Мериел Фуллер – Captured by the Warrior (страница 3)

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.

‘Let go,’ he said, patiently, ‘I am not your enemy.’

The small bones in her wrist crushed under his strong fingers and the sword dropped into the undergrowth, a slither of sound as the blade landed in a heap of brambles.

Alice’s mouth scraped with fear. Her eyes, darting sapphire, widened with a mixture of horror and rage as she gaped up at him, this man who towered over her, his broad chest covered by a white woollen surcoat bearing the personal seal of the Duke of York: the falcon and fetterlock. He stared down at her, down his proud, straight nose, his chiselled features accented by the verdant shadows. Within the hard, angular lines of his face, the shape of his mouth came as a shock. His lips were full, sensual, with the promise of an easy smile. Fixing her gaze on the ground, she cradled her wrist, trying to gather her scattered wits, to slow her racing heart.

Nay, this man was not her enemy, but it was a well-known fact that the Duke of York was not well liked by Queen Margaret, the King’s wife, who would always do her utmost to keep him out of King Henry’s circle of advisors. As the King’s cousin, as well as the top-ranking military commander in England, the Duke of York was favoured by the masses to be the King’s successor. And by wearing his seal, these men followed the orders of the Duke of York, as opposed to the King. Alice needed to tread carefully.

Chewing her lip, she wrenched her eyes upwards. ‘Your men…your men…’ she spluttered out, unable to elucidate the full awful truth of what his men had been about to do.

‘My men should have known better,’ the soldier began, shaking his rough blond head: an unexpected shaft of sunlight turned the strands momentarily to gold, surrounding him with an aura of light that magnified the sheer size of his body. The hood of his chainmail hauberk gathered in metallic folds over his shoulders, emphasising the corded strength of his neck.

Alice gulped.

‘But they were only having a bit of fun,’ the soldier added pleasantly, folding his huge arms across his chest. In this curious half-light, the intense leaf-green of his eyes deepened, drawing her in reluctantly with their magnificent colour.

‘Having a bit of fun?’ she snapped out, clenching her fists against the folds of her gown, disbelieving this man’s audacious defence of his men. ‘My God! Have you any idea? Why, they nearly…they very nearly…!’

‘Calm yourself, mistress,’ he murmured, his voice neutral as he contemplated his men over the top of her head. Dark brown lashes framed his magnificent eyes. ‘Nothing would have happened here, believe me.’

‘Oh, you think to know your men so well, do you!’ Rashly, she poked a finger into his chest, her mind jolting as it registered the unyielding flesh.

Mild amusement mixed with astonishment crossed his sculptured features—the maid’s boldness was quite astounding. ‘I would run, my lady, run back to where you came from, before anything else happens,’ he advised coolly.

But she seemed not to hear his words, incensed that he seemed incapable of comprehending the severity of the situation. She whirled away from him, furious, challenging his soldiers. ‘Look at you, hanging your heads in shame—you know the truth, so why not tell him?’

‘Enough, mistress,’ Bastien said, more sternly now. ‘I will hear their story, and punish them accordingly.’

Alice spun back to face him, her hands planted firmly on her hips. ‘Which, in my opinion, should be nothing less than a horse-whipping.’

Bastien raised his eyebrows. ‘You seem to have a great deal of opinion for…a maid.’ A faint note of annoyance marked his reply; this woman was beginning to severely irritate him, with her argumentative tone and challenging manner. The relentless pace of the last two days travelling began to cloud his brain; he felt weary and in no mood to remonstrate. As far as he was concerned, women were only good for one thing, and even then he preferred them if they kept their mouths shut.