Captured by the Warrior

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘Come here.’ His voice was deep, velvety. Her heart strained, then squeezed, tight, at the husky danger in his words.

  ‘I…er…’ she hedged, unsure. Dear Lord, she had screeched at him like a petulant child. What in Heaven’s name had made her say that? She pushed a palm against her forehead, feeling queasy. ‘So, you’re going then?’ she continued, lightly. ‘I only thought…’ Her speech trailed off, dismally. What had she thought? That there was something more between them? Don’t be ridiculous, she admonished herself strongly, it’s perfectly obvious that he can’t wait to return home.

  ‘Come here…’ Bastien repeated, a string of steel underlying his voice. ‘I need to speak to you.’ The thick layer of straw used for the animal’s bedding rustled beneath his big leather boots as he drew back further into the stables, to an empty stall.

  There was nothing he could do to her here, she surmised. And besides, she was anxious to know what he had found out, up there in the King’s chamber.

  ‘I was planning to find you before I left,’ he explained as she approached, his voice curling over her, dark, rich and velvety. He leaned one bulky shoulder against the wooden planks forming the side of the stall, folding his arms across his chest.

  Alice shrugged. ‘I wanted to make sure that you were going.’ The words sounded lame, a limp excuse for her earlier outburst. She smoothed one hand down the gathered folds of her gown self-consciously.

  His expression was stern, serious. ‘Alice, while I’m gone, I want you to take care.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ His words filtered through her, a shock. ‘I’m in no danger.’

  ‘I think you are. You need to watch out for Edmund.’

  ‘Edmund?’ she spluttered, astounded by his words. ‘Are you mad? What would make you say such a thing?’

  Bastien sighed. He was saying this all wrong; and now, it would only annoy her, set her against him. And even then he wasn’t certain what Edmund and her mother were plotting. But if he said nothing at all… ‘I overheard a conversation between Edmund and your mother… They were discussing you, Alice.’

  She tilted her head up at him, hands planted firmly on her hips. ‘There’s nothing unusual in that, Bastien. My mother was no doubt discussing the details of our marriage.’ Her speech wavered a little, cloudy with reservation.

  ‘They were discussing marriage,’ he agreed, ‘but not between you and Edmund. Between you and someone else.’ His hands rounded on her shoulders, secure, comforting.

  Alice jerked her head back, confused. ‘Why, why are you doing this? You’re asking me to doubt one of my oldest and dearest friends. Someone whom I trust. Which is more than I can say for you…I don’t even trust you to bring my own father back.’ As if to emphasise her point she took a step back from Bastien, manoeuvring out deftly from his gentle hold on her shoulders. A loose thread from her gown snagged on a splinter of wood on the stall. She set her lips together in irritation, pulling roughly at her skirts, finally dislodging the stubborn material with a fraught, ripping sound. And all the time she felt his eyes upon her, burning into her.

  ‘You trusted me with the King.’ Further up the stables, his horse whinnied, jangling the bit between his teeth.

  Alice glared at him, turquoise eyes wide and luminous. ‘You were blackmailing me with my father’s life!’ she flared back. ‘What was I supposed to do?’

  ‘Fair point,’ he agreed, equably. ‘You had no choice. Alice, I’m just telling you to be careful.’

  Alice tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. ‘And I don’t understand. You have the information you came for, so why tell me this? From this day on, you’ll never see me again.’ Even to her own ears, her voice sounded ravaged, forlorn.

  ‘Is that why you came tearing into the stables like one possessed…’ he chuckled gently ‘…because you’re never going to see me again?’ As he spoke the words, he knew it wouldn’t be true. He would see her again. Even now, he had the strongest urge to bundle her up on to his horse, to take her with him, to protect her. He didn’t want to leave her here, alone, vulnerable.

  She stared up at him, realising it was the last time she would see the beautiful, sculptured lines of his face, his easy smile, his devastating eyes. She had to accept that he was leaving, that her future was marriage to Edmund. ‘I think you’d better go now, Bastien,’ Alice said quietly, twisting away from him before he saw the sadness in her face, the threat of shining tears gathering in her eyes. ‘And make sure my father comes back in one piece.’ She turned on her heel in a flick of skirts and stalked out of the stables.

