Текст книги "Dark Triumph"

Автор книги: Robin LaFevers

Соавторы: Robin LaFevers
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Chapter Fifteen

I SLOWLY BECOME AWARE THAT I am dreaming, for I feel as safe and snug as a babe in a cradle. Or perhaps a babe in a boat, bobbing in the sea.

A very bumpy sea, I amend, as a jarring thud rattles my entire body. I try to open my eyes, but it is as if they’ve been sewn shut. When I finally wrench them open, all I can see is a dark sky filled with fading stars.

Where in the names of the Nine Saints am I?

I try to think, shuffling back through my memories like a banker though stacks of coin. The knight. I was getting him to the cart and then . . . what? Filled with a trickle of foreboding, I struggle to sit up. The movement has my stomach roiling like a nest of eels. Just in time, I lean over the side and retch miserably.

When I have finished with that, the throbbing in my head lessens enough that I can begin to make sense of my surroundings. A strong smell of manure fills my nose, making me think of retching again, and I see a jaunty yellow flag flapping in the night breeze.

Frantic, I glance around. The knight lies still and lifeless beside me as we jolt and bump along the road. There are no houses, no shops, no city walls anywhere. There is nothing but gently rolling countryside and farmsteads as far as my eye can see.

I am in the be-damned cart! The knight . . . he hit me. Knocked me out cold with his great ham-shaped fist and, for some reason, he—and the jailor—have brought me with them.

No. No! I look around once again to try to get my bearings. How long have I been out? Moments? Hours? More important, how far away are we from Nantes? Perhaps it is not too late to go back.

But no matter how hard I squint and peer, I cannot see the walls of the city. Which means all my plans—and my hard-won resolve—have turned to ash. The giant ogre beside me has given Fortune’s wheel such a hard turn that it has spun out of my grasp entirely.

The prisoner next to me does not so much as stir at the vile oath that flies from my mouth, but the jailor, who is driving, looks over his shoulder and tips his cap. That cheerful gesture infuriates me further and I scramble to my feet, ignoring the wave of nausea that follows. As we hit a bump in the road, I nearly tumble out. Grabbing the back of the bench, I clamber gracelessly into the front next to the jailor, then wait for the dizziness to pass before I begin railing at him. “What have you done?” I finally manage to get out. “I was not supposed to come with you! You have ruined everything!”

The little gnome shrugs and points his thumb at the unconscious knight.

I glance at the hulking form laid out in the wagon bed. How dare he? What addlepated thought crossed his fevered brain and caused him to bring me with them? I want to leap into the back of the cart and pound my frustration out on his thick, misbegotten hide. Instead, I curl my hands into fists, press my nails into my palms, and hope the pain of it will clear my head. To have been denied my desire to wreak vengeance upon d’Albret for so long, only to have it snatched away when it is finally in my grasp, is nearly unbearable. It is all I can do not to put my head back and roar out my fury at God and all His saints.

Then suddenly, like a kettle boiled dry, my anger is gone and I am left feeling as empty and hollow as a drum. My one chance, the one I have waited months—no, years!—for, has been irrevocably lost. Never again will I be in such a position to exact vengeance on d’Albret.

Never again. The words rattle around in my head like two stones in a bucket.

But that also means I cannot go back—cannot be sent back—for even the cold-hearted abbess will recognize how impossible it would be for me to earn d’Albret’s trust again.

Which means . . . I have escaped.

I try to think. In all my seventeen years, have I ever known anything—anyone—to escape d’Albret? Not his wives, nor his children, nor his enemies. Only the duchess, and she did so twice, once in Guérande and the second time almost a fortnight ago.

While it makes sense that the gods would bestir themselves for the duchess, I cannot believe they would bestir themselves for me. They never have before.

Escape. The word is as ripe and seductive as summer’s first fruit, so much so that I must shy away from it and remind myself that hope is but the god’s way of mocking us, nothing more.

