Page 9 of The Captive Knight
A pinch brought her attention to her hands and she realized she was digging her nails into her palms. “Surely father must have been provoked—”
“A flea could provoke him,” Thibaud said. “Or too much spice in the wine. Or a thwarted conquest, a drunken insult, a sidelong glance—”
“Thibaud.”
She could not defend her father’s behavior, but it still felt like treason to enumerate his mistakes. She still remembered a time when her father wasn’t like this, before Crécy, when he was kind and patient and full of laughter.
“Sir Jehan fought,” her uncle continued, “as any man would. His squire ran in to defend his master with no more weapons than his fists. The mercenaries made short work of the boy.”
She winced. In her heart, she had known Sir Jehan’s words were true, but she’d hoped for some excuse, some twist, some less horrific version of the truth.
She said, “I don’t”—want to—“believe that.”
“Yes, you do.” He hefted a lance to get Laurent’s attention. “You’ve seen the knight, bathed in the blood of his own men. You’ve seen him, beaten senseless. As surely as I saw you wander to the northwest tower last night.”
Thibaud’s gray eyes bored into her, and though she tried to still her expression, she knew she’d given herself away.
“Old bones don’t sleep well, especially when the winter is nigh.” He held out the lance, hilt first, as Laurent swung by on a circuit and paused long enough to grasp it. Her brother tucked the lance under his arm, adjusted to the weight of it, and kicked the horse into a trot again before Thibaud continued. “You’ve been known to nurture a half-dead dog back to life, so I knew you wouldn’t allow a knight to die of battle wounds.”
“You think too well of me. If Sir Jehan had died, I’d be further away from my dowry and closer to a convent.”
“And it’s an earthly husband you want, is it?”
“Where’s the sin in that?” She wouldn’t blush, shewouldn’t. “I would have a castle of my own, and for that I need my equal as a husband. I would have a roof over my head, perhaps children, and the kind of happiness that once rang within these walls. Do you remember those days, Thibaud?”
Sheremembered them. She held them close like a light in the darkness. During Easter and Christmas in those before-days, she used to be released from the convent, her brother Bertrand from his service as squire, and they’d all come home for the season. Bertrand would strut about in his fine silk doublet, joking with the men-at-arms. Gaston would swing Laurent up on his shoulders to give him pony rides around the courtyard. Her mother sat by the fire after every meal, her golden head bent over her embroidery. And her father would reveal gifts brought from far-away places, pieces of armor from Venetian metal workers, fur mantles from Normandy, a specially made etched leather saddle for Laurent’s first pony.
Then the battle at Crécy happened, and father returned months later with a dent in his skull and rages that could not be controlled.
“Castétis is not much,” she said, “but it could be a refuge. For me. For Laurent. And for you, uncle, if it suits you. We would all have a life away from my father’s… capricious nature.”
“And what makes you think your father will let you go?”
She opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but Thibaud’s attention had turned to the portal. She heard the baying of hounds and the clatter of hooves over the drawbridge just before her father galloped into the courtyard with his hunting dogs at heel. Her father’s gaze swept the courtyard with masterly pride, and then stilled on Laurent.
Her heart crowded into her throat as her father kicked his mount between Laurent and a bale of hay, hemming him in.
“So my son has emerged from hiding.” He glanced around the courtyard, taking in the target raised on the opposite side. “And here you are, training to be a knight.”
She curled her hands within the folds of her kirtle, willing her brother to be wise. From this distance, she could see the pallor of Laurent’s face.
“By all means, continue.” Her father dismounted and tossed the reins to a stable boy, then tugged the riding glove from his hand, finger by finger. “Show me what you’ve learned while I was away fighting for your legacy.”
Her breath came shallow between her lips. It would have been better if her father had returned from the hunt while Laurent was in swordplay with Thibaud. Laurent looked lively and impressive while parrying from the saddle, but he was good enough with the lance. That’s what she told herself, over and over, as Laurent nudged his gelding to the head of the cleared area. His black eyes shone with what looked encouragingly like determination.
“Hold the lance tight,” Thibaud shouted. “Raise the tip as you aim for the center of the target.”
Laurent’s horse pranced while her brother tried to settle him.
Come,frai.Show him what you can do. You’re long due to be sent off to squire, someplace far from here, where he can’t hurt you anymore.
Laurent dug his heels into the horse’s sides. The gelding broke into a canter, kicking up puffs of dust. Laurent held up the lance as Thibaud instructed, though the tip quivered as if he struggled with the weight. She watched with bated breath as the point of the lance tore into the edge of the woven bag and grain spilled out onto the ground.
For the space of a heartbeat, she thought,he has hit the target well,but then the lance veered to the side and hit the post. It jerked back, knocking her brother clear off the saddle. He fell to the stones with a sickening, hollow thud.
She lunged forward but Thibaud held her back. She saw black rage bloom on her father’s face.
Get up, Laurent. Get up.
