Beast says nothing more until the gargoyle motions to us that our supper is ready. I secure the last bandage and hand Beast the bowl of what appears to be gruel with something unsavory-looking floating in it. “So,” I say, taking my own bowl. “Your man cannot tend wounds, nor even wash your face properly, nor is he a cook. What, precisely, is he to you?” I ask.
Beast ignores me and shovels the gruel in as fast as he can. If his appetite has returned in full, that is a good sign. Or perhaps he is merely afraid that if it grows cool it will be inedible. Certainly that is my fear.
When he is done, he sets the bowl down and turns his steady gaze to me. “Yannic was once my squire. When my sister left for d’Albret’s household, I ordered him to accompany her and send me regular reports on her well-being.”
I gape at him, then turn to stare at Yannic. I am certain I never saw him in our household, although that would not be so unusual. My father has hundreds of servants and thousands of vassals, many of whom I have never met. “Could he speak then?” I am afraid I already know the answer.
“Aye,” Beast says grimly. “And write, too.”
I glance down at Yannic’s right hand to see that the top half of each of his three middle fingers has been removed so he cannot hold a quill. Unwilling to look either of them in the eye, I pretend I am busy fishing for a piece of sausage in my bowl.
Did d’Albret remember this connection between his prisoner and his sixth wife’s attendant and use it as one rubs salt into a wound? Or was Yannic the only one available who lacked the power of speech and so made an ideal jailor? One could never be certain with d’Albret. “Does that mean Yannic would not mind if we asked him to pile the dead soldiers into the cart and set fire to them? It would be better to leave no signs of our stay.”
The two men exchange a dark look, then Beast answers. “No, he would not mind a bit.”
“Good, because we should not waste an opportunity to lead our pursuers well away from us. The smoke from such a large fire should get their attention, and the dead bodies will make them question just how many are in our party. If Yannic can drive the cart a mile or two east of here, the fire will also lead them in the wrong direction.”
Beast grins. “If you ever tire of being Mortain’s handmaiden, I am certain Saint Camulos would be more than happy to accept your service.”
I roll my eyes at the mere idea of such a thing, but his words please me, all the same.
Chapter Eighteen
WE TRY TO GET AN early start the next day, but between the little gnome of a jailor, the wounded giant, and—what role do I assign myself? The charioteer?—we are like a mummers’ farce. At last we get the horses ready and the gear packed and—most difficult of all—the lumbering, crippled Beast onto his saddle. I am exhausted before we even leave the yard, but when we finally do, I breathe a sigh of relief.
In spite of what Beast claims, he is far from well enough to travel. We should stay at the hunting lodge another day or two to allow him more time to recover, but we dare not. While the lodge is well off the main road and not widely known, I have no doubt more of d’Albret’s men will find it soon enough. Luckily, I do not think it will be the first place they look, for they will assume we want to put more distance between ourselves and our pursuers. And they are right. The back of my neck tingles with foreboding.
Brisk winds have blown the rain clouds away, and the sky above is clear and blue. All that clear sky makes a perfect backdrop for the thin trickle of smoke that rises from the smoldering remains of the night-soil cart and its inhabitants nearly a mile away.
Please Mortain, let it buy us some time.
But in case it does not, we are each armed with weapons scavenged from d’Albret’s men. With Yannic’s help, Beast has altered a scabbard so he may wear the sword on his back within easy reach. I, too, have a sword, but it is strapped to my saddle next to the crossbow that hangs there. Beast has also purloined the woodcutter’s ax from its place near the lodge’s woodpile. It hangs from the left side of his saddle near his injured arm. Although how he expects to wield it, I do not know.
We ride out in silence. Beast is wisely conserving his energy, and I have far too much to think about to waste time in idle conversation. If all goes well, we should be there in four days. If the fever does not consume Beast’s weakened body, and if he can stay in the saddle, and if d’Albret’s riders do not find us.
My mind keeps running over what I know of the countryside, trying to think of the best route for us to take. The area around the hunting lodge is sparse woodland, which serves us well enough, but eventually we will come to fields or a road or, worst of all, a town. How many men will d’Albret have sent out, and where will they focus their search?
And how long can Beast stay in the saddle? Already his head nods and he looks to be dozing. Or perhaps he has fainted again. I nudge my horse over to him to check, surprised when his head snaps up, his eyes focused on the trees in front of us. “Do you hear that?”
I tilt my head. “What?”
We continue forward, but more slowly. “That,” he says, his head cocked to the side. “Raised voices.”
I stare at him in disbelief, for my own hearing is as sharp as anyone’s and I have not heard a peep. “Mayhap it is simply ringing in your ears from your injuries.”
He gives a sharp shake of his head and urges his horse forward.
“Wait!” I make a grab for his reins but miss. “In order to avoid trouble,” I remind him, “we move away from the noise, not toward it.”
His head swings around and he pins me with the full force of his intense gaze. “What if those are more of d’Albret’s men? Will we have some innocent pay for our freedom?”
“Of course not,” I snap. “But I am not used to this idea that your god allows you to kill at your own whim.”
Beast’s eyes narrow in that way he has that sees past my skin into my very bones. “My god allows me to save the innocent,” he says. “Does yours not?”
I am ashamed to admit that my god does not allow any such thing. “There are no innocents where Death is concerned,” I tell him, then move into the lead. We continue our approach, easing our horses forward until we have a clear view of where the noise came from. It is a mill house, its wheel turning briskly in a stream made fat by the recent rains. It is as peaceful-looking as a painting. “See? It was nothing. We can continue on our way with no one the wiser.”