Captured by the Warrior (10 page)

Alice didn’t need telling twice.

Bastien would have been given a chamber in the west tower, she was sure of it. Closing her chamber door gently behind her, she leaned back for a moment, listening to the gentle puttering noises that Joan made as she tidied things away from Alice’s bath. She didn’t want Joan to see that she turned right down the corridor, instead of left, towards her mother’s apartments. Swiftly, she moved along the dimly lit passage, her bare feet making no sound against the wooden floorboards. In her haste to reach Bastien, she had forgotten her shoes and stockings—too late! Instinctively, her hand trailed lightly over the hewn stone wall for guidance; darkness had fallen outside, and the corridor only had one burning torch to light its length, throwing its flickering light from the far end, next to the door to the stairwell. Her hand made contact with the iron rivets, sunk deep into the grainy wood of the door, and she pushed through, on to the spiral staircase. Tiredness had been chased from
her; revived by the bath, her mind ran with a cool determination. To create a plausible story with Bastien was her main aim; it would enable him to dampen whatever suspicions the Queen might hold of him, and facilitate his audience with the King.

The stairs were unlit, so finding Bastien’s chamber was easy; light flooded out from beneath the door, and she rapped sharply with her knuckles, three times. No answer. Confident that no one else was about, she called his name, softly at first, then louder. Again, no answer. Her fingers curled into her palms, impatiently. Why did he not hear her? The need to speak to him overrode her hesitancy; calling his name once more, Alice turned the handle on the door and stepped in.

Lit by several torches, the chamber blazed with light, and she blinked rapidly after the dimness of the stairs. A fire crackled strongly beneath a massive sandstone mantel, filling the room with a sweet, soporific warmth. The bed was made up, the horsehair-stuffed mattress heaped with clean linens and woollen blankets. A tunic and something white—it looked like a crumpled linen shirt—had been flung across the fur coverlet, gleaming in the firelight.

Too late she heard the sound of water splashing in the side room to the chamber. She checked her hasty stride, and halted, bare toes curling hesitantly against the sleek elm boards. Indecision coursed through her, then, in a moment, she spun around, intending to leave.

‘Alice?’

She turned back at the familiar voice. Head almost touching the stone lintel, Bastien emerged from the ante-chamber, linen towel scrubbing at his hair, rivulets of water running down the strong column of his throat
and over the smooth, solid muscles of his torso, before disappearing into the low waistband of his chausses. A leather lace darkened with water swung from his neck, a golden ring swinging against the bare, honed skin of his chest, sparkling in the ambient light.

‘Oh…I’ll…’ Shocked, Alice stared, open-mouthed. A furious blush leapt uncontrollably to her cheeks; she put her palms up, trying to cover her face, to hide her reaction to him. A weakness surged over her and she staggered back, back, reaching her fingers behind her to grasp the door handle.

Bastien threw the towel on to the bed and stuck his hand in his hair, rumpling the glossy locks. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ he asked, eyebrows raised in question.

Alice swallowed, her mouth dry, arid. ‘I’ll…er…I’ll come back later.’ Mother of Mary, she could hardly speak properly, her breath emerging in short little puffs. The door handle refused to yield under her useless fingers; it wouldn’t turn!

Water droplets clung like diamonds to the muscled sleekness of Bastien’s skin, the sculptured muscles of his chest glowing in the warm light. Her blood fired; her fingers itched to touch, while her brain told her to leave, to go, now.

‘What is it?’ he asked, curiously. The maid seemed rooted to the spot. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ He took in the hectic skin of her face, her wild-eyed look. He walked over to her, and to his amazement, she shrank back, as if she was trying to disappear through the very wood of the door!

‘Alice, what is it?’ Concerned now, he reached for her hand.

‘Put…your…shirt on,’ Alice breathed out, both palms flat against the door for support. The honed steel of his chest was but inches away! Her eyes feasted on the beautiful sight before her, gulping in detail after beautiful detail. A fresh, invigorating smell lifted from him, the dampness from the water scenting his heated skin. His chest was covered with bronzed hairs, like burnished gold… Look away! her senses screamed. She ducked her eyes, only to be faced with the sight of his strong, flat stomach. In utter desperation, she closed her eyes.

