Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(44)

She looks at me, her eyes wild with barely checked terror, then shakes her head no.

But I know it for a lie, even if she does not. Those men have destroyed her sense of safety for months—possibly years—to come. Unable to stop myself, I reach out and grip her shoulder. “It was not your fault,” I whisper fiercely. “You and your father did nothing to deserve this except be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was not a punishment from God nor any of His saints—it was simply brutish thugs who happened upon you.”

Something in her frightened eyes shifts slightly, and I can see her grasp my words like a drowning man grabs a rope. I nod, then turn to retrieve my crossbow bolts.

We do not tarry long. Between Yannic and the miller and myself, we hoist the three dead bodies back onto their horses, and take the horses with us when we go.

“We will have to veer farther west if we wish to avoid d’Albret’s men,” I tell Beast as we ride away.

Beast nods in agreement, then grins. “I’ve never met a lady who enjoys her work as much as I enjoy mine.”

“My work?”

“Killing. Assassin-ing.”

“What are you implying?”

He looks puzzled at the anger in my voice. “That you are very good at what you do. It was a compliment, nothing more.”

Of course, he would mean it as a compliment. “Just how many other lady assassins have you met?”

“Other than you? Only Ismae. And she seemed to approach her duty with more earnestness than true joy, whereas you come alive with a knife in your hand.”

Hotly uncomfortable with his assessment, I fall silent.

Do I enjoy killing? Is it the act itself that brings me joy? Or do I embrace the sense of higher purpose it gives me?

Or do I simply enjoy having something at which I excel, as there are few enough skills that I possess?

However, if I do enjoy killing, how does that make me any different from d’Albret?

It is only Mortain—His guidance and blessing that separates us. And I have rejected that.

But Beast kills as well, efficiently and expertly, and does not seem tainted by the same darkness that colors d’Albret and myself. I have never seen anyone kill so cheerfully or eagerly, and yet he is light of heart. “How did you come to serve your god?” I ask, breaking a long silence.

Beast grows quiet, grim even. Just when I have decided that he is not going to answer, he speaks. “It is said that when a man rapes a woman while the battle lust is still upon him, any child that results belongs to Saint Camulos. I was such a babe. My lady mother was assaulted by a soldier while her own husband was off fighting against King Charles.”

“And yet she loved you and raised you as any of her other children?” I ask, somewhat in awe of her charitable nature.

Beast snorts out a laugh. “Saints, no! She tried to drown me twice and smother me once before I was one year old.” He falls silent. “It was Alyse who saved me, usually toddling in at just the right moment.”

“You remember that far back?”

“No, my lady mother was wont to throw it in my face at every opportunity. She was afraid of explaining my presence to her lord husband, but in the end, he never returned—he was killed on the fields of Gascony, pierced through with a lance.

“By then, I was nearly two years old, and little Alyse had grown fond of me. She rarely left my side in those years. I think she was afraid of what would happen to me if she did.” He grows quiet for a long moment before speaking again. “I owe Alyse my very life, and I failed her.”

I dare to ask the question that has been haunting me since I learned that Alyse was his sister. “Why did your mother wish for the marriage? Why did d’Albret, for that matter?”

“D’Albret pressed for the marriage because part of Alyse’s dower lands abutted one of his lesser holdings that he wished to expand. And she was young and healthy and able to bear him many sons. Or so our lady mother promised him.”

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.