the shouts of the soldiers piercing her consciousness at some ungodly hour…

Soldiers…? Alice bounced upright, the rippling cascade of her hair spilling on to the bedcovers, sparkling in tangled glory. Flinging back the furs, the linen sheet, she sprang from the bed, fighting her way through the heavy curtains. Her full-length nightgown billowed out over her bare toes as she flew over the wide elm boards to the window casement, pressing her nose up against the thick, uneven panes of hand-blown glass. Nothing. Her sleep-numbed fingers fiddled with the iron latch, pushing the window open so she could lean out. The chill morning air stung her heated face and neck. Eyes watering, she dashed the wetness away and looked down. Soldiers filled the inner bailey, their red surcoats vivid in the luminous pre-dawn light, their armour glinting dully. Grooms ran hither and thither, fetching fearsome-looking weapons, adjusting buckles on saddles and stirrups and attaching saddle bags with practised efficiency. Cold fear slid through her veins: these men were preparing for battle.

Throwing a simple gown over her voluminous nightgown, Alice yanked her unruly hair into a braid, binding the curling end quickly with a leather lace. Pulling open the door, she raced down the corridor to her parents’ chamber. With her mother’s elevated status as one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting came all the associated privileges of such a position: warm, well-appointed rooms, as well as clothing and food.

‘Father!’ Alice burst into her parents’ room without knocking. Fabien Matravers, busy at a table by the window, lifted his weary eyes to acknowledge his daughter with a smile. He raised a finger to his lips, nodding in the direction of the bed, where her mother slumbered. Clamping her lips together to prevent her next question, Alice closed the door quickly and tiptoed over. The table held a collection of medical equipment: bandages and salves, sewing needles fashioned from animal bone, and fine thread made from sinew. These items were disappearing one by one as her father packed up a sturdy leather satchel.

‘What’s happening?’ Alice whispered, her periwinkle blue eyes wide, curious.

‘’Tis what Queen Margaret feared, ‘tis what we all feared.’ Fabien’s face clouded. ‘The Duke of York has challenged the King’s leadership, now that we have lost France. He has mounted an army, and awaits the King’s men on a high plateau not far from here.’

Alice nibbled at a fingernail. ‘Will King Henry fight?’

Fabien’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Nay, not he, lass. You know he’s…he’s not well at the moment. But the Queen is fully aware of the situation; she intends to send two or three of the King’s more loyal dukes.’ He tucked the last roll of bandage into a corner of the satchel and sighed. ‘I only hope that this will be enough. The Duke of York’s men are notorious for being savage fighters.’

Alice’s heart lit with excitement. ‘Let me come too, Father. Please.’

But Fabien was already shaking his head, his hands stilling momentarily as he looked at his daughter. In the light beginning to filter in at the window, the grey streaks in his hair seemed more prominent, the lines on his face more pronounced. ‘Nay, Alice,’ he said finally. ‘The battlefield is no place for a young lass. Especially one that is betrothed.’

Alice gasped, colour flushing into her cheeks. ‘You know!’

Fabien nodded. ‘Edmund came to me last night, to tell me.’ He smiled, his mouth creasing up at the corners. ‘And I gave him my blessing. As I give you mine now.’ He leaned down, planted a soft kiss on his daughter’s forehead, smoothed her wayward blonde hair with one hand. ‘Your mother is relieved,’ he added.

Alice frowned, fiddling with the curling end of her loose braid. A curious reluctance sheared through her, a reluctance to share in her father’s obvious joy at the news of her marriage. ‘I suppose it was inevitable.’ Uncertainty weighed her voice.

Fabien caught her glum look. ‘Is it not what you wish?’

Alice’s head snapped upwards. The last thing she wanted was to load any further worry on to her parents. ‘Nay, of course not, Father. It’s happening so fast, that’s all.’

Fabien’s head whipped around at another shout from below. He touched his daughter’s cheek. ‘I have to go, Alice. We will talk again about this…I wouldn’t want you to enter into anything you’re unsure about. And marriage is a huge undertaking.’

