Maraud looks at me, a single brow raised. “What was that?”
“What?”
“That noise you just made.”
I place my hand on my chest and look offended. “You are mistaken. I made no noise.” I hiccup, for good measure, and the others laugh.
It is surprisingly easy to simply be with these people. It is as natural to me as breathing. Surely that is why I giggled and exchanged a quick smile with Maraud. Before I can make a further fool of myself, Rollo—the round jester who seems to be in charge of the entire operation—appears. “Places, everyone.” He claps his hands and rubs them together. “The fire has been lit, the people gathered. It is almost time to begin.” As he speaks, his face is transformed, and his eyes take on a purposeful gleam. For the first time, I wonder if he is perhaps a true follower of Salonius.
As we prepare for the performance, the jug of wine is passed around again. I take a swig because doing so draws less attention than refusing, then hand it to Maraud. I secure the sword at my hip and lower my helmet, careful to ensure my hair spills out beneath it so the audience will know I am Brigantia taming the wolves of war.
Once Maraud places the snarling wolf’s head over his own, I step closer, holding out the chain. Our eyes meet and something both warm and dark passes between us. Unsettled by the nature of it, I secure the chain around his neck with more force than is strictly necessary, as if binding him will somehow control my own wayward feelings.
We are two people in costume using each other to escape our circumstances. There is nothing more to us than that.
Chapter 60
s I step out into the night, my vision is momentarily dazzled by the huge bonfire and scores of torches. For a moment, I feel I have gone back in time and am reminded of just how old this tradition is.
The mummers have been tasked with telling the stories of the gods since long before there were written words to record such things. They told of their exploits, their victories, and their defeats. When the new Church crowded out the Nine, it fell unto the mummers to keep the memories of the old gods alive in the minds of the people.
A drumbeat sounds, a deep pulsing that feels as if it comes up from the bowels of the earth itself. A trumpet blares, cymbals clash, and a flute begins its haunting melody, and like a single serpent made up of many parts, we all move to take our places.
Perhaps we all move as one because we float on a surfeit of wine, or perhaps it is the gods themselves who command our movements as we honor their existence. Whatever the reason, I feel more my own self than I have in years.
Within moments, the music is pulsing deep within me, the rhythm of the other performers a perfect accent to my own. Step, step, face Maraud. He raises his arms and bares his teeth. I raise my sword. He ducks. I swing to the left. He ducks again.
The music builds.
He lifts his face to the sky and snarls, raising both hands overhead as if coming in for the final attack. I raise my sword, thrusting it to deliver a mortal blow.
As the sword finds its target, the frantic drumbeat stops. In silence, the crowd watches Maraud the wolf flail in the agonies of his death throes, a flute picking up the final notes of his dying.
A moment later, the music begins again, cheerful and upbeat, fools come tumbling by, and Maraud and I advance a quarter circle around the bonfire to begin our performance once more. Our bodies are in perfect accord with the music, the crowd in perfect accord with us. There is little thought, no room for remorse or guilt or worry. Simply the dance and the surrounding night. The dance grows—encompassing musicians, performers, and crowd alike—holding us in its arms, carrying us away from our own smallness.
Again, step, step, stop. Face Maraud. As he rears up snarling, his eyes find mine, the impact of them as potent as a slug of the strongest wine. Our eyes locked, I raise my sword. He ducks, his dark gaze fixed upon me, never wavering, reading my body for the next move. I swing to the left, willing him to look away, loath to be the first to do so for if I do, it feels like I will have lost some silent challenge he has issued.
And so we continue, thrice more around the bonfire, each time our bodies and movement more in tune until it feels as intimate as a pair of lovers. On the final build of the drum, I thrust my sword in the space between his arm and his ribs. When he writhes, clutching the sword, I finally look away. As my eyes scan the rapt faces of the crowd, I find I am no longer certain as to precisely what struggle Maraud and I are performing for them.
* * *
In silence, we return to our small corner of the hall. Even though he says nothing, I can feel his presence behind me, as unrelenting as the night. When we reach our things, I turn away from him to remove my helmet, desperate to break free of the spell that has settled over us.
I am so tired that my limbs feel as useless as wet straw, but my skin, my senses, are wildly, painfully awake.
Behind me there is a grunt of frustration. Before I can stop myself, I glance over my shoulder. Maraud’s head is tilted up, his fingers plucking in increasing agitation against the leather ties at his neck. “It is in knots,” he says in disgust.
Part of me, the wise part, thinks, Good. Let him choke on his costume all night if need be. But another part, the wild, painfully awake part, takes a step toward him. “Here. Let me do it,” I say, hoping the note of impatience hides the breathlessness I feel.
He comes closer, exposing the thick muscled column of his throat. Such trust! And so poorly placed. Just a quick stab with a small knife, a stray nail, or even a needle, could end his life.
The most disturbing part is that what I actually want to do is to run my tongue along that vulnerable length of skin, taste the salt of him, nibble my way up to his lips, and lick them. Once. Twice. Then slowly ease them apart with my own. Would he savor such pleasure? Or would he take over, forcing his way in with his tongue before we had fully explored each other’s lips?
