That night, when we finally sit down to eat, I feel as if I have earned my supper.
When the meal is done and the fire burning low, I go in search of my bedroll. Someone—Yannic, I presume—has laid it out carefully between two of the great tree roots so that I am cradled between them. Near stumbling with exhaustion, I reach down to lift the blanket, then blink in surprise at the small clutch of pink flowers that have been laid on my pillow.
It appears that my sins are forgiven. At least, the ones Beast knows about.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
LATER, WHEN EVERYONE HAS RETIRED for the night, a large, hulking shape steps away from the dying fire and moves in my direction. “You look like a babe in a cradle,” Beast says.
I glance to the root on either side of me and decide I like his comparison. “Dea Matrona is holding me close.” I am certain I can feel the roots pulsing as they draw nourishment from the earth.
Being careful of his injured leg, he uses the tree to ease his way down to the ground beside me. “Have you finished confessing all your darkest sins to me?”
I am glad he can accept my earlier confessions with such a light heart, and clearly the gods are handing me this perfect moment for sharing the rest. I am grateful for the darkness that cloaks us, casting everything in shadow, muting life itself somehow. “Sadly, no.” I take a deep breath. “I would warn you that you are courting the very woman responsible for your sister’s death.”
A moment passes, then another, and still he says nothing. I peer through the darkness, trying to see his face, looking for some sign that my confession has addled his wits or left him speechless with revulsion. “Did you not hear me?”
“Yes.” The word comes slowly, as if he must haul it up from some deep well. “But I also know you are quick to paint yourself in the darkest light possible. How old were you?”
“Fourteen,” I whisper.
“Was it your own hand that dealt the killing blow?”
“No.”
Beast nods thoughtfully. “Can you tell me how a lone fourteen-year-old maid could stop one such as d’Albret?”
“I could have told someone,” I say in anguish.
“Who?” Beast says fiercely. “Who could you have told who would have had the means and the power to stay his hand? His soldiers, who were sworn to serve him? His vassals or his retainers, who had sworn similar oaths? No one could cross a dangerous, powerful lord such as d’Albret at the say-so of a mere child.”
“But—”
“All those things you did—or didn’t do—were a matter of survival. Telling anyone would only have exposed you as knowing the full scope of what went on in d’Albret’s household and endangered you even further.”
“It is not just that,” I say. “I was unkind and laughed when my brothers teased Alyse or played cruel jokes on her. I would laugh as loudly as they did.”
Beast’s jaw clenches, and it is clear that I have finally managed to make him see the extent of my cruelty.
“And what would have happened if you hadn’t?”
“Alyse would have had a true friend, someone to stand by her instead of someone who ran at the slightest threat.”
He leans across the distance between us, getting as close to my face as he can. “If you had not laughed at the cruelty, you would have become the next target.” He holds up a hand, stopping my flow of words. “Do not forget, I have seen you dreaming and know how much darkness haunts you. I am also fair certain that very little of it is yours. I say again, all those things you did—or didn’t do—were a matter of survival.”
We stare at each other for a long, hot moment, then my temper flares. “Why do you not have the good sense to see that I am not deserving of such forgiveness?”
He laughs—a harsh, humorless sound. “The god I serve is near as dark as yours, my lady. I am not one to pass judgment on anyone.”
As I stare into his eyes, I see the faint echo of the horrors of the battle lust he has endured, and understanding dawns. He truly knows some of the darkness I struggle with.
We sit in the deepening night for some time. His face is mostly dark angles and planes, with only the faintest glow of the fire reaching this far away. “I would like you to tell me how my sister died,” he says at last.
Even though he has every right to know this, my heart starts to race and it feels as if a great hand has wrapped itself around my chest. But Sweet Mortain, it is the very least of what I owe him. I close my eyes and try to grasp the memory, but it is as if a thick door bars my entrance, and when I struggle to open it, pain shoots through my brow and my heart beats so frantically I fear it will shred itself against my rib cage.
I remember the screaming. And the blood.
And then there is nothing but a black mawing pit that threatens to swallow me whole.
“I cannot,” I whisper.
Something in his face shifts, and his disappointment in me is palpable. “No, no,” I rush to explain. “I am not refusing or playing coy. I truly cannot remember. Not fully. There are just bits and pieces, and when I try too hard to force the memory, only blackness comes.”
“Is there anything you do remember?”
“I remember screaming. And blood. And someone slapping me. That is when I realized the screaming was mine.” The giant hand around my chest squeezes all the air from my lungs. Black spots begin to dance before my eyes. “And that is all.”
He stares at me a long moment and I would give years of my life to be able to see his face clearly, to know what he is thinking. Through the darkness, his big warm hand tenderly takes hold of mine, and I want to weep at the understanding in his touch.
The road to Morlaix takes us uncomfortably close to my family’s home. It sits but a few leagues to the north, and simply knowing how close it is makes my whole body twitch with unease. Beast says nothing, but I see his gaze drift in that direction a time or two and cannot help but wonder what he is feeling. Luckily, it begins to rain, soft fat drops that quickly turn into a torrential downpour, forcing our minds to other things. We cannot afford to stop, however, so we continue on. While no one complains, it is only the charbonnerie who do not seem to mind. By midmorning, the forest floor is muddy, and our progress is reduced to a slow slog. But as long as we can keep moving forward, we do. We must. Even now, d’Albret is likely camped in front of Rennes and giving the signal to his saboteurs. Please Mortain, let us have gotten all of them. And if not, let us hope Duval and Dunois are on their guard.