Captured by the Warrior

‘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.

Bastien’s 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 roughhewn 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, was 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.

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About the Author

MERIEL FULLER lives in a quiet corner of rural Devon with her husband and two children. Her early career was in advertising, with a bit of creative writing on the side. Now she has a family to look after, writing has become her passion. A keen interest in literature, the arts and history, particularly the early medieval period, makes writing historical novels a pleasure. The Devon countryside, a landscape rich in medieval sites, holds many clues to the past, and has made her research a special treat.

Novels by the same author:

CONQUEST BRIDE

THE DAMSEL’S DEFIANCE

THE WARRIOR’S PRINCESS BRIDE

Chapter One

Shropshire, England 1453

‘Sweet Jesu!’ Beatrice Matravers moaned with her usual peevishness, raising a quaking white hand to her high, unlined forehead. ‘This infernal bumping will be the death of me!’ As if acknowledging her curse, the cart lurched violently, causing Beatrice to reel against the padded interior. There she stayed, supported by the side of the cart, her eyes shuttered, her mouth twisted into a forbidding expression of grim dissatisfaction. Her maid, Joan, lolled at her side, deep in a comfortable sleep.

‘Take heart, Mother, try to rest.’ Alice Matravers leaned forwards, smiling, patting her mother’s knee by way of encouragement. The elaborate gold embroidery decorating Beatrice’s gown rasped against her fingertips. Alice sat back, raising one small hand to part the thick velvet curtains that covered the opening, trying to establish their location. Stifled by the warm, tense atmosphere of the cramped interior, she pushed her face out beyond the curtain, relishing the fresh morning air on her skin. Outside the day was clear, bright; the beech trees, dressed in their gaudy autumn colours, towered up and over the narrow track that ran through the forest, their trunks smooth boles of dark grey wood.

A thin trail of annoyance threaded Alice’s veins, the result of this long journey coupled with her mother’s continuous whining since they had left Bredon earlier that morning. She sighed. Her mother would have been far happier if Sir Humphrey Portman had found Alice more amenable, more fitting as a potential bride. There was no question that he had found her distinctly lacking in all the qualities needed to become the lady of a manor; why, he had positively scowled when Alice had marched confidently up to the top table, greeting him with a broad smile. The day had lurched downhill from then on.

‘We should be home by the four o’clock bell.’ Alice sagged back against the feather cushions, blinking rapidly to adjust her eyes to the dim, shadowed interior once more.

‘That is some consolation, I suppose,’ Beatrice replied faintly. Her wide blue eyes, the image of her daughter’s, swept over Alice with a mixture of irritation and puzzlement. ‘Of course, we would still be there if Sir Humphrey had found you more accommodating. I had hoped…this time…after our little talk…’ Beatrice’s words drifted off, disappointed.

‘I am sorry, Mother,’ Alice apologised. Guilt scraped at her insides. Her parents only held her best interests at heart: to see her happily married to a wealthy husband, a brood of smiling children clutching at her skirts. She wished for that as well, but with a man she could truly love, someone who would give her the freedom and independence to which she was accustomed, not some elderly suitor twice her age who would curb her ways in an instant!

‘Well, there’s always Edmund.’ Beatrice smiled wanly. ‘He’s keen to marry you, and he’s due to come into his inheritance quite soon. Although it will be less than all your previous suitors possessed.’ The blue shadows under her mother’s eyes seemed deep, heavy, evidence of countless nights without sleep. Even now, with the war in France at an end, there had been no news of Alice’s brother, who had left to fight for his country two years previously, and had still not returned.

‘Edmund’s a good man,’ Alice agreed. ‘It’s just that…’ How could she tell her mother that the prospect of marrying Edmund filled her mind with insipid pictures of unending dreariness? Comfortable, aye, but dull. She had known Edmund since childhood; she liked him, he was a good companion, but she did not love him. But her mother’s ravaged face forced her to reconsider; it would make both her parents so happy if she married.