I give myself a moment, then another, to compose myself, then turn to the jailor beside me. I pretend I have not stormed and railed and fumed for the last mile and ask calmly, “How is our charge?”

Relief crosses his wrinkled little face, and he gives an enthusiastic nod of his head. I glance over my shoulder, uncertain the knight’s condition warrants such enthusiasm, but say nothing. With all my other options scuttled, it seems my best course of action is to get the knight to Rennes. Alive, if possible.

And with that thought comes a reminder. None of it will matter a whit if d’Albret finds us, for even now he is likely gathering forces for pursuit. Luckily, all of his soldiers will be groggy and ill for a few more hours yet, and I do not think he will ride out himself.

Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crows. Soon, sleepy farmers will stumble out of their cottages and begin tilling their fields. And see us. We cannot risk that. “We must find shelter,” I tell the jailor.

He nods sagely, as if he has already thought of this.

“There will be pursuit,” I warn him. “So our shelter needs to be well hidden from the road.” What has taken us all night to travel could be covered in a matter of hours by one of my father’s men on a swift strong horse.

The jailor nods again, points to a copse of trees in the distance, then steers the cart in that direction.

I study his crooked, lined face. Can I trust him? For the hundredth time I wonder at the strange relationship between the knight and his jailor. Does the Beast of Waroch command courage and loyalty even from those who guard him? For surely my father assigned only the most loyal of his men to tend to his valuable prisoner, and yet the jailor not only did not try to prevent our escape but joined us.

Hopefully, he has not risked so much and come so far only to betray us now.

Just as true dawn breaks, we come in sight of an old stone lodge. It is far from the main road—indeed, from any road at all, I realize as the cart bumps over a rock—and well secluded in a patch of woods. The gargoyle pulls the cart to a halt and waits just inside the trees. It is a small manor house built of gray stone and, by all appearances, deserted. There is no activity in the courtyard, no scratching chickens or bleating goats, and no smoke rises from the chimney. It is almost too much to hope for, that this hidden place is empty and waiting for us. Still not completely sure of the jailor’s motives, I jerk my head toward the house. “Go see if anyone is inside.”

His quick nod of compliance assures me somewhat that this is no trap. Still, someone must scout the place out to be certain it is clear. Until the old man has proven himself to be fully trustworthy, he may as well be the one to do it.

As he looks around, I steer the cart to the back of the lodge and fret once more over my situation. Should I attempt to return to Nantes and finish my self-appointed task? Once I am committed to a purpose, it is no easy thing for me to walk away.

I could claim Beast abducted me.

Except they know how weak and wounded he was, and my involvement is the only explanation for the drugged guards. I fear my hand in this is plain to see.

Perhaps, a small voice inside me whispers, Mortain has simply answered your prayers. Can it not be as simple as that? But of course, nothing—nothing—has ever been simple.

Our shelter is one of the late duke’s lesser lodges, the sort he would retreat to with a handful of his most trusted men or one of his least favorite mistresses. It is perfect for our purposes: sturdy and hidden from the casual passerby. Most important, I have never heard d’Albret or any of his men speak of it, which gives me some hope that they do not know it exists.

Just as the jailor comes scampering out, indicating that no one is home, the thick clouds overhead release their burden and it begins to rain. However, even wounded and ill and passed out, the knight is still a giant of a man. “We cannot carry him in,” I tell the jailor.

He reaches out and shakes the knight, but not even his eyelids flicker in response. Concerned that he has died on the way here, I look to his chest, relieved when I see it rise and fall with his breathing. The jailor begins to shake him harder, but I stop him. I glance up at the rain falling from the sky, big fat drops that plop down onto my face. Cleaning the prisoner up will be a mighty chore involving buckets and buckets of water. “We will let the rain do some of the hard work for us. It is not a freezing rain—let it wash some of the prison grime from him before we take him inside.”

The jailor scowls, as if this is some great insult or injury I have offered his master, but I ignore him, grab two of the bundles tucked up against the side of the cart, and head for the lodge. He can follow or not, it makes no difference to me.

