Текст книги "Dark Triumph"

Автор книги: Robin LaFevers

Соавторы: Robin LaFevers
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

Chapter Twenty

THE FAMILY IS SO GRATEFUL for our intervention, and so wonderstruck at being saved by the mighty Beast of Waroch himself, that once the floodgates of their gratitude have opened, it is impossible to stop it. They insist on slaughtering the goose so they may reward him with a feast fit for a hero of the realm. (“May as well start working on that pillow now,” the farmwife points out.) Since we are all of us in need of a decent night’s rest and would not begrudge a good meal, we accept their kind offer.

Amid much muttering and grumbling, Beast is assisted inside and made to lie down where I can tend him. It chafes him sorely to have to rest while other men take care of the remains of the French soldiers. “Leave it be,” I tell him. “Anyone can hide those bodies or dispose of them, but only you can help the duchess, and she will have my hide if I do not deliver you as safe and sound as possible.”

Fortunately for me, he is so exhausted that once he is laid out flat and the poultice is placed on his leg, he falls asleep. The bruises have faded away by now, and nearly all the facial swelling has gone down. He is still as big and ugly as an ogre.

“Won’t win a prize at the fair, will he?”

I glance up to find the farmwife standing right behind me, staring down at Beast. “He has other skills,” I tell her sharply.

“Eh, don’t be biting my head off. I didn’t say he wasn’t worth his weight in gold. Besides, I wager he’s very skilled with his blade.” The faint leer in her voice makes her meaning plain enough, as well as her assumptions on what sort of relationship Beast and I have.

My even sharper retort is interrupted by a great clatter as her two sons come bursting inside, brandishing the weapons they’ve stripped from the soldiers. “Papa says we might as well profit from the stinking Frenchmen,” the younger one says, nearly decapitating his brother with a sword that is almost as long as he is.

“Profit, yes; do bodily injury to your brother, no. Go on now, put those away.”

The boys scramble up the ladder to their rooms, and I start to follow the farmwife as she heads to the kitchen to begin preparing the meal, but she quickly shoos me away. “Those were your knives that pierced two of the brutes. What kind of thanks would it be if I made you cook? Here.” She thrusts a bucket of water at me, then takes a kettle from the hob and adds it to the bucket. “Go have yourself a wash. I’m sure it’ll feel good after being on the road.”

I should be insulted, but I am too grateful to have the opportunity to get clean. I take the bucket of water and go upstairs to the loft so I may take advantage of this unexpected bounty.

The dinner is as satisfying as any feast I have ever eaten. Not only is the goose cooked perfectly, crisp skin and juicy succulent meat, but there is a thick, hearty stew of mutton, leeks, and cabbage, dark brown bread and new cheese, thin red wine and pear cider, as well as baked apples with cream.

The dinner has the air of a party, with the farmer and his wife—Guion and Bette—full of the good cheer that follows a near miss. Even Yannic smiles and nods happily—although perhaps that is simply because his belly is finally full. The farmer’s sons dither between awed hero worship that they are dining with the Beast of Waroch and clumsy attempts to impress him. Or at the very least, to shame the other.

“Anton squealed when the soldiers first arrived,” Jacques says.

Flushing, Anton elbows him hard in the ribs. “Did not. My voice cracked is all.”

Jacques snickers. “From the force of the squeal.”

“Well, at least I didn’t try to use a ham as a weapon. Besides”—he raises his arm and brandishes his purloined dagger—“next time I will be armed and the French will not get off so easily.”

“I do not know that lying dead amid the cow dung in your barn could be called getting off easily,” I point out. Much to my surprise, everyone laughs.

“True enough,” Guion says, raising his cup. Then he sobers. “What is happening with the French, Sir Waroch? Are we at war with them again?”

“It is not good,” Beast says. “Half the duchess’s council has left her side. Marshal Rieux has joined with Count d’Albret, and they hold Nantes against her.

“The French have been looking for any excuse to invade our kingdom and have crossed our borders to pursue that goal.” He turns to me. “Have they taken any cities other than Ancenis?”

“Not that I’ve heard. Nor has d’Albret given up on his plan to force the duchess to marry him.” I turn back to Bette and Guion. “She only narrowly escaped a trap the baron laid for her, thanks in large part to Sir Waroch. That’s how he came by his injuries.”

The farmer and his wife raise their cups to him, which makes him duck his head in embarrassment.

The farmer’s face creases in worry. “So those are our only choices now? To be ruled by the French or by Count d’Albret?”

Bette shudders. “I’ll take the French, I think,” she says, then drains her cup. Interesting that the dark tales of d’Albret have traveled this far.

“We will know more once we reach Rennes,” I say. “The duchess is there with her advisors and they are no doubt forming a plan even as we speak.”

