Page 74 of The Captive Knight
“We’ll ride ahead on the road as if we don’t see them,” Jehan said. “Upon my signal, we’ll spread out and gallop in through the trees, flanking them.”
Then that blue gaze strayed to her and every inch of her body came alive. “My lady, stay upon the path at some distance behind.” His gaze shifted to her brother. “Laurent, we’re outnumbered, we could use your sword.”
Beside her, Laurent nodded.
Jehan pulled his horse around to lead the group forward. The men around her sipped from their leather water bladders and discreetly adjusted the sag of their baldrics. The last time they had all run into a skirmish, they’d come around a curve to find a merchant’s cart turned over in the mud. But the brigand’s road block hadn’t been enough to overcome the well-trained, well-armed, mounted knights around her. Still, the shouts, grunts, and clashing of swords had been unnerving, reminding her of the terrible day when the English flooded over the ramparts of Castelnau.
The path to the copse was rutted by thousands of cart wheel tracks and scattered with tufts of grass. The horses must have sensed the tension for her mare tugged at the bit as they were forced into a steady pace, keeping up the illusion that they did not know of the would-be attackers hidden in the trees.
Responding to some subtle signal, the men-at-arms kicked their horses and passed her on either side to fan out toward the trees. Laurent bent over the neck of his horse and slipped into alignment next to Thibaud as if he’d practiced the move all his life. She held her horse steady amid the tumult, dropping back from the men. As Jehan entered the shadows, she heard the first clash of steel on steel.
She pulled her horse to a stop and stood in uneasy solitude while the wind coming over the field pressed her skirts against her horse’s side. Her breath sounded loud in her own ears so she held it so she could better listen to what was happening. Between the trees, she could see the occasional flash of sword, a blur of pale surcoat, the flick of horses’ hooves. Men shouted orders and she couldn’t tell one voice from another—only Jehan’s, deep and harsh.
All of a sudden a man and a horse wheeled out of the copse onto open ground and she recognized the rider. Her brother swung a sword against a knight on foot. Laury worked the reins with one hand while he wielded a sword with the other. On horseback, his crippled foot was no hindrance, indeed.
As her throat tightened with every swing, a pair of men shot out from the line of trees, driven by another mounted man. Aliénor thought she’d never want to see Jehan and Laurent fighting on the same field again, but here they fought as allies. She listened to the grunts and shouts, and watched one and then the other as they fended off the attack and worked their enemies weary. They protected each other’s backs, until the fighters realized they were outmatched and darted back into the wood.
The ringing of swords and the shouts ebbed to a restless silence. Thibaud broke through the trees to join Jehan and Laurent, followed by the men-at-arms.
Thibaud rode to her side. “They were a raggedy group of sell-swords, claiming they worked for King Jean.” Thibaud pulled off his helmet and his white hair sprung free. “They said they were keeping an eye out for the approach of the English army, but I’m not sure—”
“They’ll return, whoever they are,” Jehan said, joining them. “They know the strength of our forces so they’ll bring three times as many to offset us.”
Thibaud said, “We could take the river road instead—”
“The king’s sword-hires are watching the waterways for sure.” Jehan turned his horse in a circle, eyeballing the countryside, his gaze lingering on the west. “We must separate by loyalties, English and French.”
Her heart dropped.
“Thibaud,” Jehan said, “I leave it to you and your two men-at-arms to bring your great-niece to Paris.”
“We passed a monastery a few miles back,” Thibaud said, musing. “There’ll be other travelers there. I’ll go back and join them for protection for the last day’s journey.”
Last day’s journey.
“No,” she said, in a whisper. “Not yet.”
Jehan ignored her, his jaw tightening, as he turned to her brother. “My men-at-arms will accompany you to the monastery in Toulouse, Laurent.”
Laurent nodded and then kicked his horse beside hers. “Farewell for now,sor.”
His hand left her grip before she realized he’d grasped it. Laurent turned his horse away, his expression, beneath a wispy excuse of a mustache, wistful. Everyone was moving again, men and horses separating into groups. She pulled the reins tight as if by stilling her horse she could stop all this, only to find Jehan looming before her, sitting straight and tall on his restless war horse.
She fell into his blue eyes. For the first time since they’d last embraced she saw the ache, the torment, and the regret in them. She felt an overwhelming urge to reach out, to feel the strength of his arms around her and the warmth of his lips on her brow, one more memory to add to the others.
But he sat his horse too far away and held his feelings too close.
“Where will you go,” she whispered, her head spinning, her heart in her throat. “Unprotected, alone, in French territory?”
“I’ll find my liege lord the prince,” he said. “Rumor has it he’s driving his army toward Poitiers.”
She searched for her own future in those eyes but it was no longer there. Soon he would have a new wife, an English wife, whom he could not deny. His wife would be rich and young and bear him children who would continue his name. She might have a new husband, too, given to her by the king of France. Her marriage would bring her security, perhaps affection, at best mutual respect.
But never the kind of love she’d experienced with Jehan, a love now forever beyond her reach.
She was caught in his gaze like a sparrow in a whirlwind.
Her heart murmured,I love you, I love you, I love you.
And then he was gone.