While the jailor stays to cluck over the knight, I make a quick exploration of the lodge to see with my own eyes that no one is here. The back door opens directly into a large kitchen with a fireplace. There is a hall beyond, and three chambers on the second floor. They are all empty of any but the most basic furnishings, and nothing but cold ashes sit in the hearths.

Since getting the knight up the stairs is out of the question, we will have to set up a trestle table in the kitchen. I go to the door and see the jailor dripping by the side of the cart, as if his getting soaked will somehow lessen his prisoner’s discomfort. I motion him over.

When he is close enough, I hand him a rough cloth to dry himself. “I need to set up a table in here, but I cannot move it myself.”

Together with many grunts and muttered oaths we get the trestle in the kitchen and cover it with two old blankets we found. The effort has chased any remaining chill from my bones. “Let’s go see if we can get him in here,” I say with a sigh of resignation, for it will be as easy as trying to maneuver a greased ox.

Outside, the rain has not only cleansed some of the filth from the patient but roused him from his sleep. As the jailor and I peer down at him over the sides of the cart, he blinks up at us, the water spiking his thick lashes. When he sees me, his eyes cloud with confusion, and suddenly my anger rises up in me again, a white-hot fury that he has robbed me of my prize—the one thing that would have justified all I have endured the past six months. I lean down and get my face close to his. “I have been sent on the duchess’s own orders to aid you, and how do you repay me? By ruining all my carefully laid plans.”

His eyes widen in surprise. “From now on, until I get you safely to Rennes, you will do exactly as I say and no more, do you understand? Else I will leave you here to rot in the rain.”

“What did I ruin?” His voice is rough, like a shower of rocks tumbling downhill.

“Plans that I worked six long months to put in place. Why? Why did you do it?” I ask.

“Do what?”

I reach up and touch my tender jaw. “Take me with you.”

He shakes his head, as if trying to clear it. “The last thing I remember is an insistent, soul-searing voice spewing venom and lies.”

“That was me,” I say curtly.

“You?” He looks thoroughly nonplussed, as if he cannot reconcile that voice with what he sees before him.

“Yes, you great lummox. It was the only way I could get you moving up the stairs and into the cart.”

“You tried to bring the battle lust upon me? Have you feathers for brains?”

“No one had a better idea on how to get you out of that dungeon. I simply used the tools at hand.”

“You’re lucky you only got a clout to the jaw.” He squints up at me again, as if trying to make sense of something in his mind. “Besides, you looked afraid,” he mutters.

I gape at him. “Now who has feathers for brains? I had a mission—there was no fear involved.” But that is a lie. I was terrified, and I hate that he saw it.

Chapter Sixteen

PALE AS A CORPSE AND breathing heavily, the knight eases onto the trestle table, then the jailor helps him lie down. He closes his eyes, and it is clear that even this small amount of activity has cost him much. Merde. It is just as well I am not returning to Nantes because this man will need every ounce of my paltry healing skills—and a bit of the gods’ own luck—in order to make it to Rennes. If he dies on the road, then I will have well and truly nothing for all my work and sacrifice. I snag a bucket from a hook on the wall and thrust it at the jailor. “Here. We’ll need water to finish washing him. And fetch the two bundles left in the cart.”

Without questioning me, he takes the bucket and heads back outside into the rain. I take a tinderbox from one of the bundles I brought in and move to the fireplace to start a fire. The clouds overhead will likely mask any smoke that manages to clear the treetops. Even so, I build only a small fire, just enough to heat some water for the poultices I must make up for the knight’s wounds.

When the jailor returns, he sets the two bundles next to the others, then busies himself pouring water from the bucket into a battered old tin pot. I thrust a wad of cloth in his hand. “Finish washing him so that I may tend his injuries. Cut away his garments if you have to.” Again the jailor does what I ask, and I begin to relax somewhat.

