Chapter Eight
Bastien drove his heels fiercely into his horse’s smooth, glossy flanks, urging the animal up the steep, wooded slope to gain the wider path that ran along the brow of the hill. Irritation seared through him; he was annoyed, annoyed that such a maid could arouse him so. He should never have offered to do her hair. How could he have known such a simple action would reap such consequences? Especially for him, a man who prided himself on keeping his emotions squashed down to nothing. Foolishly, he had believed he could indulge in the sheer pleasure of feeling the silken strands slip through his fingers and remain unaffected. How wrong he had been. Her hair had acted like a lure, reeling him closer, stealing in under the steel casing clamped around his heart, digging in, teasing out emotions he had long since forgotten. Emotions that he had no wish to remember.
Behind him, Alice followed at a more sedate pace, the head of her gentle mare nodding rhythmically as it plodded up the track. Her hands trembled on the reins; her body felt weak, sapped of energy. The wetness of her furious tears clung to her long, dark lashes, blurring her vision and she lifted one finger to blot them away. How ludicrous the whole thing was! The man had offered to tidy her hair. Yet she still felt the imprint of his fingers at the nape of her neck, and her body still clung to the embers of desire that he had kindled with that touch. What would have happened if she hadn’t leapt to her feet, if she had let him continue? The memory of the look in his eyes as she had whirled about told her the answer. Sighing, gritting her teeth, she contemplated his fast-receding back. She forced herself to think about Edmund, Edmund, the man she had promised to marry. They both knew it would be a marriage in name only, but at least it would be safe.
Gaining the brow of the hill in record speed, Bastien pulled on the reins, wheeling the animal around to assess the maid’s progress. Christ, she was miles away! He could just about make out her slim figure through the trees. And he could also see how she sagged in the saddle, her whole demeanour wilting with exhaustion. Serve the girl right, he thought savagely. She had chosen to ride, hadn’t she? Wanting to prove that she could ride as well as any man? He wanted to punish her, wanted to give her a hard time for sparking such unwanted feelings inside him. If he made things tough for her, then maybe it would be easier to keep her at arm’s length. To make her hate him would be a far safer option.
‘You need to hurry up,’ he ground out, as, finally, she drew level with him. A small, neat ankle, encased in white stocking, forced him to draw a swift breath. Alice flicked the hem of her skirt down over her foot, hiding it completely. ‘I can’t make this animal go any faster.’ She regarded him through wide, periwinkle-blue eyes, her animated face glowing like a precious jewel beneath the shady canopy of the forest.
The neutral tone in her voice irritated him. He had seen her hands loose on the reins as she approached; he hadn’t seen her urge the animal on once.
‘Try,’ he murmured tersely, ‘or we’ll not make Abberley by nightfall.’
‘I’m not one of your soldiers who you can boss around all day,’ she sniped back at him.
‘I am well aware of that fact.’ He glared pointedly at her rounded bosom. ‘But at this rate, it would have been faster if you had travelled in a litter.’
‘I don’t believe you! We couldn’t have journeyed this way if I was in a litter, and by using this path we’ve shaved hours off the journey time.’
He grimaced. She was right. Since when had women become so informed about the geography of their country? ‘Well, come on, then,’ he said at last, exasperated. Surely a whole army of men was easier to control than this one woman?
The wider path at the brow of the hill led them out of the forest and on to open moorland, vast tracts of high, rough grass where a few sheep grazed. The track become wider, with fewer hazards to negotiate, allowing both riders to break into a gallop. Above their heads, buzzards wheeled and circled in the rising warm air, filling the vast, open space with their haunting cries. This time, Alice kept up with him; he was surprised to see that she was merely a few feet behind him all the way. She was a good horsewoman, he thought grudgingly.
Now and again, they would slow to a walk, allowing the horses a short rest, before resuming the relentless pace once more. Bastien could go on like this for ever, days even; he had endured enough practice in this kind of travel in France, but the maid? He shrugged his shoulders inwardly, a small part of him wanting to see her reduced, suffering, just a little.
