Never again. The words rattle around in my head like two stones in a bucket.
But that also means I cannot go back—cannot be sent back—for even the cold-hearted abbess will recognize how impossible it would be for me to earn d’Albret’s trust again.
Which means . . . I have escaped.
I try to think. In all my seventeen years, have I ever known anything—anyone—to escape d’Albret? Not his wives, nor his children, nor his enemies. Only the duchess, and she did so twice, once in Guérande and the second time almost a fortnight ago.
While it makes sense that the gods would bestir themselves for the duchess, I cannot believe they would bestir themselves for me. They never have before.
Escape. The word is as ripe and seductive as summer’s first fruit, so much so that I must shy away from it and remind myself that hope is but the god’s way of mocking us, nothing more.
I give myself a moment, then another, to compose myself, then turn to the jailor beside me. I pretend I have not stormed and railed and fumed for the last mile and ask calmly, “How is our charge?”
Relief crosses his wrinkled little face, and he gives an enthusiastic nod of his head. I glance over my shoulder, uncertain the knight’s condition warrants such enthusiasm, but say nothing. With all my other options scuttled, it seems my best course of action is to get the knight to Rennes. Alive, if possible.
And with that thought comes a reminder. None of it will matter a whit if d’Albret finds us, for even now he is likely gathering forces for pursuit. Luckily, all of his soldiers will be groggy and ill for a few more hours yet, and I do not think he will ride out himself.
Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crows. Soon, sleepy farmers will stumble out of their cottages and begin tilling their fields. And see us. We cannot risk that. “We must find shelter,” I tell the jailor.
He nods sagely, as if he has already thought of this.
“There will be pursuit,” I warn him. “So our shelter needs to be well hidden from the road.” What has taken us all night to travel could be covered in a matter of hours by one of my father’s men on a swift strong horse.
The jailor nods again, points to a copse of trees in the distance, then steers the cart in that direction.
I study his crooked, lined face. Can I trust him? For the hundredth time I wonder at the strange relationship between the knight and his jailor. Does the Beast of Waroch command courage and loyalty even from those who guard him? For surely my father assigned only the most loyal of his men to tend to his valuable prisoner, and yet the jailor not only did not try to prevent our escape but joined us.
Hopefully, he has not risked so much and come so far only to betray us now.
Just as true dawn breaks, we come in sight of an old stone lodge. It is far from the main road—indeed, from any road at all, I realize as the cart bumps over a rock—and well secluded in a patch of woods. The gargoyle pulls the cart to a halt and waits just inside the trees. It is a small manor house built of gray stone and, by all appearances, deserted. There is no activity in the courtyard, no scratching chickens or bleating goats, and no smoke rises from the chimney. It is almost too much to hope for, that this hidden place is empty and waiting for us. Still not completely sure of the jailor’s motives, I jerk my head toward the house. “Go see if anyone is inside.”
His quick nod of compliance assures me somewhat that this is no trap. Still, someone must scout the place out to be certain it is clear. Until the old man has proven himself to be fully trustworthy, he may as well be the one to do it.
As he looks around, I steer the cart to the back of the lodge and fret once more over my situation. Should I attempt to return to Nantes and finish my self-appointed task? Once I am committed to a purpose, it is no easy thing for me to walk away.
I could claim Beast abducted me.
Except they know how weak and wounded he was, and my involvement is the only explanation for the drugged guards. I fear my hand in this is plain to see.
Perhaps, a small voice inside me whispers, Mortain has simply answered your prayers. Can it not be as simple as that? But of course, nothing—nothing—has ever been simple.
Our shelter is one of the late duke’s lesser lodges, the sort he would retreat to with a handful of his most trusted men or one of his least favorite mistresses. It is perfect for our purposes: sturdy and hidden from the casual passerby. Most important, I have never heard d’Albret or any of his men speak of it, which gives me some hope that they do not know it exists.