Page 30 of The Captive Knight
Chapter Nine
Jehan had stolen before. He’d attacked grain carts on the road to Toulouse, pinched hams from smokehouses, shot deer in royal forests, and fished in forbidden rivers. He’d stolen leather coin satchels from wine merchants on their way to Bordeaux. Without those thefts, he and his small band would never have survived the long winters between fighting seasons. As desperate as he’d been, he’d always set rules so he could sleep easier. He’d never stolen from those poorer than him, never killed for what he’d set his eye on, and never seized more than he’d needed.
But now guilt slid into him like an icy sword. Where he stood in the war-ravaged courtyard, he cradled Aliénor, her head in the crook of his elbow, his other arm around her back. He watched her bloodied face as she fought her way back to consciousness, waiting for her to blink her eyes open. When she finally did come around, and the fog of pain and confusion cleared, the look of accusation she threw at him dug into his chest like a gambrel hook. It pierced his lungs and forced the breath out of him.
He knew what guilt felt like, but he’d never experienced this gut-deep conviction that he’d done something unforgivable.
He braced for the fury to come. He waited for her to pummel his chest with her fists, scrape fingernails down his cheek, or kick his shins with her booted feet. But she only stared at him, persisting in stillness.
“Aliénor.”
Her name left his lips like a plea. She pushed at his arm and he had no choice but to release her until she stood, weaving, on her own two feet. All around them knights shouted orders, dogs whined, horses shook themselves, and men-at-arms scuffled across the paving stones. A wounded man nearby ventured to stand up, breathing hard as he braced one hand against the donjon wall.
“I tried,” Jehan said, curling his hands into fists. “I tried to stop all this.”
Words crowded his throat, excuses and explanations, but her face screamed disbelief. She had no way of knowing how much worse this attack could have been, if the prince had set his knights loose to plunder, burn, riot and rape. Instead, the prince had commanded everything set to order. From the look Edward had given him, Jehan knew it was a concession to his wishes alone.
She spoke, slurring her words. “I’m a prisoner.”
“No.”
“The prince himself said so.”
“You’re under his protection, and mine. You’ll be treated with respect.”
“In a tower cell?”
“Of course not.” Frustration flooded through him. Once again he was the enemy. “I’ll escort you to your room.”
“Where I’ll be locked in.”
“For your own good.”
She turned, unsteady, toward the donjon stairs. The dogs followed at her heels, whining and shoving their snouts under her hands. He stepped in front of her to swing open the donjon door, revealing a scene of revelry in the great hall. Raucous laughter filled the room. The knights, having wrestled a barrel of wine upon the table, pulled out the bung and took turns tipping the wine into each other’s mouths. Jehan tried to be unobtrusive as he steered her toward the stairs to the gallery, but still the men shouted leering encouragement. Jehan threw them a few rude gestures. An icy fear gripped him at the thought of what might have happened if he hadn’t intervened, along with the sinking realization that she would blame him for everything anyway.
At the top of the stairs she walked along the gallery to where a crowd of women peered out a door to the hall below. As they caught sight of Aliénor, they curtseyed and made a path for her to enter.
She turned to the hounds and ordered them to sit, and then she raised her pained brown gaze to his. “You’ve sworn to protect me, Sir Jehan. Protect my women as well.”
“With this sword,” he said, grasping the hilt, “and with my body.”
“I’ll hold you to that promise.”
She entered the room and closed the door behind her.
After he heard the snick of the bolt, he leaned against the wall. Straightening his wounded leg, he sank to his haunches with the dogs.
***
Two days later, Jehan was summoned to the upper chamber the prince had claimed as his own. Jehan entered the round tower room to find a squire dressing Edward in armor.
“The search party finally returned,” the prince said, raising his arms so the squire could slip a padded doublet over his head. “The viscount is nowhere in these hills.”
“A pity.”
Edward cast him a frowning glance. “That’s it? No determination to see his head on a pike? No sworn oaths of bloody vengeance?”
Jehan breathed in hard. Vengeance had no attraction while Aliénor still refused to talk or even look at him. “The viscount,” he said, “is a damned coward.”
