Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)

by Robin LaFevers

  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.”

  The farmwife’s hand flies to her cheek. “Was he injured?”

  “’Tis an old injury, but a bad one. Is there somewhere we can settle him?”

  The farmwife nods. I leave Yannic and the farmer to help Beast from his horse and let the farmwife lead me into the house. As I enter, I look around in surprise, for outside, the farm seemed to me somewhat poor and rundown. Inside, the house is anything but. The farmwife meets my eye. “’Tis not by accident. Living so close to the border, and with so many wars and skirmishes over the years, we have learned to conceal our prosperity. When we are lucky enough to have it.”

  She stops at a small storeroom, takes a key from the ring around her waist, and unlocks the door. Two boys spill out, wearing fierce glowers. “Next time let us stay and fight,” one of them says. He is on the cusp of true manhood, all gangly limbs, clumsy feet, and too-large nose.

  “Mind your manners and greet our guest.”

  For the first time, both of them notice me. Even though I wear three days’ travel grime instead of my finest jewels, their gaping admiration does wonders for my spirits.

  The farmwife clucks her tongue. “Go on now, go help your father and the others get rid of the bodies.”

  “Bodies?” They perk up, then clatter out of the house.

  “My husband is old and no threat to the soldiers, but I could not trust these hotheads not to do something foolish.” The farmwife rolls her eyes, but it does not disguise the pride she feels in her sons.

  The farmhouse has a large kitchen and a great room with a long table and benches. While looking for a spot for Beast to rest, I also try to note any exits. We may need to leave suddenly, for there is no guarantee the French will not send others to check on their comrades. And if the French can stumble upon this place, so can d’Albret and his men.

  Besides the front door, the three windows with wooden shutters are the only way in and out. And certainly there is no place big enough to conceal Beast.

  I nod to the area in front of the hearth. “That will work. The fire will keep him warm and allow me to mix the poultices I need for his leg.”

  Her face creases in concern. “How bad is it?”

  I meet her intelligent brown-eyed gaze. “Bad enough. If I had any surgeon’s skills, I would consider removing it, but luckily for him, I do not. A prayer or two on his behalf would not go amiss.”

  She nods. “This whole family shall pray for him,” she says, and I know I can consider it as good as done.

  Chapter Twenty

  THE FAMILY IS SO GRATEFUL for our intervention, and so wonderstruck at being saved by the mighty Beast of Waroch himself, that once the floodgates of their gratitude have opened, it is impossible to stop it. They insist on slaughtering the goose so they may reward him with a feast fit for a hero of the realm. (“May as well start working on that pillow now,” the farmwife points out.) Since we are all of us in need of a decent night’s rest and would not begrudge a good meal, we accept their kind offer.

  Amid much muttering and grumbling, Beast is assisted inside and made to lie down where I can tend him. It chafes him sorely to have to rest while other men take care of the remains of the French soldiers. “Leave it be,” I tell him. “Anyone can hide those bodies or dispose of them, but only you can help the duchess, and she will have my hide if I do not deliver you as safe and sound as possible.”

  Fortunately for me, he is so exhausted that once he is laid out flat and the poultice is placed on his leg, he falls asleep. The bruises have faded away by now, and nearly all the facial swelling has gone down. He is still as big and ugly as an ogre.

  “Won’t win a prize at the fair, will he?”

  I glance up to find the farmwife standing right behind me, staring down at Beast. “He has other skills,” I tell her sharply.

  “Eh, don’t be biting my head off. I didn’t say he wasn’t worth his weight in gold. Besides, I wager he’s very skilled with his blade.” The faint leer in her voice makes her meaning plain enough, as well as her assumptions on what sort of relationship Beast and I have.

  My even sharper retort is interrupted by a great clatter as her two sons come bur
sting inside, brandishing the weapons they’ve stripped from the soldiers. “Papa says we might as well profit from the stinking Frenchmen,” the younger one says, nearly decapitating his brother with a sword that is almost as long as he is.

  “Profit, yes; do bodily injury to your brother, no. Go on now, put those away.”

