‘Help yourself to something to eat,’ the Duke advised her, ‘and then we will talk.’ He resumed his conversation with her father, and Alice was left staring at her empty pewter plate, her stomach churning with nerves, with fear. If only she could read her father’s mind!
‘What’s going on, Bastien?’ In her panic, she appealed quietly to him, sitting on her right. Suddenly the man who had taken her prisoner, who had dragged her through the mud and mire of the countryside and treated her hardly better than a common peasant appeared before her as her ally, her haven. To rely on such a man was the last thing she wanted to do, but, adrift in this uncertain situation, it seemed her only course of action.
Bastien had already loaded his plate: slices of roast chicken, crusty bread rolls and a pile of cooked vegetables formed a colourful mound before him. He shrugged his shoulders at her low question. ‘You know as much as I do, maid. Where the Duke is concerned, his plans are often not revealed until the very last moment.’ He grinned, the smile lighting his face, lines crinkling out from the sides of his eyes. ‘Always keeps his enemies guessing…and keeps them on their toes.’
Her wide blue eyes swept over his face. ‘But we mean nothing to him,’ she hissed. ‘He can’t keep us here for ever. What would be the reason?’
Bastien stabbed his knife into a chunk of chicken, slicing a small piece off. A glorious scent arose from the woman next to him; a heady combination of rosewater, of lavender—she smelled like a summer’s day. Shifting uneasily in his seat, he chewed slowly, methodically, willing himself to remain unaware, to still his heightened senses. Don’t become involved, the logical side of his mind shouted at him, this maid’s business is none of your concern. Why was she any different from the other women he had met over the years? She was not important.
‘Listen, my lady, it’s nothing to do with me,’ he growled at her. ‘All I want is a decent meal and some good wine, without you prattling away beside me!’
‘Very well!’ Alice stared in silent fury at the shining wood, the sparkling pewter-ware before her. She was sick of being treated like this, of being pushed around, of being told to wait, told to speed up. Despite her mother’s best efforts to the contrary, she had been brought up to know her own mind.
Alice slapped her hand down on the table and stood up abruptly, turning towards the Duke. Red spots of colour bloomed across her cheeks. Bastien watched her jerky movements with mild amusement—just what did the girl intend to do now?
‘My lord, I demand to know what you intend to do with us!’ Alice cut across a conversation that the Duke held with a nobleman on the other side of him.
Her father tugged at her arm. ‘Alice, sit down, do!’
‘Nay, Father, I will not!’ She didn’t look at him, fearing her courage would fail before Fabien’s gentle look.
‘I beg your pardon?’ The Duke’s head swivelled round, his eyes narrowing on her. ‘Do you address me?’
‘Aye, my lord, I do,’ she replied boldly, although a violent trembling shook her knees. At her back, Bastien watched as she touched her fingertips to the table top, as if to keep her balance. Despite her bold move to address the Duke, she was terrified. A grudging admiration grew in his veins: she had courage, this maid, he had to admit. He chewed slowly on a piece of bread.
‘I could have you clapped in irons for the way you have just spoken,’ the Duke replied tartly. His voice, soft, sibilant, held a dangerous thread. ‘Or maybe sent to a nunnery to end your days. If you had been my daughter, I would have curbed your headstrong ways long before now—’ he threw an accusing look at her father ‘—for they will bring you nothing but trouble.’
‘Are you saying that it’s better to be meek and mild and just accept one’s fate?’ The words burst from her mouth before she had time to think.
‘Hold your tongue!’ the Duke snapped. A muscle jumped in his square-cut jaw. ‘This time, young woman, you will accept your fate, for I do have a plan that you will follow to the very last detail, otherwise…’
‘Otherwise…?’ Her voice emerged, small now, chastised.
‘Otherwise your father will die.’
Her muscles slackened, crumpled beneath her, and she fell back into the seat, her eyes darting from her father’s concerned face to the Duke’s arrogant profile.
‘Wh-wh-what?’ she stammered. Sickness roiled in her stomach.
