away. Mustering all her energy, she scrambled inelegantly to her feet, painfully aware of the difference in height between them, the top of her head teetering on a level with his shoulder.
The deep laurel of his eyes glimmered in the sunlight, edgy, unpredictable. His face held the sculptured contours of stone, and was just as unyielding. She was uncertain how to deal with men like this, men associated with weapons, with battle and the harsher realities of life. His very masculinity unbalanced her, made her doubt her own courage, her own determination. Every pore of him oozed power, and a dangerous arrogance that made her angry and fearful at the same time.
‘And now I’ll take my leave of you,’ she stuttered out formally, her words tinged with faint hope. If only he would let her walk away, then she could double back and follow her father, with more care this time.
‘I think not.’ He grinned back at her congenially, arms folded high across his chest. In one swift glance he absorbed the peculiar details of her attire: the oversized cote-hardie engulfing her small frame, its countless pleats falling from the shoulder-line failing to disguise the narrowness of her shoulders. Her fustian leggings fell in loose gathers about her knees; both they and her leather boots were obviously too big for her. A leather bag sat on her right hip, the strap crossing diagonally across her chest. The woman was a puzzle; she was up to something, but with the battalion heading over the hill, he had no time at the moment to find out what it was.
‘I’m nothing to you,’ she whispered, her large turquoise eyes observing him warily. ‘Just let me go.’
‘You’re coming with me.’ He reached out and grabbed her delicate hand, crushing the soft fingers within his leather glove.
‘I will not!’ she protested vehemently, as he angled down to scoop up her fallen hat, wedging it tightly back over her head. The split side of his mail coat fell open beneath his white surcoat, revealing one long muscled leg encased in close-fitting linen braies. His strong thigh muscle strained against the thin gauziness of the material.
‘Keep that on, otherwise I cannot vouch for the consequences,’ he warned, ignoring her objections. ‘My soldiers are hungry men, in more ways than one, and there’s no telling what they would do at the sight of an available woman, albeit a scrawny one.’
Her temper ignited, hot, fuming; she twisted her fingers in his grasp, throwing her body weight back to try to escape. The ligaments in her shoulder wrenched painfully, but his fingers held firm. ‘How dare you, you big oaf!’ she railed at him. ‘You can’t frighten me!’ She dug her heels into the ground as he started to pull her across to the place where his horse nibbled the grass. ‘I’m not coming with you, I’m not…oof!’
Her head spun crazily as, without warning, Bastien ducked, tucking his shoulder into her soft midriff, to sling her easily over one shoulder. Flailing wildly, her hands scrabbled for a hold against his broad back, fingers sliding over his surcoat to lodge, finally, in his leather sword belt.
‘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
