Page 66 of The Captive Knight
She said, “Where have you put my brother?”
“In the lower room of the tower.”
She flinched, for that was the same dank, dark, unhealthy place her father had imprisoned Jehan. The expression on her face must have shown her feelings for he turned on a metal heel and strode toward the castle.
She clutched her elbows in frustration. Later, she told herself. She could only deal with one irascible, stubborn, foolish man at a time.
She headed toward the kitchens to fetch linens and fresh water. A cluster of servants muttered in low tones by the door. They raised their heads as she approached, and she was reminded of a herd of deer going still at the crack of a twig in the woods. Except it wasn’t fear or wariness she saw in their eyes, but disapproval and a measure of blame.
“Fetch clean linens, wine, and water.” She spoke with all the calm authority she could muster. “And the tallow salve, as well.”
They scattered to do her bidding. She remained outside, feeling the heavy pulse of unwelcome. Did she deserve blame? Was this the price to pay for the choices she had made? Would everyone think that, having consorted with Sir Jehan, she’d usurped what rightfully belonged to her own brother? And if her brother truly had renounced the monastery, wasn’t that what she’d done, indeed?
A shivering came over her, a kind of unhinging, and to staunch it she focused on practical things. She patted her kirtle pocket and felt the thread and needle she always kept with her. She considered what else she might need to care for Laurent’s physical wounds. Soon the cook appeared before her, thin-lipped, thrusting a bowl with linens and unguent in her hands. Hugo loomed out of the darkness behind the servant, carrying water and wine.
On heavy feet she led Hugo across the milling courtyard toward the door leading to Laurent’s cell, retracing the same steps she’d once taken, in the dark of night, to tend to Jehan when he had been a prisoner. She felt the stares upon her like a hundred tiny arrow-darts. In all the months she’d lived with Jehan like a wife yet not a wife, she’d never felt even a small portion of such scrutiny as she was receiving now. She could hardly breathe for all the attention until she and Hugo passed through the tower door into the cold, damp, and darkness lit at intervals by wall-torches.
When she descended the last turn of the stairs, the guard straightened from his lean against the door. The flickering light cast shadows across his frowning face. “Sir Rudel,” she said, raising the bowl with its linens. “I’m to tend my brother.”
He dodged her gaze as he opened the door. By the look of things, someone had already prepared, for Laurent’s cell was bright with tallow candles and sconce light, which spilled into the passageway. She dipped her head to pass inside. Her brother, wrapped in a blanket, sat upon a stool next to a table with a goblet of wine.
Laurent raised his bloodied face, heaved himself to his feet, and gave her a sad, rueful smile.
“Hello,sor.”
She meant to scold him. She intended to rain her frustration upon his mussed, dark head, call him a reckless fool. But at the sight of him, at the sound of his oh-so-familiar voice, all her intentions crumbled to dust.
She flew across the distance, clattered the bowl upon the table, and threw her arms around him. The scent of blood and pine needles and wood-smoke rose from his clothes. He pressed his head upon her shoulder, just as he used to do as a boy, and it all flashed before her, all those years growing up, stashing him behind barrels to hide him from her father, playing together in the high tower, running across fields chasing rabbits, climbing the hills barefoot in the summertime, crying together on the same pallet after they buried their brothers.
She pulled away to look into his face and her heart turned over, for though he’d grown leaner and scruffier, he looked upon her with the same grave, solemn expression she’d always known.
“This is madness,” she blurted on a hitch of breath. “You coming here, with an army.”
“Courage requires a bit of madness.”
“Did some sell-sword tell you that? How thoughtless, Laury, reckless and foolish—”
“Not foolish enough.” His nostrils flared. “I couldn’t save you.”
He pressed his forehead against hers. Words gathered and stuck in her throat. She couldn’t deny that amid the tangle of fierce emotions, she felt a glimmer of warmth. But for Jehan, no one had ever tried to save her from anything.
“How,” she whispered, swallowing and pulling away from him, “did you ever learn to fight so well?”
“Not easily.”
“I’m astonished.”
“Because some of Thibaud’s teachings finally sank in?”
“Thibaud never taught you how to move so.”
He shrugged a shoulder that had gained bulk over the winter. “Sell-swords do have their tricks.”
“Does it matter to you I spent every night thinking you’d been murdered?”
“I nearly was.” He traced a puckered, badly knitted scar across his cheekbone. “Twice.”
“And why would those men teach you at all?”
