Мериел Фуллер – Captured by the Warrior (страница 9)

‘You can’t…!’ she squeaked, outraged, as he tossed her up to lie face down over the neck of his horse.

‘Save your breath, my lady…I don’t have time for this now.’ He cut across her protestation, his tone bored, laconic. A heavy hand squeezing down in the middle of her back prevented her from slipping forwards as he mounted up behind her. Alice squirmed violently, wriggling under his grasp, blood rushing to her head, as she reached out to clutch on to the leather strap that held the saddle in place.

‘You’ll pay for this,’ she screeched up at him, her throat constricted, raw. ‘You’ve no right to treat me like this!’ Her head bounced against the sleek flank of the horse as Bastien kicked the animal into a trot.

She was rewarded with a short, emotionless bark of laughter. ‘I’ll treat you exactly as I like, my lady. And there’s not a thing you can do about it.’ He spurred his animal on into a full gallop, with no intention of making the ride back up to the line of prisoners any easier on his own captive. Alice held on grimly, her fingers knotted into the girth strap, her whole body jolting uncomfortably, awkwardly. Yet there was no risk of her falling; in his fist, Bastien held on firmly to the back of her tunic, the fine blue wool bunched into his leather gauntlet.

The marching prisoners had reached the brow of the hill, approaching a knot of pine trees, their dense green forming a strong silhouette against the cerulean sky. The sun was high now, and beat down hotly on the soldiers’ heads, captor and captive alike. Alfric, bringing up the rear of the party, looked around for Bastien in concern; his master had been absent for a long time; he wondered whether to double back and look for him. He smiled in greeting as he spotted Bastien, and his horse straining up the hill to catch them.

‘So your hunch was correct…’ Alfric eyed the boy slung across the front of Bastien’s saddle ‘…but it seems your catch was small.’ Bastien grinned in response, a faint sheen of sweat shining on his face as he ground his fingers more firmly into the boy’s back to stop Alice wriggling herself free.

‘There’s more than meets the eye with this one,’ he explained, ‘and I aim to find out precisely what it is.’

At his words, Alice moaned inwardly. Why, oh, why did it have to be him? Why not some bumbling, ignorant soldier who she could outwit in a moment? Her whole body ached from being continually pounded against his horse’s flank, the muscles in her back and neck stretched almost to screaming point. The warmth of his big body pressed into her back as he leaned down low over her, his mouth close to her ear. ‘Now, do you promise to be a good girl and walk nicely with the rest of the prisoners?’ His hot breath caressed her lobe, silky, seductive. Her heart jolted, despite his mocking, taunting tone and she bit her lip, trying to ignore its rapid beating. Anything, she thought, she would promise anything to be away from him and his annoying presence! ‘Aye!’ she forced out, her throat dry, scratching.

‘Do you promise?’ he repeated lightly.

Sweet Jesu! He was infuriating! The blood sung in her ears at his patronising tone. ‘I promise,’ she muttered, lamely.

Relief whooshed from her lungs as he pulled gently on the bridle, not bothering to dismount as he dragged her off haphazardly. Disorientated, her head whirled dangerously, the blood rushing back to her limbs; she swayed. His hand gripped her shoulder, steadying her for a moment. ‘If you value your well-being,’ he reminded her once more, ‘then keep that hat pulled low.’ She had scarce time to nod, to indicate that she heeded his words, before he gave her a rough shove towards the line of shuffling prisoners.

The low curve of the sun brushed the hill tops, turning their smooth slopes into purpling lush-green velvet, when the order came from the front of the line to halt for the night. After tramping all day across the hills, the Yorkists had finally led the prisoners down into a wide, wooded valley, through which ran a small river. It was an ideal place to stop; a place where the horses and men could drink and wash, and sleep in the soft, cushiony grass of the flat meadows beside the water.