“And I,” Beast says, “I will be rousing the good people of Brittany to her cause. As soon as I can ride out in earnest,” he adds with a grumble.

Young Anton, his face alight with thoughts of valor, raises his knife. “I will fight for the duchess,” he says.

It is all I can do not to sigh. Beast does not even have to ask—peasants are already promising to follow him.

“It may come to that, lad, and if so, the duchess will be glad of your support. Yours, too,” he tells Jacques.

Both boys turn to look at their mother, who is torn between pride that they are willing to fight and dismay that they are old enough to do so. The farmer takes one look at his wife’s face and says, “Enough of this grim talk, eh? Surely a man such as you has a story to entertain us with?”

We spend the rest of the dinner telling stories. Beast has more than a few lively tales of campaigns and skirmishes that cause Anton’s and Jacques’s eyes to glow with promises of glory. It is easy to see that they imagine themselves in his role.

When all the dishes have been picked clean and everyone is stuffed, it is time for the last round of evening chores before bed. Yannic has fallen asleep at the table, so we simply lay him out on the bench to sleep for the night. The clatter of plates and crockery do not cause him to so much as stir.

I find I am surprisingly reluctant to end this evening. I have eaten finer dinners, supped in far more elegant surroundings, and been entertained by far wittier companions. And yet, there is a simple warmth and joy here that is headier than the strongest wine I have ever drunk. Two years ago I would have mocked their simple life. Now I envy it.

“Here, I’ll take those,” Bette says. “You go tend your man and his injuries.”

I want to protest that he is not my man, but instead I thank her and go fix one last round of poultices while Anton and Jacques help Beast back to his place by the fire.

By the time the poultices are ready, everyone else has gone up the stairs to their beds. One of the boys murmurs some last taunt to his brother, which is followed by an oof after the offended party throws something at him.

“Do that again,” Beast says.

I look up, confused. “What?”

“Smile. I have never seen you smile before.”

“You are daft. Of course I smile.” Uncomfortable under that gaze, I turn and begin removing the bandage from his leg.

“How long were you hidden in d’Albret’s household?”

My heart thuds painfully. Has he figured out who I am? “Why do you wish to know?” I ask, stalling.

He looks away and plucks at the bandage on his arm. “I was wondering if you might have been there when Alyse was still alive.”

And just like that, I am completely undone. His words pierce my heart and erode the last of my defenses against him. I put the poultice on his leg and stare at it as if it is the most fascinating thing in the world.

“You knew of d’Albret’s other wives,” he hurries to point out. “I thought perhaps you knew of Alyse as well.”

Stick as close to truth as possible—that is what we learn at the convent about crafting lies. “Yes,” I say, and hope my reluctance does not come through in my voice. “I knew her, but not well.”

“Tell me of her.” He stares at me intently, as if he would pluck the answers he seeks from my skin.

I look away, my gaze scanning the room, the fire, anything but his ravaged face. What do I tell him of Alyse? That she grew thin with nerves and fright? That the calm, serene woman turned into one who would jump when she was touched and who startled at loud noises? That Julian and Pierre teased her cruelly because of it, making every loud noise they could think of, sneaking up behind her in the dark empty corridors? That she ate little in the last months before her death?

Or do I tell him of the few stolen happy moments she found? Our trip to pick blackberries, their plump sweetness bursting in our mouths so that the juice would trickle down our chins and make us laugh? Or how the minnows nibbled at our toes when we dipped our feet in the brook?

“She was kind and pious,” I finally say. “Always remembering to honor God and His saints. Bluebells were her favorite flower, and there was an entire meadow of them behind the keep one spring. The taste of honey made her nose stuffy.”

Beast smiles, a heartbreakingly wistful thing. “I remember that,” he says softly.

Of course he knows that. I rack my brain for something to comfort him. “She was strong of spirit and laughed a lot.” At least at first, and that was what caused me to lower my guard and befriend her, in spite of all my vows to never grow close to any of d’Albret’s wives again.

A deep silence grows in the room, fed by our separate memories.

“I came back for her.”

“What?” I ask, certain that I have not heard him correctly.

“I came back for her.” Beast repeats the words casually, as if coming back for her were the most natural thing in the world.

But it is not. For despite all the wives d’Albret has ill used, and all the vassals and innocents he has wronged, no one—no one—has ventured forth to speak for any of them or to claim justice on their behalf.

My world is so completely upturned by this revelation that it takes me a full minute to find my voice. A thousand questions fill my mind, but none of them are anything a daughter of Mortain would be hungry to know. “What happened?” I finally ask, careful to keep my voice neutral and my eyes on the new bandage I am preparing.