She nodded, distracted by the sounds outside the window. ‘Please let me come, Father.’ Already she had a sense that times such as these, helping her father, supporting him, would dwindle and eventually die out, even with a liberal husband such as Edmund. ‘I’ve been with you before,’ she reminded him. ‘I—’

Fabien stopped her sentence with a hand on her arm. ‘Aye, you’ve come with me to the village or to some minor skirmish between two landowners.’ His blue eyes, set in his tanned, weathered face, regarded her gently. ‘Your skills are excellent, daughter, but I would not lose another child on the battlefield.’

Alice stepped quickly around the table, coming to her father’s side. ‘Don’t speak like that, Father! We don’t know that he’s dead!’

‘We’ve had no news for two years, Alice. What am I supposed to think?’ His quiet burr hitched with emotion as he recalled his son, Thomas. He smothered a deep sigh, unwilling to show the depth of his true feelings to his daughter.

‘I miss him too, Father, but until we hear definitely, I cannot believe that he’s dead.’ Alice’s voice held the edge of conviction. ‘Look, you need me with you; I’ll wear some of Thomas’s clothes. Nobody will have any idea.’

Fabien laughed, patting Alice’s hand. A sense of elation crowded into her chest; she knew she had won.

To the south of Ludlow, the lands belonging to the Duke of York stretched away in a series of low, folded hills, green and fertile. Balanced on the edge of slopes, or flat in the valley bottoms, the fields were small, bounded by hawthorn-sharp hedging and narrow, stony lanes. High on one of the ridges, where the west wind blew the horses’ tails into fans, dark strands against the clear blue sky, two riders sat, almost motionless, surveying the land spread out beneath them.

‘Ah, it’s great to have you back in England!’ One of the horsemen, Richard, the Duke of York and cousin to the King of England, slapped Bastien companionably on his back.

‘I thought I’d come home for a rest!’ Raising his visor, Bastien grinned at his friend, the metal of his helmet cold against his cheek. He hadn’t even returned to his own manor, having been waylaid by the Duke as they had passed through Ludlow.

Richard gave a swift snort, his square-shaped face set into a scowl. ‘’Tis unlikely we’ll have much rest with that feeble-minded cousin of mine in charge of the country. He’s let the land go to the dogs, the barons are feuding under his very nose, and what does he do? Nothing!’ His dark hair, untouched by grey despite being Bastien’s senior by ten years, stuck out in tufted spikes from under his helmet. ‘I need to see the King, Bastien, to talk to him, but his Queen protects him like a child. She won’t let me near. The only way is to openly challenge the House of Lancaster in battle.’

Bastien shrugged his shoulders. ‘So be it, my lord. My men are willing and ready, although they are tired from the long march home.’ As he was, he thought wearily. Yet he sensed the frustration, the annoyance emanating from the Duke, and understood his motives.

Richard ran a critical eye over Bastien. ‘Still not wearing full armour, I see.’

Bastien openly shunned the body-plate armour worn by most knights, preferring to wear just chainmail over a padded gambeson with a steel helmet. By contrast, Richard wore a full set of plate armour that had been made especially for him: breast and back plates, articulated steel gauntlets covering his whole arm, and leg pieces attached to the front of his shins by leather straps.

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.

Chapter Three

The 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 kindled 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 stumbled 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.

He recognised her with a jolt. The same maid who had confronted his soldiers in the forest a few days back. The same maid he had kissed, to stop her endless scolding. Her name? Her name was Alice; he remembered the plaintive call through the trees. On that occasion, her shiny, honey-coloured hair had been bundled back into an expensive golden net and veil, but now it was coiled, pinned rigidly to her scalp, emphasising the fine, sculptured bone structure of her face, the high cheekbones, the wide, rosebud mouth. Baggy clothes disguised her slender shape, clothes more befitting to a yeoman farmer. The last time he had seen her, she had been dressed as a member of the nobility, her garments rich and fine. She had been bossy, argumentative but now, her face as white as milk, she was utterly vulnerable. What game did she play? Leaning over her, his hands cupped her shoulders, he shook her brusquely.