‘…it’s just that, I don’t love Edmund,’ she blurted out finally.

Beatrice fixed her with red-rimmed eyes. ‘I’ve told you before, my girl, love does not, should not, come into it! We need coin, coin that your useless father fails to provide, and a rich marriage for you is the only way to acquire it.’

Alice bit her lip, frowning. In comparison to Sir Humphrey, Edmund appeared a far better prospect. And maybe, if they married, love would blossom between them. The weight of responsibility dragged at her shoulders. Abruptly, she stood, clinging on to the curtain for support. ‘I’m going to ride for a bit; I need some fresh air.’

As Alice swung down from the lumbering cart, her soft leather slippers sinking into the spongy ground, she half-expected her mother to call her back, to entreat her not to ride in the elaborate, fashionable dress that she had worn especially for this visit. But Beatrice seemed subdued, forlorn even, caught up in her own thoughts, and Alice was happy to leave her to them.

Seeing her spring down lightly from the moving cart, one of the escort soldiers shouted a brief command for the entourage to stop. Alice smiled gratefully up at him, picking her way carefully through the muddy ruts to the back of the cart where the soldier led her dappled grey mare. She knew, without looking down, that the long sweeping hem of her gown dragged through the mud; as she stuck her toe into the stirrup, the claggy earth smeared the bottom three inches of the beautiful green silk.

‘May I be of assistance, my lady?’ The soldier leaned forwards as if preparing to dismount, the smooth metal plates of his armour gleaming in the filtered sunlight.

‘Nay, no need,’ Alice reassured him hastily, swinging herself up into the saddle to sit astride. The soldier turned his face away, hiding a smirk; the lady Alice was well known for her tomboyish ways, which never ceased to cause amusement among the many members of the royal entourage.

‘Er…you may want to…’ The soldier indicated the vast bundle of skirts bunched around her slight figure.

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Alice grinned, wriggling in the saddle so that she could pull out the back of her gown, and then the back of her cloak, to lie flat across of the rump of the horse. ‘I’m not used to wearing these sort of clothes.’ Turning around, she shifted her balance as the entourage set in motion once more, pleased that she had possessed the forethought to wear a cloak for the journey, something her more fashionable mother refused to do.

Yet despite the cloak’s heavy folds, after the cloying heat of the cart she still shivered in the chill autumn air. Her mother had insisted upon her wearing an elaborate gown, sewn from an expensive silk velvet. A silver gilt thread formed the weft of the material, so the dress sparkled with every movement, but the lightweight material offered little protection against the outside elements. Accustomed to wearing more understated, practical clothes, Alice baulked against the ostentation of the garment. It represented everything she hated about living at court with King Henry and his French wife, Queen Margaret of Anjou: the vanity, the constant sniping and bickering of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, of which her mother was one, and the long hours frittered away in pointless needlework. Thank the Lord for her father, a physician to the royal court, who also found time to tend to the poor outside the royal circle. Much to her mother’s disgust, Alice would accompany him on these trips, dressed in her older brother’s clothes so as not to draw attention to herself. Thomas! Her heart squeezed painfully at the thought of her brother, his bright, laughing face flitting through her mind. As children, they had been constant companions, running wild through the royal forests, riding bareback, climbing trees. Thomas had forged a love of the outdoors in her, how to relish the wind in her hair, the fine rain on her skin. How she missed him!

Her mother’s head poked out from the cart, her jewelled U-shaped head-dress sparkling in the sunshine, the vivid material strangely at odds against the drab colours of the forest. The side pieces, attached to this padded roll, were each fashioned from a net of thin gold wire, covering her ears. Alice knew her mother’s hair to be the same burnished blonde as her own, but the fashion of the moment dictated that every scrap of a woman’s hair should be hidden. Alice stifled a giggle as she watched the head-dress snag on a loose thread of the curtain; this type of fashion was completely impractical for travelling.

‘Alice,’ Beatrice’s fractious tone whined over to her, ‘I need to rest for a bit. I feel sick.’

