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Aeva is far faster and more accurate with her bow, but I manage to pick off close to twenty. Maraud’s force—though small—is a wonder to behold. Maraud stands in his stirrups, his sword swinging first to his left and then to his right. Seeing him thus, it is hard not to squirm with embarrassment, remembering my bold proposition that he spar with me.
Whether because the English are weary, or seasick, or simply disheartened by the turn of events, the fight does not last long, in spite of the uneven numbers.
When it is over, the men begin loading the fallen English back into the skiffs they used to come ashore. As the first boat is filled, pale, slender arms reach out of the water to claim it, but for what, I do not know.
I climb down from the outcropping to find Maraud. He is doubled over, breathing hard, sweat dripping down his face. His knife flashes near one of the bodies—not doubled over, then—the captain, I think.
“Is he dead?”
Maraud slips something into the leather pouch at his waist. “Yes.”
I glance back at the body and see it is missing two fingers.
“His signet rings,” Maraud says shortly. “I’ll be damned if I’ll stand before the king and make two accusations with nothing to back up my words. The Earl of Northumberland’s seal should convince him.”
A horse on the gallop calls our attention, and Maraud reaches for his sword. A messenger from the city garrison rides into the clearing, his horse lathered. “They’re here!” he yells.
Maraud heads for his horse. “Rohan’s troops?”
“No,” the messenger says. “Pierre d’Albret’s. Over three thousand of them. They will reach the city within the hour.”
Chapter 88
Sybella
The charbonnerie and I barely make it back to the city before they close the gates. “How far out are they?” I ask as I dismount, my gaze searching the courtyard for Beast.
“Half an hour, my lady,” the groom says. “Maybe more.”
“And Captain Waroch?”
“In the gatehouse.”
Inside the gatehouse, I shoo away the incompetent squire fussing with Beast’s armor and take over the task myself. “None of this armor is big enough for you,” I complain as I tug on the straps of the largest breastplate we could find. There is still too much room for a sharp blade or well-shot arrow to get through. Hopefully, the chain mail hauberk he wears will stop them.
Beast grins, that part feral, part holy light that appears during battle already beginning to glow from him like a newly lit candle. “It will be fine.”
He cannot know that. It is only his indomitable will, his optimistic nature, and the love of battle that is his gift from Saint Camulos that has him thinking so. I reach for his gauntlet and slip it over his left hand.
“My squire can do this,” he says softly.
I tug harder. “I want to do it, you thick-witted goose.” I want to assure myself that every gap is sealed, every strap tightened, and every moment we have together savored, in case—no. I will not let myself think it. To have Beast die on any battlefield will shred my heart to tatters, but to die while fighting Pierre will turn those tatters into the bitterest of thorns.
“Sybella.” He lifts his ungauntleted hand to my face. So much love shines there that it hurts. I cannot have that snatched from me. Do not want to live without that in my life. He brings his head down and kisses me, aching and tender at first, then slowly filling with more passion as his exuberance for life rises up.
I break the kiss. “Give me your other hand, you lummox. We’ve not much time.” Focused on the buckles at his wrist, I say, “If you get us out of this, I’ll marry you.”
His heart pauses before thudding twice against his ribs. “I thought you said no.”
I did, because I am an imbecile. “I changed my mind.”
“And now is the time to discuss this?”
“What better time? Besides,” I say lightly, “I know you like an incentive.”
“That I do.” He flashes that feral grin of his, even more determined to vanquish this foe.
“I must go.”
“I know. Have a care for yourself. If not for your sake, then for mine.”
He grins again. Truly, he is worse than a court jester. “How can I not after what you have promised me?”
And with that, he is gone, disappearing into the barely contained chaos of our defenses making ready in the courtyard. There are one hundred fifty mounted knights, including Beast and the queen’s guard and Maraud and his men. Four hundred soldiers from the city garrison, and another two hundred conscripted from the locals and armed with Beast’s beloved pikes. It is not nearly enough. Not against the forces Pierre brings.
I make my way to the ramparts, determined to make myself useful.
On the battlements I can see Pierre’s forces in the distance, his standard-bearer riding ahead of the party. A cloud of dust swirls on the horizon from the pounding of their horses’ hooves.
Our knights have positioned themselves two hundred paces in front of the city gate, just behind the central ditch they spent nearly a week digging. Their horses snort and paw at the ground, as eager to fight as the men they carry. In front of them is a line of thirty Arduinnite archers.
Beast and Maraud hang back closer to the gate, making final adjustments to their strategy, their deep voices carrying up to me.
“If your father is with them, he will know this maneuver. He is the one who drilled it into our heads time and again.”
“I know.” Maraud’s voice is devoid of emotion.
“Will he warn d’Albret?”
“I am hoping his willingness to sacrifice so much for me will include his saying nothing.”
“He does not need to say anything—he need only veer away to alert them to the trap.”
“If he starts to veer, we shoot him first.” Then Maraud steers his horse away from Beast out of the gate to the waiting troops.
Gen appears beside me, her face so pale I fear she will faint. “There are too many,” she says.
“Don’t think about the odds,” I tell her as I take her hand.
“Where are we going? I will not sit safely in some guarded room to spare myself the discomfort of what is happening.”
I stop walking to look at her. “Is that what Maraud wanted you to do?”
“No, but the garrison commander did.”
I snort and continue walking. “We are going to do all in our power to increase their odds.”
Chapter 89
Genevieve
The ramparts are frantic with preparation for our approaching enemy. Sybella picks Lazare out of the crowd and heads directly for him. We weave our way through scores of charbonnerie readying their weapons for the coming battle. “There.” Sybella points at two dozen hook guns and arquebuses propped against the crenelated wall as we go by. “That is how we will help them. Lazare will show us how. And I want to see if he was able to prepare the fire rain.”
Lazare does not look up at our approach. “If you say I told you so, I will hit you, even if you are a lady.”
Looking nearly angelic, Sybella says, “I would never be so tactless. Besides, it was not my idea—Beast insisted on having a third and fourth plan in place.”
