Текст книги "Dark Triumph"

Автор книги: Robin LaFevers

Соавторы: Robin LaFevers
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Chapter Forty-One

THE TOWN IS QUIET, AND the city gates are still closed. There is no sign of increased sentries, nor is there any cry of warning. I rein back hard before we ride into sight of the watchmen. “You stay here and intercept any archers from the far bank who think to warn the city,” I tell the two remaining men-at-arms. “With luck, you at least injured a few with your blind shots.” Hoping they will heed my orders, I leave my horse with them and make my way to the abbey window that was to be left open for us.

The night is quiet, not a whisper of activity or hint of warning. I cannot help but worry that something has gone wrong, that their plans fell through or that they were caught before they could reach the barracks.

At last I see a dark smudge of smoke rising up in a column over the city, and my fists unclench. The column grows thicker and is followed by a faint orange glow. The fires are set. I close my eyes and imagine the thick, choking smoke moving across the sleeping French, filling their mouths and noses as they sleep, the soldiers coming away coughing and choking, struggling for breath. “Fire!” some of them will yell, waking the rest, and a mad, chaotic scramble will ensue as they all try to break free from the hall.

But only one window will be open. All the others blocked or filled with churning smoke so the French will have no choice but to hurl themselves out the one escape route, a long drop to the hard ground below, outside the protection of the city walls.

I draw near the abbey. The abbess of Saint Mer had promised there would be a window left open for us, and there is. I quickly crawl through it and find no one about, so I hurry through the empty corridors to the city beyond.

Outside, the streets seems almost deserted, with only a few pockets of fighting here and there. I stop long enough to pick up a handful of bolts from a fallen soldier. Feeling better thus armed, I continue on my way.

As I draw near the soldiers’ garrison, I hear the sounds of fighting. Hugging the wall, I creep forward. At first, I see no one, but as my eyes adjust to the darkened street, I see a knot of charbonnerie pinned behind an overturned wagon by three French archers.

Luckily, I have five bolts. But I will need to be quick and well hidden. I slip silently from the wall to kneel behind a water pump near the barracks building. I stick two bolts in my mouth, then load a third, take aim, and shoot. The man gives a surprised cry as he is struck. His two companions look around, but they were so focused on the charbonnerie they did not see where the arrow came from. I quickly load the second bolt and fire it off.

The second archer is down, but before I can load the third bolt, the last remaining archer turns and fires in my direction. I hear a clang as the bolt strikes the metal handle of the pump. Now—while he is reloading—I take my shot.

It catches him in the temple. I wait for a second to be certain there are no more archers, then give an all-clear wave to the charbonnerie.

The closer I draw to the quay, the louder the sound of fighting becomes. The French must have realized that the purpose of our attack was to allow the British through, and they have chosen to make a last stand by the dock.

I have only two quarrels left but take comfort in the weight of the knives.

When I reach the end of the street, I must step over three fallen bodies. Indeed, I follow a trail of fallen French soldiers the rest of the way to the dock. I emerge from the alley and pause midstep. Beast stands alone, hacking and swinging at nearly a dozen men. His bravery—or stupidity—is breathtaking. He has no regard for his own safety as he cuts through his enemies. Indeed, that may be what gives him such advantage over the others, for none would guess the risks he is willing to take with his own life.

Shaking my head in reluctant admiration, I load the last of my bolts and let them fly, taking down two of his opponents.

Beast does not so much as check his stride. I pull one of the knives from my ankle and send it whipping through the night to land in the neck of one of the French soldiers. He stumbles, giving Beast just the opening he needs to finish the man off.

In the moment that follows, I see a flurry of movement out of the corner of my eye. It is the British! The first of the boats has arrived. The pilot has not even secured the rope around the piling before the British soldiers begin spilling onto the dock. After all, they have had two long weeks cooped up aboard their ships to stoke their anger.

As the fresh troops pour into the town, the remaining French soldiers—those who have not already leaped from the city walls—realize they are outnumbered and quickly surrender their arms.

