Dark Triumph - LaFevers Robin - Страница 33
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We risk riding into the arms of the French, but at least they will simply kill us and not try to take us back to d’Albret. If the truth be told, I’d rather take my chances with the French.
By the time we stop for the night, Beast is gray with exhaustion and fatigue and hardly able to do more than grunt. As we make camp, it is hard to know which is the greater threat: d’Albret and his be-damned scouts or the blood fever coursing through Beast’s veins. In the end, I decide we must risk a small fire for the poultices, but by the time they are ready, Beast is fast asleep. He does not so much as stir when I place them on his wounds. As I stare down at his still, ugly face, I find myself praying that I will not be left with nothing but his limp, dead body to bring before the duchess.
By some miracle or stubbornness of constitution, Beast is better in the morning. Even so, I insist we travel at an easy pace, well away from the roads. When we stop for a midday break, I almost decide to make camp for the night then and there so Beast can rest, for he is exhausted again, and fresh blood flows from the injury at his thigh. He waves my concerns aside. “It is a good thing, for it will wash the foul humors from the wound.” He insists we keep going, as the farther we get from our pursuers, the better.
Shortly afterward, we draw near the main road to Rennes. Apprehension fills me, for I am certain d’Albret will have it watched, but we must get across. Besides, even d’Albret does not have enough soldiers to man the entire road. Our hope is to find an unguarded section.
We lurk awhile, watching the travelers from our hiding spot in the trees. A farmer carrying hens by a pole across his shoulders goes by, followed by a tinker who clanks and clatters along. Neither of them tarry or linger or appear to be dawdling, so I doubt they are spies. A short while later, a sweat-stained courier races by on a lathered horse, and we can only wonder what news he carries, and to whom.
Since he is not followed—or accosted—we deem it safe to cross. We put our heels to our horses and hurry to the other side before anyone else comes along. Beast catches my eye and flashes me a grin, the first I have seen today, then leads us into the brush and spindly trees on the east side of the road, where we turn north.
I glance over to see how he is faring only to find him watching me. “What?” I ask, uneasy under the weight of that gaze—the man has a way of looking at me as if he can see beneath all the layers of my deception. It is most unsettling.
“One of the soldiers recognized you,” he says.
Merde! With all that was going on, how could he have heard that? “Of course he recognized me,” I scoff, as if he has hay for brains. “I have been in d’Albret’s household for some time. How else do you think I was in a position to rescue you?”
Is it just my imagination or does his face clear somewhat? He frowns as if trying to work out some puzzle. “How did the convent secure you a position in d’Albret’s entourage? By all accounts, he is more suspecting and distrustful than most.”
“The abbess has many political connections among the noble families of Brittany.” I use my most haughty voice in the hopes that it will deter further questions.
It does not look as if it will, for Beast opens his mouth once more, then—praise Mortain!—pauses and cocks his head to the side, an alert look on his face.
“Now what?” I ask.
Beast holds his hand up for us to halt. As I rein in my mount, I hear it: it is not the sound of fighting, exactly, but shouting and men’s voices. “Oh, no,” I whisper at him. “We are not playing at rescue again. You barely have enough strength today to stay in the saddle.”
Ignoring me, he gives some silent command to his horse, who moves forward, winding along a path among the trees and drawing closer to the sounds. Hoping to forestall him, I follow, while Yannic hangs back with the pack animals.
There are five men with horses stopped in front of a farmhouse. Two sit upon their destriers with great, white fluffy bundles in front of them. It takes me a moment to recognize the bundles as sheep. Two of the others are trying frantically to corner a goose, which is doing its best to evade them, honking in irritation all the while. It would be almost comical except for the farmer and his wife standing in the yard held at spear point by the fifth man.
“French,” Beast spits out.
“They do not appear to be harming the farmer or his wife.”
“No, just raiding their food stores to feed their own troops.” He turns to me and smiles. “We will stop them.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “No, we won’t. We cannot pick a fight with every soldier we see between Nantes and Rennes!”
“We cannot just leave these poor people to be bullied by our enemies. Besides”—he shoots his maniacal grin my way—“that will be five French soldiers I will not have to kill later.”
“We cannot risk something happening to you over foodstuffs,” I hiss back.
At an impasse, we stare at each other. Then his horse lifts its leg and steps forward, breaking a small branch under its hoof. A loud crack echoes through the air, and the shouting stops. “Who’s there?” a voice calls out.
I glare at Beast. “You did that on purpose.”
He scowls in mock annoyance. “It was the horse. But now that our presence is known, we have no choice.” He removes the crossbow from its hook on the saddle and pulls three quarrels from the quiver.
I resign myself to our fate and decide to get it over with as quickly as possible. “I must get closer. When I am in place, I will hoot like an owl.”
Now it is Beast’s turn to frown. “I am not sure that is safe.”
I roll my eyes as I dismount. “You are not my nursemaid. Remember, I am rescuing you.” I loop the reins around a nearby branch and begin to move quietly through the trees toward the house.
The leader is ordering one of the goose-chasing men to go in search of the noise they just heard. The woman is wringing her hands and crying about her new down pillow, but I block all of that out as I pick my spot next to a tree that is partially covered by a thick shrub. I pull out my knives and take careful aim at the soldier closest to the farmer and the one most likely to harm him. As I hoot like an owl, I send the first knife flying.
With knives, the two best choices for a kill shot at this distance are the throat or the eye. My aim is perfect and the knife catches him in the throat. The farmwife is made of sturdier stuff than the miller’s daughter, for she does not scream, simply jumps out of the way of the splatter of blood.
My second knife and Beast’s three crossbow bolts make quick work of the rest of them. When they are all dead, the three of us emerge from the trees. The farmer and his wife approach us, their greeting effusive. “Praise be to Matrona! She has sent you to deliver us from certain disaster.”
“Well, you were not in mortal danger,” I point out.
The farmwife bristles at this. “Not in mortal danger? What is starving to death, then, if not mortal danger?”
The farmer glances uneasily at the road. “Do you think more of them are coming?”
Beast follows his gaze. “Not immediately, no. But we’d best get the horses and bodies out of sight.”
“You will do no such thing.” I angle my horse to block his. When he starts to argue, I urge my horse closer and lower my voice. “If you do not have a care for yourself, then at least give a thought to what the duchess and my abbess will do to me if I arrive with nothing but your lifeless body.”
An odd, pained expression crosses his face and I think that at last he understands my peril, if not his. “Besides, it will take all of us working together to get you off that horse and laid down somewhere where I can tend your wounds.”
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