‘What’s the matter…. haven’t you seen a man stripped to the waist before?’

Alice bridled at the taunt in his voice, eyes snapping open once more. ‘What? Nay, don’t be ridiculous, of course I haven’t!’ she blurted out.

His eyes moved over her flushed face. ‘Of course, my apologies. I forgot.’ Lord, but she was beautiful, standing before him, her delicate build framed by the rough-hewn oak of the door. The wide V-neck of her gown revealed an expanse of fragile skin below her neck, the dark fur edging the collar brushing against it. She had changed her gown, now wearing one that fitted her exactly; his eye traced the rounded curve of her bosom, the fine seaming that followed the indentation of her waist. Something knitted within him, deep within the kernel of his heart, igniting a delicious energy, a need. Inwardly, he groaned.

Alice frowned. Forgot? What was he talking about?

‘I forgot you were an innocent,’ Bastien answered her unspoken question. His voice was like silk, flowing over her, low, husky. He stepped a little closer, his knees brushing against the gathered folds of her gown,
rustling. In the soft, white hollow of her neck, he could see her pulse, beating rapidly.

Her blush deepened. ‘Stop teasing me. And go and put your shirt on!’ Her palms sprang forwards, lay flat against his chest to push him away. Beneath her trembling fingers, his skin was hard, yet warm. He took a deep, unsteady breath, the green of his eyes threaded with gilded desire.

‘You should have known better than to enter a man’s chamber without knocking.’ His voice was rough, husky. Unexpectedly, he leaned into her, over her, one hand above her head, palm flat against the door behind her. The warmth from his skin swept over her, tantalising, tormenting. Her heart squeezed, then accelerated, the blood hurtling around her body. Her innards dissolved in a flaming whirlpool of desire.

‘Nay,’ she breathed suddenly, quivering beneath him, sensing the change in him, her voice a whisper. ‘Don’t do this.’ But even as the words left her lips, her treacherous body craved his caress.

His fingers grazed her cheek; a shiver of desire pulsed through her at that single contact, thrilling her. He bent his head, and she slanted her mouth up to him, knowing what she did was wrong, but desperate to quell the raging flames within her, eager to find out what before she could only have guessed at. Her senses scattered, logic deserting her to be replaced with a keen, ravening hunger.

His cool firm mouth descended, met her lips with a fierce longing. Wave upon wave of desire crashed through her at the unbelievable sensations bombarding her body. Her hands moved over his chest, clung to his shoulders for support as his lips moved over hers,
slowly, languorously. Her mouth opened, like a flower in bloom, and he moaned, pressing his muscled length against her, wedging her up against the door, hard, as the kiss gained in intensity. In one savage, devastating movement, without his lips ever leaving hers, he lifted her up, pinned against the door, so her head was level with his, so her stomach pressed against his stomach, her soft thighs against his. He drank deep, and she gave, willingly.

‘Lord Dunstan!’ Someone banged on the door, loudly, insistently. Startled, Alice jerked against the door in fright, fear bolting through her, breathing fast. Bastien held her tight, her feet still dangling above the floor, lifting his mouth from hers reluctantly to put a finger to his lips.

‘My Lord Dunstan, I have been sent to bring you down to the great hall!’ the voice demanded from the other side of the door.

Alice wilted visibly. Edmund! It was Edmund who spoke through the door. Only the thickness of a plank of wood separated her from shameful discovery! She began to shake her head at Bastien, eyes wide with panic, drumming her fists against his chest, trying to tell him without speech that under no circumstances should he let the man in! Oh good Lord, what had she been thinking? Her body still hummed with the onslaught of Bastien’s kiss, her lips felt bruised, her hands shook as she brought them to her face, ashamed.

‘Who is it?’ Bastien dropped his mouth to her ear, but she jerked her head away, unable to contend with his nearness, struggling to be free of his hold. She let out a deep, shaky breath as he let her slide to the floor. ‘It’s Edmund,’ she hissed. Bastien looked blank. ‘My
betrothed!’ she explained, moving to the safety of the centre of the room. ‘For God’s sake, don’t let him in.’