D’Albret will soon have six thousand British troops riding down his back, and he will be caught between them and the soldiers stationed at Rennes. The duchess now has a decent chance at victory.

And we have bought ourselves some time.

Beast finds me back at camp, tending the wounded. He strides out of the night, filthy, bloody, and grinning. Unable to help myself, I smile back, for even though he was not marqued, I have been filled with visions of his death. I draw away from the injured men so our greeting will not disturb them. “You did it,” I tell him, but my words are lost as he wraps his thick arms around me, picks me up, and swings me around. “We,” he corrects me. “We did it. Me, you, the charbonnerie, all of us.”

“Put me down,” I say, biting back my laughter.

He places me on the ground but does not remove his arms. Instead, he leans in and sets his mouth to mine. It is a lusty kiss, full of joy and triumph and victory. But after a moment, triumph gives way to something else. Something wondrous and fragile.

Beast’s hands slide up my waist, firm and solid at my back, a buttress that will not give way, no matter what comes.

One hand continues moving, reaching up to cup my face, and the feel of his rough, callused hands so gentle on my skin makes me want to weep. For all that I have kissed before, I have never felt anything like this. It is as if I have swallowed a tiny piece of the sun, its warmth and light reaching into every corner of my soul and chasing away the shadows.

I surrender to that kiss—surrender to the strength and the courage and the sheer goodness of the man.

A short while later, the rest of the men straggle in. I scan them nervously, looking for the thin, gangly figure of Winnog. Instead, I find Lazare. As our eyes meet, he gives a curt shake of his head. Winnog will not be returning, and Lazare’s face is haunted by the unasked-for responsibility I placed on his shoulders. It was unfair of me, for who are we to stop Death? Even I, one of His handmaidens, could only save one of the three in my group.

In spite of our victory, the camp is in somber spirits that night, for it did not come without a cost. In addition to Winnog and de Brosse, we lost Sir Lorril, six soldiers, and seven charbonnerie. De Brosse and Lorril will be returned to their families’ holdings for burial in their crypts. The six soldiers will be buried first thing in the morning, and now lie, carefully covered, sheltered by the trees.

However, it is Winnog’s death that affects us the most—the awkward, gangly youth was always cheerful, blind to any ill will, and quick to smile. But the charbonnerie do not bury their dead. In keeping with their customs, they make an offering of the bodies to the Dark Mother. They select a clearing far away from the trees, close to an ancient standing stone, and begin building a funeral pyre with as much care and precision as they build their charcoal pits. As if by some silent agreement, one by one the soldiers and men-at-arms rise from their resting places to join the charbonnerie in honoring their dead. Erwan sets the torch to the wood, the fire crackling and hissing as it rushes through the dry kindling and branches.

Within moments, the entire pile is engulfed in flames of red and gold that lick at the bodies of the men. It is an especially hot fire. I do not know if this is some trick of the charbonnerie or simply due to the size of fire a funeral pyre needs. The heat is so intense that we must all step back or risk being roasted ourselves. Thick black smoke churns upward into the night sky, carrying the souls of the charbonnerie to the Dark Mother.

When at last nothing is left of the fire but smoldering ash and embers, we return to the camp. The men do not drift back into their separate groups but instead stay together, talking in quiet voices. Death has brought the fellowship that life could not. I cannot help but think Winnog would be pleased with this outcome. Even the most arrogant of them, Sir Gaultier, is listening attentively to something Erwan is saying. It is as Beast promised them. Or perhaps it was their Dark Mother’s promise—out of the ashes of despair, they have found forgiveness and acceptance.

If they can, perhaps so can I.

I find Beast standing apart from the others, watching the smoldering embers from the pyre. He is still filthy, covered in dirt and soot and blood, and his eyes are heavy and red. I cringe now at how I asked him how he could bear ordering men to their deaths, for clearly it weighs heavily on him.

At the sound of my approach, he looks up.

