Page 16 of The Captive Knight
She wondered how deep that scar went, and whether it had a twin on his heart.
“The chaplain told me,” Laurent continued, in as bright a voice as before, “many of the monks teach at the university in Toulouse. Often, they take pilgrimages. To Avignon to see the Pope, to shrines all over France, even as far as Rome…”
As Laurent chattered on, her heart sank. She knew she would rarely see him once he entered the monastery. She couldn’t imagine the castle without his presence. In the early years, when she used to return home from the convent for holidays, Laurent had followed her around like a bird with a broken wing. She’d watched him smile his first smile—certainly, it seemed like his first—when she’d presented him with his own pup, a fine greyhound from a litter they’d watched being born. Mostly, as the years progressed and plague stole their family away, she’d hidden him from their father whenever she anticipated one of his rages.
Laurent was the last of her siblings.
If she lost him, she would be alone.
She interrupted his story by lunging for the reins of his horse. “Promise me,” she said, pulling him to a stop, “that you won’t leave Castelnau until I’m wed.”
His brows disappeared behind the flop of his hair. “You’ll be married soon, I expect. All those messages father has sent—”
“All the more reason to promise.”
“I’ll do so willingly,sor.” He bent his head. “I won’t leave Castelnau, not until I’ve had a glass of wine at your wedding.”
Halfway through the sign of the cross, Laurent went still. After a moment, he cocked his head toward the woods.
“Laurent, what are you—”
“Hush.”
He seized his reins back and kicked his mount ahead. Then he cut sharply in front of her mare. Her mare huffed and high-stepped backwards as Laurent used his own steed’s greater mass to force both beasts deeper into the shadow of a stone outcropping.
Only then did she hear, with rising alarm, the muffled thudding of horses’ hooves and the rising jangle of spurs, chain mail, and armor. The noise came from the woods somewhere ahead of them, closer to the path, cutting them off from their only route home.
Her brother glanced over his shoulder, all whites-of-eyes, his jaw tight. For one strange, blurry moment he looked exactly like their father. He raised a finger to his lips then scraped his sword out of the scabbard.
Her heart tumbled. He was protecting her, this little brother of hers, but in a stomach-dropping flash, she remembered every one of his heartbreaking, half-hearted sword-fighting lessons that had left him flat on his back on the paving stones.
She startled when the first riders burst out of the camouflage of the trees. She strained to see beyond Laurent’s bodily shield, counting no more than six or eight mounted men. They rode hard toward the path on the slope, not sparing a single glance their way.
“Lower your sword, Laurent,” she said, as she caught her breath.
“I will not.” He raised it. “I’ll protect you.”
“They are no threat to us.” She ran her fingers over her wind-tousled hair. “My future in-laws have arrived.”
***
Aliénor headed down the stairs of the castle, smoothing the snug red and greenmi-partisurcoat over her waist and abdomen. Around her hips, she wore a gold chain wound with a rope of pearls. She kept rolling those pearls under her palms as if the nubby sensation could calm her. She’d been like this all her life: Whenever her hopes were raised, equally so were her fears.
Her potential future father-in-law, the Viscount de Baste, had left early this morning after spending only a single day and night in the castle. She thought all had gone well as she presided over the meal yesterday afternoon, but his haste in leaving did not bode well, nor did the fact that none of his sons had accompanied him on this visit.
She knew this was all foolishness born of silly kitchen-servant talk and the sly side-eye of superstitious villagers, but maybe the de Bastes had heard about her last two betrothals ending in the deaths of her future bridegrooms. The first one had died eight years ago on the battlefield at Crécy, and the second one had died six years ago during the plague. Maybe de Baste thought the absence of his sons might serve as a shield against the death-curse of a woman twice engaged but never married.
Such idiocy. She grunted to herself and shook the thoughts out of her head as she entered the great hall. Her father stood close to the huge fireplace, alone. A few men-at-arms lingered around the table, clutching cups of wine. Sir Rostand glanced up from honing his dagger and gave her an encouraging nod.
“Ah, my daughter.” Her father approached, holding out both hands to her. “Come.”
She crossed the distance to take his hands, trying not to read her future in the seriousness of his expression. But when she rose from her curtsey she couldn’t help but notice his deepening frown.
He said, “How old are you now, Aliénor?”
“Twenty-three next Candlemas Day, my lord.”
“How quickly the time passes.” The slash he’d received in the battle with Sir Jehan glowed across his cheek and nose. “But it matters no more. You impressed our guests yesterday acting as the lady of the house. You even fooled the viscount into thinking you are a quiet and amenable creature.”
