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.”