Page 15 of The Captive Knight
Chapter Four
“When we reach the top of the hill,” Laurent said, kicking his horse past her on the rocky slope, “you must keep to the edge of the woods.”
Aliénor frowned at her brother’s tone of voice. Had he forgotten he was heryoungersibling? “Why bother? I’d rather ride in the open field.”
“We’ll need quick cover if we spot trouble.” His head swiveled as he eyeballed the clearing on the height, the horizon beyond, and Castelnau on the hill behind them. Then he turned to her, his gaze filled with challenge. “But there’s an open field between here and there, if you’re game.”
“You know I can’t race,” she began, but it was too late. Laurent had bent over the neck of his horse and now tore across the open field. The dogs, baying and wagging their tails, darted ahead of him, anxious to reach cover where they would sniff among the underbrush for rabbits and thrushes.
She rode in his wake a bit more sedately, one gloved hand aloft. Her sparrow hawk perched upon her wrist, the brass bells on the bird’s legs jangling. In the breeze of the horse’s pace, the hawk worried with her wings and opened her beak where it protruded from the feathered leather hood.
“Hah,” Laurent said as Aliénor joined them by the edge of the woods. “I beat you again.”
“It was no race,” she retorted, lifting her arm higher. “I can’t gallop with my bird on my arm.”
“Excuses,” he said, grinning. “At least she’s getting used to the horse and the dogs.”
“Finally.”
“But shouldn’t she be on a lure by now?”
“Soon enough, Laurent. Soon enough.”
The sparrow hawk had been a gift from her father, brought home from Florence. She loved the way the hawk puffed out her soft chest and stared at her with intelligence in her light yellow eyes. There were times when she was tempted to release the creature from the ramparts rather than train her to the lure. It hurt her heart a little to see such a wild thing tethered and imprisoned.
Like the knight.
She frowned and shifted her seat on her mare. She hadn’t seen the prisoner for a full fortnight, sending her maidservant to deliver food, candles, and drink in her stead. If Margot’s reports were to be believed, Sir Jehan was growing ever stronger and more restless in his cell. It didn’t seem right to imprison any creature within four stone walls. Even her hawk, though kept mostly in the mews, still had light and air and the companionship of several other birds. Yet despite his situation, Sir Jehan always sent his compliments with Margot, thanking “the daughter of the house” for seeing to his needs in defiance of her own father.
It might have been better if he’d remained angry, boastful and unrepentant. She had been on surer footing when she’d despised him.
“I’m taking you back,” Laurent said, drawing his horse to a halt as a pine-scented breeze swept up over the cliff. “We’ve gone too far as it is.”
Aliénor rolled her eyes. To think she taught this boy to tie his own braies.
“I wonder,” Laurent said, tipping his chin toward the far horizon, “if the Prince of Wales’ army is just beyond the far ridge.”
“Don’t be fanciful. It’s too late in the season for the prince to start marching around with an army.”
“The Prince of Wales didn’t come all the way to Bordeaux just to play dice with his English vassals.”
“But sending an army through Gascony makes no sense. The harvest is in, and soon the cold rains will come. He’ll have nothing to feed his knights, and any siege will have to be done through a long winter.”
“Father’s taking the threat seriously, though. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
She met his grimace with one of her own. Her father’s mood was the reason they’d saddled up for a ride. The atmosphere in the castle was growing tenser with every passing day. Her father barked orders at the men-at-arms who had to take shifts to keep an all-day and all-night watch on the ramparts. The maidservants skittered about with bowed shoulders. Even the hounds cowered. After her father’s two-year absence, she’d almost forgotten how angry and disruptive his presence could be to the peaceful rhythms of castle life she made such efforts to maintain.
She turned her horse toward the path and kicked her into a trot along the line of the woods. “Talk to me of some more pleasant subject, Laurent.”
“I’ll tell you about the abbey in Toulouse.”
She gave him a frown from beneath the rim of her pointed hunting cap. “Still dreaming of a cold cell?”
“I’m still disinherited.”
“Laurent, you know that could change in the blink of an eye.”
“Then I will have earned this for nothing.” He tapped the scar on his chin from the wound he received on the day their father dispossessed him.
