Page 83 of The Captive Knight
While the regent droned on, Jehan ran his gaze down the length of the opposite table until he found Aliénor seated with her back to him, the sweet curve of her spine as stiff as wood. Guy de Baste, seated across from her, cast glaring looks his way. Did the man have no shame, no honor, no loyalty? De Baste was a traitor playing a dangerous game, marrying above his needs, above his intelligence, above his station, all for damn ambition.
Ambition.
He stared at her until his vision went blurry. Years ago, before he’d sworn allegiance to the prince, he had been a third son with nothing to his name but ambition and a sword. He’d thought it the greatest luck to bend his knee to a rising prince. A prince who cared so little about the castles he conquered that he burned the vexing ones and divvied the rest among his men like biscuits at table, then paraded rewards before hungry knights like trays of roasted swans—all while denying him the one small morsel he craved above all.
When the trumpet blasted for the second course, Jehan jerked to his feet. He took advantage of the distraction to step over the bench, muttering something to his companions about the privy.
He strode through the kitchens to a rear door leading to a garden and a pen full of chickens and goats. Amid the squawking he lifted his head to the sky, streaked with pink. He found the stairs to the ramparts and took them two at a time, nodding brusquely at the men-at-arms who patrolled them. He strode the length until he found a corner atop the southwest tower where he could stare in the direction of Gascony.
He breathed deep, filling his lungs to try to stop the roiling of his mind, the mad turn of his thoughts, the unexpected burn of envy. Guy de Baste shouldn’t have her—didn’t deserve her—and the damn knight was breaking all the rules to win his prize.
“It’s not wise,” came a gruff and familiar voice from behind him, “to bolt from a regent’s table without word and without cause.”
“She’s unhappy, Thibaud.”
“Her happiness is no longer your concern.”
“Her happiness willalwaysbe my concern.”
“Then don’t interfere in this betrothal.”
“Guy de Baste is no prize. His loyalties are suspect. I can prove it.”
“Because you saw him at the English court? Or with the Prince of Wales?”
Jehan pivoted to face the older knight.
“Guy de Baste is a spy for the French,” Thibaud said. “He’s been working for the crown for a very long time.”
Jehan glared at Thibaud and his wild wooly hair tinged pink by the sunset, dumbfounded by this revelation, waiting for the envy and wrath burning in his gut to ebb. But the fact that Guy de Baste wasn’t a traitor to his king—that there was no intrigue afoot—that de Baste might be a more loyal man than Jehan had ever expected—none of that changed anything. Jehan still roiled with anger and jealousy, teetering on madness at the thought ofanyman, no matter how worthy, stepping between him and the woman he loved.
But now there was something else pricking at his conscience. Thibaud’s revelation had torn a veil from his eyes. It came to him, in a blinding rush, exactly what had been bothering him most about Guy de Baste.
What kind of man dares to break solemn vows, to discard all fealties to princes and kings, and casts all danger to the winds to get the one single thing he wants above all others?
De Baste, so he’d thought.
So Jehan had despised the knight.
But perhaps it was reallyenvy.
“Thibaud,” he barked, as breath rushed into his lungs, “you must be close to the throne if the regent confides such secrets to you.”
Thibaud made a scoffing noise. “I have the regent’s ear, his trust, and his absolute confidence as I had with his grandfather before him—”
“Then get me an audience with him.”
“Why?” The older knight hiked his fists on his hips. “So you can break her heart again?”
“No,” he said, grinning as he slapped his hands on Thibaud’s shoulders. “So I can make it whole.”
