Captured by the Warrior

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘Nay, I look forward to it.’ Alice slumped into agreement. Lady Cecile was only trying to be kind, to make her feel welcome. It was the least she could do.

  The stone turret, into which the solar had been built, was positioned so that it gained the maximum amount of sunlight during daylight hours. The chamber was warm, flooded with light from the large, south-facing window constructed in a curve to follow the circular line of the wall. As Mary led Alice in, Cecile was sitting in a high-backed chair, facing away from the window with her hands flat on her lap, staring blankly into space.

  ‘Ah, here you are.’ For such a delicate-looking woman, her speech seemed rapid, forceful. Cecile indicated that Alice should sit on the low upholstered footstool beside her, waving the hesitant Mary away. ‘Go, girl, I have no need of you now.’

  She smiled faintly at Alice. ‘You seem much rested, my child.’ The kindness in her voice seemed strained. ‘Are you happy with the gown that Mary picked out for you?’

  ‘What? Oh, aye, thank you.’ Alice glanced down hurriedly. As usual she hadn’t paid much attention to the clothes she had been laced into. Blue silk velvet flowed over her lap, the skirts embroidered with silver thread, a shimmering trellis design. ‘It’s lovely,’ she added, after a pause, shifting uncomfortably on the seat. She felt all wrong, awkward, being here with Bastien’s mother, with the woman he’d warned her against. It was as if she was betraying him. The sooner she could escape from this hot, stuffy room, the better.

  ‘I thought we were about the same size.’ Cecile’s gnarled hands twisted in her lap. ‘And the head-dress becomes you.’

  Alice forced herself not to grimace. She had backed away when Mary had produced the padded, U-shaped roll, protesting that she never wore such encumbrances, but Mary had insisted. ‘Do it for the mistress, my lady,’ she had advised, pulling Alice’s hair into a tight, confining bun at the back of her head, stabbing it with long pins to hold it in place. ‘She likes to see ladies properly dressed.’ Mary had driven another set of pins against her scalp to hold the thing in place; even now she felt them gouge her scalp, wrench cruelly at her hair.

  ‘So…how do you know…Bastien?’ Cecile’s tongue stumbled over her son’s name.

  ‘It’s a long story, my lady,’ Alice hesitated. She had no wish to confide in this woman who she hardly knew, especially as Bastien had warned her, told her not to trust her.

  ‘I have time.’ Cecile threw her a half-smile of encouragement.

  ‘He rescued me from a betrothal, a betrothal that went wrong.’ Alice squirmed in her seat, uncomfortable with the confession.

  In a waft of rose-scented perfume, Cecile leaned forwards, the huge pearl necklace dangling from her white throat, swinging into space. Her strong, veinridged fingers grasped at Alice’s clasped hands. ‘I’m sorry, my dear…about the betrothal. It must have been difficult for you.’

  Alice hung her head, still feeling ashamed of her gross misjudgement of Edmund. ‘I was betrayed by someone who I thought was my best friend,’ she mumbled out, hoping that Cecile would prod no further.

  Cecile nodded, collapsing back into her chair, removing her fingers. In the brilliant sunlight, her skin adopted the quality of parchment. ‘Then it was fortunate for you that Bastien was able to help?’

  Alice grimaced. ‘If it hadn’t been for him, then…’ She paused.

  ‘Then what…?’ Cecile’s voice snapped out, unexpected because it was so different from her earlier modulated tones. Her face took on a predatory air, anxious for details, sniffing them out like a bloodhound.

  Alice remained silent, staring at her fingers.

  Cecile patted her hands. ‘Too painful to talk about? Tell me another time, my dear. I have a feeling that we are going to be the best of friends.’

  Alice nodded, clearing her throat. The awkward silence ticked away in her head. ‘I understand Bastien has not been home for some time.’ The words stuttered out of their own accord, born of Alice’s anxiety to deflect the subject away from herself.

  Cecile’s thin mouth twisted downwards. ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t told you why.’ She cocked her head to one side, tapping her fingers against the wooden arm of the chair. ‘He and I had a falling-out, a silly argument really. He’s never forgiven me, even after all these years. He never visits me, barely speaks to me. You saw what he was like when he arrived. Is that a normal way for a son to greet his mother?’