‘Listen to me well, my girl. This country is in trouble. No one has seen hide or hair of King Henry for months. The barons are taking the law into their own hands, feuding, pillaging, kidnapping; it’s all happening right under the King’s nose and he doesn’t seem to care.’ The Duke sighed, leaning back in his chair to take a long sip from his pewter goblet. The rubies set into the thick stem flashed with a red brilliance.
‘Nay, it’s not true. Tell him, Father! Why, we saw the King not above a sennight ago!’ Even to her own ears, her words were slick with falsehood. Her mind scrabbled to remember the last time she had seen King Henry.
The Duke set his pewter goblet down with studied patience, turning his light-grey eyes towards her. ‘Do not feed me lies, young lady. Your father has told me of your close relationship with the Queen; I would use that to my advantage. You will return to court and find out what has happened to the King, find out what kind of mental state he is in.’
Beneath her fingers, Alice pleated, then unpleated the thick silk of her skirts. A cold stone of fear lodged in her stomach. She had heard Queen Margaret’s talk at court, of how she hated the Duke of York, the king’s cousin, convinced that all he wanted was to snatch the throne and be King of England himself.
‘You’re asking me to spy for you,’ Alice whispered.
‘Precisely.’
‘And you’ll keep my father a prisoner here until I come back with news.’
‘Why, you do understand quickly,’ Richard replied, a mocking smile on his face. His skin appeared stretched, taut, with the dark shadow of a beard about his jaw. ‘And if you don’t come back, why, then you will never see your father again.’
Tears welled in her eyes, and she hung her head, trying to hide her weakness, but her mind spun into action. How would they know that she brought the truth? She could return here with a bundle of lies to suit the Duke’s ear and secure her father’s release. What could be simpler?
‘And to make sure you bring back the truth—’ the Duke’s speech jerked once more in her brain ‘—I’ll send an escort with you. Someone I can trust.’ He placed great emphasis on the last word, indicating that he didn’t trust her in the slightest. ‘Someone to make certain that you don’t tittle-tattle.’
Alice lifted her pewter goblet, raising it to her lips. Some idiot of a soldier didn’t worry her; she’d be able to outwit him in an instant, and he would be none the wiser. The thought of escaping this place, of rounding up support for her father, imbued her with sudden confidence. She took a deep gulp, feeling the honeyed liquid slide down her throat.
‘Who’s the lucky man?’ As Alice set her goblet down, her eyes swept the room for a suitable candidate. Over there, lounging by the fire, a short man, with thickset brow and kind face—aye, that was the sort of person who could come with her. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’ Suffused with her own plans, her burgeoning hope, she had failed to catch the Duke’s words.
‘Lord Bastien will go with you, naturally.’
Alice’s confidence drained from her limbs. Her father took her small, cold hands in his. ‘It will be all right, Alice, you’ll see.’
‘Nay.’ She jumped up, almost tipping her chair back with the violence of the movement, fixing her father with her imperious blue orbs. ‘Nay, Father, it will not be all right!’
The gardens at Ludlow has been set out some years ago, in a formal pattern of rectangles and half-circles. Alice’s skirts whisked over the low box hedges as she walked angrily down one of the main paths. The edge of her sleeve caught a rose head in its final unstable moments as a flower, and the pink petals tumbled down, emittin
g a sweet heady perfume as they fell in her wake, showering the uneven stone path.
Footsteps descended purposefully on the steps behind her, following her.
She spun round, believing it to be her father, searching the blue-fringed twilight for his familiar silhouette.
‘Oh, it’s you!’ she blurted out, dismayed as she recognising Bastien’s bright hair emerging from the shadows.
‘I came to fetch you back,’ he explained, a weariness in his voice.
‘Oh, aye, I forgot. It wouldn’t do to let me out of your sight now, would it?’ she replied woodenly. ‘Don’t you realise this is all your fault?’ An owl hooted, eerie and chilling through the oak woods that surrounded the garden. The rushing sound of the river broke through the trees, continuous, insistent.
‘No doubt you have wrought some intricately ill-informed explanation.’ Bastien cupped her elbow gently and began to lead her back to the castle, his manner deferential, formal. He had to maintain this emotional distance from her; it was easier that way.
