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

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 bursting 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.