“Where do we go next?” I ask, pretending we have not just recently shared a kiss.

“Guingamp. A French garrison holds the town, and on the heels of this victory, I think we can fan an uprising to take back the city. But we will rest a day or two so we may finish burying our dead. It will also allow more time for the rumors of our victory here to reach the town.”

“Would you be willing to ride out with me tomorrow?” I take a deep breath and clasp my hands together to hide their trembling. It has taken me this long to be certain that this final secret of mine is one he can accept unconditionally. “I have one last thing I must share with you. But this is one you must see.”

Chapter Forty-Two

AS MUCH AS I LOOK forward to putting aside the last of the secrets between Beast and me, I am also looking forward to seeing my sisters. It has been nearly a year, and I miss them as much as any mother misses her babe, for they are the only bright spots in our family.

Near midday, we stop at a tavern to rest the horses and find a meal. It is a quiet enough place, in a sleepy hamlet of a village, and I am fairly certain no one will recognize me. Even so, I am careful to choose a table near the back.

It is not until we are halfway through our meal that other patrons arrive. Two farmers, by the look of them. I ignore them until their talk turns to recent activity in the area.

“. . . troop of Lord d’Albret’s men rode through here not five days ago . . .”

At these words, I feel as if the ground beneath my feet gives way. I stand up and stride over to their table. “What did you say?” I demand.

The man stares at me as if I am mad. “Around fifty of Lord d’Albret’s men came galloping through here about five days ago. Headed to his holding, they were. At Tonquédec.”

I turn and head for the door. No, no, no beats deep in my breast. Not Charlotte. Not Louise.

Beast leaps up from the table and follows me. “What? What is wrong?”

I barely spare him a glance as I take my cloak from the hook and draw it around my shoulders. “D’Albret and his men passed through here five days ago.”

He frowns. “For what reason? Surely he needs all his men at Rennes?”

I shake my head. “I told you it is a foolish commander who puts all his hope in a single plan.” I take a deep breath and turn to meet his eyes. “Tonquédec is where we grew up, but only my two younger sisters are in residence there now.”

“Does he fear the duchess will try to ransom them?”

I laugh, a dry brittle sound that hurts my ears. “No. He plans to ransom them. To me.”

I try to hold on to hope for the entire ride to Tonquédec, but the cruelties d’Albret might visit upon the two girls is limited only by my imagination. And my knowledge of him.

I put my horse to a full gallop, not caring if the others cannot keep up. Soon Yannic and the men-at-arms fall behind, but Beast still rides alongside me. The comfort of his presence is all that keeps me from splintering into a hundred broken pieces.

I spare a thought for how he must feel, approaching the place where his sister died, but that brings a fresh wave of despair, so I shove it aside. I pray—beg—Mortain to keep them safe. To let me be wrong. To let him only have sent to Tonquédec for more troops.

But I know in my heart it is a false hope.

When we reach the holding, the long winding road leading up to the castle walls is empty of any traffic. No hunting parties, no departing troops. There are no extra guards posted along the battlements, as there would be if d’Albret were still in residence.

The guard at the gate looks surprised to see me, but lets us pass. As we ride into the empty courtyard, the seneschal comes rushing out, eager to greet me. He takes my horse’s rein. “Lady Sybella!”

I dismount, not bothering to wait for a groom. “My sisters, Charlotte and Louise. I must see them.”

A look of confusion crosses the seneschal’s face. “But they are gone, my lady. They have left for Nantes.”

Chapter Forty-Three

THEY ARE GONE.

The truth of that hits my body before my mind can come to terms with it, and I double over. A faint trembling spreads throughout my limbs, making my hands shake and my knees wobble.

They are gone.

It feels as if some monster has just pried my rib cage open and scooped the very heart from my chest, leaving it empty and hollow.

“Demoiselle?” The voice seems to come from far away, and I can barely hear it as the jittery, liquid silver pain courses through me, roaring in my ears as it looks for a way out.

I must get them back.