To her utter chagrin, Bastien chuckled, the wide grin splitting his face with mirth, before he turned and opened the door a crack. ‘I’m a little busy right now,’ he explained to the person outside. ‘I thank you…and I’ll make my own way down.’ Listening to directions, he nodded once or twice, then shut the door, turning the key with a satisfying clunk.

At the sound of Edmund’s footsteps fading down the corridor, Alice crumpled back on to the bed with relief; her legs would no longer hold her. ‘Oh, Lord, what have I done?’ She dropped her face into her hands, humiliation churning in her insides.

Bastien approached her, studying her bowed head, the gossamer veil from her head-dress spilling forwards over her neat shoulders. ‘Was it really so terrible?’

She wrenched her face from her hands, eyes wide, pools of translucent periwinkle blue. ‘Nay…aye! It will be if Edmund finds out!’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ She frowned up at him. ‘Because this marriage to Edmund has to work…for my parents’ sake. They’re desperate to see me settled, cared for, especially now, as…’ Her voice trailed off as she smoothed her palm across the bed furs, thinking of her absent brother. ‘It’s possible that I’m all they have left.’

‘And what about you?’ Bastien asked calmly, the brilliant emerald of his eyes shining over her. ‘What do you want?’ His voice contained the husky edge of desire, nudging at her, reminding her.

She laughed, a hollow sound. ‘What I want doesn’t come into it, Bastien. I have to see that my parents are
provided for in their old age. Marriage to Edmund will fulfil that.’

‘Do you love him?’

She lifted her wide periwinkle-blue eyes up to his, her cheeks still burning fire from the impact of his kiss, her lips bruised. He knew the answer.

‘Please don’t make this more difficult for me.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was a kiss, Alice,’ he explained mildly, crossing his big arms across his chest. ‘Nothing to get worked up about, nothing to worry about. But don’t fool yourself it was all my doing. You were a willing participant.’

The vivid hue in her cheeks deepened as the memory of the kiss, vibrant, exciting, burst into her mind. She ducked her head, plucking at a loose thread on the embroidered skirt of her gown. He was right—she was just as much to blame as he was. Her flesh throbbed, pulsed from his touch; it was as if he had plundered the very core of her, turned it inside out and set it back differently. She had tasted the edge of danger in that compelling kiss, the promise of something more, and she ground her fingers into the soft fur of the coverlet to quell her heightened feelings. He had said it was nothing, and that was how she must think of it.

Alice flinched as Bastien reached past her, picking up his shirt. A golden ring, resting against his chest, spun forwards on a leather lace, snagging her gaze. Inadvertently, her fingers lifted towards it, touched the cool metal.

‘A betrothal ring?’ she stuttered out, anxious to deflect the attention away from what had just happened.

‘You could say that.’ Bastien yanked the shirt over his head.

‘Who are you planning to marry?’

‘No one. The girl I intended to marry is dead.’ Bastien studied Alice’s startled features, her forlorn, drooping figure. He would do well to remember Katherine now, the cool, linear beauty of his first, his only, love, and recall the agony of her loss. He would do well to remember the strict boundaries of his self-imposed restraint, locked into place at her death. Yet this kiss had surpassed those limits, sneaked through when his guard was lowered, carrying with it the promise of immeasurable desire, of love. This kiss had scared the hell out of him. He had told her it was nothing, a mere passing dalliance to assuage his physical attraction towards a beautiful woman. It should have meant nothing. In reality, the kiss had pillaged feelings he had thought long since laid to waste, and breathed new life into them. At the press of her rosebud mouth, the iron-bound shackles around his heart had begun to slip.

E
dmund tripped carefully down the spiral staircase, smirking to himself. Lord Dunstan had a girl in his chamber, of that he was certain. Not in the castle above two moments and already he was dallying with one of the maids. Good luck to him! It was none of his business what Lord Dunstan did; only unfortunate that the Queen had spotted him doing very little in the great hall, and had asked him to escort the new visitor to the evening meal. He grimaced, his mouth curling down to a sharp little pout. Queen Margaret treated him like a servant, when she knew full that his father was a knight, albeit not a very rich one.

