Page 29 of The Captive Knight
The commanding voice sounded familiar. Not Hugo, though the pitch was as bass-deep. Not her brother, who lay sprawled upon the stones within her sight, still moaning from the cuff he’d taken from her attacker when she’d been seized by the knight. Perhaps it was Thibaud who’d come to her aid, for he’d enough sense not to run away with her father and half the castle’s defenses.
“This woman,” her attacker growled from close above her, “is mine.”
“This woman,” said the voice, “is the daughter of Tournan.”
“All the better,” snapped her attacker.
“Do you disobey the prince’s orders?”
“I heard no such orders.”
A sword scraped out of its sheath. She tried to raise her head only to have her view blocked by a mastiff who ventured forward to lick her face. She gripped the dog’s fur and hugged him, using the steadiness of his massive body to lift herself to a sitting position. She tried to make sense of the shapes in blurring motion before her.
Jehan.
Sensation flooded through her, a bitter wash of shock and anger and relief. He fought bare-headed, his black hair clinging to his forehead and neck. A baldric hung low about his hips. He swung his sword as if unhampered by half-healed wounds though she saw blood spotting his hose.
Her attacker surged. Jehan uncoiled to release a blow with the flat of his sword to the warrior’s hip. The man grunted and backed away, then charged anew.
“Stop!”
The bellowed voice came from high above. All she saw, at first, were the muddy, shaggy hooves of an enormous war horse. The knight upon it yanked off his helmet and tossed it to the ground between the knights with a clatter. Even with her senses clouded, she recognized the quartered arms of England and France on his surcoat.
With an awful turning in her chest, she realized the Prince of Wales stood in the courtyard of her castle.
“Have my knights grown so bored,” the prince shouted, “they fight among themselves amid great bounty?”
“This knight,” her attacker shouted, “would steal a prize from me.”
“No prize of his,” Jehan retorted. “This is Aliénor de Tournan, the viscount’s daughter.”
She became acutely conscious of the prince’s perusal. Fighting off dizziness, she used the wall of the donjon to shimmy herself up to her feet.
“So this is she.” The prince ran a hand over his drooping mustache. “Not your usual type, St. Simon.”
“She saved my life.” Jehan stepped between the prince’s horse and where she stood, setting the point of his sword to the ground as he grasped the hilt with both hands. “I am bound to protect her.”
“As am I.” The prince turned his attention to her attacker. “Stand down, knight.”
The man huffed, but after a brooding pause, he bowed to the prince and sheathed his sword.
“As for the rest of you,” the prince shouted, turning his warhorse about, “smoke the viscount out of the rat hole in which he hides, show mercy to the men-at-arms who surrender, and raise tents in the field for our well-deserved rest.” He tossed the reins of his horse to his waiting squire. “We shall gather in the hall anon. I believe the lord of this place is hosting a feast in our honor.”
The milling men laughed and criedhuzzahbefore setting off on their tasks. Trembling with shock and despair, Aliénor watched as they spread to every corner, running hands over the horses in the stable, making kissing noises to the women clustered by the kitchens, marching Hugo and the stable boys into a guarded circle by the northwest tower along with the wounded men.
Thibaud had once told her Castelnau had never been taken by frontal assault and had never surrendered by siege. It had to have been a lie, all a lie, because within minutes of the prince’s knights appearing before the castle gates, all was lost.
Lost.
Her knees went loose. Her head scraped against the wall behind her. She felt the ground rushing up to meet her.
Then Jehan caught her in his arms.
