Page 49 of The Captive Knight
Chapter Thirteen
Aliénor sat at the end of the trestle table, her nerves as tight as a bowstring. Considering that her world had turned upside down only weeks ago, she should be content with the crackle of the hearth fire and the bounty of food upon the table. Between energetic bouts of Laurent’s and Rostand’s sword play, carried out in a cleared space in front of the trestle table, she could hear soft laughter coming from the servants in the buttery. Pewter plates graced the table and the tapestries had been reattached to the walls as if the prince’s attack had never happened.
But this apparent calm felt false, fragile, and ready to snap with one knowing look or ill-placed word.
“You forget that I fought at Crécy, Jehan,” Thibaud bellowed, making her start as he banged his fist upon the table. “The English used shameful trickery, putting knights’ weapons in the hands of worthless freemen in boiled leather jerkins.”
Jehan shrugged. “The Welsh archers are skilled, Thibaud. Their longbowsmen fire three arrows to a crossbowman’s one.”
“In my day, no knight of any honor would send the archers ahead of the mounted men, and certainly no king—”
“They would if they knew a Welshman’s arrows can pierce a knight’s mail.” Jehan raised his voice above the fresh crack of wooden swords as her brother and Rostand began another round of sparring. “Try fixing your foot, Laurent. Your bad foot, so you can better maneuver with your better one.”
Aliénor watched her brother, grinning and dripping with sweat as he flexed his hand over the hilt of his sword. Today, Sir Rostand and Laurent had eschewed the cold, drizzly courtyard for the relative warmth of the great hall for his now-daily practice. Amid the clatter and grunts, she couldn’t take her eyes off Laurent, obeying Jehan’s command with a determined nod.
Wordless obedience, she thought, from a boy who’d once spit fire at Jehan. She should be satisfied that he and Jehan weren’t at each other’s throats, but she just didn’t understand the change of heart.
“King Philip,” Thibaud said, waving his cup as wine sloshed over the rim, “nowheknew how to fight like a true knight. I can’t say the same for your liege lord, Sir Jehan—thebadfoot, Laurent, make a pivot of it.”
“Perhaps the French should adapt to changing capabilities.”
“By burning villages? Destroying harvests? Who is your liege lord fighting against, Sir Jehan? Princes or peons?” Thibaud grunted and shot up from his seat. “Hold the sword like it’s welded to your hand, boy, else your attacker will knock it out every time.”
Jehan’s gaze drifted to her with an indulgent half-smile. Blood rushed to her cheeks as warmth flooded her loins. Oh, how she wished she could stand up and slip her hand in his and lead him across the hall to the stairs. Liaisons were becoming more difficult and dangerous. Perhaps she was imagining the smiling, quickly averted glances of the maidservants and the sly looks from the English men-at-arms, but in her heart she feared the worst. For Laurent’s sake, she couldn’t move an inch closer to the man whose touch she craved.
If only the abbot in Toulouse would respond to their messages. Jehan had already sent two, one with a peddler, and the second with a group of pilgrims, but six interminable weeks had passed with no response. She could only assume the messages were intercepted, or the monastery couldn’t spare a man to return news. In either case, the silence indicated how dangerous the roads had become since the Prince of Wales had come warring. She couldn’t possibly send her brother off on such roads, with either English or French men-at-arms as guards.
Jehan kept his patience, but she sensed his bated frustration whenever she deemed it too dangerous to seek his bed. Worse, she wasn’t sure she could bear this deception much longer. She wanted to embrace her new position, live openly as Jehan’s lover, and stop skulking around in shame. The longer she delayed, the more likely it would be that Laurent would find out through rumor, or, worse, he’d catch them together. Then all hope for reasonable discussion would be lost.
Yes, she would take matters in her own hands.
“I got you, Rostand!” Laurent let loose a wild whoop of laughter as he swept a sweat-drenched shock of hair off his brow. “A point to me.”
“And so the match is done.” She stood up with a clatter of bench.
“Done?” Laurent said. “But—”
“Wasn’t it you who urged me to distribute the extra food from dinner?” She reached for the bowl of figs on the table before Thibaud could take another, then gestured to a platter heaped with the ends of gravy-soaked trencher bread and a few joints of quail. “Grab the platter and act the monk. There will be many in the village who’ll appreciate the meal.”
She strode away toward the door, expecting her brother to follow. Leaning against the iron strap work, she watched as Laurent took his time about it, laying down his wooden sword, bantering with the men, and then, finally, taking the tray to do her bidding.
She pushed against the door and the winter wind slipped through the portal, teasing the hem of her kirtle with cold fingers.
Laurent limped down the stairs beside her, still heaving from exertion. “It’s been a long time since we had enough food to deliver the remnants from our table.”
“Sir Jehan is a good hunter. We’ll take everything to Father Dubose, he’ll know how best to distribute it.”
“I don’t think Thibaud was quite finished eating.” He turned his eyes upon her, crinkly with humor. “What’s got you frowning?”
“You,” she retorted, stepping smartly toward the chapel. “Practicing swordplay with glee, like I never could get you to do before.”
“An army pouring over the walls changed my perspective.”
“And what happened to the wonderful monastery in Toulouse? To spending a life in spiritual contemplation?”
“That hasn’t changed,” he said. “But have you madeyourdecision?”
“What decision?”
