Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(48)
The boys scramble up the ladder to their rooms, and I start to follow the farmwife as she heads to the kitchen to begin preparing the meal, but she quickly shoos me away. “Those were your knives that pierced two of the brutes. What kind of thanks would it be if I made you cook? Here.” She thrusts a bucket of water at me, then takes a kettle from the hob and adds it to the bucket. “Go have yourself a wash. I’m sure it’ll feel good after being on the road.”
I should be insulted, but I am too grateful to have the opportunity to get clean. I take the bucket of water and go upstairs to the loft so I may take advantage of this unexpected bounty.
The dinner is as satisfying as any feast I have ever eaten. Not only is the goose cooked perfectly, crisp skin and juicy succulent meat, but there is a thick, hearty stew of mutton, leeks, and cabbage, dark brown bread and new cheese, thin red wine and pear cider, as well as baked apples with cream.
The dinner has the air of a party, with the farmer and his wife—Guion and Bette—full of the good cheer that follows a near miss. Even Yannic smiles and nods happily—although perhaps that is simply because his belly is finally full. The farmer’s sons dither between awed hero worship that they are dining with the Beast of Waroch and clumsy attempts to impress him. Or at the very least, to shame the other.
“Anton squealed when the soldiers first arrived,” Jacques says.
Flushing, Anton elbows him hard in the ribs. “Did not. My voice cracked is all.”
Jacques snickers. “From the force of the squeal.”
“Well, at least I didn’t try to use a ham as a weapon. Besides”—he raises his arm and brandishes his purloined dagger—“next time I will be armed and the French will not get off so easily.”
“I do not know that lying dead amid the cow dung in your barn could be called getting off easily,” I point out. Much to my surprise, everyone laughs.
“True enough,” Guion says, raising his cup. Then he sobers. “What is happening with the French, Sir Waroch? Are we at war with them again?”
“It is not good,” Beast says. “Half the duchess’s council has left her side. Marshal Rieux has joined with Count d’Albret, and they hold Nantes against her.
“The French have been looking for any excuse to invade our kingdom and have crossed our borders to pursue that goal.” He turns to me. “Have they taken any cities other than Ancenis?”
“Not that I’ve heard. Nor has d’Albret given up on his plan to force the duchess to marry him.” I turn back to Bette and Guion. “She only narrowly escaped a trap the baron laid for her, thanks in large part to Sir Waroch. That’s how he came by his injuries.”
The farmer and his wife raise their cups to him, which makes him duck his head in embarrassment.
The farmer’s face creases in worry. “So those are our only choices now? To be ruled by the French or by Count d’Albret?”
Bette shudders. “I’ll take the French, I think,” she says, then drains her cup. Interesting that the dark tales of d’Albret have traveled this far.
“We will know more once we reach Rennes,” I say. “The duchess is there with her advisors and they are no doubt forming a plan even as we speak.”
“And I,” Beast says, “I will be rousing the good people of Brittany to her cause. As soon as I can ride out in earnest,” he adds with a grumble.
Young Anton, his face alight with thoughts of valor, raises his knife. “I will fight for the duchess,” he says.
It is all I can do not to sigh. Beast does not even have to ask—peasants are already promising to follow him.
“It may come to that, lad, and if so, the duchess will be glad of your support. Yours, too,” he tells Jacques.
Both boys turn to look at their mother, who is torn between pride that they are willing to fight and dismay that they are old enough to do so. The farmer takes one look at his wife’s face and says, “Enough of this grim talk, eh? Surely a man such as you has a story to entertain us with?”
We spend the rest of the dinner telling stories. Beast has more than a few lively tales of campaigns and skirmishes that cause Anton’s and Jacques’s eyes to glow with promises of glory. It is easy to see that they imagine themselves in his role.
When all the dishes have been picked clean and everyone is stuffed, it is time for the last round of evening chores before bed. Yannic has fallen asleep at the table, so we simply lay him out on the bench to sleep for the night. The clatter of plates and crockery do not cause him to so much as stir.
I find I am surprisingly reluctant to end this evening. I have eaten finer dinners, supped in far more elegant surroundings, and been entertained by far wittier companions. And yet, there is a simple warmth and joy here that is headier than the strongest wine I have ever drunk. Two years ago I would have mocked their simple life. Now I envy it.
“Here, I’ll take those,” Bette says. “You go tend your man and his injuries.”
I want to protest that he is not my man, but instead I thank her and go fix one last round of poultices while Anton and Jacques help Beast back to his place by the fire.
By the time the poultices are ready, everyone else has gone up the stairs to their beds. One of the boys murmurs some last taunt to his brother, which is followed by an oof after the offended party throws something at him.