Without thinking further than that, I turn toward the horses. A large hand clamps down on my arm, restraining me.

I whirl around, reaching for my knife. “Let go.”

Beast ignores my knife and reels me closer, like a fish he has caught, until I am up against his armored chest. “They are many days gone,” he says softly. “We cannot catch up to them on the open road.”

Hiding the knife in the folds of my gown, I glance up at the seneschal. “How long ago did my lord father leave with my sisters?”

“Three days ago, my lady. Only it wasn’t your lord father—it was the young master Julian.”

This second shock sends me reeling, I even stumble back a step or two. “Julian?”

“Aye, my lady. He and fourscore of your father’s men.”

A cold dark seed of panic begins in my gut. My father could have taken my sisters for any number of reasons, but Julian? There is only one reason he would do so, and that is to bait a trap for me. He more than anyone knows of the love I bear Charlotte and Louise.

Or could he simply have collected them on our father’s orders? As if in answer to my question, the seneschal says, “The young master asked me to give you something should you show up here.”

I take a step toward the man. “What? Where is it?”

He sends a page to fetch the box from his office, and I wait impatiently, pacing back and forth. I start to tell the groom to saddle fresh horses, but Beast stops me. “No,” he says, his voice low. “We cannot leave this minute. You need rest and time to compose yourself. You cannot clatter across the countryside like a poorly cocked arrow.”

And though Beast has but said what I know deep inside to be true, I lash out at him. “How? How can I rest while they are in danger?” The sympathy in his eyes is like another blow, for of course he knows of this misery firsthand. It is precisely what he felt when Alyse went off to marry d’Albret.

And now he will have to endure it a second time.

I press the heels of my palms against my eyes, willing myself to cry, willing the nearly overwhelming pain to find a way out.

But it does not.

How can I tell him now? The last of the secrets between us, the one that I had hoped to lay before him like a gift. But no longer. Now I only have more despair to hand him.

Ignoring my attempt to put space between us, Beast draws close again. “They are not in danger while they are traveling, not with such a large escort,” he says. “Nor by my reckoning are they in any true danger—they are merely being used as a means to compel you to your father’s side. We have nearly foundered our horses trying to get here, and you yourself are swaying on your feet. Besides, we will need some sort of plan.”

I am saved from arguing with him by the seneschal’s return. He carries a small wooden casket, carved of lustrous ebony wood and inlaid with ivory. He hands it to me with a little bow, and I find I am terrified of opening it. I take a deep breath, then lift the lid.

Two locks of hair sit upon the red velvet lining. One is the golden brown of my sister Louise’s hair and the other the much darker color of Charlotte’s. They are braided together with a third lock—the shiny black of Julian’s own hair.

I snap the lid closed and press the box to my stomach, as if to hide it, but the image is burned into my vision. It is a clear echo of our own two locks of hair that he carries in the hilt of his sword, a sign of his devotion to me. I think I will be sick.

“Is everything all right?” the seneschal asks in a worried voice.

It is Beast who answers. “We have ridden hard to reach here and my lady is nigh unto exhausted. That is all. Fetch some wine,” he orders. “And a waiting woman.”

I want to tell him I do not need such coddling, but I can barely breathe, let alone speak. Strong hands press me down so that I am sitting on a low wall. Beast leans over and whispers in my ear, “We have an audience.”

His warning is like a pail of frigid water in my face. Of course, he is right. And even now I have no idea how many are blindly loyal to d’Albret or simply follow him out of fear.

As I straighten, I glance at the seneschal. Is that only concern over my well-being I see in his eyes? Or is there a trace of slyness as well? And the others. I glance around the courtyard at the men-at-arms. There are nearly a dozen of them, and they all appear relaxed enough. If they have been given any orders concerning me, the instructions do not seem to include restraining me on sight.

Avoiding Beast’s eyes, I compose my face and stand up. “I am overwhelmed by the dearness of the gift my brother has left me,” I tell the seneschal. “And tired besides. I would like to retire to my room, if I may. Oh, and our riders follow behind us. When they arrive, see that they and their horses are cared for.”