She ignored his sarcastic comment. ‘If you had let me go in the forest, then none of this would have happened. My father would not be a prisoner, I wouldn’t have to spy upon my friends…’ She wrenched her elbow away from him. ‘Tell the Duke you can’t do this, that you’re busy!’
‘I only wish I was!’ Bastien stopped for a moment. His breath puffed out, short bursts of mist in the chill night air. ‘Believe me, escorting a wilful young lady back to the King’s court isn’t my idea of a good time. But the Duke knows full well that I was intending to spend the winter on my estate sorting my affairs out.’
‘See, you are busy. Someone else needs to go in your stead.’
‘What, so you can give some poor unfortunate soldier the slip?’ he chortled, the iron mask of his reserve melting away. ‘I’ve only known you a handful of days, Alice, but even in that short time, I can read your mind.’
I can read your mind. The intimate words, husky and low, punched into her brain. Her hands flew up, covering her cheeks, as if trying to place a barrier between his large, imposing presence and herself. She didn’t want this, didn’t want him here, next to her, insinuating himself wholeheartedly into her life. The thought of him accompanying her back to Abberley filled her with horror. And then there was Edmund…
‘And how am I supposed to explain your presence?’ she asked desperately, her hands falling away from her face. ‘Everyone will be most surprised that I have lost a father and gained a Yorkist thug in exchange. Edmund would certainly have something to say about that.’
‘Edmund…?’ He let the question drift over the evening air.
‘None of your business!’ Alice clamped her lips together, wishing she had never mentioned the name.
‘Ah, the young beau,’ he deduced quickly, alert to the tiny tilt of her head, the softening of her voice. ‘The man you intend to marry.’
‘The man I will marry,’ she corrected him. ‘Which will make it all the more difficult to explain you!’ She jabbed a finger into the middle of his chest; underneath the soft pad, his skin refused to yield: a powerful cage of muscle and rib, bound together by his innate strength. Alice dropped her fingers hastily.
‘I am the man who saved you from the evil clutches of the Duke of York and brought you home. It would be the least you could do to provide me with bed and board for a few days after such a daring rescue…’
‘Nay, nay…’ Alice backed away ‘…please tell me you jest.’ The very thought of him staying at Abberley, of having to be nice to him!
‘No jest, my lady, but the Duke’s plan in every detail.’
‘It won’t work, you’re completely mad, he’s completely mad!’
‘It’s a good thing I’m thick-skinned,’ he muttered. The wide span of his hands curved around her shoulders, the warmth from his skin flowing through the thin silk covering of her gown. ‘Listen, it’s not for ever, just until I have the information that the Duke needs. Then you need never see me again and can spend all your time with your pretty beau.’
The words rankled. ‘He’s not like that,’ she responded irritably, feeling the box hedge push its prickly leaves through the material of her skirts and into the back of her calves. She felt uncomfortable hearing Edmund described as her ‘beau’, for up to this moment he had been a friend, and nothing more. Why, it was only a couple of days ago that she had agreed to marry him! Bastien’s choice of words made Edmund sound like some sort of court fop. Unease sluiced through her veins, a trickle of doubt. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about; you don’t even know him.’
‘Aye, but I know you,’ he shot back, ‘and I know your demanding, wilful behaviour. No man in his right mind would put up with that, so your Edmund, well…all I can say is “good luck” to him.’ Bastien shrugged his shoulders.
‘That’s it! I’m not staying here to listen to this a moment longer!’ Alice pushed past his large frame, almost tipping herself into the flower-bed in the process. A shaft of pure rose scent burst into the air, strong and heady. ‘Edmund is not like that at all!’ she threw back over her shoulder before mounting the stone steps. Ahead of her, the arched doorway stood open, throwing out a shaft of warm light, like a beacon. ‘At least he knows how to treat a lady!’
In two short strides he was upon her, one hand gripping her upper arm, preventing forward movement. His distinctive smell of musky leather, spliced with a tint of mead, curled around her. ‘I would treat you like a lady…’ his voice lowered, a tantalising baritone ‘…if you behaved like one.’
