Page 11 of The Captive Knight
Chapter Three
Jehan paced blindly in the nearly pitch-black cell. His head throbbed and tight stitching pulled the wound on his leg. The thick walls were cold and damp against his palm, yet he felt as hot as if he were walking in full armor on a sweltering summer afternoon.
He fought against the fever muddling his mind. He had to think clearly—too many people depended upon him now. Last year, when he’d breached the walls of Castétis and claimed it as his own, he’d promised his men-at-arms they’d never again have to return to their old, brutal life on the hills. And once the servants and vassals of Castétis had offered up their labor in exchange for his protection, he became as bound to them as they were to him.
He would live.
But to help them, he would have to escape.
He paused as he heard a voice outside his cell. He fixed his attention on the pale strip of light seeping in from under the door as shadows made it flicker. When the door swung open, light burst into the cell and hit his eyes like daggers. He squeezed them shut.
“I see you’re feeling better.”
He didn’t need sight to recognize who’d arrived. This was the woman with hands as soft as velvet and a tongue as sharp as a knife. He’d been so feverish for so long he’d only been vaguely aware of her presence as a voice in the darkness, a touch in the night, and warmth when he shivered.
“How long have you been in the dark?” Dried rushes crackled as she moved around the room. “I’ll bring you more candles next time.”
A shadow passed across him as another person entered the cell. The man’s grunts reminded Jehan that the maiden had a large, loyal servant as a guard.
She said, “Hugo, put the tray beside him.”
A sliding noise was followed by the strong scent of charred meat and mustard sauce. Suddenly he was ravenous. He sank to the floor blindly, stretching out his injured leg so he wouldn’t rip the stitches. He tilted his head toward the ground and dared to squeeze an eye open, shielding himself with a raised forearm against the light pouring in from the doorway. He seized the hunk of bread on the tray, ripping off a piece with his teeth as the boy stretched a cup into his sight. Jehan dropped the bread, grabbed the cup the boy was offering, and drank deeply.
As he gorged himself, his eyes adjusted to the light, degree by degree. The damp walls reflected the glimmer of two candles burning upon the single table. Rush light from the hall bathed the center of the cell in a square, reddish-orange glow. She stood framed by that glow, a slim silhouette, her hair capturing the firelight as loose, long curls tumbled over her shoulders. She bent over a sack, rummaging for something inside. The chain of her girdle hung away from her abdomen and its sway drew his attention to her narrow waist.
Dark thoughts scattered through his fevered mind. This daughter of Tournan had only a half-witted peasant and a single man-at-arms to guard her. Jehan knew he wasn’t at his strongest, but desperation often gifted men with unexpected power. He could take her guards by surprise and subdue her. Then this daughter of Tournan would be his prisoner, a bargaining chip for his freedom.
He flexed his sore, swollen hand around the cup as a deeper instinct made him pause. She could be hurt in the scuffle, and most likely because of him. In his fever-weakness, he’d be clumsy and more forceful than needed. Sickness was clouding his thoughts. His vengeance should be aimed at her father, not at the woman who’d restored his life.
She approached him and knelt by his side, dangerously, he thought, considering the war going on in his head. She leaned so close that he smelled the scent of cardamom clinging to her clothes. She unwound the linen encircling his head. Her fingers probed the soreness on his temple.
She said, “You’re still feverish.”
He grunted around a mouthful of bread, “It will pass.”
“Lucky for you,” she said. “I believe it will.”
She pressed a damp linen against his brow and the cold water stung the wound. After a while, she tossed the linen aside and started winding a fresh one around his head. Her pretty, pale face was as smooth as a mask, but even muddled by the spice-scent of her, he could see how the muscles of her throat stood out like cords.
He frowned. He wanted her beast of a father to be uneasy and anxious, not this woman. But since he was stuck in this cell, she was his only conduit to the viscount.
He asked, “How long have I been here?”
“Eight days.”
“So long.” He placed a burnt crust, all that was left of the bread, upon the tray. “The Prince of Wales will be at the gates any day now.”
She laughed a short, humorless huff. “Eightdays, not eight weeks, Sir Jehan. I suspect the news of your capture has not yet reached England.”
“It need go no farther than Bordeaux, where the prince is gathering an army.”
She rose up on her knees to tie the ends of the linen bandage secure. “It’s foolish to try to frighten me.”
“I’m speaking the truth. I’d received word of his arrival on the day your father captured me.”
Her little nostrils flared. “How proud you must be, to think your liege lord would drop all other responsibilities to free a single knight.”
“He will not take my capture or the death of my men lightly.”
