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

In spite of our victory, the camp is in somber spirits that night, for it did not come without a cost. In addition to Winnog and de Brosse, we lost Sir Lorril, six soldiers, and seven charbonnerie. De Brosse and Lorril will be returned to their families’ holdings for burial in their crypts. The six soldiers will be buried first thing in the morning, and now lie, carefully covered, sheltered by the trees.

However, it is Winnog’s death that affects us the most—the awkward, gangly youth was always cheerful, blind to any ill will, and quick to smile. But the charbonnerie do not bury their dead. In keeping with their customs, they make an offering of the bodies to the Dark Mother. They select a clearing far away from the trees, close to an ancient standing stone, and begin building a funeral pyre with as much care and precision as they build their charcoal pits. As if by some silent agreement, one by one the soldiers and men-at-arms rise from their resting places to join the charbonnerie in honoring their dead. Erwan sets the torch to the wood, the fire crackling and hissing as it rushes through the dry kindling and branches.

Within moments, the entire pile is engulfed in flames of red and gold that lick at the bodies of the men. It is an especially hot fire. I do not know if this is some trick of the charbonnerie or simply due to the size of fire a funeral pyre needs. The heat is so intense that we must all step back or risk being roasted ourselves. Thick black smoke churns upward into the night sky, carrying the souls of the charbonnerie to the Dark Mother.

When at last nothing is left of the fire but smoldering ash and embers, we return to the camp. The men do not drift back into their separate groups but instead stay together, talking in quiet voices. Death has brought the fellowship that life could not. I cannot help but think Winnog would be pleased with this outcome. Even the most arrogant of them, Sir Gaultier, is listening attentively to something Erwan is saying. It is as Beast promised them. Or perhaps it was their Dark Mother’s promise—out of the ashes of despair, they have found forgiveness and acceptance.

If they can, perhaps so can I.

I find Beast standing apart from the others, watching the smoldering embers from the pyre. He is still filthy, covered in dirt and soot and blood, and his eyes are heavy and red. I cringe now at how I asked him how he could bear ordering men to their deaths, for clearly it weighs heavily on him.

At the sound of my approach, he looks up.

“Where do we go next?” I ask, pretending we have not just recently shared a kiss.

“Guingamp. A French garrison holds the town, and on the heels of this victory, I think we can fan an uprising to take back the city. But we will rest a day or two so we may finish burying our dead. It will also allow more time for the rumors of our victory here to reach the town.”

“Would you be willing to ride out with me tomorrow?” I take a deep breath and clasp my hands together to hide their trembling. It has taken me this long to be certain that this final secret of mine is one he can accept unconditionally. “I have one last thing I must share with you. But this is one you must see.”

Chapter Forty-Two

AS MUCH AS I LOOK forward to putting aside the last of the secrets between Beast and me, I am also looking forward to seeing my sisters. It has been nearly a year, and I miss them as much as any mother misses her babe, for they are the only bright spots in our family.

Near midday, we stop at a tavern to rest the horses and find a meal. It is a quiet enough place, in a sleepy hamlet of a village, and I am fairly certain no one will recognize me. Even so, I am careful to choose a table near the back.

It is not until we are halfway through our meal that other patrons arrive. Two farmers, by the look of them. I ignore them until their talk turns to recent activity in the area.

“. . . troop of Lord d’Albret’s men rode through here not five days ago . . .”

At these words, I feel as if the ground beneath my feet gives way. I stand up and stride over to their table. “What did you say?” I demand.

The man stares at me as if I am mad. “Around fifty of Lord d’Albret’s men came galloping through here about five days ago. Headed to his holding, they were. At Tonquedec.”

I turn and head for the door. No, no, no beats deep in my breast. Not Charlotte. Not Louise.

Beast leaps up from the table and follows me. “What? What is wrong?”

I barely spare him a glance as I take my cloak from the hook and draw it around my shoulders. “D’Albret and his men passed through here five days ago.”

He frowns. “For what reason? Surely he needs all his men at Rennes?”

I shake my head. “I told you it is a foolish commander who puts all his hope in a single plan.” I take a deep breath and turn to meet his eyes. “Tonquedec is where we grew up, but only my two younger sisters are in residence there now.”

“Does he fear the duchess will try to ransom them?”

I laugh, a dry brittle sound that hurts my ears. “No. He plans to ransom them. To me.”

I try to hold on to hope for the entire ride to Tonquedec, but the cruelties d’Albret might visit upon the two girls is limited only by my imagination. And my knowledge of him.

I put my horse to a full gallop, not caring if the others cannot keep up. Soon Yannic and the men-at-arms fall behind, but Beast still rides alongside me. The comfort of his presence is all that keeps me from splintering into a hundred broken pieces.

I spare a thought for how he must feel, approaching the place where his sister died, but that brings a fresh wave of despair, so I shove it aside. I pray—beg—Mortain to keep them safe. To let me be wrong. To let him only have sent to Tonquedec for more troops.

But I know in my heart it is a false hope.

When we reach the holding, the long winding road leading up to the castle walls is empty of any traffic. No hunting parties, no departing troops. There are no extra guards posted along the battlements, as there would be if d’Albret were still in residence.

The guard at the gate looks surprised to see me, but lets us pass. As we ride into the empty courtyard, the seneschal comes rushing out, eager to greet me. He takes my horse’s rein. “Lady Sybella!”

I dismount, not bothering to wait for a groom. “My sisters, Charlotte and Louise. I must see them.”

A look of confusion crosses the seneschal’s face. “But they are gone, my lady. They have left for Nantes.”

Chapter Forty-Three

THEY ARE GONE.

The truth of that hits my body before my mind can come to terms with it, and I double over. A faint trembling spreads throughout my limbs, making my hands shake and my knees wobble.

They are gone.

It feels as if some monster has just pried my rib cage open and scooped the very heart from my chest, leaving it empty and hollow.

“Demoiselle?” The voice seems to come from far away, and I can barely hear it as the jittery, liquid silver pain courses through me, roaring in my ears as it looks for a way out.

I must get them back.

Without thinking further than that, I turn toward the horses. A large hand clamps down on my arm, restraining me.

I whirl around, reaching for my knife. “Let go.”

Beast ignores my knife and reels me closer, like a fish he has caught, until I am up against his armored chest. “They are many days gone,” he says softly. “We cannot catch up to them on the open road.”

Hiding the knife in the folds of my gown, I glance up at the seneschal. “How long ago did my lord father leave with my sisters?”

“Three days ago, my lady. Only it wasn’t your lord father—it was the young master Julian.”