Sybella cuts him a glance. “Do I really need to answer that question for you?”
“If you would, yes.”
Sybella’s irritation has her leaning forward. “Because he is a man. A commander in his own right, a leader of armies. Whereas the duchess was merely a young girl trying to defend what was hers.”
“More the fool Rohan if he thinks he can control them,” Beast grumbles.
“We already know he is a fool,” Sybella says. “But now we have learned he is a traitor, too.”
“I suspect Rohan is confident he can manage them,” Maraud says. “Especially with d’Albret’s help.”
“But can he?” Beast asks.
“We will find out.”
Silence ensues as we contemplate the horrors of the war that ran for a hundred years between France and England. The people of our country will not survive another such campaign.
“The regent blamed the queen for starting false rumors of this rebellion to serve her own ends,” Sybella says. “But if England is involved, the king will have to believe us now. This is no longer a squabble over a duchy but a foreign invasion.”
“But how do we get the king to see this new truth?” I ask.
“We win,” Beast says, at the same time Maraud says, “We present him with proof.”
“How many men did d’Albret bring with him?” Beast asks Maraud.
“Fifteen hundred mounted knights and another two thousand infantry.”
Beast swears. “With the English, that is nearly eight thousand more men than we planned for.”
“Your defensive positions are the key here,” Maraud points out. “If we can hold them, and depending upon how long Rohan’s coalition will persist.”
“It’s spring. Plenty of time for a long siege.”
“Marshal Rieux still commands all the holdings that you retook in the south,” Maraud says. “And now, with the cannon out of the picture, I imagine Montauban will be able to keep Vannes, as well.”
“Where will these English troops be landing?”
“Morlaix. Providing the weather breaks.”
Aeva steps forward then. “I will get word to the Arduinnites.”
“Thank you,” Beast says. “There are no archers I would rather have at my back.”
Lazare, who has been surprisingly silent, speaks. “I cannot make promises for them, but it is possible the charbonnerie can help, but we will have to put it to a vote.”
“We could certainly use the charbonnerie’s resourcefulness.”
Lazare smiles. “You don’t even know the half of it.”
Some of the sense of doom leaves Beast’s face. “How do we go about getting that permission?”
Sybella glances at Maraud. “It would be wise if you all stayed hidden a while longer. And I think Gen needs another day of rest before she can travel.”
I start to protest, but she silences me with a wave of her hand. “The more thoroughly we stay hidden, the better our chances.”
* * *
We remain in the cave for two nights, Sybella staying by my side to ensure my head injury does not trouble me overmuch. On the second night, Maraud approaches as we are getting ready for sleep. “I will keep watch over her tonight,” he offers.
Sybella arches one graceful brow. “Will you, now? How very thoughtful of you.”
Maraud keeps his face sober, but I can see it is a struggle. “She is much better today. I think the danger has passed.”
Sybella looks down at me, her mouth twisting in amusement. “I think you are correct. And thank you, I will take you up on your offer.” With one last smirk at me, she drifts away in the direction of Beast’s voice.
Maraud stretches out on the floor next to me, propping himself on his elbow. “You will never know how glad I was when I saw you yesterday.”
“Oh, I’ve a fair idea.”
“Standing there,” he continues, “in the midst of battle, calling out warnings left and right with no heed to your own safety.” He takes my hand in his.
“I’d put my cloak up!”
“Yes, wool has always been the shield of choice against arrows and swords.” He reaches out and strokes my cheek, touching something deep inside my heart—something I have only recently learned not to be terrified of.
I was given the gift of Maraud too soon. I realize that now. Just like a starving man must begin to eat slowly lest the too-rich food make him ill, so it was with me. It would have been too easy to sicken myself with the richness of what he offered.
But that hole in my heart has been filled—by Sybella, the queen, by Beast and Lazare and Poulet. Even Valine has had a hand in making my heart feel whole again. Every time one of them accepts me for who I am, with no scorn or contempt or hidden manipulation, that wound heals even more. I am no longer starving. Well, mayhap in a different way, I think as Maraud lowers his head and brings his lips to mine.
Chapter 82
Sybella
We set off first thing in the morning, while the mist hovers over the forest floor still damp from last week’s rain. The Arduinnites recovered enough of our horses after the battle that we do not have to walk. They even managed to recapture Beast’s vile mount—who tosses his head, then tries to bite Beast’s fingers. Beast merely chuckles, and soon the creature is pliant, if not tame.
The farther north we ride, the deeper we venture into the forest, the trees doubling in size, their thick roots reaching deep underground, their broad canopy filtering out much of the light. It feels as if a cloak of safety has been drawn around us. No one lives this deep in the forest but the charbonnerie and a crofter or two, neither of whom is likely to offer word of our passing to Rohan or d’Albret.
Just thinking of my brother casts a pall over the morning. Pierre is here. In Brittany. He has taken up arms against the crown—even if the crown is too stupid to know it yet—and is marching in our direction. I would not wish his troops on anyone—let alone the country of my birth. The people we worked so hard to spare from the horrors of war with the French.
The French would have been far kinder to them than he will.