  Alice recalled the spontaneous way she would throw her arms around her father. ‘Nay,’ she agreed, wondering whether Cecile would tell her the true details of what had driven them apart.

  ‘You can change him.’ Alice frowned at the woman’s unexpected words. ‘Already I see a change in him. He would never have come here if it hadn’t been for you.’

  ‘He didn’t have much choice, my lady,’ Alice replied. What was Cecile thinking? That she had any influence on Bastien?

  ‘Nonsense. He had the pick of all the best homes in England. He is a renowned knight, with friends everywhere, all eager to throw their doors open to him.’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Talk to him, my dear. He respects you, listens to you. I could see that from the moment you arrived, how close you were. Try to persuade him to forgive me.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ Alice replied, nodding gamely, covering up the vague, cold sense of doubt in her heart.

  Cecile seemed to slump down in her seat, her diminutive body becoming even smaller with the hunching movement. A white hand moved up to her forehead, resting there. ‘I’m tired, my child. Off you go now, find him, talk to him.’

  Alice sprang upwards, eager to leave. The footstool skittered back on the polished wooden floor. Cecile winced at the harsh, grating sound it made, her narrowed eyes fixed on the door. As it closed behind Alice, the simpering mask fell from her features, and she laughed: a harsh, corrosive sound. ‘That’s right, you run to him, little girl. How sweetly protective.’ Cecile sipped from the goblet of wine at her elbow. ‘He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve you.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Alice emerged from the solar, her mind a whirl of confusion. Bastien’s description of his mother did not seem to fit the woman she had just encountered. Indeed, Cecile seemed at pains to make amends to Bastien. Maybe, just maybe, some chance at reconciliation between the two of them was possible.

  ‘My lady?’ Snared in her thoughts, Alice jumped as Mary appeared at her side. ‘I thought I had better wait for you…to show you the way.’

  ‘Thank you, Mary. I would be hopelessly lost without you.’ She followed the maidservant down the stairs, trailing her hand over the curving stone wall to keep her balance on the uneven steps, allowing her breathing to steady after meeting Bastien’s mother. For some reason, Cecile’s friendliness had set Alice’s nerves on edge; now, she took a deep breath, trying to shake off the feeling.

  ‘How did you find my Lady Cecile?’ Mary paused on the stairs, the hem of her simple fustian gown bunching on the higher step behind her. She nodded up at the door of the solar, indicating the source of her question.

  ‘She seemed very friendly.’

  ‘God’s truth?’ Mary’s eyes widened with surprise. She clapped a hand over her mouth, then lowered her eyes, crestfallen. ‘My apologies. I wasn’t sure how she would be, you know, after seeing Lord Bastien again. It might have opened old wounds.’ Mary’s voice dropped to a hush.

  Alice smiled. ‘I think she wants to repair the relationship with Bastien.’

  A look of relief passed over the maidservant’s face, and she turned to continue down the steps. ‘Come and break your fast, my lady,’ Mary said when they reached the dim corridor at the bottom of the steps. ‘The great hall is this way.’

  The wooden floorboards creaked under Alice’s slight weight as she paused. ‘Have you seen Lord Bastien today?’

  ‘When he heard you were still sleeping, he went out.’ Mary searched Alice’s features with a lively interest. ‘Not far, I suspect, because he didn�
��t ask the groom for a horse. He’ll be about the gardens somewhere.’

  ‘I’ll find him.’

  Alice stepped through the door, and out into the blustery air. Immense, rounded lumps of cloud had begun to form to the west, moving over the blue sky, obscuring it. A few random drops of rain, carried in on the wind, touched her face as she descended the steps to walk around the wide, cobbled pathway circling the perimeter of the manor. The strengthening breeze clamped the blue velvet of her gown against the slender contours of her figure, the silver embroidery sparkling in the darkening light, but Alice was oblivious to the covert, admiring glances of the few people who were at work around the place. Her head-dress tugged at its anchoring pins, and Alice, raising one hand to steady it, fervently wished it would rip from her head, fly off, and never be seen again.

