Page 84 of The Captive Knight
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Aliénor.” Blanche hiked her hands upon her hips. “Didn’t you hear the summons? The regent has called everyone to the great hall.”
“You go on ahead.” Aliénor didn’t raise her head from her embroidery though the room had come alive with the rustling of skirts. “I have to a rose to finish.”
“A sad-looking one, too. In any case, the embroidery can wait. The assembly won’t.”
“I don’t need to hear any more bad news about riots in Paris, Blanche.”
“This melancholy doesn’t suit you.”
She dipped her head. Guy de Baste had said much the same thing at table the night before, his smile going thin as she answered all his questions in single sentences, and never ventured any queries of her own.
Blanche said, “He might be there, you know.”
Blanche didn’t have to say the name for Aliénor to know of whom she spoke. No man filled her mind like Jehan. How wild he’d looked when he’d approached her last night. His dark hair fell long below his shoulders. There were shadows around his eyes and inside them, too. How she had ached to run her fingers through the stubble of his three-day beard, drawn by the current vibrating between them.
“Aliénor,” Blanche began on a sigh.
“I’m sure he’s gone,” she said. Jehan had disappeared long before dinner ended last night. And through the open windows of the solar, she had heard horses coming and going all morning. “It’s a long way to Prussia.”
“Or he could be waiting downstairs to say farewell to the prince.”
She flinched as her needle slipped and found its way into flesh. She sucked her thumb into her mouth, numbing the pain. She only wished she could numb all pain so easily, including how much it hurt to love.
But Blanche was standing in front of her, hands on ample hips, unrelenting.
With a sigh, she put aside her embroidery.
In the main hall, excitement vibrated to the rafters. People chattered and jostled for position. Blanche used her bulk as well as her prerogative to find a place close to the action, where Aliénor intended to lean against a pillar and think of nothing. But when Aliénor saw who waited in the empty space in front of the regent’s table, her shield of numbness shattered.
Jehan was dressed in black hose, a scarlet tunic, and a shirt as bright as a fuller could make it. She’d seen such clothing once before, when her brother Bertrand had bent a knee in church to be dubbed a knight. The scarlet tunic stood for the blood Bertrand might shed for God, king, and honor; the black of his hose stood for the death that must be faced without fear; and the white of the shirt represented purity of soul and character.
“Sir Jehan,” the regent said, lifting a parchment from his table. “I understand you are in possession of a castle in the Gascon borderlands, once owned by my late knight the Viscount de Tournan.”
Were it not for the column of stone at her shoulder, she would slide into a heap upon the floor.
“Yes,” Jehan said. “Castelnau-sur-Arrats.”
“Seized by you?”
“Yes.”
“By force of arms?”
“In a time of war.”
“By order of the Prince of Wales.”
“And with his help,” he added, “for it’s a strong castle, well-managed by the family, positioned on a promontory overlooking a sweep of fertile land.”
“Has the English prince gifted this stolen castle into your care as a reward for your loyalty?”
“It is in my physical possession, but the prince has made only promises.”
“The English prince,” the regent repeated, “your liege lord.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