  The Duke glared at his tall commander, followed his movements back and forth across the great hall. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, man, stop pacing around and sit down!’ Bastien pitched his long body into a high-backed oak chair opposite the Duke, his sprawling attitude belying the fact that his every muscle quivered with a bristling energy.

  Richard took a long sip from the pewter goblet, placed it back on a small table beside his chair. ‘It sounds like the King is in a severe state of mental decline. No response at all, you say?’

  Bastien leaned forwards, the coppery streaks in his blond head shining like darts of flame. The front edges of his cote-hardie fell open, revealing mud-spattered braies, boots. He had driven his horse hard on the way back. ‘Nothing. I spoke to him, clicked my fingers in front of his face, even shook him a little. His eyes were open, but he merely stared straight ahead, blank.’

  ‘And the girl helped you gain access to the King’s quarters? She was amenable?’

  Bastien’s chest squeezed tight, catching him unawares. Amenable? Christ, she had been more than amenable when they had kissed! Even now, his lips tingled with the memory of the passion and desire he had seen in her eyes. He sprang up from his seat once more, moved to stand at the fireplace. ‘Aye, she was amenable.’ His words were clipped, sharp. He ran one finger around the inside edge of his fustian gypon; suddenly it seemed too tight around his neck.

  The Duke threw him a crooked half-smile, saw the muscle twitch in his lean, ruddy cheek. ‘Do I detect a certain attachment between yourself and the young lady?’

  ‘You do not.’ He had no inclination to discuss Alice; every word stuck needles of guilt into him, reminded him that he should not have left her alone in Abberley. Yet she was not his responsibility, not like Katherine, his betrothed, had been. And he hadn’t been able to protect her, had he?

  ‘I’ll call a meeting of all those nobles that support me,’ Richard was saying, ‘and then arrange a meeting with the Queen; Henry is in no fit state to run the country. You’ll come with me?’

  Bastien pushed a fist against the high mantelpiece above the fire, levering himself away. ‘I’ll be at Abberley when you arrive there,’ he said. ‘I’m going to take the physician back, now he’s free to go.’

  The Duke looked up in surprise. ‘I have several hundreds of soldiers who would do that job for me—why you?’

  The image of Alice’s sweet heart-shaped face swung into his mind. Lord, but the girl was making him soft in the head. He told himself he didn’t have anything better to do, that he had no wish to return to his estates and lands. But the whispered conversation he had unwittingly overhead returned again and again to him; he smelled a plot with an instinct born of years dealing with unsavoury people, of tricksters and hoodwinkers. Men like Edmund needed to be dealt with. And he was the man to do it.

  ‘It’s just something that I need to do.’

  The sun flared valiantly through the straggles of grey cloud, but there was no heat in the rays on this cold autumn day. In the walled garden to the south-west of Abberley Castle, smoke from the gardeners’ fires rose listlessly into the still, damp air. The dead twigs and gnarled prunings crackled as they burned, filling the air with a sweet, woody scent. Under a heavy dew, the plants drooped, their leaves blackened and shrivelled from an overnight frost.

  Walking along the stone-flagged path at Edmund’s side, Alice stared glumly ahead, failin
g to notice the neat borders of dug-over earth, the line of clipped yews towards which they were headed. All she saw, in a wave of inexplicable misery, was Bastien’s face as she had last seen him, deep in the shadow of the stables. Despair crushed her heart; she should have been rejoicing at his departure, yet all she wanted to do was lock herself in her chamber and weep. She would never see him again.

  As the slick wetness from the flagstones seeped through the thin soles of her slippers, Edmund coughed in the damp air, muttering about his lungs, flicking a speck of lint from the voluminous gathered sleeve of his tunic. When she had come down for breakfast that morning, he had been desperate to talk with her, alone, and, heart sinking, she had suggested the gardens. She had to forget Bastien, had to concentrate on building a secure future for herself and her parents. Marriage to Edmund was the only solution, however unappealing the prospect. At least he was young, and they were friends; but he would never make her heart sing, like… Nay, she must forget him!