Such thoughts only make me more clumsy. No matter how quickly I try to untangle the leather ties, they do not budge. As I continue to struggle, Maraud’s eyes rest on me. Heat rises in my cheeks, and my fingers become nearly useless. “Perhaps we should just cut the things,” I mutter.
“But then I would be unable to wear it.”
I glance up at him to make a withering remark, the words drying up when I see his eyes watching my mouth. I resist the urge to lick my lips and instead allow my gaze to rest on his. They are parted slightly, and finely shaped.
His head begins to move closer to my own. In surprise, I glance up. He stops, meets my eyes. I wonder if the wine we drank will taste the same on him as it does on me.
“You’re drunk,” I finally tell him, a last effort to put some distance between us.
He raises his eyebrows. “Of course I’m drunk. Not on wine, but on freedom. Don’t tell me you don’t feel it too.”
He is right. The effects of the wine have passed. Somehow, instead of repelling me, his honesty draws me closer. “I feel it.” Almost as if aided by some wise god, my fumbling fingers finally find purchase and, like magic, the snarled ties untangle. Reason returns and I step back so quickly I nearly stumble. “We’ve an early start in the morning.”
Without looking at him further, I lower myself onto the floor and busy myself with taking off my boots and folding my tabard into a pillow before stretching out.
Beside me, I can hear Maraud do the same. I turn my back to the room and settle onto the floor as best I can, then pull my cloak over my shoulders and try to sleep. But I cannot.
The victory of this newfound freedom fizzes through my veins, like water tossed on hot coals. I shift positions, trying to get comfortable. I hear a rustle off to my left and know that Maraud, too, is restless.
I peer over my shoulder to see if he is pretending to be asleep. He is looking at me, eyes unreadable in the dark.
“We are free,” he whispers.
“We are,” I whisper back.
“I never thought to be so again.”
>
“Nor I.” Surely that is why my heart is so full and my skin feels too tight on my bones.
He rolls up onto his side and props his head on his elbow. “We should celebrate.” His voice is naught but a whisper.
I turn around to face him, propping my own head on my hand. “I am fairly certain all the wine is gone.”
“There are other ways to celebrate.” He does not move a muscle. He simply waits.
There is a tug deep inside me, like being pulled by some invisible chain. This desire I feel is not because of Maraud, I tell myself, but because I am free. My body and my heart are once again my own. I roll to my hands and knees and crawl across the space between us, slowly, like a predator might stalk his prey. “Are there.” But it is not a question, and he knows it. He simply continues to wait. When I am close enough to touch him, I stop. What sort of lover will he be? Will his soldiering side take over? All quick thrusts and parrying and speed? Will his wit and sharp humor make an appearance? Or the coaxing seduction of that first voice in the dark?
I toss my hair over my shoulder and slowly lean down, my eyes never leaving his. As I draw closer, he shifts his elbow so he is flat on his back, and I am hovering over him. It is meant to be a gesture of submission, and yet it is not that at all. Merely an agreement that strength and power will remain in check.
The force of my desire causes my belly to tighten.
I want this.
Slowly, with our gazes locked, I slide one leg over and across his stomach so that I am straddling him. My hair spills forward, brushing against his chest.
His jaw tightens.
“Is this the sort of celebrating you had in mind?”
He nods, whether because he cannot find his voice or does not wish to break the spell, I do not know.
“Very well, then.” I reach for the hem of my tunic and slowly pull it over my head.
My nipples pucker at the cool air and a rush of goose bumps spreads across my skin.
I lean down to press my lips to his.
Ah, they are warm and firm and fit perfectly against my own. He allows me to explore his mouth without rushing, lazily exploring mine in return. His hands come up, and the warm, callused feel of them sliding along my skin causes me to shiver with pleasure.
He cups my head, pulls me closer, and opens his mouth as my tongue licks his lower lip. I feel the heat of him through his breeches, the urgency of it causing my hips to rock slightly against his.
He runs his hands down my neck, cupping my shoulder, exploring it with his palm before moving down to my back. I shiver again and he pulls away slightly. “You are cold.”
I shrug. “It is a cold night,” I whisper against his lips.
His hands grip me tighter, tucking my body close to his. With a dizzying roll, he switches our positions so that I am beneath him, cushioned by the soft wolf skin, still warm from the heat of his body.
And even though he is on top of me, he makes it clear that I am in control. He waits for my hips to move against his, for my arms to pull him back down. With that final permission given, it is as if a dam has burst and his mouth is softly probing mine, his hands exploring, his rough palm pressing against the soft skin of my stomach, moving up, up, up until it brushes the underside of my breast.
I arch into him, silently begging him to continue.
He complies, moving his hand so that it brushes over my nipple once, twice, then finally his palm closes over my breast, encasing it in the heat of his hand.
My own hands have found their way to his chest. Frustrated by the rough woolen tunic that lies between us, I shove my hands beneath it and run them up the hard planes of his stomach. Sweet saints! The ridged muscle is like a washing board, his nipples flat and—his breath hitches—sensitive. I smile against his mouth. As urgent as both our movements are, there is no rushing, only hunger, a hunger to feel this and explore that. When at last he dips his hand inside my breeches and eases them down my hips, I nearly shout with joy.
