Dark Triumph

Something in her frightened eyes shifts slightly, and I can see her grasp my words like a drowning man grabs a rope. I nod, then turn to retrieve my crossbow bolts.



We do not tarry long. Between Yannic and the miller and myself, we hoist the three dead bodies back onto their horses, and take the horses with us when we go.



“We will have to veer farther west if we wish to avoid d’Albret’s men,” I tell Beast as we ride away.



Beast nods in agreement, then grins. “I’ve never met a lady who enjoys her work as much as I enjoy mine.”



“My work?”



“Killing. Assassin-ing.”



“What are you implying?”



He looks puzzled at the anger in my voice. “That you are very good at what you do. It was a compliment, nothing more.”



Of course, he would mean it as a compliment. “Just how many other lady assassins have you met?”



“Other than you? Only Ismae. And she seemed to approach her duty with more earnestness than true joy, whereas you come alive with a knife in your hand.”



Hotly uncomfortable with his assessment, I fall silent.



Do I enjoy killing? Is it the act itself that brings me joy? Or do I embrace the sense of higher purpose it gives me?



Or do I simply enjoy having something at which I excel, as there are few enough skills that I possess?



However, if I do enjoy killing, how does that make me any different from d’Albret?



It is only Mortain—His guidance and blessing that separates us. And I have rejected that.



But Beast kills as well, efficiently and expertly, and does not seem tainted by the same darkness that colors d’Albret and myself. I have never seen anyone kill so cheerfully or eagerly, and yet he is light of heart. “How did you come to serve your god?” I ask, breaking a long silence.



Beast grows quiet, grim even. Just when I have decided that he is not going to answer, he speaks. “It is said that when a man rapes a woman while the battle lust is still upon him, any child that results belongs to Saint Camulos. I was such a babe. My lady mother was assaulted by a soldier while her own husband was off fighting against King Charles.”



“And yet she loved you and raised you as any of her other children?” I ask, somewhat in awe of her charitable nature.



Beast snorts out a laugh. “Saints, no! She tried to drown me twice and smother me once before I was one year old.” He falls silent. “It was Alyse who saved me, usually toddling in at just the right moment.”



“You remember that far back?”



“No, my lady mother was wont to throw it in my face at every opportunity. She was afraid of explaining my presence to her lord husband, but in the end, he never returned—he was killed on the fields of Gascony, pierced through with a lance.



“By then, I was nearly two years old, and little Alyse had grown fond of me. She rarely left my side in those years. I think she was afraid of what would happen to me if she did.” He grows quiet for a long moment before speaking again. “I owe Alyse my very life, and I failed her.”



I dare to ask the question that has been haunting me since I learned that Alyse was his sister. “Why did your mother wish for the marriage? Why did d’Albret, for that matter?”



“D’Albret pressed for the marriage because part of Alyse’s dower lands abutted one of his lesser holdings that he wished to expand. And she was young and healthy and able to bear him many sons. Or so our lady mother promised him.”



And thus sealed her daughter’s death warrant when Alyse could not. What sort of woman promises such things?



“I did not want her to marry him,” he says softly. “I did not trust him, or the fact that five wives had preceded Alyse. But our lady mother was blinded by his title and wealth, and Alyse herself was always eager to keep our mother happy.” His voice trails off, and the silence that follows is so filled with sorrow, I cannot bring myself to break it.



Leaving Beast to his painful memories, I turn my thoughts to our travels. How far west will we need to go to avoid d’Albret’s men? And when should we release the horses with the dead soldiers? I fear we are still too close to the miller and his daughter, and I would not wish the dead to be found anywhere near them.



Even though we cannot see it through the trees, we are drawing near a large stream that, by the sound of it, has swollen to the size of a river with the recent rains. The raging water rushing over the rocks is nearly deafening and I must shout for Beast to hear me. “We must look for a place to cross.”



He nods and we turn our horses in that direction, skirting the thicket until the trees finally thin and we are able to gain passage onto the bank of the stream.