For the next little bit, we work in companionable silence, the jailor washing the prisoner, the prisoner gathering the strength to ask all the questions I can feel swirling in his head, and myself mixing the powdered elm bark and mustard with the boiling water and praying the damage to his body is not too far beyond my skill.

When my preparations are done, I slowly rise. It is time to see just how dire his situation is.

The man’s feet jut over the edge of the table, and his face, still ashen beneath the black and green bruises, is as cheerfully ugly as any I have ever seen. His cheeks are pockmarked, and a long scar puckers one side of his face. His nose has been broken—more than one—and he has a notch in one ear. None of which will improve once the swelling and bruising go down.

His body is as thick as a boar’s, with bulging ropes of muscle and sinew. If a sculptor wanted to bring brute strength to life, he would carve a body such as this. Nearly all of it is covered in some sort of scars, the red, angry recent ones mingling with the silvery white of the older.

In spite of myself, I am fascinated—perhaps even impressed—by the damage this one man has sustained.

And survived.

I step closer, and, of its own volition, my hand reaches out to him, my fingers skimming oh so lightly across his battered, ravaged flesh. “How is it you are still alive?” I wonder.

“I am nearly impossible to kill.” The deep rumble of his voice fills the room to the rafters. My gaze snaps up to his face; I had not realized I’d spoken aloud. His eyes, though filled with pain, are fiercely intelligent and put me in mind of a wolf’s, with their eerie light coloring.

“Ah,” I say, “that is good to know. Now I need not worry quite so much while I tend to your wounds.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “You?” Those fierce blue eyes rake up and down my entire body, not with prurient interest but in detached assessment.

I make a great show of looking around the empty kitchen. “You have someone else in mind? Your jailor, perhaps? Surely if he were able, he would have tended to them already.”

I thrust my hand out at the jailor, who has been watching our exchange with nervous eyes, and wiggle my fingers. After a moment’s uncertainty, he hands me the cloth, and, in spite of my threat of roughness, I begin gently cleaning the patient’s face, removing yet another layer of grime. It does not help his appearance any, but I am relieved to see there are no serious cuts or breaks under the dirt.

I turn my attention to the long gash that runs along the meat of his forearm. It does not go to the bone, nor were any tendons or ligaments severed, but it will need a deep cleaning, which will not be pleasant for either of us. The two puncture wounds from the arrows in his left shoulder are infected and inflamed. Covering my fingers with the cloth, I press gently against them, searching for any remaining shards of wood or iron. The patient sucks in his breath sharply, but that is all.

“No splinters, then, so those will be easily enough dealt with. And the arrows appear to have missed any vital ligaments.”

He nods, but says nothing.

There is more bruising and swelling along his middle. I reach out and gently press. He gasps, then grabs my hand with his good one, surprising me, for the gentleness of his touch is incongruent with his size and bulk. “You do not need to prod and poke at my ribs for me to tell you they’re broken.”

“Very well. There is nothing left to do but examine your leg, and that is the one injury that frightens me the most.”

The jailor was too lazy—or modest—to remove the man’s riding breeches, so I take the small knife from the chain at my waist and quickly cut away the sodden, filthy leather. As I reach to pull it aside, he swats my hand aside. Puzzled, I look up to find his cheeks pink and cannot help but smile. The Beast of Waroch is embarrassed. “Pish,” I tell him. “It is nothing I have not seen before.” His eyes widen in surprise, but I reach out and pull the leather from his thigh.

The jailor gasps—in shock, perhaps?—and I suck in my breath. “That bad?” the knight says.

The entire thigh is red and swollen and hot to the touch. Foul stuff oozes from the wound itself, and streaks of red have begun to work their way up and down the leg. I glance up to find a faint grin on his face and, not for the first time, wonder if all he has endured has caused him to lose his wits. I turn my gaze back to the cut. “It is bad,” I agree. “Fortunately for you, I am not a surgeon, so I cannot cut it off were I so inclined.”

“Nor would I let you.”