Alice’s heart sunk a little. She had hoped not to delay the journey any longer than was necessary, and was surprised her mother wanted to stop—there might be news from Thomas at home.

‘Could we stop here?’ Alice lifted her wide blue eyes up to the soldier beside her. ‘Maybe have something to eat? My mother needs to rest.’

Exasperation crossed the soldier’s face, swiftly suppressed.

‘I’m sorry,’ Alice mumbled, catching his expression. ‘I realise you and your men wish to return to Abberley as quickly as possible.’

‘No matter, my lady.’ The soldier’s face cleared. ‘But these are troubled times. I would not wish to tarry too long.’ He ran his eye along the serried rank of beech trees that crowded in along the sunken track. ‘There’s a clearing up ahead,’ he announced. ‘I’ll ride on and tell them to stop.’

Lady Matravers perched bolt upright on the woven wool rugs that Joan had spread out in the forest clearing. Now the servant was busily drawing out the many muslin-wrapped packages prepared for them by the staff in Sir Humphrey’s kitchens. He might be a miserable old bore, thought Alice, but he certainly didn’t stint on food. Her stomach growled at the sight of roasted chicken legs, rounds of creamy cheese and crusty bread.

At the sight of all the open packages, Beatrice shot her a loaded look, as if to say, ‘Look what you’re giving up’. Never had her mother’s disapproval been more apparent, more tangible.

‘Here, mistress, take some food, it will make you feel better.’ On her knees in front of the wicker basket, Joan passed across to Beatrice a flat pewter plate laden with delicacies. ‘And the same for you, my lady?’ The servant turned her well-worn features towards Alice, who loitered on the edge of the clearing.

‘Maybe later.’ Her limbs felt pinched, stiff after the long hours of sitting in the cart. Riding her horse had eased the feeling slightly, but the experience had been curtailed too soon to have any real benefit. ‘I think I’ll take a little walk.’

The dangling pearls attached to her mother’s head-dress swung violently, as Beatrice’s head bounced up, her eyes narrowing. ‘Then take a soldier with you.’

‘Oh, Mother, it’s not something I want a guard to see.’ Alice said, implying that her walk involved a matter of a more delicate nature.

‘Ah, I see…then Joan.’ Her mother floated one pale hand in the direction of the servant.

‘Mother…’ Alice smiled ‘…I’ll be careful. I’ll not go out of earshot. It’s perfectly safe.’

As she stepped away from the clearing, and her mother’s piercing regard, Alice drew in a deep lungful of the verdant forest air. Beech husks crackled beneath her slippers as her footsteps sank into the soft mass of decaying leaves and rotting vegetation. For the hundredth time that day, she cursed the inadequacy of her footwear; when she ventured out with her father, she always wore stout, laced boots.

Every now and again, the sunlight managed to pierce the thinning canopy above, sending a column of spiralling light down to the brown earth. Occasionally the sun’s warm fingers touched her face, reminding her of the balmy days of summer, making her want to shut her eyes and turn her face up to the light. Above her head, birds fluttered and chirruped, darting in and out of the branches, hardly heeding her quiet steps. The strain across her shoulders and neck began to diminish, released by the exercise, the tension of the past few days beginning to ease. At her back, she could still hear the low guttural tones of the soldiers as they ate their midday meal at the side of the track; she determined not to venture too far.

Over to her right, she caught the faintest sound of water: the high, bubbling notes capturing her interest in an instant. She pushed off the open path, through the undergrowth, all the time checking back to make certain of her direction. Brambles caught at her cloak, low branches snagged at her simple head-dress, but Alice would not be deterred.

And there it was. Water gushed over a rocky outcrop, bundling and frothing down into a small pool, trickling away into a narrow stream. The noise of the water drowned out all other sounds in the forest, and she felt herself mesmerised by the melodic bubbling and churning of the water, enchanted by its supine fluidity.

A sweaty hand clamped over her mouth. ‘Got you!’ A rough voice jagged at her ear, as she was pulled unceremoniously backwards, away, away from the water, away from the track where the cart and her mother waited.

