I fear the answer lies in my actions. By striking him down, did I rob him of his chance to earn forgiveness?
I shove that disturbing thought from my mind. Mortain is all-knowing. Surely He would have seen the man’s intention and spared him if He thought Runnion worthy.
I am still wrestling with the Runnion matter when Duval steers us across a thick stone bridge. The town is small and crowded, but Duval seems to know where he is going and leads us through the cobbled streets until we reach an inn.
we dismount, and the ostler arrives to take our horses. Duval gives him instructions for their care, then offers me his arm. As I take it, I wonder what folly decreed that women cannot walk unassisted. Inside, the innkeeper rushes forward to greet us, and Duval tells him of our needs for the night. The innkeeper directs someone to take our things to our rooms, then leads us to the inn’s main hall, where dinner is being served.
The hall is a large room, larger even than the refectory back at the convent. In spite of the room’s size, a low ceiling and dark timber beams make it feel small and close. A fire burns in the hearth, and the place smells of smoke, new wine, and roasting meat.
we choose a corner table, as far away from the other diners as we can get. I hurry forward so I can take the seat that affords me the clearest view of the door. Duval’s lips quirk in amusement.
A serving maid sets a flagon of wine and two cups on the table, then withdraws. I do not even let him quench his thirst before I launch my questions at him. “If Runnion was working for the duchess, what was he doing at the tavern?” I know the convent cannot make such a mistake. There is some other element in play here, and I am determined to ferret it out.
Duval lifts his goblet and takes a long drink before answering. “He was bringing me word on whether england would commit troops to aid our fight against the French.”
I feel as if Annith has just landed a kick to my gut. I want to accuse him of lying again, but his eyes are steady, and there are none of the signs of deception that I have been taught to look for. Besides, his answer makes sense. The duchess had been betrothed to england’s crown prince before he disappeared from the tower. “If that is the case, then I cannot believe the abbess knew that he was helping you.”
Duval shrugs. “I would like to believe she had no knowledge of his true purpose. The alternative is most disturbing.”
“Your suspicions are ill founded,” I snap. I take my goblet and drain half of it, as if the wine can wash the foul taste of his mistrust from my mouth.
As I set the goblet down, Duval leans across the table. “Now, I have shown good faith and answered your questions, and I would have you answer one of mine. I want to know more of these marques and how they work.”
“I am sorry, but I cannot share such things with you.”
He leans back and his eyes grow as cold and stark as the winter sky. “That is unfortunate, demoiselle. For until I learn more of how the convent makes its decisions, I will have to regard it — and you — with suspicion.”
I give him a false, brittle smile. “It seems we are both bound by duty.”
The serving maid arrives at that moment, breaking our impasse. She sets down loaves of fresh crusty bread, a roast capon, two bowls of stew, braised turnips and onions, and a wedge of cheese. Famished by the day’s long ride, we dig into our supper.
Once the worst of my hunger pangs have been appeased, I risk another question. “And what of Martel? Do you claim he worked for you too?”
“Could it be you are asking me for more information, demoiselle? when you have refused to give me so much as a morsel in return?”
It sounds unfair when he puts it like that. I soften my voice so he will think I regret this, but of course, I do not. “I will share what I know with you, but I cannot reveal the secrets of our order.”
He looks away, a small muscle in his jaw tightening. He is silent for a long moment, then turns back to me. “Very well. I will tell you of Martel, but only in the interest of showing you why you must stay your hand until you have gathered all the facts.
“Martel did not work for us, no. But I believe he could have been persuaded to tell me who at court was working for the French regent.”
I take a sip of wine to cover my distress. “Feeling a twinge of conscience yet?” Duval asks.
“No,” I lie.
A shadow looms near the door and pulls my attention from Duval. The largest man I have ever seen steps into the room. Half a head taller than Duval, he is travel stained and road weary and looks like an ogre who has strayed out of a hearth tale. His face bears the roughened texture of pox scars; his nose — broken at least twice — is a lumpen knob. His hair is shaved close to his head, and his eyes are creased in a permanent squint.
The man’s iron gaze sweeps across the room and lands on Duval. His eyes narrow, and he strides in our direction. every muscle in my body tenses, and my hand creeps to the dagger at my waist. Duval catches the movement. His eyes widen in surprise, then he glances over his shoulder.
He is up on his feet in an instant, heading toward the stranger at full tilt. They crash into each other with the force of two tree trunks colliding. It takes a moment for me to realize their blows are those of joyful greeting and not attempts to pummel each other into the ground. I let out a slow breath and remove my hand from my knife.
As they finish pounding each other, I notice a small cluster of stable boys and apprentices hovering in the doorway, pointing at the stranger. Duval nods his head in their direction, and the giant man rolls his eyes good-naturedly before turning and greeting them. They smile and talk excitedly among themselves until the innkeeper shoos them back to their duties.
Duval then drags the stranger to our table. The man does not improve upon closer inspection. His light blue eyes are startling in his scarred face and put me in mind of a wolf. In truth, he may be the ugliest man I have ever seen.
“Ismae,” Duval says. “This is Sir Benebic of waroch, otherwise known as the Beast. Beast, this is Demoiselle Rienne.”
My eyes widen in surprise, for even we at the convent have heard the tales of the Beast of waroch, of his ferocity and valor in battle, his extreme disregard for his own life that causes some to think he is mad. “Greetings, my lord.”
The Beast of waroch reaches for my hand and lifts it in a gentle grip, then makes a courtly bow. His pretty manners surprise me, as they do not match his face. when he speaks, his voice is low and rumbles like far-off thunder. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, my lady.”