I catch the gargoyle’s eye and hold up my garrote, letting him know that I will take the captain. He nods his understanding and points to the stable. He will take the first one to come out. The third one is up for grabs—whoever gets to him first. My knife would be quicker, but in the dusk I cannot be certain of a kill strike, and I do not want to risk his calling out a warning.
I wrap the ends of the garrote firmly around my hands and wait. The captain approaches, calling out a greeting. “Hello? You in there. We have need of your hospitality.”
When there is no answer, his hand drifts away from his sword. As he draws closer, a still calm descends over me. When he is within arm’s length, I step quickly from the shadows, wrap the wire around his neck, jam my knee into his kidneys, and pray for strength. My movements are so quick and sure there is not even a whisper or a gurgle. But the man is strong and he flails against me, trying to grab his sword. I lean my body weight into him and jam his hand against the stone wall of the lodge.
The second man emerges from the stable. His eyes widen as he sees his captain and I locked in our deadly embrace. Before he can reach for his sword, there is a soft thwack as the gargoyle’s stone splits his forehead.
But the third guard must have heard something for he comes out of the stable with his crossbow cocked and loaded. I maneuver the struggling captain around so his body can shield mine, then brace myself for the violent bite of the crossbow bolt. There is a faint whisper of sound instead, as if a swift bird has just darted by, then a knife—my own knife—is jutting from the man’s throat.
I look over to find Beast hanging out the window. He is pale as milk and leaning heavily against the sill, but he sends me a grin. “I’ll take the chestnut gelding,” he says, just before his eyes roll up and he crashes to the floor.
Merde. I hope he has not ripped out the stitches.
Once we are back inside, the jailor starts to scuttle over to the fallen Beast. I tell him to leave him be, then grab a blanket from the trestle bed and cover the passed-out giant. Except for the paleness of his face, he looks as if he is sleeping peacefully. I cannot decide if I want to kick him or thank him. It will be impossible to keep him alive if he does not have a care for his wounded body.
I look up to find the little gargoyle watching me, his head cocked as if he is puzzling something out. “Go fetch your master some new clothes from the fallen men,” I tell him. “And weapons. Collect all the weapons they carry. We will have need of them soon enough.”
The little man’s face lights up and he heads outside. “And check their saddlebags for any provisions!” I call after him. I packed only enough for two, and for only three days. I fear we will need twice that much to reach Rennes now. If Ismae were here, she would say that Blessed Mortain had delivered a solution into our waiting hands, but I say I have just grown adept at snatching providence from the jaws of disaster.
I return to the hearth to stoke the fire back to life so that I may prepare yet another batch of poultices. As much as they pain Beast, they are no fun for me, either. My hands are red and raw from the heat and the mud. At least they will not look like a noblewoman’s much longer.
The little man returns carrying a pile of clothing, and I sort through the pickings, looking for the ones that will come the closest to fitting Beast. The soldier that took the knife in the throat is the biggest by far, but now there are bloodstains on his jerkin. Even so, we use the bulk of his clothes, and I remove a jerkin from the next largest soldier. The rest I will use for bandages.
“We will take their horses with us when we leave,” I tell the gargoyle. “Then we can change out the pulling team on the cart, which should allow us to make better time.”
“I will not be hauled around like a bushel of turnips to market.” Beast’s deep voice rumbles from behind us. “I will ride one of the horses.”
Slowly, I turn around. “You’re awake.”
“Aye.”
All my questions about Alyse crowd their way to my tongue and nearly leap out of my mouth. Instead, I ask, “How do you plan to stay in the saddle when you cannot even look out the window without fainting? It is a full twenty leagues between here and Rennes.”
“I did not faint. And being carried in that cart is like being bumped along the road in a sack full of rocks. I will arrive in Rennes with my bones ground to dust. Lash me onto one of the horses instead. That way, even if I lose consciousness, I will not fall off.”
And that is when I finally see a faint resemblance between him and his sister: in the stubborn set of his jaw. “You are not even well enough to sit up, much less ride a horse for the next several days.”
“I am better,” he says obstinately, this time reminding me far too much of my sister Louise when she had lung fever and did not want to miss the Christmas festivities. “See?” He moves his injured arm more freely than before. I kneel next to him—to inspect his wounds more closely, I tell myself. But even as I put the back of my hand to his forehead, my eyes search his, looking for echoes of Alyse. Her lashes were not so dark or thick, but her eyes were very nearly as light a blue. “You still have a fever,” I tell him.