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.”