Page 2 of The Captive Knight
She turned back to him. “I’m listening, father.” Not a man missing, it seemed, but the road was so narrow she couldn’t be sure.
He said, “I captured something better than the castle.”
She started.
“I captured the thief who stole it in the first place—that lowborn, sell-sword bastard of a usurper.”
On a gasp, she said, “The English knight?”
“Indeed.” Her father’s smile was a slash of ill-humor. “Jehan de St. Simon is in my custody. I will ransom the knight for Castétis, and then you, my unruly, impatient, doubting daughter, you will have your dowry castle once again.”
He kicked his charger up the steepest and narrowest part of the slope, dismissing her. She fell into place behind him as the implications of his news sank in. Could it be true that she wouldn’t be ushered off to a convent? Could it be true that she wouldn’t forever be a servant in her father’s house? That she would have a home of her own, where she and her brother Laurent could live in peace, safety, and maybe with even a glimmer of happiness?
A slow excitement filled her. Reaching the top of the hillock, she thundered across the field in her father’s wake, not stopping until she reached the courtyard. She dismounted in a sliding rush, tossing the reins to a stable boy. All but dancing to the steps of the donjon—the main tower—she joined her frowning father as they watched the other knights file in. She couldn’twaitto lay eyes upon the English thief. She had a mouthful of accusations for the man who’d stolen her future one year ago, and not a single one of them was maidenly.
The thief, slumped on his tethered horse, was the last to come into view. He wore a short tunic over his chain mail but the cloth was so dirty she couldn’t see the colors of his heraldry. As he was led closer to where she and her father stood, she noticed the dirt was reddish-brown.
The angry words she’d summoned stuck in her throat, followed by a deepening concern. The prisoner was barely conscious.
“He dared to battle us all,” her father bellowed to the gathered men and servants. “No man can steal from me without punishment, eh, St. Simon?”
The prisoner didn’t move. Fresh blood dripped in a rivulet over the steel of his shoes. A short, sharp quiver of fear speared through her. If the knight was still bleeding, he might very well die.
“Away from him, girl.Now.”
Halfway down the stairs she stopped short, her blood running cold. She was all too familiar with the tone of voice coming out of her father’s mouth.
“Tend my wounded,” he barked, “not my enemy.”
“But father—”
“I’ll rain hell on any man—or woman—who aids him.”
Her father swept up the stairs, his metal shoes clanking on the weathered stones. She remained where she was until the heavy oak door of the donjon closed behind him. Only then did she turn to his men-at-arms, questioning silently. To the last, they averted their gazes, busying themselves by pulling the wounded thief off the horse and carrying him, limp and dripping a trail of blood, toward the cells of the northwest tower.
Something terrible had happened at Castétis. Something done, no doubt, in a white-blind rage so fierce that her father had forgotten one vital point: A dead prisoner couldn’t pay ransom.
Jehan de St. Simon was her worst enemy.
Yet she had to make sure he lived.
***
Aliénor waited late into the night for the muted sounds of drunkenness to die in the great hall. When the last voice had faded into silence, she tossed off the fur coverlet and pulled open the velvet curtains surrounding her bed. Her chamber lay at the rear of the castle, lit by two arrow-slits along with the dim glow of burning embers in the hearth. Margot, her chambermaid, slept soundly on her pallet.
Aliénor shoved her feet into slippers and seized the sack she’d hidden under her pillow. Picking up an unlit tallow candle, she slipped over the dry rushes and unhooked her fur-lined mantle from the peg by the door. The rush lights in the hall had sputtered out hours before, but she knew the stairs well and had no need of light to make her way. At the bottom of the stairs she paused to slip on her mantle while listening for sounds in the pantry or the buttery. When she was sure all was still, she headed through the narrow passage, past the screens, into the great hall.
The embers of a fire still glowed in the massive fireplace, throwing a red-orange light over her father’s sleeping men-at-arms. One of the mastiffs lifted his head and sniffed the air as she crossed the hall. As she reached the arched wooden door, she heard the click of hounds’ nails as, one by one, more dogs rose from their slumber. Unable to order them to stay without alerting the sleeping knights, she pushed open the door and herded them out into the chill October air and then closed the door behind her.
The courtyard was bathed in bluish starlight. The frigid wind from the Pyrenees—theautanwind—swept through, scattering dried leaves.Bent d’autan, ploujo douman,she thought, absently repeating the peasant prediction of rain. Shivering, she descended the stairs to the courtyard and headed toward the warmth of the kitchens.
Inside on the work tables, wrapped in linen, were the remnants of the evening’s feast: chicken and pork pies, large, half-eaten chunks of boiled beef, rectangular loaves of trencher bread, and earthen jugs of hippocras, the heady spiced wine her father liked too much. The dogs lifted their noses and trotted to the tables, but with a hiss from her they hung back. Fortunately, the servants were accustomed to people entering and leaving the room to indulge late-night appetites, and they slept through any interruption. Aliénor peered through the sleeping servants until she found one large figure lying apart from the others. She bent close to him.
“Hugo,” she whispered, touching his shoulder. “Wake up, Hugo.”
The boy’s eyes opened, then widened as they focused.
She lifted a finger to his lips so he wouldn’t make a sound. “I need your help.”
