Page 1 of The Captive Knight
Chapter One
Gascony,1355
“It’s him, my lady,” shouted a knight from the ramparts of the castle. “Your father is coming home!”
Squinting up from the courtyard below, Aliénor de Tournan paused from marking the symbol of her father’s house on a barrel of grapes. Her fingers tightened on the chalk as her heart clenched. She’d been waiting for her father for weeks, and every day’s delay had filled her with anxiety. But now that he’d been spotted, she shuddered under a new and different kind of fear.
Waving acknowledgement to the knight, she shoved the chalk in her pocket and strode across the courtyard. As the only daughter of a motherless house, she would be expected to present a grand dinner, have a new wine-barrel tapped, and arrange pallets in the main hall for the returning warriors.
But her wayward feet weren’t leading her to the center tower of the castle, where her true duty lay. No, they were leading her to the shadow of the stables, her beloved palfrey, and a recklessness that she would pay for later.
Fumbling with the saddle, she tossed it across the back of her horse, hurrying to buckle it before the stable master saw what she was doing. Mounting, Aliénor urged the mare into the courtyard and then gave the beast a nudge before any good-hearted soul could shout for her to come back. A page scurried out of the way as the horse’s hooves clattered on the wooden drawbridge.
Tearing across the open field before the castle, high on a cliff, she let the wind blow through her hair as she gazed over the rolling lands of her family’s domain. To the west lay the silver ribbon of the river Arrats, which curved its way around the castle hill. To the south she could see the faintest outline of the Pyrenees in the crystalline air. And the long, fertile valley between gleamed a pale ochre, the harvest down to stubble.
She nudged her horse down the cliff side path where fig trees blocked the view. Only when she reached the bottom of the hill and approached the village did she see the first bobbing spike of a blue and green banner between the half-timbered houses.
Father!
The mare must have felt her jittery excitement, for the horse lurched toward the village with new vigor. Aliénor strained her neck trying to count the number of mounted men, but the winding streets thwarted her. It wasn’t as if the total would give any hint if her father had been victorious, or whether her future offered a fresh bridal wreath or the cold shroud of a convent veil. God’s Blood, she was acting as superstitious as the kitchen maids, trying to pick out the profiles of their future husbands in the hearth ashes.
Her father emerged from around the last bend and her heart fluttered like a startled bird. Though there was no blood on his tunic, the fabric of his sleeve was torn and there was a new dent in his helmet. There had been a struggle, a fight, perhaps even a battle.
“Father,” she blurted, as she rode up to shorten the space between them. “Did you capture my dowry castle?”
The Viscount of Tournan took his time unhooking the chain-mail curtain attached to his helmet before lifting the bascinet off his head. A scarlet slash marred his cheek and nose, discoloring his swarthy, hard-planed face. He handed his helmet back to his squire as he fixed his black gaze upon her.
“So this is how you greet me, daughter.”
She swallowed, sensing the darkness of his mood. “Forgive me, Father, but—”
“I should think those nuns would have taught you better in your youth.” His gaze flickered to her empty hands. “You didn’t even think to bring me wine.”
He spurred his charger and shot past her. She breathed hard, trying to squeeze her spirit into the restraints her father demanded. Provoking him was dangerous, even for her. But she had spent the years since her father had returned wounded from the battle of Crécy studying his fluxing moods, his hot temper, and his tendency to rage. She knew his limits down to the last breaking straw.
So she turned her mare around and came up beside him. “I beg your indulgence, father. Patience is not one of my virtues—”
“We’ve ridden hard this day, and fought harder, all for your sake.”
“I’m very grateful—”
“We didnotcapture the castle.”
A painful buzzing started in her head.
“Castétis was strongly guarded.” Her father’s unshaven jaw tightened. “It was impossible to assault, impossible to seize, impossible to recapture without a significantly larger force than I had with me.”
She gripped the pommel and watched her knuckles whiten.
“Nonetheless,” he continued, “men have been wounded, Aliénor. Men have died—all for your sake.”
God’s Blood, no.She twisted on the saddle, searching the line of men behind her for beloved, missing faces while her vision went blurry.
“Do you believe I failed you, girl?”
“You did not fail me, father.” But her heart was not in the words but in her mouth as she counted helmeted heads.
“Indeed, I did not fail you. Are you listening to me?”
