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Sybella cuts him a glance. “Do I really need to answer that question for you?”
“If you would, yes.”
Sybella’s irritation has her leaning forward. “Because he is a man. A commander in his own right, a leader of armies. Whereas the duchess was merely a young girl trying to defend what was hers.”
“More the fool Rohan if he thinks he can control them,” Beast grumbles.
“We already know he is a fool,” Sybella says. “But now we have learned he is a traitor, too.”
“I suspect Rohan is confident he can manage them,” Maraud says. “Especially with d’Albret’s help.”
“But can he?” Beast asks.
“We will find out.”
Silence ensues as we contemplate the horrors of the war that ran for a hundred years between France and England. The people of our country will not survive another such campaign.
“The regent blamed the queen for starting false rumors of this rebellion to serve her own ends,” Sybella says. “But if England is involved, the king will have to believe us now. This is no longer a squabble over a duchy but a foreign invasion.”
“But how do we get the king to see this new truth?” I ask.
“We win,” Beast says, at the same time Maraud says, “We present him with proof.”
“How many men did d’Albret bring with him?” Beast asks Maraud.
“Fifteen hundred mounted knights and another two thousand infantry.”
Beast swears. “With the English, that is nearly eight thousand more men than we planned for.”
“Your defensive positions are the key here,” Maraud points out. “If we can hold them, and depending upon how long Rohan’s coalition will persist.”
“It’s spring. Plenty of time for a long siege.”
“Marshal Rieux still commands all the holdings that you retook in the south,” Maraud says. “And now, with the cannon out of the picture, I imagine Montauban will be able to keep Vannes, as well.”
“Where will these English troops be landing?”
“Morlaix. Providing the weather breaks.”
Aeva steps forward then. “I will get word to the Arduinnites.”
“Thank you,” Beast says. “There are no archers I would rather have at my back.”
Lazare, who has been surprisingly silent, speaks. “I cannot make promises for them, but it is possible the charbonnerie can help, but we will have to put it to a vote.”
“We could certainly use the charbonnerie’s resourcefulness.”
Lazare smiles. “You don’t even know the half of it.”
Some of the sense of doom leaves Beast’s face. “How do we go about getting that permission?”
Sybella glances at Maraud. “It would be wise if you all stayed hidden a while longer. And I think Gen needs another day of rest before she can travel.”
I start to protest, but she silences me with a wave of her hand. “The more thoroughly we stay hidden, the better our chances.”
* * *
We remain in the cave for two nights, Sybella staying by my side to ensure my head injury does not trouble me overmuch. On the second night, Maraud approaches as we are getting ready for sleep. “I will keep watch over her tonight,” he offers.
Sybella arches one graceful brow. “Will you, now? How very thoughtful of you.”
Maraud keeps his face sober, but I can see it is a struggle. “She is much better today. I think the danger has passed.”
Sybella looks down at me, her mouth twisting in amusement. “I think you are correct. And thank you, I will take you up on your offer.” With one last smirk at me, she drifts away in the direction of Beast’s voice.
Maraud stretches out on the floor next to me, propping himself on his elbow. “You will never know how glad I was when I saw you yesterday.”
“Oh, I’ve a fair idea.”
“Standing there,” he continues, “in the midst of battle, calling out warnings left and right with no heed to your own safety.” He takes my hand in his.
“I’d put my cloak up!”
“Yes, wool has always been the shield of choice against arrows and swords.” He reaches out and strokes my cheek, touching something deep inside my heart—something I have only recently learned not to be terrified of.
I was given the gift of Maraud too soon. I realize that now. Just like a starving man must begin to eat slowly lest the too-rich food make him ill, so it was with me. It would have been too easy to sicken myself with the richness of what he offered.
But that hole in my heart has been filled—by Sybella, the queen, by Beast and Lazare and Poulet. Even Valine has had a hand in making my heart feel whole again. Every time one of them accepts me for who I am, with no scorn or contempt or hidden manipulation, that wound heals even more. I am no longer starving. Well, mayhap in a different way, I think as Maraud lowers his head and brings his lips to mine.
Chapter 82
Sybella
We set off first thing in the morning, while the mist hovers over the forest floor still damp from last week’s rain. The Arduinnites recovered enough of our horses after the battle that we do not have to walk. They even managed to recapture Beast’s vile mount—who tosses his head, then tries to bite Beast’s fingers. Beast merely chuckles, and soon the creature is pliant, if not tame.
The farther north we ride, the deeper we venture into the forest, the trees doubling in size, their thick roots reaching deep underground, their broad canopy filtering out much of the light. It feels as if a cloak of safety has been drawn around us. No one lives this deep in the forest but the charbonnerie and a crofter or two, neither of whom is likely to offer word of our passing to Rohan or d’Albret.
Just thinking of my brother casts a pall over the morning. Pierre is here. In Brittany. He has taken up arms against the crown—even if the crown is too stupid to know it yet—and is marching in our direction. I would not wish his troops on anyone—let alone the country of my birth. The people we worked so hard to spare from the horrors of war with the French.
The French would have been far kinder to them than he will.
As the sun dips lower in the sky, we pass one of the large standing stones jutting out of the earth like the bone of some long-dead giant. “Not too much farther now,” Lazare says.
He turns right at the standing stone, leaving the hint of trail we’d been following and picking his way straight through the trees, which feel as thick and ancient as time itself. The sharp scent of wood sap mingles with the rich smell of the forest floor.
When we reach the clearing, I recognize the dozen mounds of earth, each with piles of wood slowly baking deep within until it is the charcoal the charbonnerie are known for.
There are also nearly two dozen rough tents and cooking fires whose smoke lazily drifts upward toward the trees, where children scamper among the branches like squirrels. Everyone grows still at our approach. It becomes so quiet I would swear I can hear the smoke moving through the leaves.
One of the men tending the nearest smoldering mound steps forward, his gaze skipping over Gen and me, pausing briefly on Beast, then landing solidly on Lazare, who bows from his saddle. “Greetings, Kerrigan. I hope the Dark Mother is being good to you and your families.”
Kerrigan finishes surveying our not insignificant numbers. “She has been, yes.” His tone makes it clear he suspects that is about to change.
“May I speak with you?” Lazare asks.
The man waves his arm—wrapped in thick bandages—in permission. Lazare dismounts, then he and Kerrigan step away, speaking softly. Whatever Lazare is saying, the man looks unconvinced.
“Mayhap we will spend the night under the trees,” Beast murmurs.
“Might be better than this place,” Poulet says, gazing around at the clearing.
