I look up to find the little gargoyle watching me, his head cocked as if he is puzzling something out. “Go fetch your master some new clothes from the fallen men,” I tell him. “And weapons. Collect all the weapons they carry. We will have need of them soon enough.”
The little man’s face lights up and he heads outside. “And check their saddlebags for any provisions!” I call after him. I packed only enough for two, and for only three days. I fear we will need twice that much to reach Rennes now. If Ismae were here, she would say that Blessed Mortain had delivered a solution into our waiting hands, but I say I have just grown adept at snatching providence from the jaws of disaster.
I return to the hearth to stoke the fire back to life so that I may prepare yet another batch of poultices. As much as they pain Beast, they are no fun for me, either. My hands are red and raw from the heat and the mud. At least they will not look like a noblewoman’s much longer.
The little man returns carrying a pile of clothing, and I sort through the pickings, looking for the ones that will come the closest to fitting Beast. The soldier that took the knife in the throat is the biggest by far, but now there are bloodstains on his jerkin. Even so, we use the bulk of his clothes, and I remove a jerkin from the next largest soldier. The rest I will use for bandages.
“We will take their horses with us when we leave,” I tell the gargoyle. “Then we can change out the pulling team on the cart, which should allow us to make better time.”
“I will not be hauled around like a bushel of turnips to market.” Beast’s deep voice rumbles from behind us. “I will ride one of the horses.”
Slowly, I turn around. “You’re awake.”
“Aye.”
All my questions about Alyse crowd their way to my tongue and nearly leap out of my mouth. Instead, I ask, “How do you plan to stay in the saddle when you cannot even look out the window without fainting? It is a full twenty leagues between here and Rennes.”
“I did not faint. And being carried in that cart is like being bumped along the road in a sack full of rocks. I will arrive in Rennes with my bones ground to dust. Lash me onto one of the horses instead. That way, even if I lose consciousness, I will not fall off.”
And that is when I finally see a faint resemblance between him and his sister: in the stubborn set of his jaw. “You are not even well enough to sit up, much less ride a horse for the next several days.”
“I am better,” he says obstinately, this time reminding me far too much of my sister Louise when she had lung fever and did not want to miss the Christmas festivities. “See?” He moves his injured arm more freely than before. I kneel next to him—to inspect his wounds more closely, I tell myself. But even as I put the back of my hand to his forehead, my eyes search his, looking for echoes of Alyse. Her lashes were not so dark or thick, but her eyes were very nearly as light a blue. “You still have a fever,” I tell him.
“But it does not burn as hot.”
“True.” Next, I inspect his arm. The redness and infection have gone down by half. “But your other injuries. Your ribs—”
“You will bind my ribs tightly so they will not move. I can ride with only one hand on the reins.”
I look up into his cold blue eyes that are not cold at all. “And what of your lance wound?” I reach for the blanket so I may look at it.
The wound is still red, the flesh angry and swollen and oozing. “It will hurt like the very devil,” he concedes, “but the pain will help keep me alert.”
The man is truly mad, possessed by battle fever even when there is no battle. “Everything I know of blood poisoning says the patient must rest in order to be strong enough to fight off the infection.”
“Put another sack of mud on it,” he says, as if that will make this scheme more reasonable.
“I plan to,” I say, annoyed that the person I risked so much to rescue is now ordering me around as if I were a serving wench.
He leans closer, pressing his case. “You know I am right. We will move at a slug’s pace in a cart and be an easy target for any pursuers. Or random bandits and outlaws, for that matter.”
And of course, he is right. I glance behind me at the door to the courtyard, where the three men-at-arms lay dead, a chill moving across my shoulders at how very close d’Albret came to discovering us. “Very well,” I concede. D’Albret has cast his net, and if we do not get moving, he will find us.
We spend the next hour making our plans. We will sleep one more night here, then leave as soon as it is light enough to see. I make another small fire in the hearth and set the mud and herbs for another poultice to boiling. When the mixture is nearly hot enough to blister skin, I fill a linen square with the mud and herbs, wrapping it as quickly as possible so the heat does not escape, nearly burning my fingers in the process.
As I move away from the hearth, the jailor comes in from the yard, where he has collected every weapon d’Albret’s men carried. He sets them down next to Beast, then moves to take a turn at the dwindling embers in an attempt to prepare something for our empty bellies.
Beast hisses as I lay a poultice on his shoulder. “Lie still,” I tell him.
“I am,” he says between clenched teeth, then hisses again as I place the second poultice on his festering leg wound.
He glares at me. “You needn’t enjoy this so much.”
I send him a scathing glance. “You are deranged if you think I am enjoying being trapped in an abandoned hut with an ogre and a gargoyle as my only companions.” I turn away from him to collect the linen strips I made from the soldier’s unused shirts, surprised to realize I am enjoying this. There are no vipers slithering about underfoot nor nightmares lurking in the shadows.
When I turn back to him, I make sure none of my thoughts show on my face. “Can you sit up so I can bind your ribs?” If he cannot sit, best we know it now so we can alter our plans. He grunts an assent, the muscles in his abdomen shifting and rippling like waves as he pulls himself into a sitting position. His eyes close for a moment.
“Are you going to faint again?” I hurry around to block his fall so he will not crash to the ground. Although like as not he would just take me to the floor with him.
“No,” he grunts.
I wait a minute to be sure he isn’t fooling himself, then go back and pick up the linen strip and begin wrapping it around his torso. Even after being locked away for more than a fortnight, he is as thick as a tree trunk.