Captured by the Warrior Page 13

  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 attempte
d 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.

  At her elbow, the serving girl filled her silver goblet to the brim once more. Bastien’s easy, affable manner had easily won over the young Queen, easing her suspicious mind, and now the pair of them chatted amicably, like old friends. The urge to yell out, to scream to all that he was a Yorkist, an enemy in their midst, surged strongly in her veins, only to be curbed by the image of her father as she said goodbye to him in Ludlow.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ Margaret turned her smiling face towards Alice. Her creamy skin glowed in the candlelight, sheened, like pale-coloured velvet.

  ‘I beg your pardon, my lady.’ Alice blushed. ‘I didn’t hear what you said.’

  ‘Head in the clouds again?’ Margaret teased. The strain slipped from her face as she smiled, making her appear much younger, her true age. This royal marriage was taking its toll on the young Queen’s nerves. ‘I was just saying that Lord Dunstan here should stay for the wedding celebrations of Lord Halston. The marriage is the day after tomorrow, with jousting in the afternoon.’

  Alice’s world began to unravel; the stone wall at the side of the high dais seemed to dip and lurch. ‘Stay?’ she managed to croak out. ‘Here?’ Her stomach flipped, then looped violently.

  ‘Of course, here!’ Margaret laughed. ‘Where else would you have him stay?’

  As far away as possible, thought Alice. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea.’

  Margaret wrinkled her petite nose, puzzled. ‘Why ever not? Surely Lord Dunstan must be rewarded for bringing you back to us, for rescuing you?’

  Alice’s eyes moved past Margaret’s questioning features, trapping Bastien’s bright eyes. He frowned, almost imperceptibly: a warning. ‘Don’t you need to be somewhere else?’ she asked him directly, her fingers pulling nervously at a bread roll. The muscles tightened in her face, making her speech inflexible, forced.

  ‘Not particularly.’ His wide smile caused small, crinkled lines to fan out from the sides of his eyes. ‘I can spare a few days.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Margaret chimed in, clapping her hands. Maybe when she told the King about this new ally, the impressive Lord Dunstan, it might rouse him out of his stupor. She could only hope, and pray.

  Alice placed her hands flat on the table, then levered herself into a standing position. What was the matter with her? Everything seemed to moving around, dancing before her eyes. Bastien was changing the original plan; she had agreed to show him the location of King Henry’s chambers, later that evening when the castle slept, when the King’s valet would be asleep. After he had seen the King, he would then return to Ludlow, without delay, to release her father. Now, he was proposing to stay!

  Bastien, half-listening to Margaret chatter on about some court matter, watched Alice sway upright. Her fingertips touched the table, enabling her to balance, and he smiled to himself. The stupid girl had drunk too much, or too much for her slight frame anyhow. Alice edged backwards, carefully avoiding bumping into the back of her chair, or Margaret’s. She resolved to go and speak to Edmund, for, despite the unwanted betrothal, he was still her friend, she must not forget that. Talking through matters with him always helped.

  ‘Oh, would you like to dance?’ Bastien asked innocently, twisting around in his seat as she came level with the back of it. He tipped his head towards the main part of the hall, where some of the tables had been pushed back to create an area for dancing. Already a few couples had paired up while the musicians in the corner
practised a few tentative notes on their instruments.

  ‘Not with you!’ Alice hissed nastily, low enough so that neither Margaret nor her mother heard it. As she walked unsteadily to the steps, she caught his light chuckle. Damn him! The cool, well-worn wood of the rail alongside the steps slid under her fingers, and she gripped it hard to stop herself falling.

  All at once, the great hall seemed too hot, claustrophobic. With its high rafters and cavernous roof space, it was usually too cold for comfort. People bumped and jostled companionably against her as she made her way carefully through the throng, away from that man. Just wait until she told Edmund about him!

  ‘Alice!’ Edmund had managed to lever himself through the bouncing press of people towards her. His hair was pushed back from his wide, pale forehead; small pinpricks of sweat stood out on his clammy skin, and he wiped them away, smoothing his hair at the same time. ‘We were so worried about you! What happened to you?’

  It’s still happening, she wanted to blurt out. But instead she shook her head dully, trying to ignore the ever-increasing swirling sensations in her head. ‘I can’t tell you here.’ She raised her voice above the clamour of the music. ‘Let’s go somewhere quieter.’ Alice clasped at his forearm, surprised at his resistance when he didn’t move.

  ‘We should dance together first.’ Edmund looked down at her with warm brown eyes. ‘Especially now that we’re betrothed.’

  You don’t need to do this, Alice wanted to scream at him. You don’t need to be loving, or overly attentive, or romantic in any way. Our marriage is to be a business contract, nothing more. Surely he knew that? For some inexplicable reason, nausea began to rise in her gullet.

  ‘Edmund, I want to talk to you!’ she whispered urgently. ‘It’s important!’