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

Beast directs the main portion of the party to set up camp in the thicket of trees that we can just see off to the east. He orders two of his men and two of the charbonnerie to accompany him, along with myself. We follow a trail that is naught but a deer track and find ourselves winding our way to the coast. When the rocky shore comes into sight, I see an old stone abbey and beside it one of the even more ancient standing stones. I glance at Beast. “Saint Mer?”

Beast nods. “The abbess of Saint Mer has been keeping Duval informed. She and her acolytes have been in communication with the British ships, and have been keeping track of the French movements in the area as well.”

I tamp down a little flutter of—not fear—apprehension. Saint Mer is a watery old hag of a goddess, with a tangle of seaweed for Her hair and bones formed of driftwood. She is wild, uncontrollable, both playful and deadly, beautiful and terrifying. Her appetite for men is insatiable and She often plucks them ripe from the boat, pulls them into Her watery maw, then spits them out when She is done with them.

When I was nine years old, long before I had heard the stories of my own birth and lineage, I adopted Her for my own. Most girls my age worshiped Amourna, but I had no use for Her and Her soft, gentle love that was naught but a lie told to keep girls hopeful and compliant. For a while, I turned to Arduinna, for She was the one goddess who carried a weapon, and that appealed to me greatly, but in the end, She let me down as well. As a protector of virgins, it seemed She failed as often as She succeeded.

And so I turned to Saint Mer. Her wildish nature called to me. I wished to dance with storms, like She did. I wished to pick and choose which men I allowed into my domain, then be done with them once I’d taken my pleasure. Not that I believed there was any pleasure to be had between a man and a woman, but the stories and poets spoke of it often, and if it existed, I would have my share of it.

Mostly, I wanted to be feared as Saint Mer was feared, to have men treat me with great respect and caution and be afraid of what might await them if they did not.

When we reach the abbey, we rein in our horses. As we dismount, the door opens and a shrunken old woman comes out. In her hand is the sacred trident of Saint Mer, and around her neck are nearly a dozen strands of cockle shells, which mark her as the abbess.

Beast bows low before her, as do Sir Lannion and Sir Lorril. I sink into a deep curtsy. The charbonnerie look uncertainly about them, then bob their knees.

“Come inside and be welcome,” the abbess says. She motions with her trident, and two girls emerge from the abbey door and come forward to tend our horses: the daughters of Saint Mer, born of the goddess and drowning men.

I am filled with curiosity, as I have never met anyone said to be born of another god before. Saint Camulos does not count, for He makes no claim to have sired His dedicants, merely accepts those conceived in His name.

There is a translucent quality to the girls’ skin, as if they spend more time beneath the waves than beneath the sun. Their hair is long and flowing, one light blond and the other dark. As they draw closer, I see that their feet are bare and they have the slightly webbed toes that mark them as one of Saint Mer’s. When I hand one of the girls my reins, she smiles at me. Her teeth are slightly pointed.

I nod in greeting and thanks, then hurry to follow the abbess into the abbey.

Her receiving chamber is sparse, with none of the luxuries the abbess of Saint Mortain enjoys. She offers us cool, clear water to drink, and naught else.

“I bring thanks from the duchess herself for the aid you have given her,” Beast says formally, and I am intrigued by this new side of him.

The abbess nods her head, causing the shells to rattle. “I am committed to doing whatever is in my power to keep our land free.”

“Are there any new reports? Do the British remain anchored off the coast?”

“Yes, but they are running out of supplies. Some of the locals were rowing food and water out to them, but the French soldiers got wind of it and began picking them off with their archers, so that has stopped.”

“And what of Morlaix itself?”

“There are near five hundred French soldiers stationed in the town, with another two hundred positioned along the estuary. Your biggest problem will be the cannon the French have positioned at the mouth of the bay. I do not know if they can reach the ships, but the captains seem to think they can, and they will not draw near.”

Beast glances to the charbonnerie, who smile and nod. He turns back to the abbess. “Their cannon will not be a problem. We will take them out easily enough so the ships can get through. My bigger concern is disabling as many French in the town as possible so the British will not be massacred as they attempt to disembark.”

The abbess moves to a table set up near one of the high windows. “Here is a map of the town,” she says, and we join her.

“Here,” the abbess says, pointing at the map. “This is where I am told the soldiers are being garrisoned.”

We spend the rest of the afternoon plotting and planning, trying to come up with a strategy that has some hope of succeeding. All the while, I can feel time eating away at our chance of success, just as the waves eat away at the shore. D’Albret has likely reached Rennes by now. Hopefully, with no saboteurs to grant d’Albret access, the city will hold.

Chapter Forty

IT IS LATE AFTERNOON WHEN we rejoin the rest of our party. They have been busy during our absence and have the camp set up. It is abustle with activity: the rubbing down of saddles and tack, the sharpening of blades, and the checking of weapons. The air fair hums with the anticipation everyone is feeling, but there is none of the old acrimony that had been haunting us since we first left Rennes. Whether they have called a temporary truce or merely needed some common enemy to focus on, I do not know.

It is not until I dismount and hand my reins to Yannic that I see the marques. There, on that man-at-arm’s brow—a man whose name I do not even know. Winnog too is marqued, I see, as he walks by and gives me a jaunty wave. Alarm clangs through me like a bell.

My gaze searches among the camp for the greenlings. I find them just beyond the clearing, practicing their skills. Henri and Claude also bear marques. As does Jacques. More than a dozen men bear the marque, and cold understanding creeps along my skin.

Ismae was right. These men cannot all be traitors to our country. Nor does it make sense for Mortain to have marqued them all at once if I am to be the one to kill them. It can only mean they are to die. Tonight, or more likely on the morrow, during our assault on Morlaix.

Even though I have eaten nothing all day, I fear I will be sick.

Beast.

Dreading what I will find, but desperate to know, I go in search of Beast. He has already called the captains to him and begun telling them what we have learned. I ignore the others, my eyes devouring the ugly face that has grown so dear to me. While it is not one whit prettier and is covered in dark stubble, it bears no marque.

It is all I can do not to whoop with joy, but the marques I see on de Brosse and Lorril sober me. While I knew that men would die in this battle, it is hard—so very hard—to know who will not be returning.

I join Beast and the others at the small map table that Yannic has set up. I glance once at d’Albret’s former jailor and am relieved when I see that he too is unmarqued.

“There are three points of attack,” Beast is saying. “We will send two parties north, to take out the cannon on either side of the bay. Erwan, I will want at least half the party to be your charbonnerie.