“I am not sure you are in a condition to stop me,” I mutter, then hold up my hand before he can begin arguing. “I will not cut it off, but what I must do will not be enjoyable either.”

Beast studies me. “Who are you that you know so much about caring for battle injuries? I have yet to meet a noblewoman who tends wounds like a field physician.”

To give myself some time to think, I return to the fire and fetch the hot brew from the bubbling pot. What do I tell the man? I wonder as I begin spooning the herbs and mud into the linen cloths I have prepared. I am d’Albret’s daughter, you oaf, and you have just ensured he will follow us to the ends of the earth. But I find I am unwilling to trumpet my true identity. Indeed, I wish to leave it far, far behind me, bury it like a corpse, and never speak of it again. Besides, if he learns who I am, he will never trust me to get him to safety. Still, I must tell him something.

I think back to the first time I saw him, down in the field with the duchess and her party. “I am a friend of Ismae’s.”

“Ismae!” He tries to prop himself up on one elbow, then winces and eases back down on the table. “How do you know Ismae?”

I can feel his eyes upon me, assessing, weighing, but I concentrate very carefully on folding the square of soft linen around the boiled herbs. “We trained at the same convent.”

There is a moment of silence during which I think he will let the matter drop, but no. “If you are an assassin trained, why are you here tending me?”

Unable to help it, I twist my mouth into a bitter smile as I return to his side. “It is a question I have asked myself many times, you can be certain. My orders were to ensure you got safely to Rennes so that you could further serve the duchess.” I look up and meet his gaze. “So that part of my taunting was true.”

We stare into each other’s eyes for a long moment, before the knight gives a small nod—of understanding or forgiveness, I am not certain. “Well then.” He smiles, an utterly charming and devastating grin that makes me want to smile back at him. Instead, I lay the hot poultice on his thigh.

He sucks in his breath so hard I fear he has swallowed his tongue. His face grows red from the heat and the pain and the effort to not cry out. “I thought you said you were not here to kill me,” he finally says with a gasp.

“I am sorry,” I say. “It is the only way to draw out the poison so you will not die of blood fever.”

“Just warn me next time.”

“Very well, I am putting one on your shoulder now.”

He gasps out again, but it is not as forceful as before. Good. The wound is less tender, then, and will hopefully be that much quicker to heal. I glance back up at him to see how he is doing. “You should, by all rights, be dead from these wounds.”

A brief flash of white teeth. “A gift from Saint Camulos. We heal quickly.”

As the poultices draw the foul humors from his body, I turn my attention to his arm. “This must be cleaned,” I warn him. “Vigorously.”

My patient grimaces. “Do what you must so that I may have full use of the arm.”

The next hour is not a pleasant one. I lay a wet cloth on the cut to soften it, then replace the poultices with fresh ones. “Would you like some wine or spirits to ease the pain?” I ask, but he gives a sharp shake of his head.

When the scab is soft enough I take a cloth and begin gently sponging away the dirt and grime and old mud that cakes the wound.

“You never said how you know so much about treating injuries,” the knight says.

I glance up at him in annoyance. “Why have you not yet passed out from the pain?”

“I welcome pain; it lets me know I am alive.”

While I cannot help but admire his spirit, I remind myself that it is wasted effort to like someone who will likely die of his wounds anyway. “You are as mad as your reputation suggests.”

He grins. “You have heard of me?”

I roll my eyes. “I have heard of a madman who dons battle fever like most men don armor and charges out into the field killing nigh unto hundreds of souls.”

He settles more comfortably onto the blanket. “You have heard of me,” he says, the satisfaction thick in his voice. “Ow!”

“My pardon, but the gravel and mud is ground in deep.” I work in blessed silence for a while, marveling that a man so ugly can have such a charming grin. Annoyed that I am thinking of such things, I get up to fetch a knife. The wound is infected and will need to be drained.

“You still have not told me how you come to know so much about treating injuries.”

