Captured by the Warrior. Meriel Fuller

to the cart in the forest, Beatrice had been furious, berating her for keeping the entourage waiting. Alice, humbled by her encounter, had crept to a corner of the cart without a word. Now, as she met Edmund’s warm brown eyes, she hoped his easy companionship would drive away the bad memories.

      ‘Tell me, what was he like?’ Edmund asked softly at her side. At one-and-twenty winters he was the same age as her, his rounded features holding the pink bloom of youth.

      Alice jumped, needles of fear firing through her, fingers curling around a floury bread roll on her platter. How did he know? she thought frantically, her scrambled brain trying to make sense of the question. An image of a strong, sinewy hand manacled around her own wrist intruded into her consciousness. A hard mouth upon her own.

      Edmund nudged her with his elbow. ‘Sir Humphrey…Surely you haven’t forgotten about him already?’

      ‘Oh…yes!’ she gasped with relief, shaky laughter covering her confusion. ‘Oh, Edmund, he was well enough, but unfortunately for my dear mother, I wasn’t up to the mark, as usual.’

      ‘Well, thank the Lord for that,’ her companion breathed out. His plump fingers, whiter than her own, searched for Alice’s hand under the table, squeezing it gently. His shoulder nudged hers, close, insistent. ‘You know I’ve spoken to your parents…’

      Alice’s heart flipped. Could she do this? Could she marry Edmund? Her eye searched along the row of nobles at the top table, found her mother’s anguished features, watching them. ‘I know, Edmund.’ She patted his arm, biting her lip.

      ‘You know I come into my inheritance soon; your parents would be well looked after.’ His brown eyes, riveted on hers, wavered momentarily, shifting to a point beyond her right shoulder.

      ‘Thomas…’ she breathed desperately, her toes curling in her shoes, as if providing a physical resistance. If Thomas came back, then he would provide for them, he would care for them in their old age. The responsibility on her to marry would lift, and she would have the freedom to do as she wished. But even as she had the thought, the small flame of hope in her belly flickered and died.

      ‘Marry me, Alice,’ Edmund urged, his voice low, persuasive. ‘I will look after you…and your parents.’ His white fingers curled possessively around her sleeve, his smooth chestnut hair flopping over his forehead.

      Alice took a mouthful of bread, chewing slowly. She had known Edmund since late childhood, when his father had become a knight for the King and moved his family to live at Abberley under royal protection. She and Edmund had immediately liked each other: they shared the same interests, of music, art and culture. True, she also enjoyed being outside, riding or walking, as opposed to Edmund, who preferred to stay inside, but that seemed to be the only difference in them. He was kind, considerate and gentle, and, unlike many of the potential husbands her mother had introduced her to, the same age as she.

      Beside her, Edmund watched her closely. If only the girl would agree! He had to physically prevent himself from drumming his fingers on the tablecloth, frustration mounting in his gullet. His uncle’s generous offer would not be around for ever; somehow, he had to persuade her. He knew her mother was willing—he had seen the flare of greed in her eyes on her return this evening when he mentioned the amount of money he would receive—now all that remained was to gain the agreement of this stubborn maid!

      ‘Am I such a bad prospect?’ he asked, holding one hand to his chest—a theatrical gesture of false sorrow. A huge sapphire ring glittered on his little finger.

      Alice laughed. ‘Nay, you’re not.’ She took a deep gulp of wine, setting the goblet back on the table with studied determination, pulling her spine straight at the same time, making a decision. ‘I will marry you, Edmund.’

      A heaviness weighed down Alice’s eyelids as she attempted to open them the following morning. Her sleep had been restless, worn through with the uneasy threads of half-snatched dreams, dreams fringed with the anxious memories of the day before. She had tossed and turned in the stuffy curtained interior of the four-poster bed, thumping the goose-down-filled pillow with an impatient regularity. Everything had become irritating: the crackle of straw in the mattress beneath her, the bunched lumpy feathers beneath her loosened hair, the shouts of the soldiers piercing her consciousness at some ungodly hour…

      Soldiers…? Alice bounced upright, the rippling cascade of her hair spilling on to the bedcovers, sparkling in tangled glory. Flinging back the furs, the linen sheet, she sprang from the bed, fighting her way through the heavy curtains. Her full-length nightgown billowed out over her bare toes as she flew over the wide elm boards to the window casement, pressing her nose up against the thick, uneven panes of hand-blown glass. Nothing. Her sleep-numbed fingers fiddled with the iron latch, pushing the window open so she could lean out. The chill morning air stung her heated face and neck. Eyes watering, she dashed the wetness away and looked down. Soldiers filled the inner bailey, their red surcoats vivid in the luminous pre-dawn light, their armour glinting dully. Grooms ran hither and thither, fetching fearsome-looking weapons, adjusting buckles on saddles and stirrups and attaching saddle bags with practised efficiency. Cold fear slid through her veins: these men were preparing for battle.

      Throwing a simple gown over her voluminous nightgown, Alice yanked her unruly hair into a braid, binding the curling end quickly with a leather lace. Pulling open the door, she raced down the corridor to her parents’ chamber. With her mother’s elevated status as one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting came all the associated privileges of such a position: warm, well-appointed rooms, as well as clothing and food.

      ‘Father!’ Alice burst into her parents’ room without knocking. Fabien Matravers, busy at a table by the window, lifted his weary eyes to acknowledge his daughter with a smile. He raised a finger to his lips, nodding in the direction of the bed, where her mother slumbered. Clamping her lips together to prevent her next question, Alice closed the door quickly and tiptoed over. The table held a collection of medical equipment: bandages and salves, sewing needles fashioned from animal bone, and fine thread made from sinew. These items were disappearing one by one as her father packed up a sturdy leather satchel.

      ‘What’s happening?’ Alice whispered, her periwinkle blue eyes wide, curious.

      ‘’Tis what Queen Margaret feared, ‘tis what we all feared.’ Fabien’s face clouded. ‘The Duke of York has challenged the King’s leadership, now that we have lost France. He has mounted an army, and awaits the King’s men on a high plateau not far from here.’

      Alice nibbled at a fingernail. ‘Will King Henry fight?’

      Fabien’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Nay, not he, lass. You know he’s…he’s not well at the moment. But the Queen is fully aware of the situation; she intends to send two or three of the King’s more loyal dukes.’ He tucked the last roll of bandage into a corner of the satchel and sighed. ‘I only hope that this will be enough. The Duke of York’s men are notorious for being savage fighters.’

      Alice’s heart lit with excitement. ‘Let me come too, Father. Please.’

      But Fabien was already shaking his head, his hands stilling momentarily as he looked at his daughter. In the light beginning to filter in at the window, the grey streaks in his hair seemed more prominent, the lines on his face more pronounced. ‘Nay, Alice,’ he said finally. ‘The battlefield is no place for a young lass. Especially one that is betrothed.’

      Alice gasped, colour flushing into her cheeks. ‘You know!’

      Fabien nodded. ‘Edmund came to me last night, to tell me.’ He smiled, his mouth creasing up at the corners. ‘And I gave him my blessing. As I give you mine now.’ He leaned down, planted a soft kiss on his daughter’s forehead, smoothed her wayward blonde hair with one hand. ‘Your mother is relieved,’ he added.

      Alice frowned, fiddling with the curling end of her loose braid. A curious reluctance sheared through her, a reluctance to share in her father’s obvious joy at the news of her marriage. ‘I suppose it was inevitable.’ Uncertainty weighed her voice.

      Fabien caught