Dusk began to fall; the western horizon a mass of glowing pinks and purples, silhouetting the few lone trees on the moor with stark beauty. Most of the trees were bent over at an angle, like old men stooped, after being continually buffeted by wind through their growth. Bastien and Alice slowed once more to a walk. Silently Alice wondered how long this was going to go on. Her whole body was overheated and uncomfortable, coated in perspiration from matching Bastien’s tireless pace; she now regretted turning down the offer of a litter. Ensconced in the curtained interior, she wouldn’t have had to look at him all day.
‘What’s that, up ahead?’ Alice broke the silence between them.
Bastien narrowed his eyes, focusing on a small group of shambling peasants up ahead. He could see two people, and it appeared that one of them was helping the other to walk along the trackway. ‘No one of importance,’ he muttered, keeping his eyes forwards, trained on the horizon. ‘Come on.’ He kicked the animal into a gallop, aiming to pass the group at top speed. ‘Make way!’ he roared at them. ‘Move aside!’
The white, pinched faces of the peasants looked completely terrified as Bastien thundered towards them, the bit jangling wildly between his horse’s large, yellowing teeth. The elderly man held up one hand, pleading, as Bastien approached. ‘Stop, my lord, we need help.’ Bastien ignored the man, his horse’s hooves throwing up great clods of sticky white mud as he charged by. But almost in that moment of passing that pathetic huddle of humankind, he knew that he would have to stop—because she would stop. Hauling on the reins, he twisted his head round in time to see Alice slipping from her horse, an encouraging smile on her face.
‘Alice!’ he bellowed at her, leaping from his animal and striding back. ‘We have no time for this!’
Alice’s face appeared as an iridescent pearl through the twilight. His fingers twitched, wanting to touch, to test the fine exquisiteness of her skin. ‘This will take no time at all,’ she assured him coolly, her arms crossed high, defensively, over her bosom as she faced him. ‘This woman has hurt her leg, I could see her struggling to walk from the bottom of the hill; I might be able to help.’
‘It’s none of our business.’ His voice had softened, despite his annoyance at having been delayed. In the dimness of the evening light, the shadows beneath his high cheekbones appeared more pronounced, more sculptured, as if carved from polished wood.
‘It’s my business, Bastien. It’s what I do.’ Alice took a deep breath, pushing the flat of her hand against her horse’s heated flank, as if to steady herself. He stared into her sweet, earnest face for a moment, noted the stubborn set of her mouth with a sense of resignation. He could force her to come now, drag her up before him, and link her horse to his own. But what would it achieve, except to turn her further against him? ‘Then be quick about it,’ he relented.
Alice nodded at him, the hint of a smile playing about her lips, before motioning for the woman to sit on the high grassy verge. She raised the woman’s skirts to reveal bare legs, pale and lumpy in the half-light. The right leg was gashed, the edges of the wide wound puckered and swollen. The old man craned his neck to try to see, lines of concern etching his elderly face.
‘The wound’s infected,’ Alice announced calmly. ‘I’ll clean it, put a poultice on it.’
‘Put a poultice on it?’ Bastien frowned at her, his body impatient. ‘How long is this going to take?’
‘Bastien, I can’t just ignore this. It could infect her blood; she could die. I just can’t ride on without helping.’
‘But she’s a peasant.’ His voice cut across her, callous, unremitting.
Alice’s head rolled back, her eyes glittering with shocked anger. ‘How can you say such a thing? She’s a human being, just like you and me.’ She jumped up to fetch her leather drinking bottle tied to the back of her horse, unlacing it with short, jerky movements.
Bastien shrugged his shoulders, unconcerned. The maid was clearly insane. In his world, nobles dealt with nobles, and peasants? Well, they were nothing. He turned back to his horse, leaning down to adjust the strap that held the saddle in place, tightening it. One small fist jabbed him in the shoulder. Alice was beside him. Her blue eyes burned with fury, her lips pursed and rigid. Instinctively, he braced himself for another onslaught.
‘What is it?’ He straightened up, curious.
Alice tipped her head back, exposing the long, creamy length of her neck, the silken dip of her throat. He hulked over her, this barbarian of a man, too close, but she refused to step back, to be intimidated by his size.
