“Here, I’ll take those,” Bette says. “You go tend your man and his injuries.”
I want to protest that he is not my man, but instead I thank her and go fix one last round of poultices while Anton and Jacques help Beast back to his place by the fire.
By the time the poultices are ready, everyone else has gone up the stairs to their beds. One of the boys murmurs some last taunt to his brother, which is followed by an oof after the offended party throws something at him.
“Do that again,” Beast says.
I look up, confused. “What?”
“Smile. I have never seen you smile before.”
“You are daft. Of course I smile.” Uncomfortable under that gaze, I turn and begin removing the bandage from his leg.
“How long were you hidden in d’Albret’s household?”
My heart thuds painfully. Has he figured out who I am? “Why do you wish to know?” I ask, stalling.
He looks away and plucks at the bandage on his arm. “I was wondering if you might have been there when Alyse was still alive.”
And just like that, I am completely undone. His words pierce my heart and erode the last of my defenses against him. I put the poultice on his leg and stare at it as if it is the most fascinating thing in the world.
“You knew of d’Albret’s other wives,” he hurries to point out. “I thought perhaps you knew of Alyse as well.”
Stick as close to truth as possible—that is what we learn at the convent about crafting lies. “Yes,” I say, and hope my reluctance does not come through in my voice. “I knew her, but not well.”
“Tell me of her.” He stares at me intently, as if he would pluck the answers he seeks from my skin.
I look away, my gaze scanning the room, the fire, anything but his ravaged face. What do I tell him of Alyse? That she grew thin with nerves and fright? That the calm, serene woman turned into one who would jump when she was touched and who startled at loud noises? That Julian and Pierre teased her cruelly because of it, making every loud noise they could think of, sneaking up behind her in the dark empty corridors? That she ate little in the last months before her death?
Or do I tell him of the few stolen happy moments she found? Our trip to pick blackberries, their plump sweetness bursting in our mouths so that the juice would trickle down our chins and make us laugh? Or how the minnows nibbled at our toes when we dipped our feet in the brook?
“She was kind and pious,” I finally say. “Always remembering to honor God and His saints. Bluebells were her favorite flower, and there was an entire meadow of them behind the keep one spring. The taste of honey made her nose stuffy.”
Beast smiles, a heartbreakingly wistful thing. “I remember that,” he says softly.
Of course he knows that. I rack my brain for something to comfort him. “She was strong of spirit and laughed a lot.” At least at first, and that was what caused me to lower my guard and befriend her, in spite of all my vows to never grow close to any of d’Albret’s wives again.
A deep silence grows in the room, fed by our separate memories.
“I came back for her.”
“What?” I ask, certain that I have not heard him correctly.
“I came back for her.” Beast repeats the words casually, as if coming back for her were the most natural thing in the world.
But it is not. For despite all the wives d’Albret has ill used, and all the vassals and innocents he has wronged, no one—no one—has ventured forth to speak for any of them or to claim justice on their behalf.
My world is so completely upturned by this revelation that it takes me a full minute to find my voice. A thousand questions fill my mind, but none of them are anything a daughter of Mortain would be hungry to know. “What happened?” I finally ask, careful to keep my voice neutral and my eyes on the new bandage I am preparing.
“When three of my letters to her went unanswered, I knew something was wrong, so I obtained a leave of absence and came looking for her.
“When I arrived in Tonquédec, I was refused entrance. And when I thought to linger, I was encouraged to be on my way by a party of twelve armed soldiers.” His hand drifts up to the scar that bisects the left side of his face. “They sought to improve my appearance somewhat.”
“But they let you live?”
Beast cuts a scornful glance at me. “There was no letting about it. I fought my way free.”
“Against twelve of d’Albret’s men?”
He shrugs, then winces as his shoulder pains him. “It did not take long for the battle fever to come over me.” He flashes a grin that is two parts death and one part humor. “I killed eight of them, leaving four to limp back and explain the disaster to d’Albret.” Then the grin fades, and the depth of pain and despair I see in his face takes my breath away. “As soon as we’ve secured the duchess’s crown against the French, I will pay another visit to d’Albret and call him to account.”
I decide that it is a very good thing I did not tell him that Alyse died trying to help me.
Chapter Twenty-One
IN THE MORNING, WE MAKE ready to leave. Anton and Jacques are desperate to saddle up the dead Frenchmen’s horses, grab their new weapons, and follow us to Rennes, but we refuse their offer. There are at least twelve more leagues between here and Rennes, all of them crawling with d’Albret’s scouts. We will need the gods’ own luck to get there. Which means it is too dangerous for them to travel with us. “Better to meet us in Rennes in a fortnight,” Beast tells them.
So they content themselves with the plan they cooked up over breakfast. Guion, Anton, and Jacques saddle up the French soldiers’ horses and hoist the dead men across the animals’ backs. They take a tabard Yannic stripped from a d’Albret scout and tie it around one of the dead soldier’s arms. “Maybe that will prod the French to tangle with d’Albret’s men and buy you a little time,” Guion says.
It is a pleasant thought, but in my experience, the gods are not nearly that accommodating.
Then Guion and the two boys lead their grisly retinue south, while Beast, Yannic, and I head north. Our path to Rennes will be like trying to thread a needle, weaving our way through d’Albret’s men to the west, and Châteaubriant to the east with all its ties to the Dinan family and therefore to d’Albret. Not to mention the added spice of French sorties scattered throughout. But we have no choice. We must keep moving, especially if we do not want to risk d’Albret’s stumbling upon this innocent family.