  Edmund tucked her hand companionably into his side; they squeezed together as the path narrowed and entered an avenue of pleached hawthorns, the shapes of the trees tied down, their growth contorted and controlled from an early age into an arch. Alice’s skin glowed, fresh and rosy from the frosty air, her breath emerging in short misty puffs.

  ‘I feel like I’ve hardly seen you since you returned from Ludlow,’ Edmund grumbled lightly. He nibbled delicately at a nail, reliving the humiliation he had felt when Lord Dunstan had insisted on taking Alice to her chamber.

  Alice ducked her head, flushed, knowing to whom he referred. ‘I couldn’t ignore the man,’ she protested. ‘He did rescue me, after all! I had to be polite.’

  Edmund pulled her closer to his side, a reassuring gesture. ‘Alice! I was only teasing!’ She looked quite pretty in this dappled morning light, if a little untidy. Why didn’t her mother force her to arrange her hair in the correct manner? Even so, he couldn’t help thinking it was a shame he wasn’t to have her after all. But the lure of the riches he would gain in his part of the plan was too great to ignore. With that sort of money, he could procure a much higher class of bride than this humble daughter of the Queen’s lady-in-waiting.

  The gravel beneath his feet crunched as he stopped in the centre of the four paths that divided the garden into equal quadrants. A stone urn, intricately carved, marked this centre, its pitted surface frothy with paleblue lichen. Edmund disengaged his arm to hold both of Alice’s hands in his, turning to face her.

  ‘I think we should marry as soon as possible,’ he announced solemnly.

  Shock resonated through her slender frame; she clutched at the stone urn for support. She had the overwhelming urge to wrench her hands away, to run. It was all happening too fast; her toes curled inwards in her slippers, as if trying to slow the headlong rush of time. Her wide-blue eyes, set with incomprehension, roved over Edmund’s placid features. ‘But…but we were going to wait for a year, at least! You don’t receive your inheritance for a year.’ Desperation threaded her voice.

  ‘Circumstances have changed,’ Edmund replied slowly. ‘My father is ill; he would see us wed before he…before he…’ He choked on the final words, silently congratulating himself on his acting ability as he spotted the wave of sympathy in Alice’s expression.

  ‘Oh, Edmund, I’m so sorry. I had no idea he was ill.’

  Neither has he, thought Edmund. He’s probably tucking into a large breakfast at this very moment, in the peak of health. But he would do anything, say anything, to lure Alice away from Abberley; the reward was simply too great.

  ‘It came on very suddenly.’ Edmund’s expression was grave. ‘I think we should leave on the morrow…travel to my father’s castle.’

  ‘My father might be able to help him.’

  ‘Nay,’ Edmund replied vociferously, ‘he has the services of one of the best physicians in the country.’

  Alice frowned. ‘Who?’

  Edmund shuffled uncomfortably, running one finger around the inside of his high embroidered collar. What was the matter with her? Why so many questions? He thought she would jump at the chance of marrying him earlier, yet her whole manner seemed to be one of reluctance, hesitation. ‘Er…I’m not certain of his name,’ he replied lamely. ‘But rest assured he is receiving the best possible care.’

  Alice nodded, appearing to accept his explanation. ‘My parents may need more time to pack for the journey,’ she continued.

  Edmund placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I think it would be better if we kept it as a small ceremony,’ he said carefully. ‘Just us, with the priest and my father. He wouldn’t care for a crowd of strangers standing around his bed. He is extremely ill, you know.’

  ‘But…my parents would expect to be there!’ A look of astonishment crossed Alice’s face. ‘They’ll be so hurt.’

  ‘I’ve talked to your mother already,’ Edmund reassured her. ‘I’ve explained the situation and promised her we would hold a larger ceremony back at Abberley on a later date. She is happy with that, and thinks your father will be in agreement.’

  ‘If you’re certain…?’ Alice responded doubtfully.

  Edmund nodded, a cunning glitter in his eyes. ‘Your mother is in full agreement.’ Little did the girl know that her mother was fully aware of his true plan, and stood to gain from it.

  ‘I see.’ But in truth she didn’t understand at all. Since when had Edmund taken to going behind her back and speaking to her mother? Bastien’s last words shot into her head, unbidden, warning against Edmund, his words corroding her thought processes. But she couldn’t think of that now, or start to believe them; she had to think of the future.