Her eyes opened.

The fierce blue of her eyes punched him hard in the solar plexus. Deep azure blue, like the sea on a calm, hot summer’s day. His gloved hands dropped from her shoulders, fell to his sides. Sweet Jesu! Framed by thick, spidery lashes, those burning, fathomless pools threatened to drag him under, sucking at the very core of his body, visceral, greedy. She squirmed beneath him, trying to release his weight upon her, slender curves against his own hardened muscles, and his body responded, flooded with unexpected desire. What was the matter with him, damn it!

He sprung to his feet, his only thought to create some distance between their two bodies. He had been too long without the pleasure of a woman, that was the problem. Under normal circumstances there was no way such a maid would be attractive to him, little thing that she was, but with a mouth to command a whole army if he remembered correctly.

Her pupils dilated, widened, as she surfaced back to consciousness, struggling to focus on his face. He saw the fear in them, the fleeting panic as she recognised him, remembering once more the situation she was in, and some odd little whisper hinted that it might be kind to tell her not to fear him, that she was safe with him. But nay, he wouldn’t do that; kindness was not part of his nature.

‘I thought you were going to kill me,’ Alice breathed out in a whisper, her mind lurching back into searing consciousness. She lifted one hand tentatively to the back of her head; the long pins securing her hair dug painfully into her scalp, her head pillowed by the arching grass.

‘There’s still time,’ Bastien growled out. ‘What, in Heaven’s name, do you think you are doing? Shouldn’t you be tucked up in a woman’s solar somewhere, working on a delicate piece of embroidery?’

Head swimming, Alice forced herself to sit up. A clamminess coated her palms. ‘I told you,’ she stared mutinously at the ground. ‘I was out riding, and my horse threw me.’

Fern-green eyes raked down over her, over her faded, overlarge clothes, critical, assessing. ‘The last time I saw you, you informed my men that you were under the protection of the King himself, a lady of the royal court, no less.’ The wind ruffled his gilded hair, loose strands sifting like fine gold thread.

‘I am,’ she replied simply. ‘I am Lady Alice Matravers, under the protection of the King.’ Now she realised he was not about to kill her, some of her old confidence returned. ‘And you would do well to remember that.’

‘Oh, I would, would I?’ he drawled. Had women changed this much since he’d been away? He’d never met any lady quite as outspoken as this one. ‘Well, Lady Alice Matravers,’ he rolled her name out with sarcastic emphasis, ‘mayhap you could deign to tell me why you are out riding dressed as a boy?’

‘Dressed like this I can ride out on my own; I prefer it that way…it’s safer.’

He angled his head to one side, his eyebrows raised in exaggerated disbelief. ‘Not quite safe enough today, methinks.’

Nay, not safe at all, Alice thought, her exhausted brain skittering in all directions, searching for a way out of this mess, all the time thinking of her father, marching in line, moving further and further away. Mustering all her energy, she scrambled inelegantly to her feet, painfully aware of the difference in height between them, the top of her head teetering on a level with his shoulder.

The deep laurel of his eyes glimmered in the sunlight, edgy, unpredictable. His face held the sculptured contours of stone, and was just as unyielding. She was uncertain how to deal with men like this, men associated with weapons, with battle and the harsher realities of life. His very masculinity unbalanced her, made her doubt her own courage, her own determination. Every pore of him oozed power, and a dangerous arrogance that made her angry and fearful at the same time.

‘And now I’ll take my leave of you,’ she stuttered out formally, her words tinged with faint hope. If only he would let her walk away, then she could double back and follow her father, with more care this time.

‘I think not.’ He grinned back at her congenially, arms folded high across his chest. In one swift glance he absorbed the peculiar details of her attire: the oversized cote-hardie engulfing her small frame, its countless pleats falling from the shoulder-line failing to disguise the narrowness of her shoulders. Her fustian leggings fell in loose gathers about her knees; both they and her leather boots were obviously too big for her. A leather bag sat on her right hip, the strap crossing diagonally across her chest. The woman was a puzzle; she was up to something, but with the battalion heading over the hill, he had no time at the moment to find out what it was.

