Page 27 of The Captive Knight
Chapter Eight
Jehan rode over the crest of a ridge and came upon the army of the Prince of Wales.
Four or five hundred men-at-arms were spread out in a field, suited, armed, and mounted, as well as a lesser grouping of rag-tag foot soldiers and a cadre of archers in formation. At their head, the Prince of Wales sat high on his cloth-draped warhorse, the pale gray light glinting off the gold thread of the rampant lions and the fleur-de-lys embroidered upon his surcoat. His polished helmet gleamed in his lap, and the mist caught in his drooping black mustache.
Jehan raised a hand in greeting, rode down the ridge, and pulled his stolen horse to a halt. “My lord.”
“By God, St. Simon,” the prince barked. “Is that a plow horse you’re riding?”
“It is.”
“And that cloak looks full of fleas.”
“Escape,” Jehan said ruefully, “was quite an adventure.”
“You have more lives than a cat.”
Jehan grinned.
“Tonight you can tell me the whole story,” the prince said. “But now we have work to do.”
“I heard about Seissan.” Jehan cast a wary glance over the mounted men, all those helmeted heads, realizing the army had only just halted. “What bastide is next?”
“Answer my questions first.” The prince gestured to his squire who pulled a bladder of wine out of a saddle bag to hand to Jehan. “How many fighting men are within the walls of Castelnau?”
Jehan seized the wine as his ribs tightened. He yanked out the cork and drank deep, taking a moment to think. He told himself that the prince couldn’t possibly be considering a siege. There were no trebuchets or other heavy war gear in the field. One glance told him that this highly-mobile army was made for swift, destructive raids, to plunder, burn, and move on.
Still, best to deflect any bad idea the prince might be considering.
“Two score or more men, at least,” he said, pulling his lips from the mouth of the bladder. “Once the viscount heard about Seissan, he prepared for the worst. They’ve got full larders and plenty of fresh water.”
“Archers?”
“A dozen or more.”
The prince barked a reckless laugh. “This will be fine sport.”
The wine in Jehan’s stomach soured. “Fine sport, my lord?”
“Overrunning the castle.” He waved a dismissive hand. “As easy as scaling the walls at the bastide of Seissan—”
“I counsel against it.” Jehan’s skin prickled as the prince glared. “Whatever your scout reported to you about this castle, I know better. The open field in front of the gate isn’t even large enough to hold half your men.”
“Being a prisoner has made you soft.”
“I see your army and I know the castle.” He straightened on his horse. “To attack would be a waste of time and resources.”
“Better to tuck our tails and run away from a challenge, then?”
The prince’s voice dripped with sarcasm and the words cut Jehan deep. Jehan wanted nothing more than to rain bloody vengeance on the viscount, but three honorable knights and a brave young woman had risked their lives for his sake. He’d made promises to them all.
“Three knights helped me escape,” Jehan said.
“So there it is.”
“I have an honor debt to them.”
“If they live through the day,” the Prince said, “they will be rewarded.”