  Chapter Twelve

  A wide expanse of rough, tussocky grass to the north of Abberley Castle formed the tournament field; a piece of land where knights triumphed or slunk away, heavy with the sense of defeat. Even at this early hour, stands had been erected for the spectators on either side of the lists, with a higher box for the nobility and the newly married couple. Fluttering pennants adorned stands, each flag embroidered with a white daisy, the emblem of Queen Margaret. As the sun rose, slipping its gentle light over the land, bringing colour into the washed-out hues of the pre-dawn, knights began to practise, lances flashing deftly as their laughter punched the cool air. A considerable number of men had accompanied William of Halston, the bridegroom, himself an eminent knight, and their brightly coloured, round tents were pitched in a far corner of the field. Several late risers were emerging from the tents, faces white and flabby with sleep, eyes bloodshot from their various excesses the previous night, as they cast weary, sideways glances at the men already dressed, already in the saddle.

  Fabien Matravers saw all this as he trudged towards the castle. The soles of his feet ached; his stomach growled with hunger. Watching the flags snapping in the sharp breeze, he scoured his memory, trying to recall what the occasion might be. As he entered the castle gates, people scarcely noticed him, bustling about carrying piles of plates, and linen tablecloths hither and thither. Ah! He remembered: the marriage of Serena of Stow to young William of Halston. The lad possessed a mere five-and-twenty years, yet had already inherited the vast lands and estates of his father on his death a year ago. The Lady Serena was a close friend of the Queen, who had graciously allowed the marriage to take place at Abberley.

  After some searching, he eventually found his wife in Alice’s chamber, kneeling on the floor in front of a large oak coffer, rifling through their daughter’s clothes.

  ‘Fabien, it’s you!’ Eyes widening, wrinkles forming in her smooth forehead, she jerked round with a start of guilt, quickly suppressed, as he came through the door. The sun, streaming through the east window, shone full in her face, and she screwed her eyes up against the brightness. Her skin, heavy with white powder, gleamed like a mask, unnatural in the radiant light.

  ‘Aye, returned to you, my love,’ he quipped, ‘and all in one piece!’ He stepped over to her, bent down and took her limp hands in h
is.

  ‘Why did they let you go?’ Beatrice arched one nonexistent eyebrow in query, a sulky twist to her mouth. Her abrupt question implied that she would have preferred him to remain a prisoner; indeed, she had hoped Fabien wouldn’t return until Alice was safely dispatched with Edmund. ‘I wasn’t aware that the Queen paid a ransom.’

  ‘I fear she may have to pay a great deal more than a ransom,’ Fabien replied enigmatically, unwilling to share the details of how Alice had been involved in his release.

  ‘No matter, you’re back, safe and well,’ his wife replied. There was no warmth in her words. Already she was turning back to the task in hand, shaking out the gown spread over her lap, sighing with dismay. ‘Really, that girl does not possess a single decent thing to wear!’

  ‘For the wedding?’

  ‘For her wedding, Alice’s wedding,’ Beatrice corrected him. ‘Edmund’s father is ill, and he would like to see his son and Alice married before he dies. It will be a small affair.’ She fed her husband the rest of the explanation, all the while hoping that Fabien wouldn’t hear the distorted notes of fabrication in her speech. He wouldn’t approve of the real plan, not even with the promise of wealth and comfort in their old age.

  ‘It all seems so sudden,’ Fabien mused. ‘And she’s been through so much.’

  ‘Of course it’s sudden!’ Beatrice rapped back at him. ‘No one plans to be ill, do they?’

  Fabien held up his big, capable hands, hoping to appease her. He was used to such agitation in his wife; rarely a day went past without some crisis or other affecting Beatrice. ‘How does Alice feel about it? I know she and Edmund have been friends, but marriage…?’

  ‘Alice has agreed to the marriage. It’s the least she can do after everything she’s put us through.’ Beatrice screwed her lips together, an expression of distaste. She lowered her head, unwilling to meet her husband’s searching glance. Would he look into her eyes, pools of aquamarine, and read the lies in their blue depths? She had no intention of telling her husband exactly what she was doing; he would probably prevent it from even happening. He had always been far too sentimental over his daughter.