Dark Triumph - LaFevers Robin (бесплатная регистрация книга .TXT) 📗

Escape. The word is as ripe and seductive as summer’s first fruit, so much so that I must shy away from it and remind myself that hope is but the god’s way of mocking us, nothing more.

I give myself a moment, then another, to compose myself, then turn to the jailor beside me. I pretend I have not stormed and railed and fumed for the last mile and ask calmly, “How is our charge?”

Relief crosses his wrinkled little face, and he gives an enthusiastic nod of his head. I glance over my shoulder, uncertain the knight’s condition warrants such enthusiasm, but say nothing. With all my other options scuttled, it seems my best course of action is to get the knight to Rennes. Alive, if possible.

And with that thought comes a reminder. None of it will matter a whit if d’Albret finds us, for even now he is likely gathering forces for pursuit. Luckily, all of his soldiers will be groggy and ill for a few more hours yet, and I do not think he will ride out himself.

Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crows. Soon, sleepy farmers will stumble out of their cottages and begin tilling their fields. And see us. We cannot risk that. “We must find shelter,” I tell the jailor.

He nods sagely, as if he has already thought of this.

“There will be pursuit,” I warn him. “So our shelter needs to be well hidden from the road.” What has taken us all night to travel could be covered in a matter of hours by one of my father’s men on a swift strong horse.

The jailor nods again, points to a copse of trees in the distance, then steers the cart in that direction.

I study his crooked, lined face. Can I trust him? For the hundredth time I wonder at the strange relationship between the knight and his jailor. Does the Beast of Waroch command courage and loyalty even from those who guard him? For surely my father assigned only the most loyal of his men to tend to his valuable prisoner, and yet the jailor not only did not try to prevent our escape but joined us.

Hopefully, he has not risked so much and come so far only to betray us now.

Just as true dawn breaks, we come in sight of an old stone lodge. It is far from the main road—indeed, from any road at all, I realize as the cart bumps over a rock—and well secluded in a patch of woods. The gargoyle pulls the cart to a halt and waits just inside the trees. It is a small manor house built of gray stone and, by all appearances, deserted. There is no activity in the courtyard, no scratching chickens or bleating goats, and no smoke rises from the chimney. It is almost too much to hope for, that this hidden place is empty and waiting for us. Still not completely sure of the jailor’s motives, I jerk my head toward the house. “Go see if anyone is inside.”

His quick nod of compliance assures me somewhat that this is no trap. Still, someone must scout the place out to be certain it is clear. Until the old man has proven himself to be fully trustworthy, he may as well be the one to do it.

As he looks around, I steer the cart to the back of the lodge and fret once more over my situation. Should I attempt to return to Nantes and finish my self-appointed task? Once I am committed to a purpose, it is no easy thing for me to walk away.

I could claim Beast abducted me.

Except they know how weak and wounded he was, and my involvement is the only explanation for the drugged guards. I fear my hand in this is plain to see.

Perhaps, a small voice inside me whispers, Mortain has simply answered your prayers. Can it not be as simple as that? But of course, nothing—nothing—has ever been simple.

Our shelter is one of the late duke’s lesser lodges, the sort he would retreat to with a handful of his most trusted men or one of his least favorite mistresses. It is perfect for our purposes: sturdy and hidden from the casual passerby. Most important, I have never heard d’Albret or any of his men speak of it, which gives me some hope that they do not know it exists.

Just as the jailor comes scampering out, indicating that no one is home, the thick clouds overhead release their burden and it begins to rain. However, even wounded and ill and passed out, the knight is still a giant of a man. “We cannot carry him in,” I tell the jailor.

He reaches out and shakes the knight, but not even his eyelids flicker in response. Concerned that he has died on the way here, I look to his chest, relieved when I see it rise and fall with his breathing. The jailor begins to shake him harder, but I stop him. I glance up at the rain falling from the sky, big fat drops that plop down onto my face. Cleaning the prisoner up will be a mighty chore involving buckets and buckets of water. “We will let the rain do some of the hard work for us. It is not a freezing rain—let it wash some of the prison grime from him before we take him inside.”

The jailor scowls, as if this is some great insult or injury I have offered his master, but I ignore him, grab two of the bundles tucked up against the side of the cart, and head for the lodge. He can follow or not, it makes no difference to me.

While the jailor stays to cluck over the knight, I make a quick exploration of the lodge to see with my own eyes that no one is here. The back door opens directly into a large kitchen with a fireplace. There is a hall beyond, and three chambers on the second floor. They are all empty of any but the most basic furnishings, and nothing but cold ashes sit in the hearths.

Since getting the knight up the stairs is out of the question, we will have to set up a trestle table in the kitchen. I go to the door and see the jailor dripping by the side of the cart, as if his getting soaked will somehow lessen his prisoner’s discomfort. I motion him over.

When he is close enough, I hand him a rough cloth to dry himself. “I need to set up a table in here, but I cannot move it myself.”

Together with many grunts and muttered oaths we get the trestle in the kitchen and cover it with two old blankets we found. The effort has chased any remaining chill from my bones. “Let’s go see if we can get him in here,” I say with a sigh of resignation, for it will be as easy as trying to maneuver a greased ox.

Outside, the rain has not only cleansed some of the filth from the patient but roused him from his sleep. As the jailor and I peer down at him over the sides of the cart, he blinks up at us, the water spiking his thick lashes. When he sees me, his eyes cloud with confusion, and suddenly my anger rises up in me again, a white-hot fury that he has robbed me of my prize—the one thing that would have justified all I have endured the past six months. I lean down and get my face close to his. “I have been sent on the duchess’s own orders to aid you, and how do you repay me? By ruining all my carefully laid plans.”

His eyes widen in surprise. “From now on, until I get you safely to Rennes, you will do exactly as I say and no more, do you understand? Else I will leave you here to rot in the rain.”

“What did I ruin?” His voice is rough, like a shower of rocks tumbling downhill.

“Plans that I worked six long months to put in place. Why? Why did you do it?” I ask.

“Do what?”

I reach up and touch my tender jaw. “Take me with you.”

He shakes his head, as if trying to clear it. “The last thing I remember is an insistent, soul-searing voice spewing venom and lies.”

“That was me,” I say curtly.

“You?” He looks thoroughly nonplussed, as if he cannot reconcile that voice with what he sees before him.

“Yes, you great lummox. It was the only way I could get you moving up the stairs and into the cart.”

“You tried to bring the battle lust upon me? Have you feathers for brains?”

“No one had a better idea on how to get you out of that dungeon. I simply used the tools at hand.”

“You’re lucky you only got a clout to the jaw.” He squints up at me again, as if trying to make sense of something in his mind. “Besides, you looked afraid,” he mutters.