Captain Dunois has amassed a small mountain of gear from the mercenaries—hauberks, helmets, gloves, and the like, although in truth, there is not much difference between them and what the hellequin already wear.
It is I who have the most dressing up to do. They have refitted a special saddle for me, one that allows me to sit a little higher on the horse, giving me some much needed height. I am wearing two padded hauberks, which give my shoulders and chest some additional girth and have the added advantage of hiding my br**sts. Over that I wear a boiled-leather jerkin, vambraces, and riding leathers. I do not understand how any soldier is able to move once he has been suited up.
When it is time for me to don my helmet, my accursed hair will not cooperate. “Perhaps a linen cap would hold it in place,” Sybella suggests.
“No. Just cut it off,” I tell her.
She pauses a beat, and I turn to look at her. “It will grow back. And it is not worth risking it coming undone at the wrong moment, for how would I explain myself then?”
“True enough,” she murmurs, then lifts her knife to my hair and chops it off.
As I try my helmet once more, there is a faint susurration of sound behind me. When I turn around, I see that the hellequin are pressing upon Sybella, requesting a lock of my hair to carry with them. For some reason, a lump forms in my throat; I do not understand why the hellequin would want such a thing, so I pretend I do not see and busy myself with the last step, smearing my face with charcoal dust to disguise the smoothness of my skin and my cleanliness. Then I take a few minutes to wave my arms back and forth and pretend to draw a bow, trying to adjust to the feel of the hauberks.
Finally, we are ready and mounted on our horses. “The French checkpoint at the main gate is expecting you,” Captain Dunois informs us. “The terms have been set. You will be leaving with a group of nearly four hundred mercenaries, so your presence should not draw any undue attention.”
“Will not the other mercenaries realize they have never seen us before?” Miserere asks.
Captain Dunois shakes his head. “There have been thousands of them in the city and there is no way any one man or contingent has met all of them.”
Though Duval wanted to be here, there was no reason for someone in his position to involve himself with the mercenaries’ departure, so he remains stuck in the palace. Ismae is attending the duchess. It was she who cut the duchess’s hand and squeezed her blood onto the tip of the arrow, then bound the cut with a healing balm and bandaged it. She refused to say goodbye to me in the determined belief that I would be coming back.
In addition to Sybella, Beast is here, appearing right at home among the hellequin. Indeed, he looks as if he would seize a horse and ride with us if not for the death grip Sybella has on his arm. “Be safe,” she tells me. “And may all the Nine bless your journey.”
We begin moving to the main gate. In the northern part of town, far from our small group, fifteen hundred Breton forces wait, dressed for battle, chargers at the ready. If we fail, they will ride out to disable the cannon and destroy the siege towers before they can be used against us. It too will be a one-way mission. As they are not hellequin who welcome death, I pray they will not be needed.
Our plan is known to only a select few, so as we pass soldiers and men-at-arms in the city, they jeer at us and throw rotten food and rocks, thinking we are mercenaries leaving them to their fate. At least until Sauvage nearly rides a group of them down so that they must leap out of the way, after which they restrict their displeasure to slurs and taunts.
I ride in the center group, just behind Miserere, with Malestroit behind me. Balthazaar is in the lead. I am the weakest link in this chain we have constructed, for I am smaller than nearly all the others, except for Begard. With my padding and saddle platform, I am about the same size as he. Luckily, Captain Dunois has assured us that not all mercenaries are as enormous as the hellequin, so once we join the main group, we should be even less noticeable.
The throng of defecting mercenaries waits just inside the city gates. They believe the duchess and her councilors have no knowledge of their defections, and so they simply threaten the sentries with their lives. The sentries have been instructed not to resist or attempt to engage, so they give them no argument.
I am tense as we ride out under the stone arch, terrified that somehow someone has leaked word to the French of our plan and they are looking for us among the others. But the few French soldiers and officials who wait just outside the gate simply motion for us to pass on through. They are alert and on edge at first, and have a division of archers with bows drawn in case we are some warring sortie in disguise. But as the last of us rides out and no one charges, they lower their guard.
“Where do we get our gold?” one of the men shouts out.
The French captain does not try hard to hide his disdain. “Over there.” He points toward the camp. “At the quartermaster’s tent.” Balthazaar and I exchange glances, pleased at this development, for it brings us even closer to our target without drawing any attention to ourselves.
As we wend our way through the camp, we can feel the French soldiers’ regard upon us. Some stare in open disgust, others with mere curiosity. Mercenaries are not well loved by soldiers who fight for their liege.
As the minutes crawl by, we mill about with the others, waiting for our back pay. Each captain must dismount and sign for the purse, which he is then responsible for disbursing to his men. When it is Balthazaar’s turn, I do not think I am the only one holding my breath. He still does not look wholly human to me, especially in the harsh, unforgiving light of day. But the soldiers do not notice. Or do not appear to. They all watch him warily—in truth, he looks far more dangerous than any of the others who have collected their purses. Once he has signed, he takes the purse, bounces it in his hand as if weighing the contents, then gives a grunt of approval. The quartermaster turns his attention to the next mercenary, but I do not breathe easy until Balthazaar is back on his horse.
One of the hellequin, one of the ones I do not know well but recognize from my time with them, pounds his chest. “I am hungry! With nothing to eat but rats for the past week, I have a serious appetite.”
I wince, fearing he may be overplaying this, for we in the city have not come to the eating of rats. Yet.
But someone points him toward the center of the camp and the supply wagons where, he tells him, there is food for sale. He winks. “And a woman?” The soldier grins and nods—that common need forging a link between them when their loyalties could not.