Captured by the Warrior. Meriel Fuller
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