‘I’m nothing to you,’ she whispered, her large turquoise eyes observing him warily. ‘Just let me go.’

‘You’re coming with me.’ He reached out and grabbed her delicate hand, crushing the soft fingers within his leather glove.

‘I will not!’ she protested vehemently, as he angled down to scoop up her fallen hat, wedging it tightly back over her head. The split side of his mail coat fell open beneath his white surcoat, revealing one long muscled leg encased in close-fitting linen braies. His strong thigh muscle strained against the thin gauziness of the material.

‘Keep that on, otherwise I cannot vouch for the consequences,’ he warned, ignoring her objections. ‘My soldiers are hungry men, in more ways than one, and there’s no telling what they would do at the sight of an available woman, albeit a scrawny one.’

Her temper ignited, hot, fuming; she twisted her fingers in his grasp, throwing her body weight back to try to escape. The ligaments in her shoulder wrenched painfully, but his fingers held firm. ‘How dare you, you big oaf!’ she railed at him. ‘You can’t frighten me!’ She dug her heels into the ground as he started to pull her across to the place where his horse nibbled the grass. ‘I’m not coming with you, I’m not…oof!’

Her head spun crazily as, without warning, Bastien ducked, tucking his shoulder into her soft midriff, to sling her easily over one shoulder. Flailing wildly, her hands scrabbled for a hold against his broad back, fingers sliding over his surcoat to lodge, finally, in his leather sword belt.

‘You can’t…!’ she squeaked, outraged, as he tossed her up to lie face down over the neck of his horse.

‘Save your breath, my lady…I don’t have time for this now.’ He cut across her protestation, his tone bored, laconic. A heavy hand squeezing down in the middle of her back prevented her from slipping forwards as he mounted up behind her. Alice squirmed violently, wriggling under his grasp, blood rushing to her head, as she reached out to clutch on to the leather strap that held the saddle in place.

‘You’ll pay for this,’ she screeched up at him, her throat constricted, raw. ‘You’ve no right to treat me like this!’ Her head bounced against the sleek flank of the horse as Bastien kicked the animal into a trot.

She was rewarded with a short, emotionless bark of laughter. ‘I’ll treat you exactly as I like, my lady. And there’s not a thing you can do about it.’ He spurred his animal on into a full gallop, with no intention of making the ride back up to the line of prisoners any easier on his own captive. Alice held on grimly, her fingers knotted into the girth strap, her whole body jolting uncomfortably, awkwardly. Yet there was no risk of her falling; in his fist, Bastien held on firmly to the back of her tunic, the fine blue wool bunched into his leather gauntlet.

The marching prisoners had reached the brow of the hill, approaching a knot of pine trees, their dense green forming a strong silhouette against the cerulean sky. The sun was high now, and beat down hotly on the soldiers’ heads, captor and captive alike. Alfric, bringing up the rear of the party, looked around for Bastien in concern; his master had been absent for a long time; he wondered whether to double back and look for him. He smiled in greeting as he spotted Bastien, and his horse straining up the hill to catch them.

‘So your hunch was correct…’ Alfric eyed the boy slung across the front of Bastien’s saddle ‘…but it seems your catch was small.’ Bastien grinned in response, a faint sheen of sweat shining on his face as he ground his fingers more firmly into the boy’s back to stop Alice wriggling herself free.

‘There’s more than meets the eye with this one,’ he explained, ‘and I aim to find out precisely what it is.’

At his words, Alice moaned inwardly. Why, oh, why did it have to be him? Why not some bumbling, ignorant soldier who she could outwit in a moment? Her whole body ached from being continually pounded against his horse’s flank, the muscles in her back and neck stretched almost to screaming point. The warmth of his big body pressed into her back as he leaned down low over her, his mouth close to her ear. ‘Now, do you promise to be a good girl and walk nicely with the rest of the prisoners?’ His hot breath caressed her lobe, silky, seductive. Her heart jolted, despite his mocking, taunting tone and she bit her lip, trying to ignore its rapid beating. Anything, she thought, she would promise anything to be away from him and his annoying presence! ‘Aye!’ she forced out, her throat dry, scratching.

