Captured by the Warrior. Meriel Fuller

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.

      ‘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