Once he received the money from his uncle, things would change—the Queen would have to treat him with more respect; why, he’d probably be richer than her! Poor Alice had no idea to what she had agreed; naturally, she trusted him, believed in him. He had all those years of friendship to thank for that; he hoped it would be enough to persuade her to elope with him. Only
yesterday another message had arrived from his uncle; the man was growing impatient for his prize and would not wait for ever. Now Lady Beatrice was aware of the plan, it would make things easier; he had taken a chance by telling her, but she had agreed readily, believing her daughter, over time, would see the sense of it.

Edmund held his sleeve away from the gritty stone wall as he descended; a snagged thread on his tunic was the last thing he wanted. Soon, soon he would be able to buy all the fine new clothes he could possibly wish for, but for now, he liked to take care of the few garments in his possession. Rounding the bottom of the stairs, he scanned the corridor, ensuring it was empty. He smoothed back his floppy chestnut hair, a secret joy bubbling in his chest; with Lord Dunstan having no need of him, there was time to meet Beatrice. Now Alice had returned, they needed to discuss what they were going to do with her.

At the head of the stairs, Bastien waited for Alice to fetch her stockings and slippers before they went down for the evening meal. The tempting sight of her bare toes, her delicate pink toenails, as she sat amidst his bed furs, had sent a fresh surge of desire through his muscular frame. He wished he hadn’t mentioned Katherine; surprisingly, he’d completely forgotten the ring that swung around his neck until Alice commented upon it. Yet his words had done nothing to diminish the power of that unnerving kiss with Alice. He had thought her naïve, innocent, which she was, but, Mother of God, the passion that burned under her diminutive exterior had almost made him lose his self-control. He had hoped it would be a disappointment, serving only
to wipe out any further sensual thoughts towards her, but, in truth, it had left him wanting more. His brawny frame hummed, throbbed with the memory.

Through the dim haze of arrested passion, Bastien had been taken aback by the sight of Alice’s betrothed, peering up at him through the crack in the door. Brown, obsequious eyes, weak chin, a slight lisping voice—God in Heaven, he chuckled to himself, Alice would walk all over him. Especially as her sense of loyalty, of duty towards her parents, had driven her to accept this man’s offer of marriage. It was not an uncommon event—most noble marriages happened from convenience rather than love—it was only now that he baulked at the injustice of it all. Bastien’s fingers curled into the stone ledge as he recalled the peculiar, lop-sided tilt of Edmund’s lips, an acrid taste in his mouth. Something was not quite right about Alice’s betrothed.

Through the open window, the setting sun warmed his back, highlighting the endless small stitches holding the pleats in place on the back of his tunic. The fading sounds of the day drifted up to him: a cartwheel squeaking on a distant path, the shouts of the grooms in the stables, a faint yapping of a dog. And, much closer, two voices. Two distinct, recognisable voices lifting towards him, hanging in the still air; the thin, reed-like tones of Alice’s fiancé, and the higher-pitched wheedling tones of her mother. He heard Alice’s name and the promise of coin; his heart grew cold.

The young Queen Margaret smoothed the white linen tablecloth beneath her palm, rubbing with her middle finger at the puckered crease set into the material. Frowning, she swept her eyes along the length of the
high table, checking that everything else was properly set; she always insisted on the highest standards and it vexed her to see details out of place.

‘I don’t like it, Beatrice.’ She turned to her lady-in-waiting, who sat beside her.

‘It’s the new laundress,’ Beatrice explained, trying to interpret Margaret’s stony expression. ‘She hasn’t quite—’

‘Nay, not that!’ Margaret stopped her speech, impatient. ‘I mean your daughter. It sounds as if she landed herself in a proper tangle. Why did she not come and see me, the moment she came back? Surely she knew I would be anxious for details about our knights? I have heard nothing from the Duke of York, but I presumes he holds them.’

The young Queen leaned back in her high-backed chair, ornately carved with an intricate pattern of trailing ivy leaves, as a servant placed a steaming platter of roast chicken before the ladies. The hanging diamonds on her heart-shaped head-dress bobbed as she hitched forwards again, resting her elbows on the table.

‘Alice was exhausted when she returned, in no fit state to see anybody.’ Beatrice screwed her lips together. How many times had she had to excuse her daughter’s behaviour? At least now, with Edmund’s help, she had a solution for Alice.

