Page 78 of The Captive Knight
Aliénor said. “Are we acquainted, sir?”
“We have never met,” he said, with a bow, “but the regent just informed me of your presence. I am newly returned from Gascony on orders to report about the strongholds no longer in our hands.”
She sucked in a breath. “You saw Castelnau?”
“Yes.” A sad smile flittered across his face as his eyes roamed elsewhere on her body. “Though it is thinly guarded, mademoiselle, it is still in English hands.”
“And St. Simon,” she said, trying hard not to stutter over the name, “is he still in possession?”
“His colors flew from the ramparts, indeed, but he was not in attendance.”
“Oh?”
She held this young man’s gaze like a straw that would keep her from drowning. She hated how desperate she sounded, but the rumors and gossip flooding the court rarely included any news about English knights. She was desperate for information.
“He’s in London.” The young man watched her face with great care. “With the prince himself, so the villagers of Castelnau told me.”
She swallowed and nodded while her thoughts vaulted to Jehan in England, perhaps meeting his new bride.
“And…the village,” she added, deflecting, “and my people?”
“The villagers were out in the fields when I arrived, harvesting a fine crop. It was a rare sight, one of the few pleasing ones I saw. Most villages and bastides in the area were burnt to the ground, their fields destroyed.”
She bobbed her head, words failing her.
“If I may be so bold, mademoiselle…”
“Yes?”
“Is it true you remained in the castle after St. Simon captured it?”
“Yes.”
“Then I commend you for your bravery and loyalty.”
“Bravery?” She seized the end of her tippet, running it through her fingers until the crackling of the static shocked her to her wits. “It’s not bravery to stay safe within my own home while war rages beyond the walls.”
“I speak of your refusal to become the English knight’s bride.”
Her fingers stilled on the tippet, ceasing the scattering of tiny blue sparks. Beside her, Blanche shifted on the bench. Her gown rustled like dry leaves.
“Sir,” Aliénor said, speaking through a tight throat. “Sir Jehan made me no such offer.”
“You jest.”
“He was all but married,” she retorted, wanting a quick end to this conversation. “The Prince of Wales promised him to an English lady.”
“Ah, a prince’s promise would be hard for an ambitious man to resist.”
The shame falls on him, Laurent had once said,for letting ambition rule over love
“Still,” the knight added, “a man is generally better served securing what he holds in his hands rather than hoping for something that might never come to pass. From what I know of St. Simon, I’d have expected him to seize what he could.”
God’s Blood, she couldn’t help herself. “You know him, sir?”
“In passing.” His attention drifted to the swirl of dancers in the room. “Sir Jehan and I have met on more than one occasion, which is one reason why your particular situation has attracted my interest.”
Heat crept up from the neckline of her kirtle. She’d done her best to deflect suspicion of what had really happened over winter, but this man now had her wondering if he knew more than he should. He was dressed in a close-fitting tunic with dagged edges, all the style in the French court. The flicker of the rush lights shone on the gold threads in his doublet, yet in the shadows she couldn’t make out the colors.
He certainly wore finer clothing than any simple messenger, which is what she’d first assumed him to be.
“You are upsetting my friend, sir,” Blanche said, bless her, as the widow covered Aliénor’s hand with her own. “Her losses are great.”
The man’s attention returned to them swiftly. “My apologies, ladies, I forget myself.” He put his feet together and offered a bow. “Mademoiselle Aliénor, I’d hoped to introduce myself if the opportunity ever arose, for our families have a connection.”
When he straightened up, light rippled over his doublet and she caught sight of his heraldry at last.
“Guy de Baste, at your service,” he said, as a smile curved his lips. “I believe we were once nearly betrothed.”