Where soldiers wearing d’Albret’s colors are watering their horses.



Chapter Nineteen



THERE ARE TWELVE MEN ALTOGETHER. Two kneel at the water’s edge, filling their water skins. Another is watering three of the horses, and a fourth is taking a piss by a tree. That is the only thing that saves us with such uneven numbers: that half of them have dismounted and are taking their leisure. That and Beast’s quick reflexes.



Before I have fully registered my surprise, Beast draws his sword and charges into the startled group of men before they can react. He aims straight for the three closest riders. The bank explodes in activity as soldiers scramble for their weapons.



As Beast rides into the fray, my body reacts without conscious thought. I drop my reins and pull my knives from my wrists. The first one strikes one of the mounted soldiers closest to me, catching him in the throat. My second knife takes the next mounted soldier in the eye so that he is thrown backwards just as his horse leaps forward. Some days, like today, my aim and timing is so true it takes my breath away and I feel certain Mortain’s hand guides my own.



As I reach for my crossbow, Beast gives a battle yell that fair curdles my blood. His sword arcs through the air, decapitating one soldier and then slicing a second man near in two on its backstroke. Before Beast can regroup, a third raises his sword, then reels in surprise when a stone from Yannic’s slingshot punches through his teeth, giving Beast time to finish him off.



My crossbow loaded and cocked, I turn to the riders by the stream and pick one off. Two others go for their own crossbows, but not fast enough. The bolt catches one and sends him stumbling into the second man, which gives me time to grab another of my knives and throw it, the silver blade whipping fast and sure across the distance to sink into his eye socket and send him reeling into the stream.



I use the time that buys me to reload my crossbow, but one of the mounted men breaks away from Beast and wheels in my direction before I can get it cocked. I drop the bow and pull the sword from its scabbard, getting it between me and my attacker. “Lady Sybel—” It is only when he hesitates long enough for me to get past his guard and cut off the rest of his words that I realize they have been ordered to take me alive.



Which gives me some small advantage, for I do not care if I kill them. Indeed, I pray that I will.



One of the remaining men is reloading his crossbow, which is aimed right for me. I am out of knives, and Beast is too far away to help. He shouts, drawing the man’s attention, and then I watch open-mouthed as Beast hurls his sword toward him.



I hold my breath as it spins through the air. The hilt catches the soldier full in the face, stunning rather than killing him. But it is enough to give the charging Beast time—he draws his ax, surges forward, and delivers a sickening blow to the soldier’s head. Yannic finishes off the last two of them with well-slung rocks.



The stream’s bank is awash in departing souls, shocking in their chillness, as if winter had suddenly returned. Some rush upward, eager to flee the carnage, even though it can no longer harm them. Others hover, like desolate children, lost, adrift, not sure they understand what has just happened.



It sickens me that I somehow manage to feel sympathy for them. To chase the unwelcome feelings away, I whirl around to rail at Beast. “What in the names of the Nine Saints was that? Throwing your sword? Is that some special trick of Saint Camulos?”



He grins, and I am startled by how feral he looks, all gleaming white teeth and pale eyes in a blood-splattered face. Indeed, I do not believe he is quite human in that moment. “It slowed him down, didn’t it?”



“By mere chance,” I point out. It was the most foolish, jape-fisted bit of buffoonery I have ever seen, and I am impressed in spite of that.



A short while later, as I stare down at the bodies of the six men I have just killed, I cannot help but wonder: Do I love killing? Of a certainty, I love the way my body and weapons move as one; I revel in the knowledge of where to strike for maximum impact. And of a certainty, I am good at it.



But so is Beast. He is perhaps even better at it than I am, and yet for all that, he feels as bright and golden as a lion who roars in the face of his enemies and stalks them in broad daylight.



Whereas I—I am a dark panther, slinking unseen among the shadows, silent and deadly.



But we are both great cats, are we not? And do not even bright things cast a shadow? “Were they waiting for the men at the miller’s?” I ask. “Or are they a separate party of scouts altogether?”