A searing panic vaulted through her limbs, her blood slackening with fright; she wrenched her shoulders first one way, then the other, trying to loosen the man’s fearsome grip. An odious stench of masculine sweat overlaid with a clinging smell of stale grease assailed her nostrils as the man hauled her backwards, her heels bumping, dragging uselessly against the earth. Thick clammy fingers dug into the softness of her cheek, the palm clenched so tightly across her mouth and nose that she found it difficult to breathe. A huge arm circled the upper part of her body, clamping her arms firmly to her sides, preventing her from trying to raise them up to dislodge the hold.

Then the man’s grip was suddenly released and she was sent spinning to the ground in a flurry of rich embroidered skirts. A chorus of ribald male laughter encircled her; her heart skittered with jerky fear. How many? she wondered. How many men stood above her, laughing at her? For a moment she lay there, face down in the wet leaves, the smell of rotting vegetation climbing in her nostrils, the damp seeping into the bodice of her gown, before the same fear galvanised her, forced her to lift her head. In a quick movement, she pushed herself up on her arms, twisting around, opening her mouth to scream and scream. The sound reverberated in her ears, a piercing, desperate noise—surely someone would come to her aid!

‘Shut the silly bitch up, for God’s sake!’ The order was swift, threatening.

One of the younger men bent down, binding a length of dirty rag across her mouth, his fingers snagging in the back of her veil as he tied a crude knot. He sniggered as she shook her head this way and that, trying to prevent him from tying the gag. ‘Looks like you’ve picked us a feisty morsel—’ the young soldier finished the knot and murmured approvingly, touching the silken skin of her cheek ‘—and a pretty one too.’

Slowly, reluctantly, Alice compelled herself to focus on the men around her. Her heart plummeted. Five soldiers surrounded her, crowded in on her neat, seated figure, staring down at her with hungry, bloodshot eyes. Orange rust blighted their dented plate armour, mud and what looked like dried blood splattered their long cloaks; their surcoats were torn and dirty. White exhaustion clouded their faces, the shadowed hollows beneath their eyes only adding to their expressions of ruthless desperation. And on the front of their tunics, God forbid, the distinctive coat-of-arms of the Duke of York! Her eyes widened fractionally; these men were knights, not common soldiers, and as knights should be bound by the chivalric code, the first rule of which was to treat any woman with respect! A fierce, wild anger began to replace her initial fear; before anyone could stop her, she sprang to her feet, tearing at the gag across her mouth.

‘You will pay for this!’ Her eyes, flashing blue fire, swept derisively around the circle of men as she jabbed her finger at them. ‘I am under the protection of King Henry the Sixth himself, not some serving wench to be dallied with in the forest!’ Her voice was shrill.

The soldiers guffawed. One burly man stepped forwards, towering over her. ‘And what King’s protection lets a maid walk unaccompanied through the woods, tell me that, eh?’ He shoved at her harshly, causing her to stagger back into the younger knight, who caught her easily under the arms. ‘You’re the youngest, John, I suggest you go first.’

Bastien de la Roche drained the last drops of liquid from his leather flagon, before placing it back into the satchel at the back of his horse. Squeezing his knees, he set his animal in motion once more, slowly following a narrow trackway that skirted the edge of a forest. To his left, the land swept away in a series of gentle hills and hollows; to his right, the forest was alive with the sound of birds, a slight breeze riffling through the tops of the branches. It felt good to be back in England again. Almost. His mind paused, stilled for a moment on the distant memory. Nay, he would not think of that now.

He had forgotten how soft the land could look; the extended fighting in France had kept him away for too long. And now it was lost, all lost. France, the country that successive English kings had fought long and hard to keep, had finally slipped from their grasp. England had conceded victory to the triumphant French and now the English soldiers tramped home, despondent, defeated and often with no homes towards which they could head.