Margaret lifted her silver goblet to her lips, drinking deep. She was exhausted as well, exhausted with dealing with the affairs of state whilst her husband languished in an upstairs chamber with only a single servant for company. A strange madness had overtaken him: he didn’t speak, he hardly ate or drank, just stared blankly at the wall, unmoving. It had been
months now, and Margaret knew her excuses for her husband’s absence were wearing thin. The situation was tenuous, for if Henry were unable to rule, then the throne would be taken from him, and from the child she would bear very soon. Her hand rounded protectively over her stomach, her eyes narrowing. She knew just who would steal it from under their noses: her bitterest enemy—the Duke of York! She would do everything in her power to prevent that happening!

Beatrice nudged Margaret’s shoulder. ‘My lady, look, here’s Alice now…and she looks much refreshed. She’ll be able to tell you everything.’

‘Who is that with her?’ Margaret’s eyes rested on the tall, commanding man behind Alice’s diminutive figure in the doorway.

‘Oh, er…’ Beatrice searched her memory. Had the man told her his name? She had been so incensed by Alice’s behaviour that she had failed to take anything else in. ‘His name escapes me, my lady. But it was he who rescued Alice, and brought her back.’

‘I see,’ Margaret replied drily. Really, her lady-in-waiting could be remarkably dense at times. Names were important in these troubled times—why, you could scarce trust your own neighbour, let alone some complete stranger!

On the threshold of the great hall, Alice paused. Shame continued to rush through her, a deep red humiliation at her reckless, wanton behaviour. He had told her the kiss was nothing, yet her body told her otherwise: even now, as he stood behind her in the doorway, as the warmth of his breath fanned the vulnerable skin at the back of her neck, a flicker of excitement licked
along her veins! She clenched her fists, willing herself to concentrate on the matter in hand.

The great hall was packed, thronging with the King’s retainers; his knights and servants jostled for space on the trestle tables, while the nobles sat up on the high dais with the Queen. Servants brought out platter after platter of hot, steaming food; a delicious aroma filled the hall, mingled with the distinctive smell of wood smoke. Alice’s heart failed as Margaret beckoned to her, unsmiling, indicating that she should join her on the dais. This was it; this was the moment she would hide the truth from her Queen about Bastien’s identity. Against her stomach, her fingers knotted together, palms sweating.

‘Keep going,’ Bastien rapped in her ear, putting his hand to the small of her back to give her a gentle push.

Despite the raised noise levels, the chattering and clink of goblets, Alice felt every eye in the hall upon her, judging her. ‘I can’t do this,’ she whispered. Her stomach twisted with nerves, panic radiating from every pore.

‘Remember your father,’ Bastien reminded her gruffly. To his surprise, he found himself hating this situation, forcing the girl to do something against her will, especially after the conversation he had unwittingly overheard.

‘Come on,’ he continued more gently. He wanted to comfort her, not push her on. ‘Tarrying will not help.’

‘But what if someone recognises you?’ She turned to look up at him, eyes huge orbs of sapphire.

‘It would be unlucky if anyone did; I’ve been out of the country for so long.’ He put a hand on her shoulder, propelled her forwards. ‘Remember what we agreed
upon, and all should be well.’ On the way down they had cobbled together a simple story of her rescue. Now, as Alice climbed the wooden steps to the dais, she rehearsed the scenario over and over in her head, the details churning in her mind.

‘Come, sit with us, please,’ Margaret swept out her arm, indicating that Beatrice should move down so that Bastien could sit on one side of her, and Alice in the empty seat to her left. Beatrice sucked her cheeks in with displeasure at the inconvenience of having to move her plate, her goblet, performing the task with an ostentatious clatter.

Bastien swept a low, formal bow. ‘Your Majesty, Lord Dunstan, at your service. It is an honour to make your acquaintance.’

Margaret’s liquid brown eyes travelled the length of the man before her. ‘Have we not met before?’ she asked, curiously. ‘Please, sit down,’ she added, indicating the seat at her side.

‘I doubt it, your Majesty. I have been away for many years, fighting in France.’