‘Do you really value human life so lightly?’ Her mouth curled downwards in disapproval.
‘I’m a soldier, Alice, what do you expect?’ he replied bluntly.
‘I expected more understanding from a nobleman, more compassion.’
‘Compassion doesn’t come into it when you’re in the thick of battle.’ He wrenched the girth strap tightly.
‘Maybe it should.’
‘And maybe—’ he rounded on her, eyes flinty with annoyance ‘—you should stop lecturing me about my moral values and hurry up with treating that woman.’ He pushed his face close to hers, wanting her to back down, to run away, but she didn’t move one jot.
‘It would be quicker if you helped me.’ His skin smelt musky, a tantalising mix of horse and woodsmoke. Her heart rate skittered, then jolted into a faster pace. She ducked away then, unable to maintain that close contact, frightened of what his presence did to her body, without waiting for his answer. Dropping to her knees in the mud, she began to clean the wound.
Bastien watched her with annoyance. Since when had a woman taken him to task on how he lived his life? He had been fêted as a hero on both sides of the Channel for his prowess in battle; Alice made him feel he had crawled out from beneath the nearest stone. Was there any truth in her accusation? That human life, any human life, held no value for him? Since his older brother’s death, he had fought harder, longer than any man in France, earning the reputation of the most feared opponent in Europe. The endless fighting had driven away the memories; he had been glad of that. Now, home again, to his utter disgust, the memories had come flooding back, those of his older brother and…Katherine. He wanted to be fighting again, out in the cut and thrust, the mayhem of the battlefield, not nursemaiding some girl in the hope that he would see King Henry. And yet, what was the alternative? Home, to his estates north of Ludlow, and what joys awaited him there? Only his mother, and he had no burning wish to see her.
Bastien hunkered down next to Alice, who was busily cleaning the woman’s wound with most of the contents of her water bottle. Her face was set with an earnest concentration, her touch deft and assured. Although the wound must have pained her, the woman made scarcely a sound.
‘What can I do?’
Alice glanced at him, startled. ‘Fetch my bag, please.’
Feeling chastened by her earlier, heated words, Bastien did as he was told.
‘Take out the linen bandages, and beneath you’ll find an earthenware pot of ointment,’ Alice continued. ‘Then smear the ointment over the middle of one of the bandages—don’t stint.’
Bastien opened the leather satchel fastened to the mare’s side. The orderliness of the contents within astonished him—the neat row of rolled-up bandages, the labelled pots, and small leather pouches—all seemed at odds with Alice’s disregard for her own appearance. Only one pot was made from earthenware; he removed the wide cork stopper, digging his fingers into the cold, waxy substance. A foul smell rose to his nostrils; he wrinkled his nose in disgust as he spread it across the bandage.
‘Thank—you.’ Alice barely looked up at him as she took the length of bandage between her fingers. Her skin creased a little between her eyebrows as she concentrated on applying the length of cloth around the woman’s calf.
‘There.’ Alice tied a simple knot to secure the bandage, before sitting back on her heels to survey her handiwork. The woman was smiling, thanking Alice over and over again.
‘We have nothing to give you, to thank you with,’ the old man said forlornly.
Alice smiled up into the gnarled, worried face. ‘I don’t want anything; it’s enough that I could help,’ she explained gently. The woman stood up, putting her full weight on her injured leg, and started to walk, gingerly at first, then with more confidence.
Kneeling in the earth, an incredible fatigue washed over Alice, a cold fog sweeping through her brain, muddling her thoughts. From the intense concentration a few moments ago, now she couldn’t even think straight, merely content to sit back in the mud and watch the old couple walk off, heading in an easterly direction, waving and smiling. She wanted to close her eyes and slump forwards, pillow her head in the soft, lush grass of the verge and sleep.
A hand grasped her upper arm, dragged her up. ‘Come on, Alice.’ Bastien’s strong voice punched into her. ‘Let’s keep going.’ Weariness made her sway on her feet before him, a slender reed buffeted by the wind. Smudges of blue formed dark semi-circles beneath her eyes, evidence of her exhaustion.