“When three of my letters to her went unanswered, I knew something was wrong, so I obtained a leave of absence and came looking for her.

“When I arrived in Tonquédec, I was refused entrance. And when I thought to linger, I was encouraged to be on my way by a party of twelve armed soldiers.” His hand drifts up to the scar that bisects the left side of his face. “They sought to improve my appearance somewhat.”

“But they let you live?”

Beast cuts a scornful glance at me. “There was no letting about it. I fought my way free.”

“Against twelve of d’Albret’s men?”

He shrugs, then winces as his shoulder pains him. “It did not take long for the battle fever to come over me.” He flashes a grin that is two parts death and one part humor. “I killed eight of them, leaving four to limp back and explain the disaster to d’Albret.” Then the grin fades, and the depth of pain and despair I see in his face takes my breath away. “As soon as we’ve secured the duchess’s crown against the French, I will pay another visit to d’Albret and call him to account.”

I decide that it is a very good thing I did not tell him that Alyse died trying to help me.

Chapter Twenty-One

IN THE MORNING, WE MAKE ready to leave. Anton and Jacques are desperate to saddle up the dead Frenchmen’s horses, grab their new weapons, and follow us to Rennes, but we refuse their offer. There are at least twelve more leagues between here and Rennes, all of them crawling with d’Albret’s scouts. We will need the gods’ own luck to get there. Which means it is too dangerous for them to travel with us. “Better to meet us in Rennes in a fortnight,” Beast tells them.

So they content themselves with the plan they cooked up over breakfast. Guion, Anton, and Jacques saddle up the French soldiers’ horses and hoist the dead men across the animals’ backs. They take a tabard Yannic stripped from a d’Albret scout and tie it around one of the dead soldier’s arms. “Maybe that will prod the French to tangle with d’Albret’s men and buy you a little time,” Guion says.

It is a pleasant thought, but in my experience, the gods are not nearly that accommodating.

Then Guion and the two boys lead their grisly retinue south, while Beast, Yannic, and I head north. Our path to Rennes will be like trying to thread a needle, weaving our way through d’Albret’s men to the west, and Châteaubriant to the east with all its ties to the Dinan family and therefore to d’Albret. Not to mention the added spice of French sorties scattered throughout. But we have no choice. We must keep moving, especially if we do not want to risk d’Albret’s stumbling upon this innocent family.

Well, perhaps not so innocent now, after their encounter with the French.

I feel as if the huntsman’s snare is closing in around us, and it has me fair twitching in my saddle. Since I do not wish to spook my horse, I force myself to stillness, an art I have mastered during my long years with d’Albret.

I glance over at Beast. He is still pale, and it seems as if he does not sit as tall in the saddle as he once did. No matter how strong a man he is, he is only human. Or at least, mostly human. It is a wonder he has made it this long, and I can only hope his strength holds until we reach Rennes. Guion told us of a small abbey run by the brothers of Saint Cissonius where we can take shelter for the night.

Unless d’Albret has thought to post guards at all such places.

Hopefully they will have medical supplies as well, for my own stores of healing herbs are running dangerously low. And while Beast’s fever has gotten no worse, neither has it gotten any better. For once, he is being smart and not wasting his dwindling energy. Or at least, not at the moment. Who knows what he will do if we come across some lost goat or wandering child?

I came back for her. The memory of his words still echoes in my head. It makes no sense that five simple words should shift everything so sharply, but they do. It is as if I have woken up in a world as different from yesterday as spring is from winter. It is the difference between a world with hope and one without. I wish to crawl back into my younger self and hand her this knowledge, this small spark of light, and see how it would shift her perceptions of the darkness all around her. Or would it have been more cruel, that glimmer of hope causing her to look for a rescue that never came?

The farther we get from Nantes, the more I am plagued by doubts. While this taste of freedom is as sweet as I dreamed it would be, I cannot help but wonder about the cost. For so long, I was convinced it was my destiny to kill d’Albret. As relieved as I am to be gone from him, I fear I have shirked my fated duty.

But there was no other choice, I remind myself. To have ridden boldly back into his arms after drugging the entire garrison and freeing Beast would only have ensured my slow and painful death.

I also cannot help but worry about the convent and my role there. It was the one place I felt safe from d’Albret, hundreds of leagues away on an island inhabited by assassins. But I have gone against their teachings, their rules, defied Mortain’s will and replaced it with my own. If they cast me out, what then?

Just before noon, the goat track we have been following opens up onto a small meadow. On the far side of the meadow lies the main road, and on the other side of that is the forest. It will be slower going, but d’Albret’s soldiers cannot scour every inch of forest between here and Rennes. With luck, we can avoid being seen.

As we draw closer to the road, I hear the sound of an approaching party. I pause to listen for the distant hoofbeats. More than a few. And they are riding hard. No merchant party, then, nor casual travelers.