“You talk too much. Lie still and try to heal quickly, will you?” I say, returning to his side with the knife. “We have a long way to go and your condition will slow us down considerably. Indeed, we will likely be captured if you do not get better soon.”

The Beast of Waroch scowls, and I can feel the jailor studying me. I wonder how much he has pieced together from my visit to the dungeon with Julian. “Perhaps you are hiding something?”

Only the truth of who I am. “No, I just prefer to work in silence. However, since you insist—I was trained at the convent in small medicines such as this.”

Disbelief is plain on his face. “This is no small medicine.”

I lay the finely honed blade of my knife along the oozing scab. It parts easily, like a flower opening before the sun. “My brothers were knights as well. They often had injuries such as these that needed to be treated.”

“By their sister?” he asks between clenched teeth.

“We were close.” Also, my father did not keep a physician on staff, and my brothers were too embarrassed to seek out the surgeon of the men-at-arms for the beatings and lashing my father bestowed upon them. “However, now that I have answered your question—”

He snorts. “That was no answer.”

“—you must answer one of mine.” He looks at me cautiously. “Who is your pet gargoyle and how is Count d’Albret’s own jailor more loyal to you than to the count? For not only did he allow you to escape—he helped me.”

Of a sudden, all lightness and good humor disappears from Beast’s face. “Perhaps he did not wish to stay behind and accept d’Albret’s punishment.”

“Perhaps not,” I say, disappointed, for I know that is not the reason, or at least, it is only one part of it.

“What do you know of d’Albret?” Beast asks.

“More than I care to,” I mutter as I place another poultice on his arm to draw out the infection.

“You do well to fear him. Even for someone with your skills, it is not safe to be near the man.”

I fight the urge to laugh in his face for daring to warn me of the dangers d’Albret presents. “You need not worry. I know all about Count d’Albret. Stories circulated throughout his hall faster than the annual plague. Indeed, it was one of the old women’s favorite pastimes, terrorizing us with the tale of d’Albret’s first wife. Have you heard it?” I glance up, my eyes wide and innocent.

He gives a curt shake of his head.

“Oh, la, everyone knows the story of his first wife. Indeed, it has become legend, one told by beleaguered husbands and tired matrons when they wished their wives or young charges to be more pliant. ‘Did I ever tell you the story of Count d’Albret’s first wife, Jeanne?’ they would ask. ‘She thought to escape her wifely duties and fled to her family home, where she begged sanctuary with her brother. Well, her fool brother should have known better than to come between a man and his wife, but he had a soft heart and agreed to harbor her against the cruelty she claimed of her own husband.

“‘But that d’Albret,’ they’d say, often with admiration in their voice, ‘he let no man take what was rightfully his and certainly not some baron from Morbihan. He rode with a full battalion of men straight to the baron’s holding, where he burst through the gates and slaughtered every one of the men-at-arms as they scrambled for their weapons. He rode his horse right into the main hall and killed the baron at his table, and then d’Albret struck down his own wife even as she begged for mercy.’” As I tell the story, I feel those earlier tendrils of hope begin to wither. What was I thinking? There can be no escape from d’Albret. All I have done is delay the inevitable.

“To be certain his point was made,” I continue, “d’Albret killed the baron’s wife and two young sons and the newborn babe she nursed at her breast.” My heart twists painfully at the thought of that babe. “Wives usually did what their husbands asked of them after that tale was told.” I look up to see that Beast’s face is hard as stone. “So yes, I do know what d’Albret is capable of.”

I remove the poultice, relieved to see the swelling has already gone down. Next, I reach for the flask of spirits. “This will sting a bit,” I tell him. It is a lie, for it will burn like fire, but I cannot talk to this man anymore. I know from long experience that hope is but a taunt from the gods, and I hate that somehow this man causes me to feel it.

Beast opens his mouth to speak just as I tilt the flask. “My sister was his sixth wife—” The spirits hit his raw flesh and he rears up on the table, roaring in pain, before finally blacking out.