Page 81 of The Captive Knight
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jehan hovered at the edge of the great hall of the castle at Meaux. He searched the women in the crowd, decked in embroidered silks and jewel-studded girdles, desperate to find the one woman he couldn’t get out of his mind.
“I’d have wagered a hundred Parisian pounds that I’d never see you again, St. Simon.”
Jehan turned toward the voice and saw Thibaud sauntering toward him, swinging a chalice of wine.
“Good to see you too, Thibaud.” He only wished Aliénor trailed in the older man’s wake. “You look hale and healthy.”
“Tell me about my great-nephew Laurent. Is he safely ensconced in a monastery?”
“Yes.”
“Good. At least one of my relatives is safe from you.”
Jehan tried to hide his flinch. Thibaud’s eyes weren’t as friendly as he remembered. Much had changed since the day Laurent had challenged him outside of Castelnau, and none of it for the better.
“Well,” Thibaud said, raising his goblet to his lips. “At least you don’t deny it.”
“Deny what?”
“That it’s a suspicious and troubling coincidence to find you here.”
“It’s no coincidence. The regent insisted we join him for this banquet.”
“I’m well aware the Dauphin invited the triumphant warriors to the victory feast. The coincidence is that you should be passing by one particular road to Paris just as the regent and his men were under attack.”
“A turn of luck for the regent, wouldn’t you say?”
“And how honorable of you to offer your sword in his defense, despite your disparate loyalties.”
“There’s a truce between the English and French. Hostilities have been put aside. Should I have left your regent to be slaughtered by a mob of peasants armed with pikes?”
“Of course not,” Thibaud said. “But I expected you to be in England with the Prince of Wales and your intended wife—rather than suddenly, surprisingly, at my regent’s complete disposal.”
“I was in London.” But not with the intended wife, who was as reluctant as he about the prospect of a marriage. “And now I am not.”
“Foix and Buch tell me you’re off to a holy war in Prussia.”
Jehan frowned, thinking he should have chosen less boastful travelling companions. “I haven’t yet committed my sword to the cause.”
“A crusade is an honorable diversion during a truce,” Thibaud conceded, with a rise of his bushy white brows, “and a fine way to expunge a world of sins.”
Jehan’s jaw tightened. In truth, the holy war had been nothing but an excuse, the only effective one Jehan could make to secure permission to leave the English court and delay the marriage plans being made for him.
“The curious thing,” Thibaud persisted, “is that the route from England to Prussia doesn’t ordinarily pass this close to Paris.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“You’ve taken a detour, perhaps?”
“I planned to come this way.”
Thibaud’s expression darkened. “What a foolish waste of time, horse, and money.”
“I have to see her, Thibaud.”
Truth was a risk, but clearly Thibaud had already guessed it. Jehan figured he wouldn’t get any closer to Aliénor without her great-uncle’s permission—if not his approval. So Jehan held the older knight’s gray gaze, matching Thibaud’s growing frustration with a burning determination of his own.