As the sun dips lower in the sky, we pass one of the large standing stones jutting out of the earth like the bone of some long-dead giant. “Not too much farther now,” Lazare says.
He turns right at the standing stone, leaving the hint of trail we’d been following and picking his way straight through the trees, which feel as thick and ancient as time itself. The sharp scent of wood sap mingles with the rich smell of the forest floor.
When we reach the clearing, I recognize the dozen mounds of earth, each with piles of wood slowly baking deep within until it is the charcoal the charbonnerie are known for.
There are also nearly two dozen rough tents and cooking fires whose smoke lazily drifts upward toward the trees, where children scamper among the branches like squirrels. Everyone grows still at our approach. It becomes so quiet I would swear I can hear the smoke moving through the leaves.
One of the men tending the nearest smoldering mound steps forward, his gaze skipping over Gen and me, pausing briefly on Beast, then landing solidly on Lazare, who bows from his saddle. “Greetings, Kerrigan. I hope the Dark Mother is being good to you and your families.”
Kerrigan finishes surveying our not insignificant numbers. “She has been, yes.” His tone makes it clear he suspects that is about to change.
“May I speak with you?” Lazare asks.
The man waves his arm—wrapped in thick bandages—in permission. Lazare dismounts, then he and Kerrigan step away, speaking softly. Whatever Lazare is saying, the man looks unconvinced.
“Mayhap we will spend the night under the trees,” Beast murmurs.
“Might be better than this place,” Poulet says, gazing around at the clearing.
“Poulet.” The single word from Beast is enough. Neither Gen nor Maraud look particularly perturbed, but from what Gen’s told me, they’ve had interesting travels of their own.
“
I’ll have to consult with the others,” the older charbonnerie finally says. “This is not a decision for me alone.”
“I know, Kerrigan. That is why I came here first.”
The other man nods. “For tonight, they may spend the night in our forest, under our protection, but I cannot guarantee you any more than that.”
* * *
By the time we have set up our small camps and bedrolls, nearly fifty charbonnerie have drifted out of the woods—far more, I’m guessing, than live in these two dozen tents.
We are invited to dine with them and share our meals—they their acorn mash, bitter but filling, and we our dried meat and hard cheese. As before, I am fascinated by the faces of those around me, their colorless drab clothes and nearly invisible appearance belying a fierce, proud nature. Many of the women’s gazes dart my way, and I wonder what they see.
When the rituals of hospitality have been observed, Kerrigan leans back against his log. “Lazare tells me that you wish our cooperation,” he says to Beast.
Beast cuts a sideways glance at Lazare, for it was Lazare’s idea to seek help from the charbonnerie. “I welcome any and all aid we can get to put down Rohan’s rebellion.”
“You will forgive me if I point out that it hardly matters to us. We already fought this war once. Or Erwan did on our behalf. If I remember correctly, that was to maintain Brittany’s independence, which has been lost to France. For us, the war is already over.”
“While that is true, this is what I would point out. The queen is your ally. Rohan is not. She has done much to raise the status of the charbonnerie, including appointing one to her personal guard. She will continue to defend your rights.”
“If the king will let her,” a voice calls out from the back. I cannot help but wonder if rumors have spread this far or if it is simply the age-old disbelief that a man will honor a woman’s wishes.
“Furthermore,” Beast continues, “war is never good for the people. Not the charbonnerie, not the farmers, nor the merchants, nor the crofters. That is what the duchess was trying to avoid by marrying the French king. They would have looted our holdings, razed our fields, and burned our forests to win what she has brought them by marriage.”
Kerrigan shrugs. “She would have had to marry anyway.”
“And lastly,” Beast leans forward, the light from the fire reflected in his eyes, “Rohan has sought the aid of the English, and knowing the English, they see this as an opportunity not to aid a Breton noble, but to stake a claim to Brittany—perhaps even France. We have seen what the British do to our land when they cannot have it.”
Silence falls over the group as everyone remembers the horrors of the war between France and England that lasted a full hundred years. “And England has even stricter regulations surrounding the collection and use of wildwood, some jurisdictions viewing it akin to poaching.”
Kerrigan slowly lifts his eyes from the fire. “While that is most unwelcome news, how can a handful of men repel such an invasion?”
“We know where they are landing and when. And we are far more than a handful.” Beast goes on to tell him of our activity in the south and the near four thousand loyal troops that have joined in our fight.
Murmurs go up among the men who sit just beyond the light of the fire. Kerrigan thinks another moment. “We must discuss this among ourselves.”
Lazare opens his mouth to speak on our behalf, but Kerrigan waves him still. “I know Erwan trusted this man and the duchess, and was willing to join their cause. But he is the leader in the east, where the charbonnerie have more interaction with other folk than we do. I must weigh the risks to our future alongside the risks we will face in the present if we join you. Besides, you don’t just wish us to help. You wish to share our secrets, which is another thing altogether.”
Lazare lifts his chin. “I believe the woman has a right to those secrets, as she serves the Dark Mother.”
I grow perfectly still, having had no idea Lazare planned to use me as a bargaining piece. By the echoing silence around the fire pit, the charbonnerie are equally surprised.