‘How much further is it?’ Alice rubbed at one eye, trying to erase the grittiness clouding her vision. She wilted under Bastien’s grip, fast about her upper arm. He realised that instead of helping her up, he was in fact supporting her. His intention had been to ride through the night; the sky was clear, and already the waxing moon had begun to cast its ethereal light across the land. But the girl was exhausted, he could see that now.
‘We need to find somewhere to rest for the night,’ he found himself saying.
‘I thought you said we were in a hurry,’ she murmured, tilting her head to focus on his face.
‘I still need my sleep,’ he answered.
Alice peered at him suspiciously. His eyes were bright, alert, sparkling out of a face alive with energy. He didn’t appear to be in any need of sleep.
‘You mustn’t stop on my account,’ she protested limply. ‘I can carry on…once I’m back on my horse.’ She tried to inject more rigidity into her stance, pulling her spine straight.
If she had been one of his soldiers, marching across France, Bastien would have bawled her out, there and then, forcing her to keep going, to push through the tiredness. But she was not one of his soldiers, merely a woman who, despite what she believed, simply did not have the physical reserves to keep going.
‘Let’s find some shelter.’ Bastien led her over to where the horses cropped the grass, placed his hands on her waist and lifted her easily on to the saddle. Out of habit, she swung her right leg over so she could sit astride, grabbing the reins. Mounting up, Bastien squinted through the twilight into the distance. To find shelter would mean dipping back down into the valley, contrary to their direction, but Alice’s slumped figure in the saddle forced his decision in the matter.
Following a trail down into the valley’s limpid darkness, it wasn’t long before the outlines of a building loomed out of the shadows. A haybarn, double height, with no homestead or other domestic buildings attached to it, probably used to store the cut grass from the upper meadows—dried grass used as additional feed for the animals in the winter.
Alice’s head bounced back awkwardly from her chest as her mare came to a halt in front of the barn, and she forced her eyes to open wide, to discern her surroundings through the drifting layers of sleep around her. As Bastien clicked open the iron latch of the wide barn door, and shoved at the swollen, damp timbers with the muscled bulk of his shoulder, she managed to slither from the horse, to secure the reins around the spiky br
anches of a low-growing hawthorn.
The smell of dried grass, heady and pungent, assailed her nostrils as she walked into the barn. The bound stooks had been carefully stacked upright; Bastien cut the string around the waist of one stook, releasing the hay to spread it over the earthern floor. He spread another, then another, building up a mound of inviting softness.
‘Our bed for the night, my lady.’ His bow was low, formal.
She flushed, aware of the challenge in his tone. Fear throbbed in her veins, thrilling her. Her scalp tingled; the memory of his deft fingers tidying her hair knocked into her. ‘My bed for the night,’ she corrected him, primly. ‘You can sleep over there.’ She pointed to the furthest corner of the barn.
‘You’ll freeze; there’s not much warmth in here.’
‘I’ll take my chances,’ she replied, sinking down into the delicious heap of hay, feeling her muscles relax into the sweet softness. ‘I don’t sleep with men like you.’
Undoing another stook of hay, Bastien snorted with laughter. ‘What kind of men do you sleep with, then?’ he paused, his face crinkled up in a teasing smile.
Lying on the straw, Alice smiled back. He had caught her, fair and square. Once again, she hadn’t thought before blurting the words out, not realising how they must sound. ‘You know what I mean,’ she hastened to correct his laughing assumption. His teasing reminded her of her brother, in the early days when they were children, before he had become a knight. Her heart gripped with loss.
‘Don’t worry, Alice. You’re as untouched as the day you were born.’ Bastien sat down on the hay mattress he had made for himself.
‘Wh-what…?’ Alice shot to a sitting position, horrified by his words. ‘You…you can’t say that to me!’
‘I just did. Now calm down, and get some sleep,’ he advised her.
‘How can you be so…so crude?’
In the darkness, his eyes glittered, feral. ‘I’m sorry if my manners aren’t up to scratch, Alice, but I’m not some fop who’ll tip-toe around you, minding my every word. You have to get used to it.’
Captured by the Warrior Page 10