  The boys scramble up the ladder to their rooms, and I start to follow the farmwife as she heads to the kitchen to begin preparing the meal, but she quickly shoos me away. “Those were your knives that pierced two of the brutes. What kind of thanks would it be if I made you cook? Here.” She thrusts a bucket of water at me, then takes a kettle from the hob and adds it to the bucket. “Go have yourself a wash. I’m sure it’ll feel good after being on the road.”

  I should be insulted, but I am too grateful to have the opportunity to get clean. I take the bucket of water and go upstairs to the loft so I may take advantage of this unexpected bounty.

  The dinner is as satisfying as any feast I have ever eaten. Not only is the goose cooked perfectly, crisp skin and juicy succulent meat, but there is a thick, hearty stew of mutton, leeks, and cabbage, dark brown bread and new cheese, thin red wine and pear cider, as well as baked apples with cream.

  The dinner has the air of a party, with the farmer and his wife—Guion and Bette—full of the good cheer that follows a near miss. Even Yannic smiles and nods happily—although perhaps that is simply because his belly is finally full. The farmer’s sons dither between awed hero worship that they are dining with the Beast of Waroch and clumsy attempts to impress him. Or at the very least, to shame the other.

  “Anton squealed when the soldiers first arrived,” Jacques says.

  Flushing, Anton elbows him hard in the ribs. “Did not. My voice cracked is all.”

  Jacques snickers. “From the force of the squeal.”

  “Well, at least I didn’t try to use a ham as a weapon. Besides”—he raises his arm and brandishes his purloined dagger—“next time I will be armed and the French will not get off so easily.”

  “I do not know that lying dead amid the cow dung in your barn could be called getting off easily,” I point out. Much to my surprise, everyone laughs.

  “True enough,” Guion says, raising his cup. Then he sobers. “What is happening with the French, Sir Waroch? Are we at war with them again?”

  “It is not good,” Beast says. “Half the duchess’s council has left her side. Marshal Rieux has joined with Count d’Albret, and they hold Nantes against her.

  “The French have been looking for any excuse to invade our kingdom and have crossed our borders to pursue that goal.” He turns to me. “Have they taken any cities other than Ancenis?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. Nor has d’Albret given up on his plan to force the duchess to marry him.” I turn back to Bette and Guion. “She only narrowly escaped a trap the baron laid for her, thanks in large part to Sir Waroch. That’s how he came by his injuries.”

  The farmer and his wife raise their cups to him, which makes him duck his head in embarrassment.

  The farmer’s face creases in worry. “So those are our only choices now? To be ruled by the French or by Count d’Albret?”

  Bette shudders. “I’ll take the French, I think,” she says, then drains her cup. Interesting that the dark tales of d’Albret have traveled this far.

  “We will know more once we reach Rennes,” I say. “The duchess is there with her advisors and they are no doubt forming a plan even as we speak.”

  “And I,” Beast says, “I will be rousing the good people of Brittany to her cause. As soon as I can ride out in earnest,” he adds with a grumble.

  Young Anton, his face alight with thoughts of valor, raises his knife. “I will fight for the duchess,” he says.

  It is all I can do not to sigh. Beast does not even have to ask—peasants are already promising to follow him.

  “It may come to that, lad, and if so, the duchess will be glad of your support. Yours, too,” he tells Jacques.

  Both boys turn to look at their mother, who is torn between pride that they are willing to fight and dismay that they are old enough to do so. The farmer takes one look at his wife’s face and says, “Enough of this grim talk, eh? Surely a man such as you has a story to entertain us with?”

  We spend the rest of the dinner telling stories. Beast has more than a few lively tales of campaigns and skirmishes that cause Anton’s and Jacques’s eyes to glow with promises of glory. It is easy to see that they imagine themselves in his role.

  When all the dishes have been picked clean and everyone is stuffed, it is time for the last round of evening chores before bed. Yannic has fallen asleep at the table, so we simply lay him out on the bench to sleep for the night. The clatter of plates and crockery do not cause him to so much as stir.

  I find I am surprisingly reluctant to end this evening. I have eaten finer dinners, supped in far more elegant surroundings, and been entertained by far wittier companions. And yet, there is a simple warmth and joy here that is headier than the strongest wine I have ever drunk. Two years ago I would have mocked their simple life. Now I envy it.