“Which woman?” Kerrigan asks, but I can already feel over half of the eyes staring at me.
“The Lady Sybella,” Lazare says, pointing at me.
The leader stares at me with flinty eyes. “How do you come to serve the Dark Mother?” he demands.
The silence in the clearing is nearly deafening. Even the small creatures lurking among the trees and bracken have ceased their rustling. “I do not know if I serve the Dark Mother as much as I honor her,” I say, picking my way through my words. “I am a daughter of Death who is learning how to use her skills in a new world where my father is no more. That is all.”
“But they say he’s no longer—”
“They are right. He has given up his godhead and now walks the earth as a mortal. The god of death’s time on earth has come to an end.” Saying those words out loud causes the emptiness inside me to swell. I shrug helplessly. “So who was I to serve? Who was I to pray to? Especially since my gifts from him are dark. That is when I remembered the stories of the Dark Mother, how when one is out of hope, it is she who leads us out of despair. She had done this for me before, and there are times when I feel as if she is doing this for me again.”
“In other words,” one of them says, “you are undergoing your own rebirth.”
The words hang in the space between us, and I wish to snatch them out of the air, but I can’t, for there is truth in them as well.
Lazare leans forward again. “She not only honors the Dark Mother, but serves her as well. I have seen the power she holds, and it is akin to the Dark Mother’s own. I have seen her kill, countless times, but for a daughter of Death, that is nothing. What I have also seen her do is to call death from the body, as if coaxing a fox to eat out of her hand. I have seen her own blood work magic on the souls who linger. I have seen her, time and again, wrest hope from the darkest of hours. I tell you, she is the Dark Mother’s, even if she does not know it yet.”
As he speaks, the black pebble inside my pocket grows hotter and hotter, pressing its heat into my leg so that it runs through my entire body, causing me to tremble. Lazare’s words terrify me, even as they feed something deep inside me that is hungry for such nourishment. I didn’t just lose a father when Mortain passed, but my very identity—if I am not my father’s daughter, who am I? Perhaps the Dark Mother is answering.
* * *
Beast finds me later, leaning against one of the trees, staring out into the dark forest. He silently slips his arm around my waist, pulling me closer, and I allow myself to lean against him instead, soaking up the comfort and solace he offers.
“He is not wrong, you know,” he murmurs. “What is it you have always claimed? That you take Fortune’s wheel and give it a spin to turn disaster into triumph? Is that not the very essence of what the Dark Mother does?”
“Yes, but that is an entirely different thing from being compared to the Dark Mother herself.”
He heaves a great, dramatic sigh. “Not to mention that now I’m going to have to do something truly spectacular to deserve you.”
* * *
When the charcoal burners have finished discussing the matter, they return to the fire pit, this time with an older woman accompanying them. Her gown is the color of leaf mulch, as are her eyes, and while they are old, they are not clouded with age. On the leather cord around her neck hang three acorns. A mark of some high office?
“Let me see the girl,” she says, and the charbonnerie open a path among themselves. Beast gives me a reassuring nudge, and I make my way past all the soot-covered faces and curious gazes to the woman. As I draw closer, I see that Kerrigan holds a giant oak gall in his hands.
“Come here, child,” the woman says, “so I may look at you.”
I angle my face closer to the fire so she can better find whatever it is she is searching for. As she studies me, her gnarled fingers gently trace the bones of my face. “You have lived lo
ng in the darkness,” she murmurs, then presses her parchment-like hand to my brow. “But the fire burns bright.” She nods, then looks at the rest of our party, who sit just inside the light of the flames. “The fire burns bright in the ugly one as well. And in that girl there”—she nods in Gen’s direction—“it has recently begun to burn.” She steps away. “They have the Dark Mother’s blessings upon them. Let us consult Brother Oak.”
Kerrigan sets the oak gall upon a stone near the fire, then removes the ax he wears—like every charcoal burner—at his waist. He holds the blade over the flames and murmurs a prayer, or blessing. When he stops, he lifts the ax up and brings it down, splitting the oak gall open.
At first, I think it is empty of either grub or moth, but then a piece of the darkness itself dislodges and flutters into the air, like black ash from the fire. When Kerrigan looks at me, there is new respect in his eyes. “The Dark Mother has spoken. You will have our full support in all that you ask.”
Chapter 83
The next morning when we resume our travels, our party includes a number of charbonnerie. Now that he’s received permission to help us, Lazare’s plans practically spill out of him. “Fire,” he says. “Fire is the great equalizer, and the best way for a small force to take on a larger one.”
“Yes,” Beast says, “but far better to prevent the forces from landing in the first place and avoid having to fight them at all.”
“So we use the fire against their ships.”
Beast mulls that over as he ducks a low-hanging branch. “There will be a wide expanse of water between us. How exactly do you suggest we do that?”
Lazare’s enthusiasm is undampened. “We take the fire to them.”
Beast fixes his gaze upon the smaller man. “Why are you being so helpful with this? The charbonnerie are not normally this involved.”
Lazare turns his gaze to the trees around us, eyes darting among the shadows for saints know what. “Powder artillery is the way of the future and something the charbonnerie know well. It seems a good time to demonstrate that to the king.”
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