The timing could not be worse. I glance behind us, but we have crossed over half the meadow and the shelter of the trees is too far away.

“We must get across the road. Quickly!” I order the others.

The whiff of danger has stirred Beast from his dozing and he spurs his horse forward to the road and the thick screen of trees and low branches on the other side of it. Yannic bounces along behind him like a sack of the miller’s grain, and I bring up the rear, nipping at their heels, urging them to move faster.

We are in luck, for there is a sharp bend in the road, and while the jingle of harnesses and the rattle of weapons grows louder, the party is still out of sight. Which means they cannot see us either. We hit the road at a full gallop and cross it in a few swift strides. Beast reaches the cover of the trees first, then Yannic. Just as my horse leaves the road, a shout goes up from behind. We’ve been spotted.

“Faster!” I shout to the others, but the forest is a tangle of fallen limbs and gnarled roots, forcing us to slow down. Beast falls back to ride beside me. “Return to the road and keep riding. Yannic and I will lead them away.”

“You’re daft!” I shout, ducking a low-hanging branch. “I’ll not leave a wounded man and a cripple to stand alone against so many.”

“Now you’re being daft. Did you see how many there were?”

“Twenty. Maybe more. Here!” We have reached a small clearing with a ring of tall, jagged ancient stones, some of them high and wide enough to hide us from sight. At least until we are ready to make our stand.

Beast’s mouth is set in grim lines as he nods Yannic toward one of the stones. His jaw is clenched—at first I think he is in pain, and then I realize he is furious. “Go!” He puts the full force of command in his low, urgent voice. “I’ll hold them off.”

I look at him in disbelief. “Your fever has eaten your brain if you think I’ll leave now.”

He leans out of his saddle as if to grab me, then stops as his ribs bite him. “This is no fight.”

“I know.” I steer my horse toward one of the stones. The sword is not my favorite weapon, but its longer reach will be of greater value here. Once I take out a few with my throwing knives—

“No!” Beast makes a grab for my reins, but he misses and nearly falls off his horse. “I will not stand by and watch you struck down before me.” His eyes burn—with anger, I think, until I see that he is also afraid. Afraid for me.

His concern inflames my own temper, for I do not deserve such consideration, and certainly not from him. I will not abandon Alyse’s brother like I abandoned her. “And I will not stand idly by and watch you die a second time,” I tell him.

Then d’Albret’s men are hard upon us. Resigned, Beast draws the sword from his back with his right hand while his left closes around the handle of the ax. “I will not let them take you alive.”

Of all the things he could have said, that is the one thing that comforts me the most. “Nor I you,” I say around a strange lump that has formed in my throat.

Then he smiles his great big maniacal grin just as our pursuers burst out of the trees, their horses’ hooves churning up the forest floor.

Yannic makes the first move, launching one of his rocks with his customary skill and striking one of the foremost men on the temple. I raise the crossbow and take the leader between the eyes. While he is still reeling from the force of the bolt, I drop the bow and reach for my throwing knives. Beast keeps the rock wall at his back and stands in his stirrups to swing at the four horsemen who engulf him.

Even as my first three knives hit their targets, I know there are too many. I reach for the sword strapped to my saddle, but before I can free it, one of the men charges me. I throw myself to the left as he swings, and misses. Before he can swing again, there is a loud thwap, and he slumps forward on his horse. I send a silent Thank you to Yannic, until I see the arrow in the man’s back. Yannic does not have a bow.

I have no time to look for the archer as I struggle to free my sword from its scabbard. A half a dozen men have Beast pinned against one of the stones. His sword arm flashes quick and bright, but his left arm is barely able to move the ax. I spur my horse toward him, lunging forward with the sword. It is an awkward, clumsy thrust but it does its job.

Except that the soldier’s horse jerks away, taking the dying man and my sword with it. Merde. I pull my last two daggers from my wrists. I glance at Beast. Should I save them for us or use them to attack? Before I can decide, arrows rain down from the trees, shocking me into stillness. Even as I ready myself for their sharp bite, five of d’Albret’s men wheel around to meet this new attack, and a second volley is let loose. Suddenly, the small clearing is alive with movement as the trees and the forest floor itself comes to life, spitting out creatures of the old legends. Or demons spawned in hell. They are dark of skin and misshapen. One has a leather nose, another’s arm seems to be made of wood, and a third appears to have had half his face melted away. Whatever their infirmities, they finish off the rest of d’Albret’s men with ruthless efficiency, pulling the men from their horses and dispatching them with wicked little blades or quick twists of their necks. Within the span of a dozen heartbeats, all of d’Albret’s soldiers are dead, and we are surrounded.