Under the restrained, jogging gait of his destrier, the stallion that had carried him all the way back from France, he unbuckled the chin strap of his helmet, lifting it from his head. Tucking the visored metal under one arm, he pushed back the hood of his chainmail hauberk. The chill breeze sifted deliciously through his hair, and he pushed his fingers through the strands, savouring the cool release against his scalp.

Idly, he wondered where his soldiers had stopped in this vast forest. His horse had cast a shoe and, while a village blacksmith had fitted a new one, he had sent his soldiers on to rest, and eat. His men were keen to reach home; another two or three hours of riding would see them back at his estates in Shropshire. He hadn’t set eyes on his home for nearly two winters; now he relished the thought of good food in his stomach, fine linen sheets against his weary skin and a warm hearth, even if it did mean seeing his mother again. The time in France had been spent in a pointless circle of attack and retreat; some nights had been spent under canvas, with the rain beating hard and thick to soak the heavy material of their tents; other nights had seen him and his men ensconced in a hospitable castle.

A scream pierced the air. A woman’s scream. Further on, up to the right, a mass of rooks flung into the sky in one swirling, orchestrated movement, shaken from their tree-top perches. Bastien grimaced, nudging his horse in the direction of the sound; instinctively he knew that his men were involved. They were hungry, tired and dirty after the long months of campaigning in France—no doubt they believed English society owed them a little fun.

The springy turf muffled the sound of his horse’s hooves as he cut into the forest from the main path, sure of his direction. Now he could hear the men’s voices, their ribald laughter echoing through the trees as they taunted some common wench. Dismounting swiftly, he secured his horse’s reins to a nearby branch and continued to approach on foot, his hand poised over the hilt of his sword.

He could hear a woman’s high tone, raised in trembling anger now after the high-pitched screaming, the clear, bell-like notes castigating his men with ferocious persistence. The main bulk of his tall frame hidden by the generous trunk of an oak tree, he slid his head around cautiously to gain a better view and almost laughed out loud. A maid, a noblewoman by the quality of her garments, stood to one side of the clearing, both hands wrapped around the hilt of a sword that was evidently too heavy for her. He recognised the sword as belonging to one of his men; she must have managed to grab it from one of them. The heavy blade dipped and swayed as her diminutive frame struggled to hold it horizontally, every now and again sweeping to the left, then the right with it, to ward his men off, to stop them from coming close. What utter fools his soldiers were! Sweet Jesu, there would be women enough on his estate to warm their beds—why couldn’t they have waited a few more hours?

The maid’s face glowed with a pearl-like lustre in the shadowed pale-golden light, her eyes wide and anxious as she stared at the semi-circle of soldiers. Her mead-coloured hair was caught back into a heavy bun at the nape of her neck, secured into a golden net. A silken veil fell in a series of stiff pleats from the simple heart-shaped head-dress. Against the dusty, travel-stained garments of his soldiers, she stood out like a bright jewel, an exquisite flower amongst common brambles.

‘I will take my leave now,’ she was saying, her small, oval face set with determination as she gave the sword another couple of swipes for good measure, ‘and you will not follow me.’ Behind the tree, Bastien grinned; from the expression on her face, it was obvious she had no idea what to do next. If she turned, then the men would jump on her; if she backed away, unsure of her path, then the thick undergrowth would prevent fast movement.

Bastien advanced stealthily into the shadows behind her, his step light assured as a cat. The mouths of his men dropped open in surprise at the sight of him; John, the youngest, began to blush. He knew he had done wrong and that they would pay for it. The maid retreated tentatively, the sword point drooping as her narrow shoulders and slim back began to close the gap between herself and Bastien.

‘And if any of you dare to follow me,’ the maid continued in her high-pitched, imperious tone…

‘…they will have me to deal with,’ Bastien murmured behind her.

Her lithe body jumped and turned, quick as a hare, bringing the lethal sword point slashing round. He grabbed the wrist that held the sword, squeezing the fragile bones that gave her fingers the strength to hold the weapon. Green eyes, flecked with gold, glittered over her.