After putting the chicken in the pot, he kneels to start the fire. I have finished chopping the onions, and he steps aside so I can toss them into our stew. As I look up, he smiles—a smile that reaches straight into my chest and squeezes my heart so tightly I can scarce draw breath.
There is so much . . . trust in that smile. Trust and warmth and satisfaction in having found shelter, food. Maybe most impressively, there is no hint of expectation or assumption. The smile pierces my heart like a fisherman’s hook—bearing twin barbs of guilt and regret. Regret that things cannot be easy between us. Regret that we cannot be lovers again or even take pleasure in this simple shelter we have found.
Well, I cannot, anyway. “Peas and onions make for a thin stew,” I say abruptly. “I will go forage to see what the other cottages might offer up.”
Maraud takes a step as if to come with me, but I stop him. “I don’t need help.” Before he can argue, I grab my cloak, throw it around my shoulders, and step outside.
I lift my face to the deepening twilight, letting the soft rain wash the heat from my cheeks. Back in Cognac, my plan seemed so sound. Fair even. Maraud would at least have a chance to plead his case before the king and not simply rot like a forgotten slab of meat.
But I have lost the taste for the bad bargain I made on his behalf. My weakness shames me. What would my aunts say, they who traded men for a night’s lodging, a sack of wheat flour, or a meal without so much as a sigh of regret?
What would my mother say—she who was able to trade her daughter for a sack of coins?
No, I remind myself, not simply a sack of coins, but to give that daughter a better life than hers.
Even so, she didn’t look back. Not once. I know because I waited and watched and prayed that she would, that there would be one last goodbye between us, even if it was silent.
But there wasn’t. She did not look back, nor hesitate. That I should do so now, when the entire convent’s future is at stake, embarrasses me. The better life my mother envisioned for me did not entail becoming soft or weak.
?Chapter 71
fter combing through the cottages and their gardens, I acquire two blankets, a handful of leeks, a wilted cabbage, and two somewhat leathery turnips. Even better, hanging from the ceiling of the last house in the village was both a bundle of rosemary and a chunk of salt pork that someone was in too big a hurry to collect.
It is nearly full dark when I reach our cottage. A thin line of smoke oozes out of the chimney. As I approach the yard, the back of my neck starts to itch, slowing my steps. I quickly glance for any signs of others, but there are no horses, no people—it looks as deserted as when we first arrived.
And yet . . . I roll my shoulders but proceed cautiously, placing my feet so they make no noise. When I step inside the yard, my heart starts to race. No.
Not my heart. Someone else’s.
I drop my bundle of goods, draw my sword with my right hand and my long knife with my left, then hurry to the window with the broken shutter to peer inside.
Three men face Maraud, whose back is to the hearth. They are tall and well armed, their cloaks embellished with braid, their boots of excellent quality. One of them, with a thick mustache, holds Maraud’s own sword at his throat. The other two men’s hands rest on their hilts but have yet to draw them. Their voices are low, the words fast and guttural.
“. . . here first. It is ours.”
“You were nowhere to be seen for the last two hours, so forgive me if I doubt your claim.”
“Doubt all you want, but we will be sleeping here tonight.”
Through the window I can see that the door is not only unlatched, but slightly ajar. I silently back away from the broken shutter. Which of them should I attack first? If I take out the one wielding the sword, can Maraud get to his other weapon in time?
If he can’t, I have seen for myself how good he is at disarming an opponent. What I do not know is how quickly he can disarm two.
By the time I reach the front door, my heart is hammering so fast I can scarcely think. The men are still facing Maraud, their backs to me. One takes a step closer to Maraud. “Who sent you?” I ease my sword arm into the room, pausing long enough to be certain I have not been spotted. Then I suck in my breath and squeeze through the narrow space.
“How long have you been following us?”
Should I kill them? Will Mortain consider this self-defense? The weapons are not pointed at me, but they would be if they knew I was here.
“Did you pick up our trail in Le Blanc?”
I glance at Maraud. To his credit, he does not look at me, but moves his finger—only slightly—at the man talking. My heartbeat kicks into a gallop.
I lunge forward, using the full weight and force of my body to drive my blade through the back of the intruder holding the sword at Maraud’s throat. The momentum shoves him forward, but Maraud is able to leap aside and avoid being skewered. Using my foot for leverage, I yank my weapon from the body as my chest is filled with yet another heartbeat, lurching and careening against my ribs. I pivot, then drive the blade into the second man just as he rushes at me.
The intensity of his own attack drives him into my sword with such force that I must use both hands to hold my position. With his body impaled on my blade, our eyes meet, his widening in surprise before his hand spasms and lets go of the hilt.
I glance over in time to see Maraud drive the spit from the hearth into the remain—
I gasp. A shocking and unfamiliar . . . presence . . . fills me, stretching the contours of my mind and rubbing against my soul.
It is both the most intimate of connections and the most galling violation.
“Lucinda?” Maraud’s voice comes to me as if from far away. “Are you hurt?”
I try to make my mouth answer his question, but a second presence crashes up against me, a thundering wave of new sensations, followed closely by a third.
I look down at my hands, my arms, fearing that I am bursting out of my own skin. A moment passes, then another, and then the intensity, the sense of overfullness, begins to recede. I can breathe again and feel my heart beating.
But I am not alone.
Images fill my head—things my own eyes have never seen, my hands never touched, my heart never felt. Faces. An ocean crossing. A dowager duchess with a steel spine. A fair-haired man.
Souls, I realize, after a long moment. These are the souls of the men we’ve just killed.
As if that very thought agitates them, they writhe within me, already growing cooler than the shocking heat of their initial presence.
Should I thrust them from me? Can I thrust them from me?
Or is this some weight we of Mortain must bear, to forever carry the souls of those we have killed?
Lessons from the convent quickly take over. Three days. That is how long souls linger near their bodies after they die.
I must endure this—this violation, for three days?
No. The knowledge rises up from my very bones.
“Begone!” I say.