Alice’s eyes felt hollow, burnt out with weariness. More than anything she wanted to fold her knees and drop at the next step, but the urge not to show any form of weakness, any clue that might single her out from the rest of the men, was far stronger. She was in no doubt that her captor was a man of low morals and low principle: he would most likely take great delight in seeing her humiliated in front of his men. That one thought forced her to keep her back ramrod straight and her shoulders square, and to push her feet one in front of the other, over and over again. No longer did she secretly sweep the crowd for a glimpse of her father; now all her energies were devoted to saving her own strength. Her feet ached the most, ached from the strain of trying to keep on her oversized boots that slipped and wallowed with every step; no doubt her heels were peppered with blisters. She was hot, hungry and thirsty, but she would not give up.

From his vantage point at the back of the line, Bastien studied the maid. When he had first met her, a spoiled rich girl dressed in all her finery and lost in the forest, he had dismissed her from his mind instantly. But now? Now she presented him with something of a puzzle; a puzzle dressed in boy’s clothes and striding along with the rest of the men as if it were a routine activity for her. Why, they had covered nearly twenty miles today—the majority of women would be mewling wrecks by now. His own mother, Cecile, would barely totter more than a few steps before lifting one limp, white hand to be assisted into a litter, to be carried everywhere, like a child. His lips curled at the unwanted memory. Since his older brother’s death, she had become even worse, hardly able to walk at all without assistance. Yet if he were around, which was seldom, she would whip her head around with such force it would stun everyone, and fix him with a baleful eye, pinning her younger son down with such bitter accusation, such acrid blame that it knotted his stomach for days. Cecile had chosen to punish him for what had happened, but surely the guilt that he carried around, day after day, was punishment enough?

Chapter Four

Huddled in the voluminous folds of the cote-hardie, Alice closed her eyes momentarily, head resting in the cradle of her arms balanced on her upraised knees. Up to now scant attention had been paid to her and she hoped by this position to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Every muscle in her body ached; her stomach growled with hunger. The woollen fabric of the cote-hardie tickled her nose, the tangy smell reminding her of her brother. Mother of Mary, she wished he were here now; he would know what to do. She prayed fervently that he had somehow survived the war in France, that he was alive somewhere and would come back to them eventually.

She shuffled uncomfortably, the moisture from the damp ground beginning to seep through her braies. A knotty root from the wide oak behind her pushed uncomfortably into her right hip. Lifting her head, she scanned the seated prisoners, searching, scouring the gathering for her father. A tall, lean figure snagged her eye; her heart plummeted as she recognised the knight in charge: Lord Bastien. He moved among the Yorkist soldiers, gave terse orders to various men, his every move practised, efficient. His lips twisted with irritation as he saw one soldier fumble with lighting a fire; in one swift movement he had dropped to his haunches to strike his own flint with a blade. His large hands cradled the spark in the puff of dried grass, nurturing the flame until it danced and crackled through the kindling. An animal energy seemed to course through his body, a dynamism that fired all his movements with an effortless grace. A lick of desire coursed through her; she ducked her head, remembering his big body pinning her own to the ground, straddling her. A memory she wished fervently to forget.

The smell of meat cooking made her lift her head once more, her mouth watering. Every sinew in her body ached with the pain of walking, ached with the need for some sustenance. Surely they would be fed? The Yorkist soldiers gathered around the main cooking fire, the thin line of smoke rising up to mingle with the darkening haze of the evening. Sitting cross-legged, their helmets glinting in the grass beside them, they swigged from leather flagons, and carved off hunks of roasted meat with their knives to chew heartily, lips slick and shiny with grease.

Starving, Alice also chewed at the inside of her lip, aware of a low muttering to her right from the other prisoners. A soldier barked across at them to be quiet. Was this how it was going to be? Were the prisoners to receive no food at all? Anger flowed up in her, replacing the gnawing hunger. She had little knowledge of such things, but she was certain that all nobles, be they prisoners or not, were treated with deference and courtesy. Surely it was part of the knight’s code?