The old sailor is at the beach waiting to help pull us ashore. Duval jumps off, then holds his hand out to me. I eye it warily. He raises one sardonic eyebrow. “My cloak?”
Flustered, I shove it at him, then leap from the boat, ignoring the hem of my gown as it drags in the water. He slips the cloak around his shoulders, then begins walking to the stables. “I have only one horse, as I was not counting on company. Do you prefer to ride in front or back?”
Both of those choices are unacceptable to me. “The convent keeps a stable of horses here on the mainland for assignments,” I inform him. “I will use one of those.”
"Excellent. we will make better time that way.”
I turn to the sailor. "Would you please saddle up Nocturne?”
The abbess and I did not discuss this specifically, but surely she does not expect me to ride behind Duval the entire way to Guérande. And even if she does, she is not here to gainsay me. The sailor nods and goes off to collect the horses. I can feel Duval studying me; it makes my skin itch. After a moment, he shakes his head, as if unable to believe the trap that has been sprung upon him. “They will think me a besotted fool.” I shrug and keep my attention fixed on the stables, willing the old sailor to return with our horses as quickly as possible. “If the boot fits, milord . . .”
He snorts. “I am many things, but besotted with you is not one of them.”
Before I can make a further thorn of myself, the old sailor appears leading both our horses, and we busy ourselves making ready for our journey.
Under Duval’s critically observant eye, I become all thumbs, and it takes me longer than it should to secure my satchel behind the saddle. when at last I am done, I lead Nocturne to the mounting block and, with the help of the old sailor, hoist myself into the saddle. Duval is already seated on his horse and waiting.
“Ready?” He does not bother to mask his impatience.
“Yes.” Before the word is halfway out of my mouth, Duval slaps his reins and his mount leaps forward.
Glowering at his back, I reach into the small pouch at my waist, take a pinch of salt, and toss it onto the ground, an offering to Saint Cissonius, the patron saint of crossroads and travelers. Only then do I urge Nocturne to follow.
Duval slows his horse long enough for me to draw alongside him. “Have you ever been to court before?” he asks. “Is there any chance you will be recognized by anyone?”
“No.”
“No? You do not even ask who is in residence at court. How can you be so certain no one there will know you? If you are recognized, it will throw our plans into disarray.”
Stung that he thinks me so witless, I toss my low birth across his path like a challenge. “No one will recognize me, milord, because I am naught but a turnip farmer’s daughter. You may rest assured that none of those in residence in Nantes will have ever seen me before.”
“Guérande,” he corrects. “Anne’s court moved to Guérande in order to escape the plague in Nantes.”
"Even so, I will not be recognized.”
He shoots me a glance out of the corner of his eye. “I thought you were supposed to be the daughter of Death?”
“I am,” I say through clenched teeth. “But I was raised the daughter of a farmer. There was dirt under my fingernails for the first fourteen years of my life. It has most likely seeped into my blood.”
He gives another snort — of derision or disbelief, I cannot tell.
“It seems to me,” he says, “that being sired by one of the old saints puts your lineage into a class all its own, a class as untouchable by the nobility as the nobility is by turnip farmers. Now come, we must reach Quimper by nightfall.” ensuring he has the last word, he puts his heels to his horse and breaks into a
gallop.
It takes me a while to catch up.
We ride all day. In the newly cleared fields, sheaves of wheat hang from a cross, begging for Dea Matrona’s blessing on the harvest. Cattle graze nearby, feasting on the remaining stubble in the ground, one last fattening before slaughter. Indeed, the slaughter of animals for the winter has already begun and I can smell the copper tang of blood in the air.
A few stone cottages are scattered throughout the countryside, squat and stubborn against the encroaching wilderness. Most doors have a polished silver coin nailed to them, an attempt to discourage Mortain from casting His gaze on their households, since it is believed He will go to great lengths to avoid His own reflection. Those that are too poor to afford that small protection hang hazel twigs, in the hope that He will mistake them for the real bones He has come to collect.
The road is empty except for a handful of travelers heading to market in some nearby village. They carry bundles on their backs or push small carts. All of them step aside when they hear our horses coming.