There is a murmur of consensus among the charbonnerie, then an ancient man creaks to his feet and draws near the fire. His gnarled, trembling hands untie a pouch at his waist and he extracts a big, misshapen brown lump. At first I think it is an enormous dark mushroom, but when he draws closer to the fire, I can see it is an oak gall.
The old man places it carefully on one of the rocks that circle the fire, then removes a small ax that hangs from his waist. He closes his eyes and holds the ax over the fire, his lips murmuring in some old language I do not understand. The rest of the charbonnerie murmur with him. When they stop their murmuring, the old man takes the ax and, with surprising strength, brings it down to break open the oak gall. Because I am close, I can see a small white grub wiggling in the wreckage. After a moment, the grub spreads its wings—no grub, then—and flies.
The old man looks up to the waiting charbonnerie. “The Dark Mother says we fight.”
And so it is settled.
We ride out at dawn’s light, accompanied by a full cadre of charbonnerie. As luck would have it, they have a load of charcoal to bring to a blacksmith in Rennes. I have disguised myself as one of their women, and Beast sits in the back of one of the carts and plays the simpleton. Yannic fits right in.
Not even d’Albret, with all his suspicion and distrust, would think to look for us here.
Chapter Twenty-Three
FOR ALL HIS EARLIER PROTESTS that he would be pummeled to pulp if he rode in a wagon, Beast sleeps the entire way to Rennes laid out in the back of one of the charbonnerie’s three carts. Twice d’Albret’s scouts pass us on the road, and both times they scarcely glance at the charbonnerie, let alone think to look for us among them. And best of all, by the time we come in sight of the city walls, Beast is better, whether due to all the rest or to the herbs Malina provided, I am not sure.
The cathedral bells are ringing out the call to late-afternoon prayers as we approach the city gate. Although I do not know all of d’Albret’s men by sight, I study the sentries and everyone in the crowd at the city gates. I ignore the slouching of the peasant and the confident stride of the city guard; I stare past the clothes they wear and study their faces, for if I can don a disguise, so can they.
I cannot believe we have done the impossible. Not only have we escaped d’Albret, but we have evaded recapture as well, and that is hard to wrap my mind around.
Beast point-blank refuses to be hauled into the city with a load of charcoal, so we pause long enough to get him up on a horse. A hum of urgency buzzes in my head like a swarm of gnats, and there is an itching between my shoulder blades that is nearly unbearable. Four men and much grunting later, the great lummox is astride his mount. Soon, I promise myself. Soon he will no longer be my responsibility but someone else’s—someone far more capable than I. The thought does not cheer me as much as it once did.
As our small group makes ready to approach the gates, I try not to fidget. We are heavily covered in black dust from the charcoal-burners and their wares, which aids our disguise somewhat, but nothing can disguise Beast’s size or bearing. “Slouch a bit,” I tell him.
He looks at me quizzically, but honors my request, bringing his shoulders forward and bowing his spine so that he slumps in his saddle. “Why?” he asks.
“You are difficult to hide, and the longer we keep your arrival secret, the better. It would be wise to prevent d’Albret and his forces from knowing we are in Rennes for as long as possible.”
And then we are at the gatehouse. Erwan informs the soldiers of his charcoal deliveries and is waved through. One of the soldiers eyes Beast warily, but the truth is, between the knight’s time on the road and his stay in the dungeon, not to mention the grievous injuries he still bears, it is not difficult for him to look like a giant simpleton.
I breathe a hearty sigh of relief once we are inside the city. Indeed, every one of my muscles seems to unclench now that there are twelve-foot-thick walls, twenty leagues, and an entire city garrison between us and d’Albret.
Much like my own mood, the city’s borders on jubilant, drunk on its own importance of being the duchess’s place of refuge, just as I am nearly drunk with the thrill of completing my mission. But there is caution here as well, in the way the people going about their business glance at newcomers, assessing.