‘Do you promise?’ he repeated lightly.

Sweet Jesu! He was infuriating! The blood sung in her ears at his patronising tone. ‘I promise,’ she muttered, lamely.

Relief whooshed from her lungs as he pulled gently on the bridle, not bothering to dismount as he dragged her off haphazardly. Disorientated, her head whirled dangerously, the blood rushing back to her limbs; she swayed. His hand gripped her shoulder, steadying her for a moment. ‘If you value your well-being,’ he reminded her once more, ‘then keep that hat pulled low.’ She had scarce time to nod, to indicate that she heeded his words, before he gave her a rough shove towards the line of shuffling prisoners.

The low curve of the sun brushed the hill tops, turning their smooth slopes into purpling lush-green velvet, when the order came from the front of the line to halt for the night. After tramping all day across the hills, the Yorkists had finally led the prisoners down into a wide, wooded valley, through which ran a small river. It was an ideal place to stop; a place where the horses and men could drink and wash, and sleep in the soft, cushiony grass of the flat meadows beside the water.

Alice’s eyes felt hollow, burnt out with weariness. More than anything she wanted to fold her knees and drop at the next step, but the urge not to show any form of weakness, any clue that might single her out from the rest of the men, was far stronger. She was in no doubt that her captor was a man of low morals and low principle: he would most likely take great delight in seeing her humiliated in front of his men. That one thought forced her to keep her back ramrod straight and her shoulders square, and to push her feet one in front of the other, over and over again. No longer did she secretly sweep the crowd for a glimpse of her father; now all her energies were devoted to saving her own strength. Her feet ached the most, ached from the strain of trying to keep on her oversized boots that slipped and wallowed with every step; no doubt her heels were peppered with blisters. She was hot, hungry and thirsty, but she would not give up.

From his vantage point at the back of the line, Bastien studied the maid. When he had first met her, a spoiled rich girl dressed in all her finery and lost in the forest, he had dismissed her from his mind instantly. But now? Now she presented him with something of a puzzle; a puzzle dressed in boy’s clothes and striding along with the rest of the men as if it were a routine activity for her. Why, they had covered nearly twenty miles today—the majority of women would be mewling wrecks by now. His own mother, Cecile, would barely totter more than a few steps before lifting one limp, white hand to be assisted into a litter, to be carried everywhere, like a child. His lips curled at the unwanted memory. Since his older brother’s death, she had become even worse, hardly able to walk at all without assistance. Yet if he were around, which was seldom, she would whip her head around with such force it would stun everyone, and fix him with a baleful eye, pinning her younger son down with such bitter accusation, such acrid blame that it knotted his stomach for days. Cecile had chosen to punish him for what had happened, but surely the guilt that he carried around, day after day, was punishment enough?

Chapter Four

Huddled in the voluminous folds of the cote-hardie, Alice closed her eyes momentarily, head resting in the cradle of her arms balanced on her upraised knees. Up to now scant attention had been paid to her and she hoped by this position to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Every muscle in her body ached; her stomach growled with hunger. The woollen fabric of the cote-hardie tickled her nose, the tangy smell reminding her of her brother. Mother of Mary, she wished he were here now; he would know what to do. She prayed fervently that he had somehow survived the war in France, that he was alive somewhere and would come back to them eventually.

