Abruptly, I turn away from him and begin to climb the rope. Although I have received only half answers from him, I have learned what I truly needed to know. He will be useful to me.
Who are you? he first asked me nearly a month ago. The more time I spend in the darkness, the more I know the answer to that question. Down here I am exactly who I was raised to be. I do not need to hide who I am or what I think, nor watch my words nor keep my strength in check.
It is the most alive I have felt in five long years.
?Chapter 32
Sybella
e are a quiet, heartbroken party when we arrive at Angers, bearing Captain Dunois’s body on a stretcher fashioned out of spears and a spare cloak, along with the rest of our wounded and dead. A rider was sent ahead to alert our host to our misfortune. Upon our arrival, we are greeted by the Duke of Bourbon himself. I am relieved to learn that the regent is not in residence. I do not think I could contain myself around her right now. Why did she choose not to accompany us? Did she know that nearly every one of the men she left us would die? Plan it, even?
The duke, however, is all solicitousness and sorrow. He knew Captain Dunois from his many years in France and thought highly of him. His grief is comforting, as if, for all our differences, Frenchmen and Bretons alike can agree on what a tragedy it is to lose this great man.
We are shown to our rooms to refresh ourselves. As soon as the seneschal has excused himself and closed the door, the duchess whirls around. “Go,” she tells me. “Go to the chapel and use your god’s skills to find out what happened to Captain Dunois. I would see those who killed him punished.” Her eyes glint with a temper and vengefulness I have not seen before. But beneath the fury is a deep, bruising grief that has left her skin ashen and purple smudges beneath her eyes.
“But of course, Your Grace. I would love to do precisely that.”
“Do you need Heloise to help you?”
I blink a moment, then turn to look at the Brigantian nun who is also one of the duchess’s attendants. “Thank you, but my work is best done alone.” I pause, thinking to check first on Louise and Charlotte, but Tephanie has already anticipated that and is waving me away.
* * *
None of the castle servants pays any attention to my passing, which leads me to believe we have been granted every courtesy by the duke. I ask directions twice, but it does not attract any notice.
There are no attendants at the chapel door when I arrive. Upon entering, I find only Beast standing vigil over the body. Hearing my footsteps, he lifts his head, his face set in hard, grim lines. It is a face filled with anger at what has transpired, but with anguish as well. When I reach him, I place my hand on his cheek to let him know I am aware how big a hole this loss has created. “Where are the rest of the dead?” I ask softly.
“In the servant’s chapel.”
“And the priest?”
“I told him I wished to be alone with the body. He did not see fit to argue.”
“Wise man.”
We stare at each other a long moment, and then he takes a step back, his hands coming up to scrub at his face. “Saints teeth, Sybella! You scared ten years off my life back there.” Even though he has not raised his voice, the force of his words feels like a small windstorm.
“And you scared nearly twenty off of mine, riding with a handful of men into a force nearly five times your numbers.”
His hands snake out and grab my head, pulling me close for an urgent kiss—a kiss filled with his fear and the terror he felt on my behalf. The kiss softens, allowing us both to take comfort from it. Slowly, he pulls away and rests his forehead on mine. “Your fighting is a wonder to behold. A thing of terrible beauty. No one can see that and doubt you are an instrument of the gods.” His pale blue eyes are alive with intensity.
“It is the same with you,” I whisper. “You become lit from within by some invisible light so that every movement, every stroke is full of grace.”
He draws me into his arms and holds me fiercely. “Some would call it brutality,” he murmurs.
“And they would be fools.”
Because I wish to stay like this forever, I force my head from his shoulder. “The duchess asked me to examine Captain Dunois to look for answers.”
With a brusque nod, he lets me go. “I assumed you would. I’ll stand guard while you do.”
I turn to the body. For that is how I must think of it—the body. Not Captain Dunois, the man whose gruff courage and strategic skill had brought us through so much. Not as the man who had been far more father to Beast than his own. Not as the man who was one of the first to believe me, respect me, and value both my ideas and the sum of who I am.
A howl of deep, piercing grief threatens to escape, but I ruthlessly shove it back down, afraid the force of it will shatter me. There is no time for grieving. I must be every bit the daughter of Mortain, a ruthless student of death, in order to find out what has happened and who has taken this man from our midst too soon.
As if sensing how hard this will be for me, Dunois’s soul lies hidden and dormant. Or mayhap he is embarrassed by the examination his body must endure. Begging his soul’s forgiveness, I remove each item of his clothing, one by one, sniffing them carefully for any traces of poison. Even though he is over fifty, he is still thick with muscle, his body well seasoned with scars from his many battles. It takes over an hour to search among his old, healed wounds for signs of any new ones, but there are no scratches or punctures or any manner in which poison might have been introduced.
“Nothing.” My voice is harsh in the thick silence of the chapel. “There are no new wounds. And while some poisons mimic the sort of fit he had, they are not something that can simply be breathed in. They have to have been administered somehow.”
“Is it possible he simply died of apoplexy?” Beast’s voice is little more than a low grumble. In anyone else I would think it out of respect for both the dead and the church we occupy, but I suspect that for him he is afraid if he speaks too loudly, his voice will betray his emotions.
“What makes you ask that?”
He shrugs. “If he was not struck or shot by an arrow and there are no signs of poison, it is all that is left.”
I consider the possibility. “He has been working round the clock of late, and barely stopped to sleep or eat. Nor is he a young man.” I feel a chill against my ribs, as if some ghostly finger has poked me for calling him old. “But the timing of his death with the ambush is too convenient.”
Beast rubs his face. “I agree.”