Chapter Seven
The morning sun sent brilliant shafts of light streaming through the arched upper windows of the great hall, the rays refracting slightly through the brittle, hand-blown glass. Few people moved about; the hour was still early. One servant scrubbed down the well-worn planks of the trestle tables, the bristle brush swishing rhythmically across the wood, the water in the bucket sloshing noisily as the servant kicked it along the floor to keep level with his cleaning. Another servant swept the large flagstones clear of debris from the evening before, heaping together a mound of wine-soaked straw before lifting it into a barrow. The new fire burned merrily in the grate, the damp sticks crackling and spitting.
At the top table, Bastien sat alone. Finishing his breakfast, he pushed the platter away. The high collar of his shirt dug into his neck and he reached up to pull at it, to try to stretch the stiff linen. Inadvertently, his fingers brushed over the leather lace that he wore beneath, next to his skin. The familiar circle of gold that dangled against his chest drew his fingers, almost against their will. Katherine! The name punched into his brain, clamouring, begging for attention. A raft of memory scythed through him, making him pull his fingers away abruptly, as if bitten. Why did he still wear it, if it caused him so much pain? He had hoped by this time the memories would have dulled, dwindled into the misty obscurity of the past, and the betrothal ring would remind him of the true love that had once been his. The fighting in France had helped; a mind totally focused on the intricacies of battle allowed little room to brood over what had happened. Yet even now, when he touched the ring, the memories leapt vividly into his brain as if they had happened only yesterday.
He needed to focus, to turn his attention to the task in hand. Where was the silly girl anyway? He’d sent the maid up hours ago to tumble her from her bed; he was damned if he was going to do it himself! Every bone in his body baulked against the Duke’s plan. He’d wrangled far into the night with Richard about the sense in taking the girl at all—surely it made better sense to keep her prisoner here, for Bastien to go as a messenger? But the Duke had been stubborn, adamant. ‘The Queen guards the King like a secret; no one has seen him for months. She is more likely to trust someone she knows. Think sensibly. The girl is a gift, our key to enter the House of Lancaster.’
His toes curled at the prospect of travelling at a snail’s pace; with the girl carried in a litter it would take an extra day, at least. No doubt she was fussing
and flapping with her clothes right now, in anticipation of seeing her family and friends once more. Tipping his pewter goblet to his lips, he drained the last dregs of mead, frowning. Somehow the thought of her preening before a looking glass didn’t quite fit with the maid as he had seen her yesterday: covered in mud, exhausted and dressed in boy’s clothes. He smiled to himself. She’d certainly have a lot of explaining to do when she arrived back home!
On the threshold of the great hall, Alice hesitated, courage draining from her limbs. What was it about this man that made her lose all sense of herself, become befuddled and gauche in his company? The sight of his big body sprawled comfortably into a high-backed oak chair made her want to run, run until she was sure he would never find her. As he tipped his head back to drink, the corded muscles of his tanned throat flexed, a picture of strength. Anxiety danced along her nerves, making her feel wobbly and uncertain. Her heart filled with foreboding—how could she leave her father with these barbarians? How could she travel with this man…all alone?
Bastien’s gaze slewed upwards, catching her slight movement in the doorway. The sturdy oak of the door framed her figure, dwarfing her even, making her appear small and vulnerable.
‘At last!’ he muttered, a thread of exasperation in his voice. ‘What in Heaven’s name have you been doing? We need to leave!’
‘I was saying goodbye to my father,’ she replied tersely. ‘I’m ready now, so let’s go. I for one would like to get this whole charade over and done with as quickly as possible.’
‘You need to eat something.’ It was an order, not a request. He came down the steps and strode towards her, covering the distance between them with a graceful, loping stride. Like an animal, she thought suddenly, supple and strong.
‘Since when have you become so concerned with my well-being?’ Alice taunted, tilting her head to one side. As she moved over the threshold, a shaft of sunlight fell across her face, emphasising the flawless quality of her skin. It appeared almost translucent, the colour and lustre of a pearl: creamy-white with a delicate rose flush beneath the cheeks. Even the fading bruise on her jaw-line could not diminish her natural beauty. For a moment, his eyes drank in the beautiful sight, all speech stopped. The pads of his fingers tingled, wanting to touch; he curled his fingers in, forming rigid fists at his side.
Captured by the Warrior Page 8