“But of course, my lady.” Just then, a serving woman bearing a tray comes into the courtyard, and I recognize Heloise. She greets me joyfully as she hands me a goblet. I take a sip and act as if it refreshes me. “See to the Baron de Waroch’s comfort, if you please. We would both like to rest ourselves after our travels.”

At the very least, I need to wash the taint of my brother’s message from me, so that I am clean when I set out after my sisters.

For all the staff’s faults and questionable loyalties, they are well trained, and the holding is in excellent order. My own room is as if I had never left it. “Put the baron in the south guest chamber,” I instruct Heloise. It is one of the finest and will confer a certain amount of prestige upon him, and it is close by mine—a mere two doors away.

Once I’m settled in my chambers, Heloise directs two young maids to prepare a bath before the fire, then comes to help me undress. “How did you find my brother, Heloise? Was he in good spirits? I know my lord father is much distracted of late.”

“Oh yes, my lady. Lord Julian was in gay spirits and overjoyed to see his sisters once more. Indeed, his pleasure at their reunion reminded me of how much pleasure he always takes in your company.”

Her words are spoken innocently enough, but they cause my stomach to shrivel into a tiny knot. “And Louise? How is her health of late?”

There is a tiny pause, one that sets alarms clanging in my breast. “She has not grown any stronger, my lady, that is for certain. But hopefully, as spring comes, her health will return.”

I turn to look at her so I may see the truth of her answer in her face. “Was she well enough to make the trip?” As I stare into her brown eyes, I can see a shadow of doubt lurking there.

“Of a certainty, Master Julian thought so. I made sure they placed extra blankets and furs around her and instructed him to be certain she had warm bricks at every opportunity. Lady Charlotte promised to look after her as well.”

And she would, of that I had no doubt, but she was only ten years old and a mere child herself.

After I have bathed and dressed, I send my attendants from the room, claiming I need rest. Instead of resting, however, I begin pacing in front of the fire, trying to determine the best way to free my sisters. Will I have any allies on the inside? If Julian is only acting on my father’s wishes, I could most likely coax him into giving me aid, but I fear that he may well have acted on his own, for how else to explain the locks of hair?

And even once I have them free—assuming I do not get us all killed in the process—where will I take them? Where will they be safe?

The convent. The answer comes to me like a whisper on a breeze.

But will they be safe there? What of the abbess? I think of Charlotte and Louise, so different from me, and then I think of all the younger girls at the convent and know they will be safe enough. Even I was safe for a few short years.

It is only the most rudimentary beginnings of a plan, but it is something.

I glance out the window, heartened to see that the sun has dropped low in the sky. The sooner night comes, the sooner I can depart. Even so, as the shadows lengthen in my room, old memories awaken. Dark memories. Having no wish to be alone with them, I decide to go in search of Beast. It is time for him to hear the last of the secrets between us. Perhaps it will make him as eager to be off as I.

I rap on his door, then let myself in. Beast is just pulling a clean doublet over his head and is scandalized. “Sybella! You cannot be in here. Your servants—”

“Shhh,” I tell him. “You forget that these are d’Albret servants, much accustomed to all manner of indiscretion and wickedness. They would be more surprised if I did not visit your room.”

He blinks, not sure what to say to that, and I see drops of water still cling to his lashes. He is quiet for a moment, then ask, “With no one else to hear, will you tell me the significance of the locks of hair?”

Just thinking of them is like a fist to my belly. “It is a message. From my brother Julian.” My throat closes around the things I want to tell him. Instead, I say, “He carries a lock of my hair entwined with his in the hilt of his sword. It is a message . . .” And here I falter, for I cannot bring myself to say out loud what I fear it means.

But Beast is no fool, and when his large hands clench into fists, I know he has puzzled out the meaning. Now. I must tell him now before my courage fails me yet again.

“There is something you must know. My sister Louise—she is Alyse’s daughter.”