Chapter Twenty-Two

BEAST RAISES HIS DROOPING SWORD, but a curt command from the man with the leather nose stays his hand. He tilts his head up to the branches above us. I follow his gaze and see a dozen archers hidden there, arrows trained upon us. We all eye one another warily.

The leather-nosed man steps forward. He is small and wiry and wears a dark tunic and a leather jerkin over patched breeches. As he moves out of the shadows, I see that he is not as dark-skinned as I had first thought—he is coated with grime. No, not grime. Dust. Or ash, mayhap. As he draws closer still, I see a single acorn hanging from a leather cord around his neck, and then I know. These are the mysterious charbonnerie, the charcoal-burners who live deep in the forests and are rumored to serve the Dark Mother.

With no more noise than a breeze rustling through the leaves, the rest of the charbonnerie emerge from their hiding places. There are twenty of them, counting the archers in the trees. I glance over at Beast. We cannot fight our way out of this one.

With an effort, Beast straightens in his saddle. “We mean you no harm. By right of Saint Cissonius and the grace of Dea Matrona, we wish only to pass the night in the forest.” It is a bold gambit, and a smart one, for while the Dark Matrona is not accepted by the Church, the Nine are her brethren gods, and invoking their blessing cannot hurt.

One of them, a thin fellow with a chin and nose as sharp as blades, spits into the leaves. “Why do you not spend the night at an inn, like most city dwellers?”

“Because there are those who wish us ill, as you just saw.” As Beast speaks, another of the charcoal-burners—a young, gangly fellow who is all elbows and knees—sidles up next to the leader and whispers something in his ear. The leader nods, his gaze sharpening. “Who are you?”

“I am Benebic of Waroch.”

The man who had murmured in the leader’s ear nods in satisfaction, and whispers of the Beast go up around the charcoal-burners. Beast’s exploits have made him famous even among the outcasts.

“And who is it the mighty Beast wishes to avoid?”

“The French,” Beast says. “And those who would support them. At least until I can heal and meet them in a fair fight.”

I hold my breath. The charcoal-burners hate the French as much as most Bretons do, and I can only hope that having a common enemy will give us common cause. One of the older men, the one with a wooden arm, nudges a body with his foot. “These men aren’t French.”

“No, they’re not. But they are traitors to the duchess and wished to detain us.” Then Beast grins one of his savaage grins. “There is plenty of room for you in the war against the French, if you so desire. I would be honored to have such skilled fighters on my side.”

There is a long pause, which makes me think the charbonnerie receive few such invitations.

“What is in it for us?” the sharp-faced man asks, but the leader motions for him to be silent.

Beast smiles. “The pleasure of beating the French.” To him, any fight is its own excuse.

The leader reaches up and scratches his leather nose, suggesting it is a recent replacement. “You can spend the night in the forest, but under our watch. Come. Follow us.” He motions to the others, and a half a dozen of them fall in around us.

They are eerily silent as they guide us deeper into the forest, and our horses’ hooves are muffled by the thick layer of decaying leaves on the ground. The gangly youth cannot keep his eyes off me, and when I catch him staring, he blushes to the roots of his hair.

The trees here are ancient, tall and thick and gnarled like old men bent with age. Even though there are hours of daylight left, little sun gets through the thick tangle of foliage overhead.

At last we reach a large clearing ringed by a half a dozen mounds of earth, each one as big as a small house. Smoke burbles from holes in the mounds, which are tended by nearby men. Interspersed among the mounds are small tents made of stripped branches and stretched hides. Cooking fires are watched over by drably dressed women, while dark, gritty children play close by. When we enter the clearing, everyone stops what they are doing and turns to look at us. The youngest child—a girl—sidles up to her mother and slips her fingers into her mouth.

The leader—Erwan is his name—grunts and points to a section of the clearing far away from the earthen mounds. “Make your camp there.”

All of them watch as Yannic and I dismount, secure our horses, then turn to help Beast off of his.

His breath comes in quick, shallow gasps. “Did you take a new injury?” I ask quietly.

“No.” His grunt is followed by a short bellow of pain. By the time we have him off his horse, the entire camp knows of his condition. Yannic and I are able to steer him but a few feet before he comes to a complete stop. “I think this is a good place to make camp,” he says, then grabs for a nearby tree so he will not crash to the ground.

“Not sure that one is going to live through the night,” the wooden-armed man mumbles, and I glare at him.

The gangly fellow catches my eyes. “Oh, don’t mind Graelon, miss. That’s just his way.” He glances mischievously at the old man, then leans in closer to me. “He was like that before the fire got his arm.” The youth’s charm is infectious.

“I’m Winnog, my lady. At your service.”

“As if she’d have you,” someone mutters.

Ignoring the mutterer, I give Winnog my brightest smile. “Thank you.” As I turn back to Beast’s side, it is all I can do not to clap my hands at the onlookers and cry, Shoo! But they would no doubt consider that a rude repayment of their hospitality, meager as it is.

I sense a movement behind me and feel the beating of a lone heart. Still untrusting of these charbonnerie, I whirl around, hand going to the knife concealed in my crucifix.

The woman I see pauses and casts her eyes down in a gesture of submission. She is dressed in a dark gown, and, like the rest of the women, her hair is wrapped tightly in a coif of some kind. She carries a small sack. “For his wound,” she says. “It will help.”

After a moment, I take the sack from her and peer inside. “What is it?” I ask.

“Ground oak bark to keep infection from setting in. And ashes of burned snakeskin to hasten the healing.”

“What is your name?” I ask.

She glances up at me, then down again. “Malina.”

“Thank you,” I say, and mean it. For I am running out of ideas on how to keep Beast’s wounds from overtaking him before we make it to Rennes.

“Do you need help?” she asks shyly.

While I am certain Beast will hate having his weakness seen by others, it seems prudent to accept any help they offer, an attempt to forge some tenuous bond between us. “Yes, thank you. Do you have any hot water?” She nods, then slips away to fetch it. While she is gone, I quickly sniff the oak bark and the ashes, then put a dab to my tongue to be certain it will do no harm.

“It was not in jest that I invited them to fight with us.” Beast’s voice rumbles up at me. “Did you see how ferocious they were? How unexpected their tactics?” He is as excited as a squire with his first sword. “They could prove valuable allies.”

“If they do not stab us in the back,” I mutter. “Are they not known to be clannish and untrustworthy?”

Beast considers a moment. “Clannish, yes, but that is not the same as being unworthy of trust.”

Malina returns just then, bringing a halt to our conversation. She and I tend Beast’s wounds while he lies back and pretends he is dozing, but his jaw clenches as we work on him. By the time we are done, supper is ready, and, much to my surprise, we are invited to partake of it. It seems we are to be treated as guests rather than prisoners, then. Wishing to capitalize on this, I take one of the cheeses and the two roast chickens that Bette gave us to contribute to the meal.