We make Quimper just after nightfall, the bonfires in the fields lighting the last of the way as the local plowmen celebrate Martinmas. Once we are inside the city, Duval leads us to a small inn where the innkeeper clucks and fusses over us as if Duval is an honored guest. At last, dishes of braised rabbit and mugs of spiced wine are placed in front of us, and then the innkeeper retires to the kitchens. we fall on our meal in silence. Indeed, Duval has not said much since my encounter with Martel’s soul, but I can almost hear the wheels of his mind turning, much like a millstone, grinding down bits of information, until they can fit in some pattern only he can discern.
All this silence is fine with me, as I am as tired as I have ever been, and my backside is bruised from the day’s grueling ride.
when we finish our meal, the innkeeper returns and leads us up the narrow stairs to our rooms. My chamber is next to Duval’s, but after a quick search I find no connecting door, so I relax somewhat. even so, it takes longer than it should for me to fall asleep. I can feel Duval on the other side of the thick wall, the flame of his soul bright and steady and so very different from the sisters with whom I’ve shared my nights with for the last three years.
We are on the road the next morning before daybreak. Once we clear the town, we ride hard and do not stop until noon. In truth, I think Duval would gladly ride straight through, but the horses need the rest.
As do I. However, I will let him think it is the horses he is coddling, not me.
while he tends to them, I stretch my legs and try to work out the stiff muscles in my back. Once our mounts are watered and settled, Duval rifles through his saddlebag and pulls out a small bundle. He tucks it under his arm and comes to stand next to me in the small patch of sunlight I have found.
It galls me that I am painfully aware of every movement he makes, from shrugging his cloak over his shoulder to pulling off his worn leather gloves. His hands fascinate me, and I remember the feel of them against my waist, along my arms. I force my gaze away.
Unaware of the turmoil inside me, Duval unwraps the bundle, which turns out to be a wedge of hard cheese. He breaks it in half, then holds a piece out to me. "Eat.”
with a murmur of thanks, I take the cheese, hating that I must now rely upon him for food, just as I once relied upon my father and had thought to rely on Guillo. I am overcome by a childish desire to throw the cheese back at him and refuse to eat it. But I am no longer a child, and I have a responsibility to my convent, my saint, and my duchess. I take a bite of cheese and vow to arrange for my own provisions at the next inn.
The clearing is quiet except for the faint burbling of the brook the horses have drunk from. The silence feels thick and awkward to me, but any attempt to make small talk seems equally so. wondering if he feels it too, I sneak a glance in his direction and am appalled to find him watching me. we both wrench our eyes away, and even though I am no longer looking at him, every part of me is aware of his proximity, of the faint heat coming off his body in the damp autumn air, of the scent of leather and whatever soap he washed with that morning. I hate that I am conscious of him in this way and I dredge through my heart, trying to find where I’ve hidden all the resentment and suspicion I hold him in. "What did you want with Runnion back at the tavern?” The question springs from my lips, artless and unsubtle.
His forehead wrinkles in thought, as if he is weighing some thorny dilemma. when at last he speaks, it is only to ask a question of his own. "What do you know of the man you killed there?”
I blink in surprise. “It is not my place to know anything of those I kill. I merely carry out Mortain’s orders.”
“And that sits well with you? Not knowing who or why?”
It does, but his question makes me feel lack-witted for not knowing more, for not wanting to know more. “I do not expect you to understand the duty and obedience required of those who serve Mortain,” I say, my voice prim and pinched.
“How does the convent decide whom to kill?” he presses.
I study his face closely, but I cannot tell if he is questioning the convent or just me. “Surely that is the convent’s business, milord, not yours.”
“If I will be sponsoring you at court, I will not be kept in the dark, only to find myself cleaning up bodies and making explanations.”
I raise my chin in annoyance, for in my mind that is exactly the role I have assigned to him. “The abbess will communicate with me through letters, and sometimes — sometimes the saint makes His wishes clear to me directly.”
“How?” His question is sharp, urgent. He is hungry to understand this puzzle.