She shuffled uncomfortably, the moisture from the damp ground beginning to seep through her braies. A knotty root from the wide oak behind her pushed uncomfortably into her right hip. Lifting her head, she scanned the seated prisoners, searching, scouring the gathering for her father. A tall, lean figure snagged her eye; her heart plummeted as she recognised the knight in charge: Lord Bastien. He moved among the Yorkist soldiers, gave terse orders to various men, his every move practised, efficient. His lips twisted with irritation as he saw one soldier fumble with lighting a fire; in one swift movement he had dropped to his haunches to strike his own flint with a blade. His large hands cradled the spark in the puff of dried grass, nurturing the flame until it danced and crackled through the kindling. An animal energy seemed to course through his body, a dynamism that fired all his movements with an effortless grace. A lick of desire coursed through her; she ducked her head, remembering his big body pinning her own to the ground, straddling her. A memory she wished fervently to forget.

The smell of meat cooking made her lift her head once more, her mouth watering. Every sinew in her body ached with the pain of walking, ached with the need for some sustenance. Surely they would be fed? The Yorkist soldiers gathered around the main cooking fire, the thin line of smoke rising up to mingle with the darkening haze of the evening. Sitting cross-legged, their helmets glinting in the grass beside them, they swigged from leather flagons, and carved off hunks of roasted meat with their knives to chew heartily, lips slick and shiny with grease.

Starving, Alice also chewed at the inside of her lip, aware of a low muttering to her right from the other prisoners. A soldier barked across at them to be quiet. Was this how it was going to be? Were the prisoners to receive no food at all? Anger flowed up in her, replacing the gnawing hunger. She had little knowledge of such things, but she was certain that all nobles, be they prisoners or not, were treated with deference and courtesy. Surely it was part of the knight’s code?

Suddenly one of the prisoners clambered to his feet, beginning to pick his way towards the Yorkist soldiers. He seemed older than the rest, and was dressed in fine clothes, not chainmail…her father! Alice’s breath stopped in her throat. She knew what he was doing, but she feared for his safety with these low-born thugs. Approaching the fire, her father spoke in low tones, deferential, and nodded towards the roasting meat. A hum of appreciation rippled through the watching prisoners. One burly soldier put down his leather flagon with studied deliberation, wiped his greasy hands down the front of his woollen braies, and eased himself into a standing position. He stared at Alice’s father with a blank, insulting sneer. Then he raised his fist and punched him, hard, straight in the face. Her father reeled backwards, clutching his cheek. The soldier moved forwards, making as if to hit him again. But he didn’t get the chance.

Alice cannoned into the back of the soldier with a force that surprised even herself. Her blood fired, coursing hard and fast through her veins, replacing the dragging exhaustion that had plagued her earlier. She wasn’t about to sit around and let her father be kicked down like a mangy dog!

‘Leave him alone,’ she yelled huskily as the soldier staggered sideways. ‘You have no right to treat prisoners this way!’ The man recovered his balance, coming towards her, a snarl on his face.

‘I’ll show you how we treat prisoners!’ he growled out, his voice thick and guttural. He had no intention of being made a fool of in front of his fellows, who smirked and sniggered by the fire.

Alice kicked out at his shins, as he smacked her across the face. The soldier’s surly face, his mean, narrow eyes, blurred before her. Her head spun wildly as the impact sent her reeling, pain buzzing in her jaw, her cheek. For a moment, the world went black, then resurfaced in a cloud of dazzling stars. She fought to keep herself on her feet. Was she awake, or asleep? Alice shook her head, trying to recover her senses, lifting her arms above her head as she saw the thick fist begin to descend once more.

‘Enough!’ The sharp order sliced through the night air. Alice sensed, rather than saw, Bastien’s big body come between the soldier and herself. ‘Go and sit down…now,’ he commanded Alice and her father. His voice held the thread of steel. Limbs turning to water, knees barely holding her upright, Alice followed her father back to a spot underneath an oak tree, and sat down before she collapsed. Her hands shook with fear, body trembling with the shock of being hit. Her jaw throbbed.

‘Thank you,’ her father said. ‘Thank you for taking the risk for me.’

She hardly dared speak, deliberately keeping her head lowered, cradling her swelling cheek beneath the shadowy brim of her hat. When her voice finally came, it was thin and tentative. ‘Father, it’s me.’

Her father’s body tensed with the jolt of recognition; she heard the sharp intake of breath. ‘Alice?’ he said faintly. She nodded her head, imperceptibly.

