Dark Triumph

Page 17

As I move away from the hearth, the jailor comes in from the yard, where he has collected every weapon d’Albret’s men carried. He sets them down next to Beast, then moves to take a turn at the dwindling embers in an attempt to prepare something for our empty bellies.
Beast hisses as I lay a poultice on his shoulder. “Lie still,” I tell him.
“I am,” he says between clenched teeth, then hisses again as I place the second poultice on his festering leg wound.
He glares at me. “You needn’t enjoy this so much.”
I send him a scathing glance. “You are deranged if you think I am enjoying being trapped in an abandoned hut with an ogre and a gargoyle as my only companions.” I turn away from him to collect the linen strips I made from the soldier’s unused shirts, surprised to realize I am enjoying this. There are no vipers slithering about underfoot nor nightmares lurking in the shadows.
When I turn back to him, I make sure none of my thoughts show on my face. “Can you sit up so I can bind your ribs?” If he cannot sit, best we know it now so we can alter our plans. He grunts an assent, the muscles in his abdomen shifting and rippling like waves as he pulls himself into a sitting position. His eyes close for a moment.
“Are you going to faint again?” I hurry around to block his fall so he will not crash to the ground. Although like as not he would just take me to the floor with him.
“No,” he grunts.
I wait a minute to be sure he isn’t fooling himself, then go back and pick up the linen strip and begin wrapping it around his torso. Even after being locked away for more than a fortnight, he is as thick as a tree trunk.
“For a woman with a sharp tongue, you have surprisingly gentle hands,” he says.
“I think your injuries have caused you to lose the feeling in your body, for while I am many things, none of them are gentle.”
He says nothing but watches me, as if trying to peer past my skin and my bone to my very soul. Under his scrutiny, my movements grow clumsy. “Here,” I say shortly. “Hold that in place.” I turn and fetch another piece of linen.
“Did these brothers of yours suffer broken ribs often?” he asks.
“Once or twice,” I mutter, busying myself with the second strip. “They were clumsy lads and constantly falling from their horses.” I do not meet his gaze, for of course they were not. Pierre’s ribs were broken when, at twelve years of age, he was unseated from his horse by a blow from a lance in tourney practice. My father kicked him until he rose to his feet and remounted his horse. He suffered far more from my father’s kicks than from the fall.
And Julian—ah, Julian. His ribs were broken while trying to protect me from my father’s wrath.
“What’s wrong?” Beast asks softly.
“Nothing,” I tell him, pulling the bandage so tight that he grunts in protest. “I only worry about how we will get you back on your horse if you fall off.”
Beast says nothing more until the gargoyle motions to us that our supper is ready. I secure the last bandage and hand Beast the bowl of what appears to be gruel with something unsavory-looking floating in it. “So,” I say, taking my own bowl. “Your man cannot tend wounds, nor even wash your face properly, nor is he a cook. What, precisely, is he to you?” I ask.
Beast ignores me and shovels the gruel in as fast as he can. If his appetite has returned in full, that is a good sign. Or perhaps he is merely afraid that if it grows cool it will be inedible. Certainly that is my fear.
When he is done, he sets the bowl down and turns his steady gaze to me. “Yannic was once my squire. When my sister left for d’Albret’s household, I ordered him to accompany her and send me regular reports on her well-being.”
I gape at him, then turn to stare at Yannic. I am certain I never saw him in our household, although that would not be so unusual. My father has hundreds of servants and thousands of vassals, many of whom I have never met. “Could he speak then?” I am afraid I already know the answer.
“Aye,” Beast says grimly. “And write, too.”
I glance down at Yannic’s right hand to see that the top half of each of his three middle fingers has been removed so he cannot hold a quill. Unwilling to look either of them in the eye, I pretend I am busy fishing for a piece of sausage in my bowl.
