De Brosse’s eyes slide in my direction, and Beast takes a step closer. “That is the Lady Sybella. She serves Mortain, and unless you wish to be gutted like a fish, I suggest you show her—and all the women in this camp—the utmost respect.”

De Brosse grins sheepishly and bows an apology first in my direction, and then toward the charbonnerie women.

“Gaultier!” Beast snaps at the other soldier. “Put your sword away and see to the setting up of the tents.”

The man’s eyes linger on the charbonnerie until Beast grabs him by the scruff of the neck and shakes him. “My apologies. Sir Gaultier is hot-tempered, and Sir de Brosse has a weakness for women. It will not happen again. Not if they wish to remain in my command.”

Once Beast has escorted his errant soldiers away, there is an awkward silence. “Go on,” Erwan shouts to the onlookers. “You all have work to do. Get to it.”

I retreat to one of the trees and sit down at the base of its trunk to think, still unable to decide what I should do: stay, or return to Rennes and make my way to d’Albret.

I cannot help worrying that I have not earned this boon. But I am only human and not sure I can turn away from such a gift. Besides, if it were my destiny to bring down d’Albret, would I not have already done so in those long months in his household? Why should now be any different?

I long ago ceased believing that prayers did any good, but now it feels as if they have been answered. As if the hand of Mortain Himself has reached into my life, plucked me from my nightmares, and placed me where I most wish to be: at Beast’s side.

I decide to accept this gift the gods have offered me.

In the distance, a wolf howls. Let it come, I think. Beast will most likely simply howl back, and the creature will either turn tail and run or fall into line behind him, like the rest of us have.

Chapter Thirty-Six

THE RISING SUN HAS NOT yet shown its face when we get on the road, but at least it is no longer full dark. Even so, we walk the horses until the sun breaks over the horizon, then Beast gives the command to gallop, the urgency of our mission pressing at our backs.

Beast himself rides up and down the line, being sure to greet each man warmly or share some private joke with him. As he does, the men sit up straighter or square their shoulders, their hearts feeding on that encouragement as much as their bodies feed upon bread.

I think of my father, my brothers, and how they command men. They use fear and cruelty to whip them forward and bend them to their will. But Beast leads not only by example but by making the men hungry to see themselves as Beast sees them.

Just as I am hungry to believe I am the person he sees when he looks at me.

I am terrified of whatever is springing up between us.

Of just how badly I want it.

My own feelings for him began well before we reached Rennes, when he first told me he went back for his sister. But my belief that he wouldn’t—couldn’t—care for me in return created a moat of safety around my heart, and I had nothing to fear because the entire situation was impossible.

But now—now I look in his eyes and I see that he believes it is possible. Surely that is only because he does not truly know me. There are still things—momentous things—that I have kept from him. And while Beast is strong and his heart generous, I am not certain he is strong enough to love me and all my secrets.

I cannot decide if I should bury the rest of those secrets so deeply that they will never resurface or throw them in his face like a gauntlet. Better he hate me now rather than later when I have grown used to his love.

But haven’t the gods already proved how futile it is for me to try to keep my past hidden? Which leaves me with one clear choice—one that has me wishing I had decided to obey the abbess and make for d’Albret’s camp.

“Why so grim, my lady?”

I glance up, surprised to see Beast riding next to me. How can someone so large move so quietly? I open my mouth to ask him that very question but surprise myself by asking a different one. “Do you know that I have killed more than thirty men?”

His eyebrows shoot up, whether at my confession or the number of kills, I cannot say. “And of those, only sixteen were sanctioned by Mortain.”

When he says nothing, I add somewhat impatiently, “I do not kill simply because Mortain ordains it, but because I enjoy it.”

“So I have seen,” he says. “I, too, take great pleasure in my work.” He looks around us. “Is there someone here you wish to kill?”

