“You talk too much. Lie still and try to heal quickly, will you?” I say, returning to his side with the knife. “We have a long way to go and your condition will slow us down considerably. Indeed, we will likely be captured if you do not get better soon.”
The Beast of Waroch scowls, and I can feel the jailor studying me. I wonder how much he has pieced together from my visit to the dungeon with Julian. “Perhaps you are hiding something?”
Only the truth of who I am. “No, I just prefer to work in silence. However, since you insist—I was trained at the convent in small medicines such as this.”
Disbelief is plain on his face. “This is no small medicine.”
I lay the finely honed blade of my knife along the oozing scab. It parts easily, like a flower opening before the sun. “My brothers were knights as well. They often had injuries such as these that needed to be treated.”
“By their sister?” he asks between clenched teeth.
“We were close.” Also, my father did not keep a physician on staff, and my brothers were too embarrassed to seek out the surgeon of the men-at-arms for the beatings and lashing my father bestowed upon them. “However, now that I have answered your question—”
He snorts. “That was no answer.”
“—you must answer one of mine.” He looks at me cautiously. “Who is your pet gargoyle and how is Count d’Albret’s own jailor more loyal to you than to the count? For not only did he allow you to escape—he helped me.”
Of a sudden, all lightness and good humor disappears from Beast’s face. “Perhaps he did not wish to stay behind and accept d’Albret’s punishment.”
“Perhaps not,” I say, disappointed, for I know that is not the reason, or at least, it is only one part of it.
“What do you know of d’Albret?” Beast asks.
“More than I care to,” I mutter as I place another poultice on his arm to draw out the infection.
“You do well to fear him. Even for someone with your skills, it is not safe to be near the man.”
I fight the urge to laugh in his face for daring to warn me of the dangers d’Albret presents. “You need not worry. I know all about Count d’Albret. Stories circulated throughout his hall faster than the annual plague. Indeed, it was one of the old women’s favorite pastimes, terrorizing us with the tale of d’Albret’s first wife. Have you heard it?” I glance up, my eyes wide and innocent.
He gives a curt shake of his head.
“Oh, la, everyone knows the story of his first wife. Indeed, it has become legend, one told by beleaguered husbands and tired matrons when they wished their wives or young charges to be more pliant. ‘Did I ever tell you the story of Count d’Albret’s first wife, Jeanne?’ they would ask. ‘She thought to escape her wifely duties and fled to her family home, where she begged sanctuary with her brother. Well, her fool brother should have known better than to come between a man and his wife, but he had a soft heart and agreed to harbor her against the cruelty she claimed of her own husband.
“‘But that d’Albret,’ they’d say, often with admiration in their voice, ‘he let no man take what was rightfully his and certainly not some baron from Morbihan. He rode with a full battalion of men straight to the baron’s holding, where he burst through the gates and slaughtered every one of the men-at-arms as they scrambled for their weapons. He rode his horse right into the main hall and killed the baron at his table, and then d’Albret struck down his own wife even as she begged for mercy.’” As I tell the story, I feel those earlier tendrils of hope begin to wither. What was I thinking? There can be no escape from d’Albret. All I have done is delay the inevitable.
“To be certain his point was made,” I continue, “d’Albret killed the baron’s wife and two young sons and the newborn babe she nursed at her breast.” My heart twists painfully at the thought of that babe. “Wives usually did what their husbands asked of them after that tale was told.” I look up to see that Beast’s face is hard as stone. “So yes, I do know what d’Albret is capable of.”
I remove the poultice, relieved to see the swelling has already gone down. Next, I reach for the flask of spirits. “This will sting a bit,” I tell him. It is a lie, for it will burn like fire, but I cannot talk to this man anymore. I know from long experience that hope is but a taunt from the gods, and I hate that somehow this man causes me to feel it.
Beast opens his mouth to speak just as I tilt the flask. “My sister was his sixth wife—” The spirits hit his raw flesh and he rears up on the table, roaring in pain, before finally blacking out.
Chapter Seventeen
SHOCKED, I STARE DOWN AT the unconscious giant before me. His sister was d’Albret’s wife? How can that be? What crazed, tangled web have the gods woven around us?