  The stables were situated at the back of the manor, the low, undulating slates that formed its roof as grey and dark as the lowering sky above them. Behind the stables, a narrow path led to the chapel. Huge, fat drops of rain started falling, spattering the cobbles, the slick wetness revealing a myriad of colour in each individual stone. Maids ran out from the kitchen door, on the north wall, laughing and shivering as the rain flew into the faces, bundling up the laundry that had been spread over the bushes to dry. Their girlish chattering rose into the wind, the end of the sentences ripped away, lost in the breeze.

  Alice had no intention of dashing back inside. After the sour fugginess of Cecile’s chambers, the cool rain acted like a blessing on her skin, strumming at her senses, enlivening her. Through the lines of rain sweeping across the cobbles, her eyes lit on the chapel, surrounded by its own neat stone wall, two massive yews either side of the arched doorway. The wooden gate at the top of the cobbled path sat open and she walked through, the long, bending heads of grass on either side of the path brushing wetly against her skirts.

  Her fingers grazed the wrought-iron latch; the solid oak door swung in silently, on oiled hinges. The musty air breathed out from the dim interior, a salvation; here, she could seek refuge from the rain, from Cecile and gather her senses before searching for Bastien once more.

  The hushed air of the church clung to Alice’s skin as she stepped inside. A trickle of rain slid from her temple, an icy trail down the side of her face. She wiped it away, her eyes adjusting to the light. The church was empty, gloomy with the lowering light outside. Alice moved towards the rows of wooden pews, intending to sit for a while. She reached out to touch the ornately carved end of the back pew; under her fingers, the polished wood was smooth, silky. A small movement flickered in the corner of her eye; she stopped, suddenly, caught.

  He was there.

  Her breath looped, surged. Her heart thudded, noisy in the billowing silence. Every muscle, every nerve in her body stilled, tensed. She had no wish to intrude. Up at the front of the church, to the right of the altar, Bastien crouched, his big body kneeling down on the flagstones, his elbows resting on the edge of a tomb, palms pushed against his face. His dark green tunic curved around the broad frame of his shoulders, bunched on the flagstones in crumpled folds around his knees. And between his fingers, something dangled, spinning in the damp, silent air. A ring. Katherine’s ring.

  Her heart plummeted, a vast sense of loss flooding her limbs; her chest gripped, squeezed suddenly in a vice of desolation. His hunched position spoke to her of a widening expanse between them, a gulf, a chasm that she couldn’t cross. She was unable to fight this, for how could she fight the dead? He was caught in a world that she could never enter. What had she been thinking—that he would forget his first, his only love, because of her? Even after they had spent that wonderful night together, he had warned her, told her of his black-hearted soul that would never change. And here was the reason: Katherine, his fiancée, his love, the girl he could obviously never forget. The clues had been there all along if she had thought about it; but she had chosen not to, ignoring the obvious. Such arrogance on her part! Slowly, tentatively, her heart swollen with grief, she began to back away discreetly, hoping, praying that he wouldn’t notice her.

  Immersed in his own thoughts, Bastien failed to hear the door slide shut behind him. Exhaustion dragged at his eyes; he had been at Katherine’s tomb since daybreak. The stone pressed into his forehead as he leaned his head against the carved edge, closing his eyes, trying to relieve the scratching feeling within them. He had spent the time remembering, remembering those brief happy moments with her, the horror of her death. It was time to say goodbye. He had done the right thing in returning to Foxhayne; the dark memories that he had believed would overwhelm him if he returned to the family home had failed to materialise, and he knew why.

  A newborn lightness danced around his heart, a surge of hope; the promise of a future he could never have dreamed of only a few weeks ago. And all because of one bright maid, all because of Alice. She had challenged him, back in the forest, told him he could change, but he hadn’t believed her, dismissed her words. Christ, she had even forgiven him for making love to her, and he had thrown it back in her face! But now, returning to Foxhayne, with Alice’s words ringing loud in his ears, he realised that it was possible. Between his fingers, the ring swung, the golden circle that had rested on Katherine’s slim, white finger, the leather lace that had lain all these years against his chest. It was time to say goodbye. Leaning forwards, he hung the lace with its ring around the small stone cross at the head of Katherine’s tomb.

