Page 82 of The Captive Knight
The white-haired knight made a rumbling noise deep in his throat. “You’re not doing right by her. She’s just beginning to dry her tears.”
“She’s unhappy?”
“Don’t be an idiot.”
Jehan looked beyond Thibaud, searching for Aliénor’s slim figure among the crowd. Thibaud might be trying to protect his niece, but Jehan was helplessly in love with the woman. Always had been, and likely always would be.
Then his attention fixed on a shining blond head. He shouldered away from the column to sidle one way and then the other, to keep her in view as she wove through the room. His heart beat hard as he glimpsed the rippling wheaten waves of her hair, the curve of her flushed cheek, the glint of firelight off the chain-link belt lying low on her hips. She headed toward the open space where couples gathered for a dance.
Thibaud gripped his arm. “Let her go, Jehan. Seeing you will only cause her pain.”
But he’d already yanked away from Thibaud’s grip to shoulder through the crowd, ignoring the crush of bodies, the rising chatter, the friendly cheers. He saw nothing else but the slope of her little nose as she stood in profile to him, the slightest of smiles pasted on her face, a frozen smile that held not an ounce of joy.
The music began with a feather of lute strings. A man came around to stand in front of her. Jehan’s heart stilled as she dipped in a curtsey before her partner. Watching her dance, Jehan realized he’d forgotten how lithe she was, graceful in her movements. Her hair swung and a flush came to her cheek as she and the man made one full circuit of the ronde.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Neither could the crowd, it seemed, for a murmuring rose whenever she passed. He was not the only one entranced. He knew it to be true when he glanced, with a jolt of surprise, at her besotted partner.
“You’ve seen her.” Thibaud came up beside him. “Now go.”
“She’s dancing with Guy de Baste.”
“Yes.”
What game was de Baste playing? With his own eyes, Jehan had seen this knight slip into the Prince of Wales’ tent before the battle at Poitiers. Yet here, only months later, the traitor danced in the castle of the French king, courting Aliénor.
The audacity of the man stunned him.
Then he remembered the nature of this man’s relationship to Aliénor and a chill washed over him. “Thibaud—are they married?”
“Not yet.”
“Betrothed?”
Thibaud’s weary sigh rose above the music, all the confirmation Jehan needed.
Ignoring Thibaud’s protests, he strode toward her with a ringing in his head like the clang of church bells. He could only surmise what game Guy de Baste was playing. If de Baste won Aliénor’s hand with the French regent’s approval, the traitor could then slip off to the Prince of Wales with a claim upon Castelnau the prince was likely to cede—if for no other reason than to pry Jehan away from his “petty Gascon obsessions.” Guy would win the castle and the woman as well. After, the traitor could choose whatever loyalty fit best to his own ambitions, without a drop of blood being spilled.
It was a bold, treacherous move. But that wasn’t what spread an angry red haze across Jehan’s vision as the music stopped and Guy de Baste raised one of Aliénor’s hands to his lips.
As if sensing his presence, Aliénor turned his way. His heart leapt as he fell into her soft, brown gaze. He waited for her gasp of surprise, a hand pressed to her chest, some ripple of recognition, but she only curtseyed. She was as pale as the moon, dressed in a fine kirtle and over gown bought with coin from the regent’s coffers, no doubt, for he’d never seen such clothing before.
“Sir Jehan,” she said. Was it his imagination, or did her voice tremble? “I saw you when you rode into the castle today.”
Damn the crowd, he wanted nothing more than to gather her into his arms, but Guy de Baste stepped toward him with a curt nod.
“St. Simon.”
Jehan eyeballed the intruder. “De Baste.” He curled his hands into fists. “What a surprise to see you here in the French court.”
Not a muscle flickered on the damn knight’s face. “I could say the same for you, Sir Jehan.”
“I am a guest of your king.” His palms itched for the pommel of his sword, not allowed in the dancing-hall, alas. “What king are you a guest of today?”
De Baste was saved by the blast of the dinner trumpet. The traitor took Aliénor’s hand and turned a shoulder to Jehan. “Let me escort you, mademoiselle. I know you’re very hungry.”
Aliénor swept by on a cloud of lavender scent. Jehan stood motionless upon the flagstones as they passed, vaguely aware of the trumpets, of voices raised, of the smell of roasted meat cutting through the ashy scent of burning fires and the choking aroma of frankincense. Only when he felt a tug upon his tunic did he glance at the servant trying to get his attention, a tousled-hair boy wearing the regent’s colors, making nervous gestures toward the tables where his Gascon holy warriors were waving him over to the seats of honor.
He walked leadenly to the bench, swung his leg over, and took his place. He stretched his lips at the regent’s welcome, bobbed his head in rhythm with his compatriots as the regent stood up to express how grateful he was to have at his table such paragons of chivalry, three knights destined for a holy war yet mindful enough to fight for civility, for justice, for honor and divine right, with hardly a thought to earthly allegiances.
