The dinner is as satisfying as any feast I have ever eaten. Not only is the goose cooked perfectly, crisp skin and juicy succulent meat, but there is a thick, hearty stew of mutton, leeks, and cabbage, dark brown bread and new cheese, thin red wine and pear cider, as well as baked apples with cream.
The dinner has the air of a party, with the farmer and his wife—Guion and Bette—full of the good cheer that follows a near miss. Even Yannic smiles and nods happily—although perhaps that is simply because his belly is finally full. The farmer’s sons dither between awed hero worship that they are dining with the Beast of Waroch and clumsy attempts to impress him. Or at the very least, to shame the other.
“Anton squealed when the soldiers first arrived,” Jacques says.
Flushing, Anton elbows him hard in the ribs. “Did not. My voice cracked is all.”
Jacques snickers. “From the force of the squeal.”
“Well, at least I didn’t try to use a ham as a weapon. Besides”—he raises his arm and brandishes his purloined dagger—“next time I will be armed and the French will not get off so easily.”
“I do not know that lying dead amid the cow dung in your barn could be called getting off easily,” I point out. Much to my surprise, everyone laughs.
“True enough,” Guion says, raising his cup. Then he sobers. “What is happening with the French, Sir Waroch? Are we at war with them again?”
“It is not good,” Beast says. “Half the duchess’s council has left her side. Marshal Rieux has joined with Count d’Albret, and they hold Nantes against her.
“The French have been looking for any excuse to invade our kingdom and have crossed our borders to pursue that goal.” He turns to me. “Have they taken any cities other than Ancenis?”
“Not that I’ve heard. Nor has d’Albret given up on his plan to force the duchess to marry him.” I turn back to Bette and Guion. “She only narrowly escaped a trap the baron laid for her, thanks in large part to Sir Waroch. That’s how he came by his injuries.”
The farmer and his wife raise their cups to him, which makes him duck his head in embarrassment.
The farmer’s face creases in worry. “So those are our only choices now? To be ruled by the French or by Count d’Albret?”
Bette shudders. “I’ll take the French, I think,” she says, then drains her cup. Interesting that the dark tales of d’Albret have traveled this far.
“We will know more once we reach Rennes,” I say. “The duchess is there with her advisors and they are no doubt forming a plan even as we speak.”
“And I,” Beast says, “I will be rousing the good people of Brittany to her cause. As soon as I can ride out in earnest,” he adds with a grumble.
Young Anton, his face alight with thoughts of valor, raises his knife. “I will fight for the duchess,” he says.
It is all I can do not to sigh. Beast does not even have to ask—peasants are already promising to follow him.
“It may come to that, lad, and if so, the duchess will be glad of your support. Yours, too,” he tells Jacques.
Both boys turn to look at their mother, who is torn between pride that they are willing to fight and dismay that they are old enough to do so. The farmer takes one look at his wife’s face and says, “Enough of this grim talk, eh? Surely a man such as you has a story to entertain us with?”
We spend the rest of the dinner telling stories. Beast has more than a few lively tales of campaigns and skirmishes that cause Anton’s and Jacques’s eyes to glow with promises of glory. It is easy to see that they imagine themselves in his role.
When all the dishes have been picked clean and everyone is stuffed, it is time for the last round of evening chores before bed. Yannic has fallen asleep at the table, so we simply lay him out on the bench to sleep for the night. The clatter of plates and crockery do not cause him to so much as stir.
I find I am surprisingly reluctant to end this evening. I have eaten finer dinners, supped in far more elegant surroundings, and been entertained by far wittier companions. And yet, there is a simple warmth and joy here that is headier than the strongest wine I have ever drunk. Two years ago I would have mocked their simple life. Now I envy it.
“Here, I’ll take those,” Bette says. “You go tend your man and his injuries.”
I want to protest that he is not my man, but instead I thank her and go fix one last round of poultices while Anton and Jacques help Beast back to his place by the fire.
By the time the poultices are ready, everyone else has gone up the stairs to their beds. One of the boys murmurs some last taunt to his brother, which is followed by an oof after the offended party throws something at him.
“Do that again,” Beast says.
I look up, confused. “What?”
“Smile. I have never seen you smile before.”
“You are daft. Of course I smile.” Uncomfortable under that gaze, I turn and begin removing the bandage from his leg.
“How long were you hidden in d’Albret’s household?”
My heart thuds painfully. Has he figured out who I am? “Why do you wish to know?” I ask, stalling.
He looks away and plucks at the bandage on his arm. “I was wondering if you might have been there when Alyse was still alive.”
And just like that, I am completely undone. His words pierce my heart and erode the last of my defenses against him. I put the poultice on his leg and stare at it as if it is the most fascinating thing in the world.
“You knew of d’Albret’s other wives,” he hurries to point out. “I thought perhaps you knew of Alyse as well.”
Stick as close to truth as possible—that is what we learn at the convent about crafting lies. “Yes,” I say, and hope my reluctance does not come through in my voice. “I knew her, but not well.”
“Tell me of her.” He stares at me intently, as if he would pluck the answers he seeks from my skin.
I look away, my gaze scanning the room, the fire, anything but his ravaged face. What do I tell him of Alyse? That she grew thin with nerves and fright? That the calm, serene woman turned into one who would jump when she was touched and who startled at loud noises? That Julian and Pierre teased her cruelly because of it, making every loud noise they could think of, sneaking up behind her in the dark empty corridors? That she ate little in the last months before her death?
Or do I tell him of the few stolen happy moments she found? Our trip to pick blackberries, their plump sweetness bursting in our mouths so that the juice would trickle down our chins and make us laugh? Or how the minnows nibbled at our toes when we dipped our feet in the brook?