  Alice stumbled from the church, blindly, the heavy rain sluicing down her fine features. Great, gulping tears surged from her chest, from the very core of her, splinters of anguish driving deep into her heart. Where could she run, where could she hide, now, to curl up and lick her wounds in private? Maybe the stables, they were often a quiet place to go. She rounded the corner of the house, sprinting fast, and cannoned straight into a wall of solid muscle. Her hands reached out instinctively to brace herself, and she squinted up through the raindrops, her breath emerging in swift short gasps.

  ‘Careful now,’ a brisk, stern voice advised. A short stocky man stood before her, steel helmet tucked under his arm. His split-sided white tunic bore the distinctive arms of the Duke of York, the falcon and the fetterlock embroidered into the heavy wool. His steadying hands fell from her shoulders, and she made as if to walk past him. ‘Hold a moment, my lady.’ The soldier peered at her with interest. ‘Have you by any chance seen Lord Bastien? I have to find him—it’s a matter of some urgency.’

  ‘Wh-what?’ she stuttered out, her mind refusing to work.

  ‘Lord Bastien,’ the soldier repeated patiently. ‘Do you know where he is?’

  She wanted to weep at the mention of his name, but she gritted her teeth, forcing herself to hold the tears in, to push the words out. ‘In the chapel, over there.’ As she turned to point the direction through the slanting rain, Bastien’s tall frame emerged from the low door, his blond head bright, distinctive against the stone lintel. ‘There he is,’ she whispered, wanting to run, to flee. Nay, nay! She couldn’t be with him at the moment: her whole body quaked with vulnerability, with the very rawness of the situation, as if her skin had been scoured with brambles. She had to go.

  ‘Excuse me.’ She stepped around the man, still intent on gaining the solitude of the stables. She couldn’t face Bastien now.

  ‘Alice, wait!’ Bastien called after her, his strong velvet tones punishing her with their beauty. She carried on walking, pretending not to hear. ‘Alice, stop!’

  He covered the ground in great bounding steps, too quick for her to escape, ignoring the soldier trying desperately to gain his attention, catching at her fingers, pulling her back to him. ‘Stay with me,’ he murmured, the fronds of his wet hair brushing her forehead. ‘I need to talk to you.’ His lips moved close to the sensitive lobe of her ear; she quivered at the familiar thrill arching through her slender frame. Why didn’t he ignore her? Why did he have to make it so difficult for her to leave? Surely he didn’t really want her here, after the t
ouching scene she had so recently witnessed?

  ‘Lord Bastien?’

  Bastien regarded the squat figure of the soldier, wrinkling his straight nose with mild irritation. ‘What is it?’ Droplets of rain clung to the ends of his hair, sparkling diamonds on gold.

  ‘The Duke needs you, my lord. He’s at Abberley. He sent this.’ The soldier handed Bastien a roll of parchment. Releasing Alice’s fingers, Bastine unrolled the thick paper, scanned the scrawl of writing, and groaned. The lustrous green of his eyes roved Alice’s face. ‘I have to go, Alice, the Duke does need me.’ He shook his head. ‘Believe me when I tell you it’s the last thing I want to do at this moment. There is so much I want to say to you, to share with you.’

  Alice frowned at the softness in his voice, the tenderness she saw lurking behind his eyes. Her heart reached out to him, even as she tried to close herself down against his devastating nearness. ‘Let me come with you, to Abberley,’ she whispered. Suddenly she longed for the predictable stability of home, the security and warmth of her father’s hug.

  ‘Nay, it’s too dangerous; the Duke has surrounded the castle.’

  ‘But…my parents?’

  ‘I’m sure they are safe. I’ll bring back news of them.’ The rain had eased up momentarily and he touched one lean finger to the yielding dampness of her cheek. ‘Promise me that you’ll stay here until I return. You’ll be safe.’ His lips curved into a smile, dazzling her, scraping cruelly at the open wound of her loneliness.

  ‘But…your mother? Will she mind?’ Alice inspected his angled face with wide blue eyes.

  ‘My mother will be all right. It’s me she hates, not you.’

  Alice plunged her hands into the powdery flour, kneading her fingers into the softening clots of butter, amalgamating the two by rubbing them together. Pouring in a few drops of water from an earthenware jug, she brought the mixture together to form a dough.