This, I think, with my last coherent thought. This is what I want. My arms come up around his shoulders and my legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer and closer until we are nearly one, and a rhythm as ancient and sacred as that of the mummer’s dance captures us both.
Chapter 61
Sybella
he next morning, Father Effram gets word to me that Beast has something to report. When pressed, he does not know if it is good news or ill, but he has arranged for us to meet in the servants’ chapel near midnight.
It has been days since I have seen Beast except across a crowded hall with fourscore of the French court and household attendants between us. Nearly twice as long since the night we last spoke together in private.
I did not think it would be this hard— to see him, but be unable to speak with him. In retrospect, we were all woefully naïve and underprepared for how hostile the regent would be to the queen and her interests. How foolish we were. How foolish was I! I know better than to believe in happy endings.
When I am only two corridors away from the chapel, I become aware of another heartbeat, drawing closer. At first I think it is Beast, but it is too light and rapid and not at all familiar. I search for a hiding place, my only choice a thick Flemish tapestry that decorates the wall. I slip behind it, praying the person is in such a hurry that they are not looking at the floor in hopes of discovering feet protruding from unexpected places.
The footsteps are light and graceful—a woman, then. But quiet also, as if she does not wish to be discovered any more than I do. Curious now, I place my finger on the edge of the tapestry and push it aside just enough to peer into the hallway.
She is walking away from me, but all my mornings spent studying the backs of the women’s heads pay off. It is Katerine. Interesting. I let the tapestry fall back into place. She so thoroughly rebuffed my overture in the garden that she has fallen off my list of potential fellow initiates. Perhaps this midnight visit of hers could change that.
I wait a hand span of minutes before continuing down the hall. There are fewer torches here, and the flickering glow from the candles in the chapel beckons me inside, where a familiar heart beats.
Beast kneels near the front, head bowed. His is the only heartbeat in the room. The realization that we are truly alone brings to mind all manner of longings—most of which are twice as sinful if contemplated inside a church.
At the sound of my approach, he stands and turns to face me. “Sybella.”
The chapel is empty, and small, and the gruff whisper feels loud and heavy in the stillness. Heavy with the weight of all the words we are not allowed to share while others are watching.
For one hopeful moment, I think he will draw me into an embrace, but he has too much discipline for that.
Beast nods his head toward the confessional. In the shadows of the chapel, his face looks careworn and tired. I want to take my hand and smooth the furrow from his brow. Instead, I follow him toward the stall. He opens the door and waits for me to enter. My heart gives a beat of joy when he does not enter the priest’s half of the confessional but follows me into the penitent’s side.
It is not meant for two people, especially when one of them is as large as Beast, but the closeness is most welcome. I can even pretend it is an embrace. “Is there word on the ambush?” I ask.
Beast gives a curt shake of his head. “None. But I have heard from Duval.” The faint rumble in his voice tells me this will not be good news.
“And?” I prompt.
“Crunard has escaped.”
I gape at him. “What? How?”
Beast shrugs, further straining our tight quarters. “He does not know. The old fox was simply not there one morning when the guard went to feed him.”
“Which means he must have had inside help. Again.” A thought that has long niggled in the deep recesses of my mind surfaces. “The timing is interesting, is it not, that Crunard tried to escape the day before Rohan arrived in Rennes? Could he have known
he was coming and planned to hide until he arrived?”
“That is what Duval thinks.” Beast’s arm twitches, as if he longs to run it over his head, but there is not enough room.
“The question is, was Rohan committed to helping Crunard find his son, or was there some other factor at play?”
Beast shakes his head. “Both have lost sons. Perhaps he feels for the man.”
We are quiet as we try to sort out what hidden game is being played. “Have you any word on Anton?” I ask.
“None.” He smiles grimly. “I did not claim to bear good news. However, the general who was on the field the day he was taken by the French has been recalled from Flanders to attend upon the king. Perhaps he will know something.”
“You would ask him outright?”
“If we have no more answers than we do now, I will have to. Has the queen given any more thought to simply asking the king?”
I bark out a laugh and tell him of the disaster when she asked about Rohan’s appointment. “And she has not seen him since. So not only is she uncertain of his answer, but she must worry that another question will drive him even further away.”
Beast swears, then falls silent again. The small compartment grows thick with our joint frustration. Now, I think. Now that he is contained in a small space and cannot go anywhere.
“Beast,” I murmur, wrapping my arms around him and pressing my cheek against the soft wool of his doublet. “Did Captain Dunois talk with you about . . . about someone you might run into here at the French court?”
Beast pulls away—or tries to, but there simply isn’t room. “No.”
Sweet Jesu. I press my cheek more firmly against Beast’s chest, fair burrowing into him so that he has no choice but to put his arms around me.
“Why? What did he say?” His voice is thick and rough with his grief over Dunois’s loss.
“He wanted you to know that your father”—Beast’s entire body grows rigid —“is still a part of the king’s inner circle. He wanted you to know that you might one day run into him.”
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