‘Good God!’ he murmured, but it was impossible for him to say anything further, too dangerous. Now the Yorkists had finished their meal, they had begun to patrol the area, circling the prisoners like carrion around dead meat. Yet, unseen by the others, her father’s hand reached out across the grass to seize her fingers, to squeeze some reassurance into her frozen veins. She drew comfort from his touch, knowing that somehow, and in some way, they would extract themselves from this mess.

Stretched out on his back, his head propped comfortably by a wide trunk of oak, Bastien’s thoughts prowled unceasingly through the scenes of the day, scattered images continually shot through by a pair of limpid blue eyes. He sighed, turning on to his left side, then adjusting a few moments later to lie on his back. In retrospect, life in France now seemed gloriously uncomplicated. At least there, on the other side of the Channel, women had behaved like women. He had never known a maid to behave in such a way before, with such bravery, or foolishness. How different she was from Katherine. Katherine. His fingers sought the leather lace tucked into his tunic, the cold metal of the betrothal ring. Pain lanced through him, the pain of loss, of bereavement. He would never know such beauty, such love again.

Opening his eyes, shoving the shrouded memories from his brain, he explored the darkness above, trying to gain some meaning from the maid’s behaviour. Why had she leapt to save the older man, when he had warned her to keep a low profile? Either she was profoundly dimwitted, which he doubted, owing to the dexterity of her speech, or there was some other reason. His fingers dug into the soft, damp ground beneath as he recalled the sheer horror he had experienced when the soldier had hit her.

Bastien had been high on the hillside when it happened, his eyes sweeping the area for any sign of attack, his body restless, uneasy. Yet the girl screeching by the fire had drawn him immediately into a powerful sprint; he saw her jump on the soldier from behind, dragging down at his arms…and had tasted fear, like iron filings in his mouth. What a fool the girl was!

Around him, sprawled haphazardly amidst cloaks and blankets, the men slumbered, some snoring gently, others muttering in their sleep. After the stiff breeze earlier, the air had calmed to stillness. Sounds seemed more rounded, amplified, by the utter quiet. The flow of the river plashing against the rocks was interspersed occasionally by the screech of a lone owl, or a furtive rustling of an animal in the undergrowth behind him. Bastien tracked the stars in the sky, searching for and naming the familiar constellations in an attempt to force his mind to drift off. But it was hopeless. Why had the maid leapt to the defence of the older man like a stone from a catapult? Slowly he turned his head to the left, in the direction he knew the girl to be, then propped himself up on one arm, his eye roaming over the sleeping bodies, hunting. Yet it wasn’t her smaller profile that gave away her position, it was the clear, bell-like tones of her voice, carried to him in a whisper on the night air. Hell’s teeth!

Bastien vaulted upwards, his approach stealthy and efficient. His target, the two figures in the moon-shadow of the wide oak, lay as if sleeping, but Bastien knew better. At the sight of him, the old man’s eyes flashed with alarm; he murmured a low, swift warning. Crouching, Bastien clamped his hand to the maid’s mouth as she twisted her head back to see who it was. Under his touch, her body jerked with fright, her soft lips moving tentatively against the inner creases of his palm. An unexpected warmth flooded his body, sensual, erotic; his heart thudded. He dismissed it, bending down to whisper in the girl’s ear, ‘We need to talk.’ A light flowery perfume rose from the skin of her neck, rose into his nostrils, assailing him. He dragged his head upwards, away, away from the temptation of that wonderful scent. At Bastien’s words, the old man seized his forearm, shaking his head, his eyes full of concern.

‘She’ll be safe with me, on my knight’s oath,’ Bastien reassured him as he hauled Alice up, one hand under her upper arm.

Don’t believe him! Don’t! Alice wanted to scream and shout at her father, as Bastien led her away in to the forest. Don’t let me go with this thug! She hung back, deliberately slowing her steps as Bastien jerked her along, his fingers tight on her wrist. Oh God! she thought, her imagination looming with foreboding images of her fate. This was it! This was how she must pay for her stupidity, her utter, utter foolishness! Digging her heels in with even more force, Alice twisted her wrist this way and that, trying to loosen the muscular hold.

