Page 23 of The Captive Knight
“There’s not a lute or sword within my reach, mademoiselle, and I don’t think the guards will hand me either.”
“I suppose it can do no harm,” she said, though her heart said otherwise when he smiled again.
“Good! I am tired of spilling wine.” Jehan yanked the end of the linen free, and then rapidly unwound the cloth. Once unbound, he flexed his fingers and turned his wrist, confirming to her the damage had been no worse than a sprain.
She said, “Any pain?”
“A bit stiff.”
“You shouldn’t raise a shield for a while, but it looks healthy enough.”
“Thanks to your skill. You’ll make a fine wife someday.”
“Someday,” she said, “will be the feast of the Epiphany.”
She’d blurted it like it was nothing and regretted it a moment later. She turned her gaze to the ramparts to better keep a hold on her wits, because every time she let her thoughts stray to the prospect of her wedding, her insides tightened up and her mind spiraled with anxious thoughts and she felt as if a great shadowed hand were coming down upon her.
He said, “Your father didn’t waste any time.”
“I’m nearly twenty-three years of age.”
“You’re in the flower of womanhood.”
“Every girl I knew at the convent is married, one with five children at last count.”
“Envious?”
“Of a manner.” She made the mistake of glancing at him and seeing a flattering curiosity in his expression. “They’ve had the freedom of their own homes. They’ve become mistresses of their own castles and lives.”
“Who is your lucky groom?”
She gave him a swift shake of her head. “I’m not sure I want to tell you.”
“Then it must be Sir Guy.”
She frowned at his all-too-accurate guess.
“If you wish,” he offered, “I could describe him to you.”
“Don’t.”
He raised a black brow.
“Knowing more will only disappoint me,” she explained, as they passed the open portal and continued their circuit. “If you tell me Sir Guy is ungainly, uncouth, or oddly disfigured, I shall await my marriage with dread. And if you paint him as a fine young knight, I will dream up unreasonable expectations.”
“You’re not curious?”
“Of course I am. But marriage is a labor no matter what, isn’t it?” For her mother, it was a heavy burden after Crécy, when her father became a hard man to live with. “But marriage is better than the alternative. I’d rather throw myself off the rafters than join a nunnery.”
“Indeed.” His voice dropped. “You deserve a happy marriage, Aliénor, with the best match your father can manage.”
She cast him a sharp glance, for there was no light poetry in his words this time. He avoided her eye to focus on the pattern of the paving stones as they walked. Even her sparrow hawk sensed the change in mood, flapping her wings with enough force to lift her half off the glove. Aliénor cooed soft words, doing her best to settle the bird while Jehan brooded.
Finally, curiosity and suspicion overcame her. She scuffed to a stop near the northwest tower. “Sir Jehan, if there is something you must tell me about my betrothed,” she said, as the hawk’s talons pierced the boiled leather glove, “then please do. And do it quickly, before my courage fails me.”
He pivoted so he stood in front of her. His shadow fell upon her face, and the bright blue sky behind his head was echoed in the color of his eyes. He was no closer to him than before, not so physically close as to cause alarm, or draw undue attention from the men-at-arms in the courtyard, but she caught her breath anyway. She noticed the pattern of stubble on his cheek, the way the breeze ruffled his hair, the way he seized all her attention with the fervid intensity of his stare. The courtyard seemed to dissolve away while her focus narrowed to the powerful emotions in those eyes.
“Guy de Baste doesn’t deserve you,” he said. “Any man with red blood in his veins would kill to make you his own.”
And suddenly there wasn’t enough air in all of Gascony for her to breathe.
