Something in my voice causes him to pause. “Beast?” he asks quietly.
“Beast. He was in the courtyard as I was pursuing my brother and his men. I . . . I asked him to follow them so I could return to my sisters. I was uncomfortable leaving them alone any longer than I had to.”
“In case your brother had additional men still on the premises.”
“Yes. Exactly so.”
He busies himself strapping his sword belt around his hips. “Which is why I think we should place an extra guard on your family.”
“Ismae, Lazare, and Yannic are with them now.”
Dunois nods. “They’re good, but Lazare needs to keep training every moment he can in order to be equal to the others of the queen’s guard. But that is a most excellent use of Yannic.” He pauses, “I wonder who else . . .”
I try to direct him back to the matter at hand. “But Beast has still not returned.”
“I am not overly concerned about Beast, my lady. Not yet anyway. I am more interested in ensuring this does not happen again.”
“I appreciate your concern for my family, but my sisters are . . . They do not trust strange men easily. I fear your effort to help them will only cause greater distress.”
His gruff face softens, and in that moment, I see his full awareness of all that I have suffered, of all that I want to protect my sisters from. “What if they were not men?”
My heart shifts, expanding as Dunois’s astute kindness works its way in. “Who are these non-men you have in mind?”
“The followers of Arduinna. They have little enough to do while waiting to leave for France. But more important, it is the very nature of their service to their goddess—to protect the innocent.”
I cannot believe I did not think of this sooner. Although to be fair, he is not aware of the longstanding animosity between the followers of Saint Arduinna and Saint Mortain.
For the first time in more hours than I can count, the knot inside me loosens. “That is an excellent idea, my lord. I will speak with them in the morning.”
He reaches for his gloves. “Now I’d best see to doubling the watch and sending someone for that poor soldier.”
“Thank you. Should I tell the duchess what has transpired, or would you prefer to do so?” It is not a conversation I relish, but neither will I shirk it.
He comes around his desk and busies himself pulling his gloves onto his blunt fingers. “That is not necessary.”
“Surely she should know.”
“She does know. She knew full well when she offered your sisters protection what Pierre was capable of. That’s why she offered them safekeeping. Besides, I am going to double the guard around the palace, and you are going to double the guard around your sisters. We have taken care of the problem. I do not inform her of every tactical decision I make, and this is no different.” He folds his arms and leans against the edge of the desk, considering me as he weighs some inner struggle. “You are not the only one to have an ugly family history, you know,” he says at last.
I am so astounded by his words that I can only blink in response.
He picks up a heavy silver inkpot and begins studying it. “Beast’s family, too, has its skeletons.” While Beast himself has told me of them, I am stunned that Captain Dunois would speak of it. “I do not know how much he has told you—”
“All of it, my lord.”
He nods. “I had hoped so. But there is one thing that Beast does not know yet. I wish to tell you as well, for he will not be happy when he learns of it. Like you”—he glances up from the inkwell long enough to send me a piercing look—“he may try to blame himself or use it to pull away from those he cares about.”
Merde. The clarity with which Captain Dunois sees me is most unsettling.
“It is about Beast’s father.”
“His father?” The word invokes a lifetime of Beast’s pain and fury and anger. A lifetime of his mother’s hatred for being born to her through the rape of a French soldier. “He claimed to have no father.”
“Lord Waroch is dead,” Captain Dunois says quietly. “But the man who sired Beast is not.”
I reach out to steady myself once more against the chair. “Are you certain?” I think of Beast, and the years of ill treatment by his mother, a young boy’s understanding of the unfathomable sins of his father.
Captain Dunois stares at the inkwell morosely. “I knew—know—him, I’m afraid. When he returned from the war, he was not shy about boasting of his exploits, nor of how he treated the lady of the keep he had commandeered—Beast’s mother.”
“My lord, why are you telling me this?”
“I tell you because his father is high up in King Charles’s army and known to frequent the French court. There is a chance Beast will run into him during your time in France. I did not wish him to do so unprepared.”
“Would it not be better for Beast to remain unaware of this?”
Dunois grimaces and sets the inkwell down. “There is a strong family resemblance. I fear that if they meet, it will be obvious to both of them. I don’t want Beast taken by surprise.”
“But why tell me?”
“Because it is the part of himself that Beast hates the most, my lady. The part that kept him from even allowing a woman into his life. If he erects a wall between you when he learns of this, I want you to breach it.”
Our eyes meet in a moment of perfect understanding. “I will not let him cast me away so easily.”
He gives a ghost of a smile, then stands and heads for the door. When he reaches it, he pauses. “The gods set all this in motion years ago, my lady. None of this is your fault,” he says softly. “Not Pierre, not the guard. You must also know this: There is no place Beast would rather be than pursuing those that mean you harm. Relieve yourself of that burden, at least.”
Then he is gone, and I am left struggling to accept both his unexpected trust and the absolution he has so generously given.
* * *
When I return to my chambers, I thank Ismae, Lazare, and Yannic, then dismiss them until morning.
Ismae lingers. “Any word on Beast?”
“No, though Captain Dunois does not think it is time to worry yet.”
“He is likely right.” She bids me good night and follows Lazare out of the room. Yannic pauses in the doorway, his gnarled hand outstretched to give me something.
It is small and round. A black pebble, I think. “Is this one of your lucky ones?” He has them blessed by saints or priests or whomever he can find before using them in his deadly slingshot. “Thank you. It is lovely. Who was this one blessed by?”
He makes a cutting motion at his throat, lolling his head to the side, eyes closed.
“Mortain?”
He shakes his head.
Frowning, I try again. “Balthazaar? Before he left?”
Yannic waggles his hand back and forth. Not wanting to press him further, I close my palm around the pebble. “Thank you.”