Читать книгу Captured by the Warrior - Meriel Fuller - Страница 8

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?