His brows quirk up. “Why no garrote for me?”
I look pointedly at his thick neck, bulging with muscle and sinew. “I do not have one big enough,” I mutter. “Besides, yours was to be a merciful death. A knife is quicker and less painful.” If I thought my confession would shock him into putting some distance between us, I was sorely mistaken, for the great lummox laughs.
Frustrated by this kindness—one I do not deserve—I set the new poultice on his thigh, and his laughter quickly turns to grunts of pain.
Shortly after that, I gently nudge the gargoyle awake, for if I do not get some rest soon, I fear I will grab Beast by his shoulders and force him to answer all the questions crowding their way onto my tongue. It would not take him long to figure out my connection to d’Albret if I were to do that.
The jailor springs nimbly to his feet, checks once on his prisoner—now his patient—then goes to sit by the door. I stretch out by the fire and pray I will not dream of Alyse. Indeed, I do not wish to dream at all.
I come awake with a start, surprised that I have slept. It is nearly dark outside, and the ashes are cold in the hearth. I have slept almost all day. As I sit up, it occurs to me that it is too quiet. Is that what woke me? And then I hear it. The faint jingle of a harness and the soft whinny of a horse.
Panic surges in my breast and I leap to my feet. The gargoyle lurks in the doorway, peering out into the yard. With one hand he holds up three fingers, and in the other he holds his slingshot and a fat round rock the size of a quail’s egg.
There is a rustle as Beast stirs. I hurry over to him, desperate to keep him quiet. He opens his eyes, but when he sees me put my fingers to my lips, he gives a curt nod, then motions me closer. “Give me a weapon,” he whispers hoarsely.
“You are too sick to fight,” I whisper back.
He grabs my arm, his eyes burning with determination. “I will not go back there alive.” A moment of complete understanding passes between us. I nod, then retrieve one of the knives strapped to my ankle and hand it to him. When he takes it, his hand wraps briefly around mine and gives it a firm squeeze. “How many?” he asks.
“Three,” I tell him. “With horses.”
His eyes light up and he smiles. “Horses?”
I hurry back to the door and peer out. The men have reached the courtyard and I can hear their voices. “I still say we should just make for Nantes. We’ll be there shortly after dark.”
“Empty-handed,” another one points out. “And I don’t relish being the one to tell d’Albret that they got clean away and we’ve nothing to report.”
The little jailor sends me a sly look.
“Hell, we don’t even know what we’re searching for. The girl? The prisoner? How far could either one of them have gotten?”
“I say we should just keep riding and not return,” one of them mutters darkly. “Who knows where his wrath will fall.”
As the men dismount, I chafe at the convent’s theology. It is not nearly well enough suited to the real world for my liking. I am allowed to kill in self-defense, but is the danger these men present enough to qualify as self-defense? For all that I have decided I no longer care what the convent or Mortain thinks, their teachings are not as easy to discard as an old gown.
But these are d’Albret’s men, not innocents. And if I do not kill them, Beast will not reach Rennes. Which means their deaths are necessary for me to follow the convent’s most recent orders. If Mortain does not like it, He can take it up with the abbess herself.
“See to the horses,” the leader says, taking his saddlebags from his mount. “I’ll go start a fire.”
“Don’t drink all the wine!”
The leader’s grin flashes white in the gloaming. The others dismount and head for the stables. The gargoyle and I exchange a glance. Our presence will be known once they see the mules and cart. A minute later, a shout goes up, and one of the men sticks his head out of the stable door. The captain pauses.
“Someone’s here,” he calls out.
The captain nods. “We will tell them we need lodgings for the night.” His hand goes to his sword hilt. “And we will discourage them from arguing the point.”
I catch the gargoyle’s eye and hold up my garrote, letting him know that I will take the captain. He nods his understanding and points to the stable. He will take the first one to come out. The third one is up for grabs—whoever gets to him first. My knife would be quicker, but in the dusk I cannot be certain of a kill strike, and I do not want to risk his calling out a warning.
I wrap the ends of the garrote firmly around my hands and wait. The captain approaches, calling out a greeting. “Hello? You in there. We have need of your hospitality.”
When there is no answer, his hand drifts away from his sword. As he draws closer, a still calm descends over me. When he is within arm’s length, I step quickly from the shadows, wrap the wire around his neck, jam my knee into his kidneys, and pray for strength. My movements are so quick and sure there is not even a whisper or a gurgle. But the man is strong and he flails against me, trying to grab his sword. I lean my body weight into him and jam his hand against the stone wall of the lodge.
The second man emerges from the stable. His eyes widen as he sees his captain and I locked in our deadly embrace. Before he can reach for his sword, there is a soft thwack as the gargoyle’s stone splits his forehead.
But the third guard must have heard something for he comes out of the stable with his crossbow cocked and loaded. I maneuver the struggling captain around so his body can shield mine, then brace myself for the violent bite of the crossbow bolt. There is a faint whisper of sound instead, as if a swift bird has just darted by, then a knife—my own knife—is jutting from the man’s throat.
I look over to find Beast hanging out the window. He is pale as milk and leaning heavily against the sill, but he sends me a grin. “I’ll take the chestnut gelding,” he says, just before his eyes roll up and he crashes to the floor.
Merde. I hope he has not ripped out the stitches.
Once we are back inside, the jailor starts to scuttle over to the fallen Beast. I tell him to leave him be, then grab a blanket from the trestle bed and cover the passed-out giant. Except for the paleness of his face, he looks as if he is sleeping peacefully. I cannot decide if I want to kick him or thank him. It will be impossible to keep him alive if he does not have a care for his wounded body.