And thus sealed her daughter’s death warrant when Alyse could not. What sort of woman promises such things?
“I did not want her to marry him,” he says softly. “I did not trust him, or the fact that five wives had preceded Alyse. But our lady mother was blinded by his title and wealth, and Alyse herself was always eager to keep our mother happy.” His voice trails off, and the silence that follows is so filled with sorrow, I cannot bring myself to break it.
Leaving Beast to his painful memories, I turn my thoughts to our travels. How far west will we need to go to avoid d’Albret’s men? And when should we release the horses with the dead soldiers? I fear we are still too close to the miller and his daughter, and I would not wish the dead to be found anywhere near them.
Even though we cannot see it through the trees, we are drawing near a large stream that, by the sound of it, has swollen to the size of a river with the recent rains. The raging water rushing over the rocks is nearly deafening and I must shout for Beast to hear me. “We must look for a place to cross.”
He nods and we turn our horses in that direction, skirting the thicket until the trees finally thin and we are able to gain passage onto the bank of the stream.
Where soldiers wearing d’Albret’s colors are watering their horses.
Chapter Nineteen
THERE ARE TWELVE MEN ALTOGETHER. Two kneel at the water’s edge, filling their water skins. Another is watering three of the horses, and a fourth is taking a piss by a tree. That is the only thing that saves us with such uneven numbers: that half of them have dismounted and are taking their leisure. That and Beast’s quick reflexes.
Before I have fully registered my surprise, Beast draws his sword and charges into the startled group of men before they can react. He aims straight for the three closest riders. The bank explodes in activity as soldiers scramble for their weapons.
As Beast rides into the fray, my body reacts without conscious thought. I drop my reins and pull my knives from my wrists. The first one strikes one of the mounted soldiers closest to me, catching him in the throat. My second knife takes the next mounted soldier in the eye so that he is thrown backwards just as his horse leaps forward. Some days, like today, my aim and timing is so true it takes my breath away and I feel certain Mortain’s hand guides my own.
As I reach for my crossbow, Beast gives a battle yell that fair curdles my blood. His sword arcs through the air, decapitating one soldier and then slicing a second man near in two on its backstroke. Before Beast can regroup, a third raises his sword, then reels in surprise when a stone from Yannic’s slingshot punches through his teeth, giving Beast time to finish him off.
My crossbow loaded and cocked, I turn to the riders by the stream and pick one off. Two others go for their own crossbows, but not fast enough. The bolt catches one and sends him stumbling into the second man, which gives me time to grab another of my knives and throw it, the silver blade whipping fast and sure across the distance to sink into his eye socket and send him reeling into the stream.
I use the time that buys me to reload my crossbow, but one of the mounted men breaks away from Beast and wheels in my direction before I can get it cocked. I drop the bow and pull the sword from its scabbard, getting it between me and my attacker. “Lady Sybel—” It is only when he hesitates long enough for me to get past his guard and cut off the rest of his words that I realize they have been ordered to take me alive.
Which gives me some small advantage, for I do not care if I kill them. Indeed, I pray that I will.
One of the remaining men is reloading his crossbow, which is aimed right for me. I am out of knives, and Beast is too far away to help. He shouts, drawing the man’s attention, and then I watch open-mouthed as Beast hurls his sword toward him.
I hold my breath as it spins through the air. The hilt catches the soldier full in the face, stunning rather than killing him. But it is enough to give the charging Beast time—he draws his ax, surges forward, and delivers a sickening blow to the soldier’s head. Yannic finishes off the last two of them with well-slung rocks.
The stream’s bank is awash in departing souls, shocking in their chillness, as if winter had suddenly returned. Some rush upward, eager to flee the carnage, even though it can no longer harm them. Others hover, like desolate children, lost, adrift, not sure they understand what has just happened.
It sickens me that I somehow manage to feel sympathy for them. To chase the unwelcome feelings away, I whirl around to rail at Beast. “What in the names of the Nine Saints was that? Throwing your sword? Is that some special trick of Saint Camulos?”