Chapter Fourteen
TO HIS CREDIT, BUT FOR a faint oomph as the air is forced from his lungs, he gives no cry of surprise or any other sound that might give us away. For one, two, three long heartbeats, I stare down at him.
The darkness does not allow me to see him clearly, so I am left mostly with impressions, and they are not overly comforting. A strong arched nose, a square jaw, and dark eyes beneath dark brows studying me just as intently as I study him.
After a long moment of silence, there comes a creak of leather and a faint jingle of well-oiled chain mail as he rises to his feet. “A simple ‘Thank you for the rescue’ would have sufficed.”
I step back to give him room to rise but also to put additional distance between us. “Except I had no need of rescuing.” I keep my voice pitched low like his, so as not to risk its carrying on the wind. “Indeed, your attempt to help nearly gave me away.”
“It was not I who nearly gave you away, but that hair of yours. It fair shines like a beacon in the moonlight.”
Annoyed, I reach up, grasp the hood of my cloak, and yank it over my head. “There. The threat has passed. You may be on your way.”
“You are wrong if you think the threat has passed. The hunt will roam the area until dawn and could easily double back this way. You will not be safe until the sun is up.”
“What have I to fear? They are not hunting me.”
“Aren’t they, demoiselle?” He takes a step closer and I force myself not to take a step back. “Can you be so very certain of that?”
I do not try to hide my growing annoyance. “Who are they? What manner of men hunt in such a way at night? Have French soldiers landed on our coast?”
“They are not French soldiers.”
I do not know him well enough to tell if that is a smile in his voice, but for some reason I think that it is, which rankles me. It was not so very foolish a suggestion. Before I can come up with something to say to put him in his place, he asks, “Where are you traveling that you must be out on the road so late at night?”
I can think of no reason not to tell him. “Guérande. I have family there. And what of yourself?”
“I am traveling east, along the same road to Guérande. You are cold,” he says. There is a crunch of leaves as he takes another step toward me.
I cross my arms so that the daggers at my wrists are within easy reach. “Yes, well, it is winter and the nights are cold.”
“You cannot risk building a fire. The light and heat will call the hunt back this way.”
“You will be pleased to learn I have no intention of doing anything so foolish.”
“How, then, do you plan to keep warm through the night?”
Gods’ wounds! Could he be any less subtle? Sister Beatriz warned us often of men of his ilk. “Shall I guess at what you will suggest? You think we should close this distance between us so we may share our body heat, no?”
“We would not be the first to do so,” he says.
While I have spent many an hour wondering what it would feel like to lay pressed close against a man, all that curiosity has fled under the weight of my current predicament. I reach openly for my knives, letting my sleeves ride up so that the handles of my daggers show. “I think I will take my chances with the cold, for I am no lightskirt to warm your bedroll. If you attempt such a thing, you will find only the kiss of sharp steel to greet you.”
“I have no intention of forcing you.” He sounds faintly aggrieved. “I wanted only to point out that two are stronger than one and more able to guard against the unexpected, that is all.”
“You would make your camp elsewhere if I ask it of you?” I say flatly, making no attempt to keep the disbelief from my voice.
“No,” he says, and it is all I can do not to crow, but he continues before I can speak. “They will double back at least once before dawn. I cannot in good conscience leave you to fend for yourself until then.”
“I do not need your help. I am well able to defend myself.”
His head tilts to the side. “What manner of maid are you,” he muses, “that you can defend yourself against an entire hunting party? Not to mention heave a man nearly twice your size over your shoulder?”
I open my mouth to proudly tell him of my lineage and use the reputation of Death’s handmaidens to keep him from attempting any mischief, but then hesitate. I have no earthly idea who he is. And as strong and skilled as I am, he is at least twice so, for all that I was able to toss him over my shoulder. He will not be caught off-guard so easily again. I have no idea if Mortain’s name will even be known to him, or known in such a way that he would take it as a deterrent. “I am someone who was raised to be the equal of any man and know well how to defend myself.”
“Against a horde of fourscore or more?”
As many as that? I think, somewhat dismayed. “Of course not,” I snap. “No man can defend against that many.”
He leans back against the trunk of the tree and folds his arms across his chest. I cannot help but remember the rock-hardness of that same chest pressing into my back but moments ago. “Not even if that man is one of their own and therefore has the power to protect you?”
He is one of them? “Why would you do that? Protect me?”
He shrugs. “Let us just say I believe I know the manner of your upbringing and why you claim to be a match for any man. I have a . . . debt I owe to those who raised you, and I would pay some small part of it by seeing you safe.”
His confession robs me of speech and all I can do is gape at him like a caught fish. Who is he that he would owe the convent such a debt? And how did he guess who I was? But I let none of my confusion show on my face. “What manner of men maraud through the countryside eager to do others harm? Surely there are other, better, targets for them to fight. I hear we are recently overrun with French troops. I would suggest they start with them.”
He narrows his eyes, studying me anew. “How do you not know the nature of the hellequin’s hunt? Have you sprouted from the earth wholly formed, like some miraculous cabbage?”