“A separate party, I think. See?” Beast points to a series of hoof prints in the muddy bank where the men had just crossed the stream. “They were on their way back.”



My heart sinks. “Which means they have all the western routes covered. We will have to head due east and approach Rennes from that direction.”



We risk riding into the arms of the French, but at least they will simply kill us and not try to take us back to d’Albret. If the truth be told, I’d rather take my chances with the French.



By the time we stop for the night, Beast is gray with exhaustion and fatigue and hardly able to do more than grunt. As we make camp, it is hard to know which is the greater threat: d’Albret and his be-damned scouts or the blood fever coursing through Beast’s veins. In the end, I decide we must risk a small fire for the poultices, but by the time they are ready, Beast is fast asleep. He does not so much as stir when I place them on his wounds. As I stare down at his still, ugly face, I find myself praying that I will not be left with nothing but his limp, dead body to bring before the duchess.



By some miracle or stubbornness of constitution, Beast is better in the morning. Even so, I insist we travel at an easy pace, well away from the roads. When we stop for a midday break, I almost decide to make camp for the night then and there so Beast can rest, for he is exhausted again, and fresh blood flows from the injury at his thigh. He waves my concerns aside. “It is a good thing, for it will wash the foul humors from the wound.” He insists we keep going, as the farther we get from our pursuers, the better.



Shortly afterward, we draw near the main road to Rennes. Apprehension fills me, for I am certain d’Albret will have it watched, but we must get across. Besides, even d’Albret does not have enough soldiers to man the entire road. Our hope is to find an unguarded section.



We lurk awhile, watching the travelers from our hiding spot in the trees. A farmer carrying hens by a pole across his shoulders goes by, followed by a tinker who clanks and clatters along. Neither of them tarry or linger or appear to be dawdling, so I doubt they are spies. A short while later, a sweat-stained courier races by on a lathered horse, and we can only wonder what news he carries, and to whom.



Since he is not followed—or accosted—we deem it safe to cross. We put our heels to our horses and hurry to the other side before anyone else comes along. Beast catches my eye and flashes me a grin, the first I have seen today, then leads us into the brush and spindly trees on the east side of the road, where we turn north.



I glance over to see how he is faring only to find him watching me. “What?” I ask, uneasy under the weight of that gaze—the man has a way of looking at me as if he can see beneath all the layers of my deception. It is most unsettling.



“One of the soldiers recognized you,” he says.



Merde! With all that was going on, how could he have heard that? “Of course he recognized me,” I scoff, as if he has hay for brains. “I have been in d’Albret’s household for some time. How else do you think I was in a position to rescue you?”



Is it just my imagination or does his face clear somewhat? He frowns as if trying to work out some puzzle. “How did the convent secure you a position in d’Albret’s entourage? By all accounts, he is more suspecting and distrustful than most.”



“The abbess has many political connections among the noble families of Brittany.” I use my most haughty voice in the hopes that it will deter further questions.



It does not look as if it will, for Beast opens his mouth once more, then—praise Mortain!—pauses and cocks his head to the side, an alert look on his face.



“Now what?” I ask.



Beast holds his hand up for us to halt. As I rein in my mount, I hear it: it is not the sound of fighting, exactly, but shouting and men’s voices. “Oh, no,” I whisper at him. “We are not playing at rescue again. You barely have enough strength today to stay in the saddle.”



Ignoring me, he gives some silent command to his horse, who moves forward, winding along a path among the trees and drawing closer to the sounds. Hoping to forestall him, I follow, while Yannic hangs back with the pack animals.



There are five men with horses stopped in front of a farmhouse. Two sit upon their destriers with great, white fluffy bundles in front of them. It takes me a moment to recognize the bundles as sheep. Two of the others are trying frantically to corner a goose, which is doing its best to evade them, honking in irritation all the while. It would be almost comical except for the farmer and his wife standing in the yard held at spear point by the fifth man.