Uncertain if he is teasing or serious, I resist the urge to reach across the space between us and punch him. Clearly, to a man who is rumored to have killed hundreds upon hundreds in battle, my puny body count does not hold much sway. Perhaps something that he has had less personal experience with. “I am wicked and carnal and have slept with lots of men. Possibly even dozens.” Although in truth, it is only five.

Beast does not look at me but instead surveys the line of horses and carts stretched out behind us. “You hold yourself too lightly, my lady, for I cannot think of even a single man who deserves such a gift as you claim you have given.”

His words prick at something achingly tender, something I don’t wish to acknowledge, so I snort in derision. “What do you know of such things? I am likely one of the few maids who have not run from your ugly face.”

He turns back to look at me, amusement sparkling in his eyes like sunlight on water. “True enough, my lady.” Then he is gone, riding down the length of our party to make sure there are no stragglers, and I am left with the conviction that an avalanche would be easier to dissuade than that man.

Toward late afternoon, we reach a small forested area—a secluded place the charbonnerie scouts have picked out for us. The soldiers do not like it and grumble, for it is a dark, primordial tangle of trees and underbrush. Indeed, the trees here are so very large, their roots have burst from the ground and run along the surface, like the ancient bones of the earth itself. Although I cannot say why, I feel at ease in this place, as if the presence of Dea Matrona is strong. No. Not Dea Matrona, but the Dark Mother. For even though I do not worship Her, I can feel Her presence in the rich loam and leaf mold beneath our feet, and in the quiet rotting of the fallen logs. Perhaps that is what makes the soldiers uneasy.

Our party has grown throughout our journey, as if Beast is some mad piper whose tune calls eager young men who wish to fight at his side. In addition to the men-at-arms and original charbonnerie, we have been joined by a dozen more of the charcoal-burners, two blacksmiths, a handful of woodcutters and crofters, and three burly farmers’ sons. One of whom is Jacques, Guion and Bette’s elder son.

Soon, the clearing is full of the bustle and industry of nearly fifty people making camp ready for the coming night. I feel twitchy in my own skin, as if the very sap that runs through the trees is now running through my veins, bringing me alive after a cold, hard winter.

Wishing for something to do, I offer to help Malina prepare dinner, but she shoos me away. “You are a lady, and an assassin besides. You do not belong with the soup pot.”

I turn and survey the camp. Some of the charbonnerie are busily erecting rough tents in the clearing; others are collecting water from a nearby stream so that the tired horses may drink. The soldiers have gone off hunting for our dinner, and even the greenlings have been sent to gather firewood. Since I refuse to sit idly by while others do the work, I snag one of the slings for gathering wood and head into the trees.

Moving among the trees calms me. In that quiet and stillness, I find myself content, a feeling I barely recognize. I like this life—the days full of hard riding and the evenings filled with chores and necessities, with little time left for idle pleasures or twisted games.

Mayhap I can simply ride at Beast’s side as he travels throughout the kingdom raising an army to the duchess’s cause. That thought has me smiling, for it is a fanciful notion that I would not dare indulge in were I not out here alone with no one to see it.

But am I alone? Voices and some strange cracking noises reach my ears. I move forward cautiously, careful not to step on any dried leaves or twigs that might give me away.

I come upon a clearing and find it is only the boys from the camp who have paused in their wood collecting. They have taken two branches and are playing at sword fighting. They are strong boys, but their movements are clumsy and unskilled. The charbonnerie are right to call them greenlings. I start to smile at their antics, but instead a cold chill slithers down my spine. This is no game we play, and I suddenly despair of our chances—not only of success, but of survival.

I step from between the trees. “Fools!” I scold. “You are not beating the straw from mattresses!”

The boys freeze, their faces filled with both embarrassment and defiance. “What do you know of such things?” the woodcutter’s boy asks sullenly. “My lady,” he adds as an afterthought.

“More than you, it would seem. You do not whack each other as if chaffing wheat. There is a rhythm of thrust and parry, attack and counterattack that you must know else you’ll be gutted like pigs.”

