Page 69 of The Captive Knight
Chapter Nineteen
Jehan sat by a dying hearth in the upper room of the donjon, his armor scattered across the floor. He thrust his bloody hands through his hair, settled his elbows on his knees, and bowed his head. He heard the thick oak door squeal open.
“Get out.”
He had already thrown out his squire twice. What must he do to let these fools know he wanted to be alone? He wanted no help removing his blood-splattered doublet, no servant bringing him food or wine, no better tending to his wound than the linens he’d tied around his thigh to stop the bleeding. He wanted to sit in the cold and dark and dirt and blood and figure out how he could have done everything differently.
As the door shut, he reimagined the fight on the field for the hundredth time, wondering if he could have made a better choice. What if he had chosen to make a lightning-swift attack on Laurent’s whole contingent instead of allowing a one-on-one challenge? He imagined himself in the thick of that battle, blood pumping hard and battle lust raging in his head, striking hard at the pike men and the faceless men-at-arms. He imagined, in the midst of the madness, someone striking him from behind, hard enough to drive chain-mail links into his neck. He wouldn’t think for long, he would simply react, twisting with his sword high, seeing a cap of dark hair, but not soon enough to deflect his blow or stop the momentum of his swing as it tore through a layer of plated doublet and something else, something soft. In his mind, he watched Laurent claw his chest and fall to his knees as Aliénor’s scream came from on high.
He clutched his head as that scream shattered inside his skull. Every scenario he imagined ended in Laurent’s death or his own—except the one option he’d chosen. Yet mutual survival didn’t feel like victory.
The door swung open again. He shot up off the stool with a curse on his lips and then froze in place.
Aliénor stood in the doorway like a stone angel, bathed in the dusky light streaming in through the arrow-slit window. From the very first moment he’d opened his eyes to gaze upon this woman, back in the dimness of his cell, he’d been struck by her beauty. But now, after all their time together, he noticed so much more. His gaze traced the curve of her neck and shoulder but what he remembered was her kindness, her husky laugh, the swift work of her hands, the way she danced back and forth from the buttery, slipped her hand over the backs of her hunting hounds, tossed a fetching look over her shoulder, ran her cool fingers over the fever of his brow.
The air rushed out of his lungs.
She whispered, “It’s so cold in here.”
He turned his face away and reached for another log. He set it upon the fire as if the fate of the world hung on how well it balanced upon the crumbling embers.
She said, “Your wounds have not been fully tended.”
He shrugged. In his blind fury to be left alone, he must have sent a woman scurrying.
“It’s been hours,” she said. “Shall I—?”
“No.” The word came out harsher than he intended. “The wounds aren’t deep.” He planted a hand on the mantel and forced his voice calm. “How is your brother?”
“Changed.”
The word was spoken with such ruefulness that he hazarded a glance at her. She stood with a knot between her brows, stroking the clean linens hanging over her forearm. Her steady calm unnerved him more than weeping. Hewishedshe would weep, wail aloud, or strike him with fists and angry words.
He deserved that.
He said, “You’ve come to plead his case?”
“No.”
He raised a brow.
“He will speak his own mind,” she said. “Laurent will not pay a moment’s attention to what I advise, I assure you.”
Frustration surged in him. Shehadto know what he must do now, as the protector of this castle. Her brother had marched here with an army, calling himself the one true heir. If Jehan didn’t act swiftly to stanch that claim, the question as to who ruled would linger. The villagers might choose the boy they knew, taking up arms against Jehan as the holder of the prince’s claim. If Jehan didn’t act, he’d be leaving himself and all who depended upon him vulnerable to endless conflict.
“You won’t kill him,” she said softly. “You had a chance, and you didn’t.”
He turned his face away from her.
“You won’t kill him,” she repeated, “because you love me.”
A knight wore layers of armor to avoid injury. A padded doublet beneath a shirt of mail, pounded metal buckled to his elbows, his forearms, his calves, and molded to his feet. But a heart had no armor, and no weapon had ever plunged deeper than her words.
He turned away from her and allowed himself to imagine another scenario. He saw sunlight shining on her golden hair, crowned with flowers, as they stood together outside the door of the chapel. He saw Father Dubose wrapping a cloth around their clasped hands. He imagined villagers gathering in a happy cluster around them, crying out as the final words were spoken and the blessing placed upon them. He dreamed of Aliénor’s bright, wide smile as she lifted her face for the marriage kiss.
Then still another scenario rushed through the scene like a storm. The clatter and roar of a hundred men-at-arms gathered outside the castle, striking their swords against their shields. Perhaps they were English, detouring from the next scouring of Gascony to fetch Jehan back to Bordeaux to be executed, his lands and castle and unsanctioned wife taken away. Or perhaps they were French knights, arriving in force to win back what was stolen, now that the knight who held it had fallen so out of favor that the English prince would no longer raise a finger in defense.
He shook the images from his head. Swiveling on a foot, he crossed the short distance separating them and took her face between the palms of his hands. Her cheeks were flushed but cold. He held them until they grew warm from his touch.
