Captured by the Warrior. Meriel Fuller
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