And then Beast’s horse is next to mine. A wild gleam lurks in his eyes and I wonder if he is already drunk on the prospect of battle.
“A kiss for luck, demoiselle?”
I look into his dear, ugly face. He is not coming back. Neither is de Lornay. They will buy the duchess some time, and that is all they can do against the two hundred soldiers riding toward us. If he wants a kiss from me before he goes, I will give it willingly. I nod, and he slips his great tree trunk of an arm around me, pulls me close, and plants his lips on mine. The force of the kiss bends me back over the saddle, his thick arm nearly pulling me from my horse.
It is a magnificent, lusty kiss and I feel nothing but deep regret that it may be his last.
Just before he pulls away, he whispers in my ear. “Duval said to give you that should I get the chance. It is from him.”
He puts his spurs to his horse and rides to the small group of men he must lead to their deaths. De Lornay draws near then. He says nothing but unties one of the two crossbows that hang from his saddle and hands it to me. “This will strike from greater distance than the peashooter you carry.” He winks, then turns and gallops to Beast’s side.
Captain Dunois is already riding away, leaning low in the saddle and protecting the duchess’s body with his own. The two rear guards have taken up position behind him. even as I fall in with them, I cast one last look over my shoulder.
Battle fever burns bright within Beast now. He shouts an order that divides his men into two parties so they can delay both vanguards of the oncoming forces. “On my signal,” he says, but before he can give it, a long blast from a trumpet stops him. My head turns toward the sound.
Soldiers on horseback are riding hell-bent toward us. De Lornay is the first to recognize their colors. “The garrison from Rennes!”
He and Beast exchange an elated grin, then Beast gives the order to charge. Beast looks back and sees me hesitating. “Go!” he roars.
And of course, I must. I cannot waste this chance he has given us. I spur my horse and gallop after the others.
when I gain the copse of trees, I allow myself one backwards glance, just in time to see Beast rise up in his stirrups, battle-ax in one hand, sword in the other. Then d’Albret’s forces are upon him. The sound when they meet is deafening, the clash of weapons, the scream of metal, the terrified whinny of the horses.
I urge my mount forward and continue on, the sounds of their terrible fighting echoing in my ears.
* * *
Not half a league later we reach the main bulk of the forces from Rennes. Dunois barely has time to rein in his horse to avoid plowing into them. Reinforcements flow around us like a river of safety, encircling the fleeing duchess and her meager guard. even if d’Albret’s soldiers were to reach her, they could never fight through the superior number of troops from Rennes. I rub my eyes for a moment, surprised to find that my cheeks are wet. As I quickly dry them on my sleeve, I am shocked to see a familiar figure riding toward us.
“François!” The duchess’s voice is full of joy at the sight of her brother. My own heart lifts too. François has done far more than simply swear fealty to her; he has provided for her in what is surely one of her greatest hours of need.
“It was you who brought these men to our rescue?” she says.
He bows from the saddle. “Only in part. It was Gavriel’s idea to send for them. I was simply the one he dispatched.”
I am not sure I have heard him correctly. “Duval?” I repeat stupidly as the duchess looks at me hopefully.
He bows again. “Duval, my lady.”
“But he was so ill when I . . . when we left. He could not even move from the bed!”
François shrugs. “He was indeed ill-looking, but I can vouch that he was able to move. The night that your party left, he came to my room and gave me urgent instructions to ride for Rennes as if my sister’s life depended on it, for surely it did.”
I can still scarcely credit what he is saying, but the commander from Rennes is already regrouping so that they may ride back to the city and get her behind its walls. everyone agrees that the first priority is to get the duchess to safety.
Before they ride away, the duchess directs Dunois to steer their horses to me. “Go,” she tells me in a fierce, urgent whisper. “Find de Lornay and waroch. If they are wounded, have them brought back as soon as can be arranged.”
I know full well they are all dead by now, bleeding from a hundred different cuts, but I say, “I will do as you command, Your Grace, with all my heart.”
I lean in low over the saddle and urge my horse to go faster. every moment that those I love must suffer, languishing above their wounded, broken bodies, is a sacrilege to me. For I have realized that I love not only Duval, but also Beast and de Lornay, each of them in a different way. I do not think on how I will reach them or how I will dodge any enemy that still lingers on the field. I know only that I will do so with my last breath if necessary.
When I break free of the trees beyond the ridge, I am surprised by the silence. There is no sound of battle, no clashing swords, no screaming horses. It is completely, eerily quiet. I pull back on the reins so the horse will not take the ridge in one bone-jarring leap, and he stumbles to a halt.
D’Albret’s fighting force has already withdrawn back behind the city gates. Once they saw their trap was ruined, they retreated. Only bodies remain on the field. I climb off my horse and tie him to a tree. My hand moves to the misericorde at my waist as I go the rest of the way on foot, gripping Mortain’s own dagger firmly.
I wade among a sea of shattered limbs and bleeding wounds. I try not to let my gaze linger too long, for it hurts. even though half of them have betrayed their country, in death they are naught but dying men, their lives leaching out of them to water the grass. I am surprised to learn that I have not left all of my heart back in Guérande, and I am not strong enough to steel the small remaining piece of it to their plight.
Or their cries. Soft, pitiable cries float over the sea of the fallen. I wrap my cloak around myself, wishing for wax to stop up my ears so I won’t have to hear the quiet, broken noises they make. I scan their faces, bruised and bloodied, grimacing with the rictus of death. As I draw closer to the walls of Nantes, there are a few men that I recognize as our own, and none of those still alive. Until there, finally, a familiar face.
I lift my skirts and run to de Lornay. He lies on the ground, his body scored with cuts. Two arrows stick out from his ribs. I fear he is already dead, until I draw close enough to hear his labored breathing.