A quarter moon hangs in the sky, shedding just enough light that we can see where to put our feet but not so much as to expose us utterly, even once we step out of the shelter of the trees. We are most vulnerable while crossing the northbound road, but with the countryside occupied by French soldiers, most of the small folk keep to their beds with their doors and windows locked.
There are only eight of us, but still it feels like far too many. I have only ever fought alone or with Beast and Yannic at my side. I already miss the little jailor’s excellent aim and keen timing.
The night has leached all the color from our surroundings so that everything around us is cast in shades of silver and gray and black. The tall trees are but darker shadows and smudges against the sky. The greenlings blend in well with the others, and I am proud that they make no more noise than do de Brosse and his soldiers. Their nervousness and excitement hangs in a thick cloud around them.
We finally come to a stop on a hillock overlooking the bay. A small copse of trees sits atop it, like a crown. We tie our horses up here and I suggest Claude be set to guard them. He accepts the assignment grudgingly, but up here, out of harm’s way, he will be one less person I must watch after. Careful to stay hidden among the trees, we move to the edge of the hill, the hearty scrub grass cushioning our footsteps. Looking down, we can see the small, square rock shelter built for the chain winch. Beyond it, the water of the bay is flat and still and silver, like a mirror. The thick heavy chain spans the width of it, and on the other side, the full forest descends all the way to the water line.
De Brosse motions two of his men forward, and they disappear down the hill to learn how many guard the winch and where they are posted. Behind us, one of the horses blows gently, and I hear Claude move to quiet him.
Although we do not wait more than a few minutes, it feels like hours until the scouts return. They speak quietly to de Brosse. There are at least six soldiers and three archers, possibly more inside. I glance at the marqued Jacques and de Brosse and wonder what Mortain would think if He knew I was planning to thwart His will.
We ignore the footpath and, instead, approach slightly from the south, using a deer track through the bracken.
Bruno and Samson are to stay back, as we will need their strong arms to free the chain. Jacques and I are to slip down and take out as many of the sentries as we can before being noticed. Once the alarm goes up, de Brosse and the other soldiers will leap into the fray and engage the soldiers directly.
Luckily, it is near the end of the Frenchmen’s watch, and they are tired. Perhaps even a little complacent as they lean against the trees, talking quietly among themselves. I shut my ears to their voices. Hearing them talk of their wine or dicing or women will not make them any easier to kill. I lean into Jacques. “You take the one on the left, I’ll take the two on the right.”
He nods, his whole body atremble, and begins creeping toward his target. I pull a crossbow bolt from the frame and stick it in my belt for quick access, then draw my knife.
As silent as one of the shadows, I approach my target. He is listening intently to some story the other fellow is telling him. Closer and closer I creep. When the man throws his head back to laugh, I step silently forward, reach around with my knife, and slit his throat. The soul bursts from him nearly as quickly as the blood that hits the other man in a wide arcing spray. While the second man is still staring in stunned amazement at his dying friend, I slap the bolt in place, lift the crossbow, and fire.
The bolt takes him between the eyes, and he falls backwards. There is a scuffling sound behind me, and I turn to find Jacques and his archer clasped together in some sort of lethal dance. Retrieving my knife, I hurry forward. The archer’s hands are around Jacques’s neck, and the boy’s eyes bulge in fear. Bette’s and Guion’s faces float before me. I brush the vision away, take a step forward, and stab the archer in the back, then force the knife up as high as it will go to hurry his passing.
As his hands fall away from Jacques’s neck and he slumps to the ground, his soul rises from his body like mist from a swamp. I ignore it and focus on Jacques, who is breathing hard and rubbing his neck. Our eyes meet over the dead man, and then Jacques turns and retches into the bushes.
To give him some privacy, I kneel down and clean my knife on the tabard of the Frenchman. Jacques may be embarrassed, but at least he is still alive.