Resentment flares in the young woodcutter’s eyes. I have pricked their male pride, and rubbed their noses in their lack of privilege, for of course they have had no opportunity to even witness sword fights, let alone practice at them. “There is not time in the three days before we reach Morlaix to teach you the art of sword fighting. That takes years. Add to that that there are no extra swords to be had, and you are wasting your time.”

“What would you have us do? Collect wood?” One of the blacksmith’s boys kicks at a branch at his feet in disgust.

“No,” I say, stepping closer. “I would have you learn a few quick, deadly ways to kill a man so that you can be of service to the duchess in this mission.”

The greenlings’ faces are mixtures of suspicion and hope. “And who will take the time to teach us these skills? My lady.”

I smile. “I will.” I reach for my wrists and pull my knives from their sheaths. The boys’ interest quickens, except for the blacksmith’s son, who is still skeptical.

“What can we learn of fighting from a maid?” he asks the others, and looks of doubt appear on their faces. Two of them actually snicker. I want to take their fat heads in my hands and knock them together like empty jugs.

Jacques speaks up. “That is no mere maid, you fool. Did you not hear the commander yesterday? She serves Mortain.” He lowers his voice. “She is an assassin.”

The blacksmith boy blinks. “Is this true?”

In answer, I take one of the knives and throw it. He has time only to gape in surprise before his cloak is firmly pinned to the tree behind him, right above his shoulder. “It is true,” I tell him.

Without further discussion, I turn to Jacques. “You will partner with me. The rest of you, pair up according to your size.” With a sheepish glance at the others, Jacques shuffles across the forest floor to stand in front of me, hands hanging limply at his sides.

I remove the two knives I carry in my boots and hand them to two other boys. “Just like an assassin, your greatest strength will be your stealth and cunning. And speed. You will need to get in quickly, strike, then move away before anyone has even realized you are there. That means in addition to what I teach you here tonight, you must begin to learn to move quietly. Right now, you sound like a herd of oxen galumphing through the forest. Pretend you are sneaking up on somebody if you must, but learn to move without making noise.”

“There is no honor in that,” one of the woodcutters snorts.

Quicker than he can blink, I step inside his guard, whip his belt from his waist, and twist it around his throat, just tight enough to get his attention. “There is no honor in throwing your life away either. Not when the duchess needs every man in her kingdom if we are to win the coming war.”

The boy swallows audibly, then nods in understanding. I step away and hand him back his belt. “Besides, if what you say is true, then those who serve Mortain have no honor, and I am certain that is not an accusation you care to make.”

They quickly shake their heads. “Now, the quickest and quietest way to kill a man is by slitting his throat, just here.” I run my finger across my own. “This is not only an excellent killing blow but also a way to silence him so he cannot call out and alert others.” I step into the lessons I was taught at the convent as easily as I step into a new gown. “Here. Put your fingers at your own throat. Feel the hollow at the base of it. The spot you want to strike is three fingers up from that.” I watch as they all grope at their own throats. “Good. Now I will show you the striking motion from behind.”

“On me?” Jacques asks, his voice cracking.

“Yes,” I say, hiding a smile. “But I will use the knife handle, not the blade.”

I spend the next hour teaching the greenlings some of my most basic and crudest skills. How to slit a throat; where to strike from behind so that a single blow will kill a man; where best to place your body when garroting someone so his thrashing will not dislodge your hold. We do not spend nearly as long as I’d like, but our wood is needed to feed the fires if we are to eat. They are all still awkward and clumsy with the movements, but now they have some small skills they can use.

That night, when we finally sit down to eat, I feel as if I have earned my supper.

When the meal is done and the fire burning low, I go in search of my bedroll. Someone—Yannic, I presume—has laid it out carefully between two of the great tree roots so that I am cradled between them. Near stumbling with exhaustion, I reach down to lift the blanket, then blink in surprise at the small clutch of pink flowers that have been laid on my pillow.