  “Here, I’ll take those,” Bette says. “You go tend your man and his injuries.”

  I want to protest that he is not my man, but instead I thank her and go fix one last round of poultices while Anton and Jacques help Beast back to his place by the fire.

  By the time the poultices are ready, everyone else has gone up the stairs to their beds. One of the boys murmurs some last taunt to his brother, which is followed by an oof after the offended party throws something at him.

  “Do that again,” Beast says.

  I look up, confused. “What?”

  “Smile. I have never seen you smile before.”

  “You are daft. Of course I smile.” Uncomfortable under that gaze, I turn and begin removing the bandage from his leg.

  “How long were you hidden in d’Albret’s household?”

  My heart thuds painfully. Has he figured out who I am? “Why do you wish to know?” I ask, stalling.

  He looks away and plucks at the bandage on his arm. “I was wondering if you might have been there when Alyse was still alive.”

  And just like that, I am completely undone. His words pierce my heart and erode the last of my defenses against him. I put the poultice on his leg and stare at it as if it is the most fascinating thing in the world.

  “You knew of d’Albret’s other wives,” he hurries to point out. “I thought perhaps you knew of Alyse as well.”

  Stick as close to truth as possible—that is what we learn at the convent about crafting lies. “Yes,” I say, and hope my reluctance does not come through in my voice. “I knew her, but not well.”

  “Tell me of her.” He stares at me intently, as if he would pluck the answers he seeks from my skin.

  I look away, my gaze scanning the room, the fire, anything but his ravaged face. What do I tell him of Alyse? That she grew thin with nerves and fright? That the calm, serene woman turned into one who would jump when she was touched and who startled at loud noises? That Julian and Pierre teased her cruelly because of it, making every loud noise they could think of, sneaking up behind her in the dark empty corridors? That she ate little in the last months before her death?

  Or do I tell him of the few stolen happy moments she found? Our trip to pick blackberries, their plump sweetness bursting in our mouths so that the juice would trickle down our chins and make us laugh? Or how the minnows nibbled at our toes when we dipped our feet in the brook?

  “She was kind and pious,” I finally say. “Always remembering to honor God and His saints. Bluebells were her favorite flower, and there was an entire meadow of them behind the keep one spring. The taste of honey made her nose stuffy.”

  Beast smiles, a heartbreakingly wistful thing. “I remember that,” he says softly.

  Of course he knows that. I rack my brain for something to comfort him. “She was strong of spirit and laughed a lot.” At least
at first, and that was what caused me to lower my guard and befriend her, in spite of all my vows to never grow close to any of d’Albret’s wives again.

  A deep silence grows in the room, fed by our separate memories.

  “I came back for her.”

  “What?” I ask, certain that I have not heard him correctly.

  “I came back for her.” Beast repeats the words casually, as if coming back for her were the most natural thing in the world.

  But it is not. For despite all the wives d’Albret has ill used, and all the vassals and innocents he has wronged, no one—no one—has ventured forth to speak for any of them or to claim justice on their behalf.

  My world is so completely upturned by this revelation that it takes me a full minute to find my voice. A thousand questions fill my mind, but none of them are anything a daughter of Mortain would be hungry to know. “What happened?” I finally ask, careful to keep my voice neutral and my eyes on the new bandage I am preparing.

  “When three of my letters to her went unanswered, I knew something was wrong, so I obtained a leave of absence and came looking for her.

  “When I arrived in Tonquédec, I was refused entrance. And when I thought to linger, I was encouraged to be on my way by a party of twelve armed soldiers.” His hand drifts up to the scar that bisects the left side of his face. “They sought to improve my appearance somewhat.”

  “But they let you live?”

  Beast cuts a scornful glance at me. “There was no letting about it. I fought my way free.”

  “Against twelve of d’Albret’s men?”

  He shrugs, then winces as his shoulder pains him. “It did not take long for the battle fever to come over me.” He flashes a grin that is two parts death and one part humor. “I killed eight of them, leaving four to limp back and explain the disaster to d’Albret.” Then the grin fades, and the depth of pain and despair I see in his face takes my breath away. “As soon as we’ve secured the duchess’s crown against the French, I will pay another visit to d’Albret and call him to account.”