Did d’Albret remember this connection between his prisoner and his sixth wife’s attendant and use it as one rubs salt into a wound? Or was Yannic the only one available who lacked the power of speech and so made an ideal jailor? One could never be certain with d’Albret. “Does that mean Yannic would not mind if we asked him to pile the dead soldiers into the cart and set fire to them? It would be better to leave no signs of our stay.”
The two men exchange a dark look, then Beast answers. “No, he would not mind a bit.”
“Good, because we should not waste an opportunity to lead our pursuers well away from us. The smoke from such a large fire should get their attention, and the dead bodies will make them question just how many are in our party. If Yannic can drive the cart a mile or two east of here, the fire will also lead them in the wrong direction.”
Beast grins. “If you ever tire of being Mortain’s handmaiden, I am certain Saint Camulos would be more than happy to accept your service.”
I roll my eyes at the mere idea of such a thing, but his words please me, all the same.
Chapter Eighteen
WE TRY TO GET AN early start the next day, but between the little gnome of a jailor, the wounded giant, and—what role do I assign myself? The charioteer?—we are like a mummers’ farce. At last we get the horses ready and the gear packed and—most difficult of all—the lumbering, crippled Beast onto his saddle. I am exhausted before we even leave the yard, but when we finally do, I breathe a sigh of relief.
In spite of what Beast claims, he is far from well enough to travel. We should stay at the hunting lodge another day or two to allow him more time to recover, but we dare not. While the lodge is well off the main road and not widely known, I have no doubt more of d’Albret’s men will find it soon enough. Luckily, I do not think it will be the first place they look, for they will assume we want to put more distance between ourselves and our pursuers. And they are right. The back of my neck tingles with foreboding.
Brisk winds have blown the rain clouds away, and the sky above is clear and blue. All that clear sky makes a perfect backdrop for the thin trickle of smoke that rises from the smoldering remains of the night-soil cart and its inhabitants nearly a mile away.
Please Mortain, let it buy us some time.
But in case it does not, we are each armed with weapons scavenged from d’Albret’s men. With Yannic’s help, Beast has altered a scabbard so he may wear the sword on his back within easy reach. I, too, have a sword, but it is strapped to my saddle next to the crossbow that hangs there. Beast has also purloined the woodcutter’s ax from its place near the lodge’s woodpile. It hangs from the left side of his saddle near his injured arm. Although how he expects to wield it, I do not know.
We ride out in silence. Beast is wisely conserving his energy, and I have far too much to think about to waste time in idle conversation. If all goes well, we should be there in four days. If the fever does not consume Beast’s weakened body, and if he can stay in the saddle, and if d’Albret’s riders do not find us.
My mind keeps running over what I know of the countryside, trying to think of the best route for us to take. The area around the hunting lodge is sparse woodland, which serves us well enough, but eventually we will come to fields or a road or, worst of all, a town. How many men will d’Albret have sent out, and where will they focus their search?
And how long can Beast stay in the saddle? Already his head nods and he looks to be dozing. Or perhaps he has fainted again. I nudge my horse over to him to check, surprised when his head snaps up, his eyes focused on the trees in front of us. “Do you hear that?”
I tilt my head. “What?”
We continue forward, but more slowly. “That,” he says, his head cocked to the side. “Raised voices.”
I stare at him in disbelief, for my own hearing is as sharp as anyone’s and I have not heard a peep. “Mayhap it is simply ringing in your ears from your injuries.”
He gives a sharp shake of his head and urges his horse forward.
“Wait!” I make a grab for his reins but miss. “In order to avoid trouble,” I remind him, “we move away from the noise, not toward it.”
His head swings around and he pins me with the full force of his intense gaze. “What if those are more of d’Albret’s men? Will we have some innocent pay for our freedom?”
“Of course not,” I snap. “But I am not used to this idea that your god allows you to kill at your own whim.”
Beast’s eyes narrow in that way he has that sees past my skin into my very bones. “My god allows me to save the innocent,” he says. “Does yours not?”