‘Ah, yes, of course. At least now all is resolved over there.’ Margaret attempted to keep her tone neutral, a deliberate monotone. As the wife of the English King, she had to support all things English, but secretly she had celebrated when the English had returned in defeat. Her countrymen had won!

‘And where are your lands, your family?’ During the King’s illness, Margaret had made some effort to try to learn all the names of the powerful families in England, all those dukes and earls who would support the King in battle. The list had been endless, full of unpronounceable English names that had made her head
ache. Now, determined not to show her ignorance, she wished she had paid more attention.

‘I have lands up in the north, my lady.’

Margaret shuddered; she had never, in her few years of marriage, ventured to the north, and neither had King Henry. It was a part of the country to be feared, full of desperate men living hand to mouth, proud and warlike, accustomed to a harsh life.

‘How agreeable,’ she commented lamely. No doubt he wanted money, some sort of reward for his pains in rescuing Alice—those sort of people always did. ‘And what brought you to our part of the country?’

‘I was travelling home from France, your Majesty, when I heard the Lady Alice’s screams.’ Bastien’s tone was confident, measured. ‘It was lucky that she lagged behind, guarded only by two soldiers. I was able to snatch her from the back, and ride away.’

Lagged behind! How dare he? Alice listened to his account with annoyance, nibbling on a bread roll. The crumbs stuck in her gullet, and she took a deep gulp of wine to wash it down. The fiery liquid spread down her throat, through her veins, steadying her slightly.

Beatrice leaned forwards, her face a white mask. ‘And my husband was definitely taken prisoner?’

Bastien nodded. ‘According to Lady Alice, he was captured as he went out into the battlefield to help the wounded.’

‘Stupid, stupid numbskull!’ Beatrice jabbed her knife into a slice of meat. ‘Why must he persist in this foolish game…and involve
you?
’ She bent forwards, staring past Bastien, past Margaret, to fix Alice with a baleful eye.

‘If he hadn’t been there, Mother, those soldiers would
have died where they fell. That’s why he does it…and it’s why I go; two of us are more helpful than just one.’

‘Calm yourself, Beatrice,’ Margaret said sternly. She checked that two guards still flanked the side door to the dais, to reassure herself, although she felt no threat from this man beside her. ‘And now you are returned to England, I hope you support your King?’ she ventured, wondering if he were aware of the grumblings amongst the nobles about the King’s continual absence.

‘I have six hundred paid soldiers at my command,’ Bastien replied, his tone neutral.

Margaret laughed. ‘Why, that is a small army in itself!’ She managed to restrain herself from visibly rubbing her hands. So many powerful families had turned against the King in the past few weeks, and she had been too wary of this huge Northerner; by his admission of strength, he was obviously prepared to support the King.

Lean fingers curling around the stem of his goblet, Bastien fixed Margaret with his piercing gaze. ‘I am naturally keen to meet the King, to discuss his future plans.’

Alice took another gulp of wine. The red liquid warmed her innards, relaxed her trembling hands. She chewed at the inside of her cheek, praying for the end of this conversation, praying for the end of the meal, when she could fly back to her chamber and hide her head in shame. How could such a man make her feel in such a way? He was a barbarian, the enemy, someone she should push away, yet every time he came near her, her limbs melted in treachery.

Margaret was shaking her head at Bastien. ‘I’m sorry, my lord. He has been taken ill, suddenly, tonight, a bad
headache, unfortunately,’ she said smoothly, studying a speck of wine on the tablecloth that spread, blotting the white linen. ‘But be assured that we will count on your support, and will call on you when you are needed. We pay those who support us well.’ Her smile was wide, but foundered before it reached her eyes.

The wine trailed like liquid fire down Alice’s throat as she stared out across the bobbing sea of heads below, not wanting to catch Bastien’s eye, not wanting any part of this deception. Her neck felt rigid with the effort of keeping her head turned away. To her dismay, she spotted Edmund waving at her frantically from a trestle on the far side of the hall, his white hand flashing plumply in contrast with the richer tones of the tapestry draped down the wall behind him. He would want to talk to her, to be seen with her in his official capacity as her betrothed. Her heart thumped dully; she should go down to him.