But only one window will be open. All the others blocked or filled with churning smoke so the French will have no choice but to hurl themselves out the one escape route, a long drop to the hard ground below, outside the protection of the city walls.
I draw near the abbey. The abbess of Saint Mer had promised there would be a window left open for us, and there is. I quickly crawl through it and find no one about, so I hurry through the empty corridors to the city beyond.
Outside, the streets seems almost deserted, with only a few pockets of fighting here and there. I stop long enough to pick up a handful of bolts from a fallen soldier. Feeling better thus armed, I continue on my way.
As I draw near the soldiers’ garrison, I hear the sounds of fighting. Hugging the wall, I creep forward. At first, I see no one, but as my eyes adjust to the darkened street, I see a knot of charbonnerie pinned behind an overturned wagon by three French archers.
Luckily, I have five bolts. But I will need to be quick and well hidden. I slip silently from the wall to kneel behind a water pump near the barracks building. I stick two bolts in my mouth, then load a third, take aim, and shoot. The man gives a surprised cry as he is struck. His two companions look around, but they were so focused on the charbonnerie they did not see where the arrow came from. I quickly load the second bolt and fire it off.
The second archer is down, but before I can load the third bolt, the last remaining archer turns and fires in my direction. I hear a clang as the bolt strikes the metal handle of the pump. Now—while he is reloading—I take my shot.
It catches him in the temple. I wait for a second to be certain there are no more archers, then give an all-clear wave to the charbonnerie.
The closer I draw to the quay, the louder the sound of fighting becomes. The French must have realized that the purpose of our attack was to allow the British through, and they have chosen to make a last stand by the dock.
I have only two quarrels left but take comfort in the weight of the knives.
When I reach the end of the street, I must step over three fallen bodies. Indeed, I follow a trail of fallen French soldiers the rest of the way to the dock. I emerge from the alley and pause midstep. Beast stands alone, hacking and swinging at nearly a dozen men. His bravery—or stupidity—is breathtaking. He has no regard for his own safety as he cuts through his enemies. Indeed, that may be what gives him such advantage over the others, for none would guess the risks he is willing to take with his own life.
Shaking my head in reluctant admiration, I load the last of my bolts and let them fly, taking down two of his opponents.
Beast does not so much as check his stride. I pull one of the knives from my ankle and send it whipping through the night to land in the neck of one of the French soldiers. He stumbles, giving Beast just the opening he needs to finish the man off.
In the moment that follows, I see a flurry of movement out of the corner of my eye. It is the British! The first of the boats has arrived. The pilot has not even secured the rope around the piling before the British soldiers begin spilling onto the dock. After all, they have had two long weeks cooped up aboard their ships to stoke their anger.
As the fresh troops pour into the town, the remaining French soldiers—those who have not already leaped from the city walls—realize they are outnumbered and quickly surrender their arms.
D’Albret will soon have six thousand British troops riding down his back, and he will be caught between them and the soldiers stationed at Rennes. The duchess now has a decent chance at victory.
And we have bought ourselves some time.
Beast finds me back at camp, tending the wounded. He strides out of the night, filthy, bloody, and grinning. Unable to help myself, I smile back, for even though he was not marqued, I have been filled with visions of his death. I draw away from the injured men so our greeting will not disturb them. “You did it,” I tell him, but my words are lost as he wraps his thick arms around me, picks me up, and swings me around. “We,” he corrects me. “We did it. Me, you, the charbonnerie, all of us.”
“Put me down,” I say, biting back my laughter.
He places me on the ground but does not remove his arms. Instead, he leans in and sets his mouth to mine. It is a lusty kiss, full of joy and triumph and victory. But after a moment, triumph gives way to something else. Something wondrous and fragile.
Beast’s hands slide up my waist, firm and solid at my back, a buttress that will not give way, no matter what comes.
One hand continues moving, reaching up to cup my face, and the feel of his rough, callused hands so gentle on my skin makes me want to weep. For all that I have kissed before, I have never felt anything like this. It is as if I have swallowed a tiny piece of the sun, its warmth and light reaching into every corner of my soul and chasing away the shadows.
I surrender to that kiss—surrender to the strength and the courage and the sheer goodness of the man.
A short while later, the rest of the men straggle in. I scan them nervously, looking for the thin, gangly figure of Winnog. Instead, I find Lazare. As our eyes meet, he gives a curt shake of his head. Winnog will not be returning, and Lazare’s face is haunted by the unasked-for responsibility I placed on his shoulders. It was unfair of me, for who are we to stop Death? Even I, one of His handmaidens, could only save one of the three in my group.
In spite of our victory, the camp is in somber spirits that night, for it did not come without a cost. In addition to Winnog and de Brosse, we lost Sir Lorril, six soldiers, and seven charbonnerie. De Brosse and Lorril will be returned to their families’ holdings for burial in their crypts. The six soldiers will be buried first thing in the morning, and now lie, carefully covered, sheltered by the trees.
However, it is Winnog’s death that affects us the most—the awkward, gangly youth was always cheerful, blind to any ill will, and quick to smile. But the charbonnerie do not bury their dead. In keeping with their customs, they make an offering of the bodies to the Dark Mother. They select a clearing far away from the trees, close to an ancient standing stone, and begin building a funeral pyre with as much care and precision as they build their charcoal pits. As if by some silent agreement, one by one the soldiers and men-at-arms rise from their resting places to join the charbonnerie in honoring their dead. Erwan sets the torch to the wood, the fire crackling and hissing as it rushes through the dry kindling and branches.
Within moments, the entire pile is engulfed in flames of red and gold that lick at the bodies of the men. It is an especially hot fire. I do not know if this is some trick of the charbonnerie or simply due to the size of fire a funeral pyre needs. The heat is so intense that we must all step back or risk being roasted ourselves. Thick black smoke churns upward into the night sky, carrying the souls of the charbonnerie to the Dark Mother.