I am ashamed to admit that my god does not allow any such thing. “There are no innocents where Death is concerned,” I tell him, then move into the lead. We continue our approach, easing our horses forward until we have a clear view of where the noise came from. It is a mill house, its wheel turning briskly in a stream made fat by the recent rains. It is as peaceful-looking as a painting. “See? It was nothing. We can continue on our way with no one the wiser.”
Just as Beast nods in agreement, a man steps out of the mill and hurries toward us. When he is half a bowshot away, he stops. “The mill is closed today,” he calls out. “Broken, and needing repair.”
“Something is not right,” Beast says quietly. “The man is whey-faced, and sweat beads his brow.”
“My job is to get you to Rennes in one piece, not to stop and offer assistance to every peasant in need we come across. Perhaps he has simply been working hard this morning? Besides, once you dismount, I am not sure we can get you back on that horse.” But something isn’t right. The man’s heart is beating at a frantic pace.
“For one, he is a miller, not a peasant. And two”—Beast gives me a grin as infectious as the plague—“I can kill without getting off my horse.”
Easing my own horse forward with small, unthreatening steps, I allow myself to draw closer. “We have no need of the mill,” I call out to him. “We are just passing through and thought to refill our water skins.”
The miller wrings his hands. “This is not a good place for that. The bank is too steep. There is a much shallower access just a short way up the road.”
I nudge my horse to take another step, then another, and that is when I feel four more heartbeats nearby. One of those is lighter than the others but racing as wildly as the miller’s.
“Ah, but we are thirsty now.” I swing out of my saddle and onto the ground. “And the sound of all that sweet water so close by is like torture to our dry throats.” I keep my voice and movements light as I turn and remove one of the water skins from my saddle. While my body is blocking my movements, I also load and c**k the crossbow, poke an extra bolt through the fabric of my gown, then unhitch the bow. I give Beast a pointed look, and he nods. Hiding the crossbow in my skirts, I turn around and head toward the miller.
He hurries forward, nearly dancing in distress. “No, no. You must not—”
I put one hand to my stomach as if I am ill and stumble into him. “Who is it they have?” I whisper. “Your wife? Your daughter?”
His eyes widen in fright, and he crosses himself, then nods.
“All will be well,” I tell him, and hope that it is not a lie. There! A glint of steel from the barn door. Another from the branches of the tree in the yard. “The barn!” I shout to Beast as I pull my crossbow out and aim for the man in the tree. I hear his grunt as the bolt finds him. Before his body hits the ground, I slap the second bolt in place. A girl screams and darts from the mill into the yard, followed by a soldier. He raises his crossbow in my direction, but mine is already trained on him, and my bolt catches him in the chest before he can release his own. The girl screams again as he tumbles to the ground, nearly taking her down with him. The man from the tree is not moving, and there is no heartbeat coming from the barn, so Beast’s aim must have been as good as mine. Just to be certain, I draw a knife before hurrying to the girl and the fallen soldier.
Beast steers his horse to the miller. “Peace,” he says. “We will not harm you. We merely wanted to stop trouble in its tracks.”
The miller’s relief is tempered with wariness and he begins talking fast, proclaiming his own innocence, telling how these soldiers, these thugs, showed up at their door and began beating and questioning them. “They had just gone into the mill to cut open all the sacks of grain when they heard you coming.”
It would, I admit, be a good place to hide. I let Beast deal with the outraged man and turn to the daughter. Her blouse is torn and she is breathing fast, too fast, as if she has run some great distance, and I can still feel her heart beating frantically in her breast, like a small, frightened bird. “Did they harm you?” I ask quietly.
She looks at me, her eyes wild with barely checked terror, then shakes her head no.
But I know it for a lie, even if she does not. Those men have destroyed her sense of safety for months—possibly years—to come. Unable to stop myself, I reach out and grip her shoulder. “It was not your fault,” I whisper fiercely. “You and your father did nothing to deserve this except be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was not a punishment from God nor any of His saints—it was simply brutish thugs who happened upon you.”