There is a faint clink of chain mail as he leans forward, eager to impress upon me the seriousness of the situation. “For that is who will be pursuing you if you do not come with me. Hellequin’s hunt.”
A sharp ribbon of unease snakes along my spine, and I must work hard to put a note of disdain in my voice, lest it tremble instead. “You must truly think me wool-witted to believe that, for they are otherworldly creatures, not fashioned of bone and blood. They ride steeds of smoke and moonlight, not the pounding horseflesh that horde was riding.”
“Did they appear wraithlike to you? Did the force of their horses’ hooves sound unearthly?”
“No,” I say, my mind scrambling furiously. “They did not.” The ribbon of unease turns into a cold trickle of fear as all of the nuns’ scoldings and warnings come back to me. Who is to say the nuns’ tales of the hellequin hunting down those who dare to defy Mortain are not real as well? Ismae’s mention of the hellequin that appeared at the Yuletide festivities rises up in my mind.
Which means they could, in truth, be hunting me.
Could my absence at the convent already have been noted? Or in leaving, have I broken some sacred binding that has called the hunt upon me? And if I have, are they to return me to the convent or simply to hunt me down?
Almost as if my thoughts have called the hunt back, I feel a distant rumble that begins in the ground beneath my feet. I glance accusingly at the stranger. “I cry foul,” I say softly.
He gives a single shake of his head as he pushes away from the tree. “I did not call them.” He turns to peer out into the darkness, as if judging their distance. “But you’d best decide what to do swiftly.”
“What are my choices?”
His head swivels around and he pierces me with his black gaze. “Come with me and allow me to protect you from the others, or be hunted.”
“Why do you care what happens to me?”
“Let us just say that I have a good idea what awaits you out there on the open road alone, and I am not certain that you do. And remember”—he flashes a grin that could only be described as morose—“I am a hellequin. I am hunting for redemption as much as for prey. Perhaps saving you will bring me closer to that end. Besides, we are traveling in the same direction.”
In games of politics and maneuvering, Sister Eonette has always claimed it is best to keep one’s enemies close. If the hellequin are really such a threat, then it seems wise to do as he suggests and ride into their midst, keeping my true identity hidden from him, just as he tries to hide me from the hunt. Then, once I have become a part of their routine and earned some small measure of their trust, I can slip away when the opportunity presents itself.
He cocks his ear, listening, then holds out his hand to me. “Now, unless you wish to be caught . . .”
“Very well.” I ignore his hand and turn to pick up my bedroll. While I hastily roll it up, the stranger plucks my saddle from the ground with no more effort than plucking a flower from a bush, then settles it onto Fortuna’s back. She stomps briefly in unease, her ears twitching nervously, before she calms under his touch.
The sound of the approaching riders grows louder, and my heartbeat starts to match the pounding of their hoofbeats.
“We must hurry,” he says.
I slip my quiver over my shoulder, then grab my bow. “I am only waiting for you to get out of my way so I may mount,” I tell him. It is not wholly true, but it gives me some small sense of being in control of a rapidly crumbling situation.
He lifts one mocking brow, then steps away from Fortuna. I ignore his cupped hands and mount without his help, another small but important declaration of how I intend our relationship to progress. Fortuna catches the scent of the approaching riders just then and tosses her head. Before I can ask him what he plans to ride—he is not riding with me on Fortuna!—he moves to the edge of the copse, where his own mount is tied to a tree. He leaps gracefully onto his horse, then wheels the demented-looking beast toward me. In truth, the horse looks as if he has ridden straight from the Underworld itself. His eyes are wild, and his nostrils wide, as if he is taking in all the scents of the night around him. His neck arches proudly and he paws at the ground, eager to be on his way.
And then they are upon us: one of the great horses breaks through the edge of trees surrounding our clearing. Before I can react, the stranger reaches out and grabs my reins. I do not even have time to protest before the jolt forward forces me to grab hold of my saddle lest I tumble off, then both his horse and Fortuna leap forward as the rest of the riders emerge from the trees and surround us. Shadowy black hounds nearly as big as ponies lope along the edges of the pack.
The galloping horses are an unholy sight that raises goose flesh along my arms. They are the color of midnight with churning hooves, their lips and nostrils seeming to glow red with their efforts. They engulf us like a river, swirling around us like water around a boat. We join them, causing barely a ripple.
The riders are as unsettling as their horses. Some wear hooded cloaks, so I cannot see their features. Others are garbed in dark chain mail and boiled leather. One rider has spikes on his vambraces, and another wears a bandolier of knives across his chest. I have an impression of dark eyes and unshaven faces that are fierce with the thrill of the hunt. They do not react to my joining their ranks other than to shift slightly to make room for Fortuna.
I do not know how long we ride—hours, it seems, although time has taken on an almost ghostly form so it might have been only minutes that passed. Every once in a while, the group breaks into four sections and appears to quarter the countryside, looking for prey.
I cannot help but be grateful that they are not hunting me. Or if they are, that they do not yet know it.