Page 32 of The Captive Knight
Jehan breathed hard through his nose. He had wondered if the prince would bring up his offer again, or if it had only been something mentioned in a moment of drunken generosity.
“Speak, man!” The prince leaned toward him. “Did the Gascon wine make you deaf? Am I throwing English pearls before swine?”
“I heard your promise, my lord.” In the past, the prince had made plenty of assurances of great riches to him, but none as solid and immutable as what he’d offered this time. “It’s burned into my mind.”
“I have favored you in this, Jehan. I planned it as a surprise long before I arrived. Don’t make me regret my generosity.”
Jehan bowed, playing the humble knight. “You grant me much honor.” He straightened up. “Now let me prove I deserve it.”
For Aliénor’s sake.
“Damn it.” Edward huffed his impatience as he shrugged into his surcoat, quartered with the arms of England and France. “Oh, very well. I’ll leave you ten of the lightly wounded to guard the ramparts for now. The more seriously wounded will stay as well, but—” he barked, his voice echoing off the rafters “—only until they’re healed enough to take over defense. Then you must send the first group forward to meet me and let the others take their place.”
He hoped his expression didn’t reveal too baldly his rush of triumph. “I will hold this castle well, my lord.”
“I’m sure you’ll holdherwell.” The prince seized his baldric from his squire’s hands. “And when you’re done enjoying this little affair, Jehan, make allowances for the lady’s upkeep and then return to your duty. We winter in Bordeaux.”
***
“Are they truly gone, my lady?”
“It appears so.”
Perusing the scene outside the arrow-slit window, Aliénor squeezed Margot’s hand. Behind her in the room, the village woman hovered, ignoring the racing and jumping of children who’d been kept too long cooped up in a single place. They’d all spent the morning listening to the pounding of footsteps, the snorting of horses, and the bantering of men, fearing in the activity some new mischief.
Now the area in front of the castle was punctured with holes from tent-spikes, spotted with flattened grass, and edged with the smoldering remains of cook fires. That and the muddy churn of horses’ hooves were all that remained as evidence the Prince of Wales’ army had spent days camped in and around her castle.
A sharp knock on the door made her heart jump. She knew who it was, though she could not say why.
She ran a hand down her blue kirtle until she felt the cold links of her belt under her palm. She resisted the urge to gather up the links even though her hands itched to grip something solid. So much of what had happened felt unreal, nightmarish, and she wasn’t so confident about what was to come, either.
Nonetheless, she took a position in the middle of the room and faced the door. “Margot, invite him in.”
Her maidservant opened the door. Sir Jehan stood before it, his fist raised for another knock. He was dressed in chain mail with a sword at his hip, his surcoat bearing English colors, reminding her that she had every reason to despise him. She dropped her gaze and sucked in a breath. What was done was done. Her father used to rage against every injustice—petty or not—and that had often led him to folly. The future was what mattered now, and her desperate hope for a place in it.
“How do you fare, my lady?”
His voice was pitched low and soft. “Well enough,” she said, ignoring how her brow still throbbed where she’d struck the wall. “I see the prince’s army is gone.”
“Yes.”
He stepped inside her bedchamber, his boots soft in the rushes. A little frisson trembled through her. He was her father’s prisoner once, abused and neglected, with plenty of reason for vengeance. He’d played the troubadour while strolling around the courtyard, speaking to her in dulcet tones, claiming he wanted her good favor. But she did not really know this man who’d led the Prince of Wales over the ramparts of her castle, no matter what her heart whispered.
“I came to tell you,” he said, as the toes of his leather boots came within sight of her lowered gaze, “that the prince has left me in charge of this castle. He also left men-at-arms to guard the ramparts.”
“He’ll return?”
“Perhaps. But not for some time.”
“So you’re the master of Castelnau.”
“For now.”
“I congratulate you, Sir Jehan. Is the prince burning the village as we speak?”
He didn’t respond right away. Perhaps she’d spoken the words with more acid than she intended.
“Fortunately,” he said wryly, “it’s been raining for days. There’ll be no burning.”
