The man’s eyes linger on the charbonnerie until Beast grabs him by the scruff of the neck and shakes him. “My apologies. Sir Gaultier is hot-tempered, and Sir de Brosse has a weakness for women. It will not happen again. Not if they wish to remain in my command.”
Once Beast has escorted his errant soldiers away, there is an awkward silence. “Go on,” Erwan shouts to the onlookers. “You all have work to do. Get to it.”
I retreat to one of the trees and sit down at the base of its trunk to think, still unable to decide what I should do: stay, or return to Rennes and make my way to d’Albret.
I cannot help worrying that I have not earned this boon. But I am only human and not sure I can turn away from such a gift. Besides, if it were my destiny to bring down d’Albret, would I not have already done so in those long months in his household? Why should now be any different?
I long ago ceased believing that prayers did any good, but now it feels as if they have been answered. As if the hand of Mortain Himself has reached into my life, plucked me from my nightmares, and placed me where I most wish to be: at Beast’s side.
I decide to accept this gift the gods have offered me.
In the distance, a wolf howls. Let it come, I think. Beast will most likely simply howl back, and the creature will either turn tail and run or fall into line behind him, like the rest of us have.
Chapter Thirty-Six
THE RISING SUN HAS NOT yet shown its face when we get on the road, but at least it is no longer full dark. Even so, we walk the horses until the sun breaks over the horizon, then Beast gives the command to gallop, the urgency of our mission pressing at our backs.
Beast himself rides up and down the line, being sure to greet each man warmly or share some private joke with him. As he does, the men sit up straighter or square their shoulders, their hearts feeding on that encouragement as much as their bodies feed upon bread.
I think of my father, my brothers, and how they command men. They use fear and cruelty to whip them forward and bend them to their will. But Beast leads not only by example but by making the men hungry to see themselves as Beast sees them.
Just as I am hungry to believe I am the person he sees when he looks at me.
I am terrified of whatever is springing up between us.
Of just how badly I want it.
My own feelings for him began well before we reached Rennes, when he first told me he went back for his sister. But my belief that he wouldn’t—couldn’t—care for me in return created a moat of safety around my heart, and I had nothing to fear because the entire situation was impossible.
But now—now I look in his eyes and I see that he believes it is possible. Surely that is only because he does not truly know me. There are still things—momentous things—that I have kept from him. And while Beast is strong and his heart generous, I am not certain he is strong enough to love me and all my secrets.
I cannot decide if I should bury the rest of those secrets so deeply that they will never resurface or throw them in his face like a gauntlet. Better he hate me now rather than later when I have grown used to his love.
But haven’t the gods already proved how futile it is for me to try to keep my past hidden? Which leaves me with one clear choice—one that has me wishing I had decided to obey the abbess and make for d’Albret’s camp.
“Why so grim, my lady?”
I glance up, surprised to see Beast riding next to me. How can someone so large move so quietly? I open my mouth to ask him that very question but surprise myself by asking a different one. “Do you know that I have killed more than thirty men?”
His eyebrows shoot up, whether at my confession or the number of kills, I cannot say. “And of those, only sixteen were sanctioned by Mortain.”
When he says nothing, I add somewhat impatiently, “I do not kill simply because Mortain ordains it, but because I enjoy it.”
“So I have seen,” he says. “I, too, take great pleasure in my work.” He looks around us. “Is there someone here you wish to kill?”
Uncertain if he is teasing or serious, I resist the urge to reach across the space between us and punch him. Clearly, to a man who is rumored to have killed hundreds upon hundreds in battle, my puny body count does not hold much sway. Perhaps something that he has had less personal experience with. “I am wicked and carnal and have slept with lots of men. Possibly even dozens.” Although in truth, it is only five.
Beast does not look at me but instead surveys the line of horses and carts stretched out behind us. “You hold yourself too lightly, my lady, for I cannot think of even a single man who deserves such a gift as you claim you have given.”
His words prick at something achingly tender, something I don’t wish to acknowledge, so I snort in derision. “What do you know of such things? I am likely one of the few maids who have not run from your ugly face.”
He turns back to look at me, amusement sparkling in his eyes like sunlight on water. “True enough, my lady.” Then he is gone, riding down the length of our party to make sure there are no stragglers, and I am left with the conviction that an avalanche would be easier to dissuade than that man.
Toward late afternoon, we reach a small forested area—a secluded place the charbonnerie scouts have picked out for us. The soldiers do not like it and grumble, for it is a dark, primordial tangle of trees and underbrush. Indeed, the trees here are so very large, their roots have burst from the ground and run along the surface, like the ancient bones of the earth itself. Although I cannot say why, I feel at ease in this place, as if the presence of Dea Matrona is strong. No. Not Dea Matrona, but the Dark Mother. For even though I do not worship Her, I can feel Her presence in the rich loam and leaf mold beneath our feet, and in the quiet rotting of the fallen logs. Perhaps that is what makes the soldiers uneasy.
Our party has grown throughout our journey, as if Beast is some mad piper whose tune calls eager young men who wish to fight at his side. In addition to the men-at-arms and original charbonnerie, we have been joined by a dozen more of the charcoal-burners, two blacksmiths, a handful of woodcutters and crofters, and three burly farmers’ sons. One of whom is Jacques, Guion and Bette’s elder son.
Soon, the clearing is full of the bustle and industry of nearly fifty people making camp ready for the coming night. I feel twitchy in my own skin, as if the very sap that runs through the trees is now running through my veins, bringing me alive after a cold, hard winter.