‘Oh, for pity’s sake, stop resisting me, will you?’ Bastien stopped abruptly, impatient with her dragging steps. ‘We need to be out of earshot.’ So they can’t hear my screams, she thought wildly, tears beginning to run down her face. His grip lessened slightly as he spoke and, seizing the opportunity, she wrested her hand with a sharp tug, freeing herself momentarily. Spinning on her toes in the loose leaves of the woodland floor, she made as if to run, but Bastien caught her in an instant, one huge forearm looping around her waist.

‘Hell’s teeth! I have no time for this!’ he growled out, hauling her backwards, her toes flailing in the air. ‘Stop behaving like a ninny! I’ve told you, I’m not going to hurt you!’ Slammed up against his body, she caught the musky scent of his skin, a seductive mixture of woodsmoke and leather. Swinging around, he carried her before him with a powerful stride before dumping her down in a small clearing much further down the river.

‘The noise of the water will drown our voices,’ he explained, perusing her wan, exhausted face. In the moonlight, he could see the tears tracking down the exquisite lustre of her skin, over the purpling mark caused by the soldier. Exasperated, he shoved one hand through his hair, the movement ruffling the golden tendrils. He wore his hair shorter than most men, cut to the nape of his neck to expose the tough, lean line of his jaw. ‘What in Heaven’s name is the matter with you? I only want to talk to you.’

‘I don’t believe you!’ she sobbed out breathlessly. ‘Look at the way you’re treating me! You’re a thug…like the rest of your soldiers.’ Her lissom frame vibrated with fear. Did she really believe he would attack her? His hands moved to her upper arms, to steady her, calm her. ‘Nay…you misunderstand,’ he murmured mildly.

But Alice refused to hear him, her mind whirling with stark images of what she thought was about to happen. She made a last, desperate bid for freedom. ‘For your information…I am betrothed, you know…and he…he…my betrothed…’ she struggled to find the words, for in her heart she struggled with the concept that Edmund would be her husband ‘…wouldn’t be very happy with what you’re about to do.’

‘And what am I about to do?’ Bastien tried to look stern, but in reality, he was finding it extremely difficult not to laugh. Under the white sheen of moonlight, the contours of his face seemed carved, sculptured from granite.

‘You’re…you’re…’ Alice hiccoughed ‘…going to…’ She stopped. A frown creased her brow. Something wasn’t quite right. Surely he would be throwing her to the ground right now, trying to tear her clothes off? The very thought made her blush furiously, and she studied her feet, praying that he couldn’t see her face in the moonlit shadows.

‘Methinks you flatter yourself, my lady,’ he replied, his tone faintly insulting. ‘You’re far too short for most men’s tastes. And dressed in all that garb you resemble little more than a suet dumpling. Hardly seductive.’

Dumpling? His words sent a storm of angry humiliation through her. ‘How dare you speak to me so! You’re outrageous!’ she reacted instinctively.

‘Would you rather I raped you?’ he asked slowly, shockingly, his face looming close to her own. Her mouth closed with a snap as she caught the feral glitter in his eyes. She shook her head at his words, drawing away from him slightly. ‘I thought not,’ he continued, ‘so let’s hear no more on the subject.’ He tilted his head in the direction of the camp. ‘Tell me, why did you leap to that older man’s defence back there?’

Alice touched one finger to the side of her mouth, throbbing and sore from the impact of the soldier’s fist. ‘Your soldier hit him, because he asked for some food.’

‘Even after I warned you not to draw attention to yourself?’ The bruise on her mouth appeared as a dark splotch, mottled in this light, lines of blood creasing her lip. Guilt laced his gut. He should have stayed with the group; the Duke of York’s men were renowned for their cruelty. He should have been on his guard. ‘It was a foolish thing to do,’ he murmured. ‘What were you thinking?’

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.’