Page 76 of The Captive Knight
A tingling passed over her skin, like a thousand little pinpricks piercing her from scalp to toes.
“The knight writes quite eloquently for a traitorous Gascon,” the regent continued, tilting the paper to the light. “…the lady, as my chatelaine, held the castle for her family and kept its people safe long beyond what should be possible in a country ravaged by plague, famine, and war, showing strength of character and loyalty to King Jean that wins high praise even from those who she calls her enemies…”
She couldn’t seem to catch her breath.
Not dead by a French scout’s sword.
Not dead by a brigand’s dagger.
Not dead on the field of battle.
She bathed in Jehan’s words while white light streamed from the high windows and poured across the paving stones at her feet.
“I assume you know this knight, mademoiselle?” The paper rustled in the regent’s hand. “This…St. Simon?”
I know the way the corner of his lips tilt when he’s amused, the way his lids grow heavy as he looks upon me, the way he stands with his shoulders sloped when he’s still in thought, planning something, thinking of a future I can never share.
She stuttered, “I do, Your Grace.”
The regent’s voice, thick with impatience. “Well?”
“Sir Jehan is the English knight,” she said, daring to speak his name for the first time in months, “who seized both of my castles.”
The ripples of the regent’s forehead pressed up against the rim of his crown. “A Gascon knight with English loyalties speaking in support of the very heiress he dispossessed?”
She lowered her head to find her hands clasped in a grip of prayer. “Apparently so, Your Grace.”
“Why?” he barked. “Why would an English knight plead a French noblewoman’s cause, when it can benefit him none and cause him no end of trouble should you rally a French knight to take up your banner?”
Because he loves me and I love him and the whole world conspires to keep us apart.
She said, “This will take some explaining.”
“My lady, these days three things elude me: Good news, good wishes, and good stories.” He tossed the paper on the table and waved at her. “Proceed at will.”
She smoothed her hands down her skirts, biding for time as she marshalled her scattered thoughts. The truth was a better story than the tale Thibaud had concocted for her, but Thibaud had forbidden her to speak the truth to anyone. She’d only agreed because her great-uncle had warned that the regent would likely toss her into a convent if it was made known she’d taken an English lover.
So, as dispassionately as she could, she recited the events leading up to the loss of her castle and her decision, after the dark winter of the Prince’s raids, to seek the protection of her father’s liege lord. She told the tale without ever mentioning she’d spent the cold winter snug and happy in Jehan’s bed.
As she finished, the regent said into the silence, “This is a weary, common tale—”
“If I may be so bold, Your Grace.” Thibaud interrupted, stepping forward to fall on one knee.
The regent raised pale brows at her great-uncle’s breach of protocol, but waved away the guard who’d stepped forward. “Thibaud de Pirou, I presume?”
“At your service.”
“Your niece said earlier you knew my grandfather.”
“I fought for King Philip VI at both Crécy and Calais.”
“Ah.” The regent leaned forward. “My grandfather was full of stories.”
“I know of exploits that I wager not evenyouhave been told.”
The regent’s grin was quick and surprisingly boyish. “You must tell me every one. All I hear in these terrible days are of burning and plundering and rebellion.”
“With your permission, I’ll tell you a tale now, one that will lift your spirits. It involves the young brother of the lady who stands before you.”
