Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(53)
Malina returns just then, bringing a halt to our conversation. She and I tend Beast’s wounds while he lies back and pretends he is dozing, but his jaw clenches as we work on him. By the time we are done, supper is ready, and, much to my surprise, we are invited to partake of it. It seems we are to be treated as guests rather than prisoners, then. Wishing to capitalize on this, I take one of the cheeses and the two roast chickens that Bette gave us to contribute to the meal.
The charbonneries’ eyes widen with pleasure and the unexpected bounty, and when I sit down to eat, I can see why. Dinner is some sort of mash—acorn, I think. As I take a bite, I cannot help but remember how I called the convent’s food pig slop and how Sister Thomine threatened to force it down my gullet.
A lump forms in my throat, one that has nothing to do with the mash and everything to do with a sense of deep homesickness, for as much as I rebelled against the convent, it was the safest place I have ever lived. I miss Ismae and Annith more than I ever thought possible.
Yannic shovels his gruel into his silent gob steadily, and, beside me, Beast eats with great gusto. “You like it?” I ask softly.
“No. But I do not wish to insult their hospitality.” Since these words are delivered with a pointed look to my own barely touched portion, I turn my attention to eating it while it is still warm.
When dinner is over, the charbonnerie linger around the fire. A few murmur among themselves, but most of them simply stare at us. One of the boys brings out a small wooden flute and begins piping a soft, haunting melody. Erwan leans back against a rock, folds his arms, and studies us in the flickering light. “Tell us of this war with the French,” he says.
Beast takes a sip of whatever spirit it is they have given us. Fermented dew collected from the trees, most likely. “Our young duchess is besieged from within and without. Upon the duchess’s father’s death, the French tried to declare her their ward. Of course, she laughed in their long-nosed faces.” He takes another swig. “But they do not give up, those French. They know that she is young and untried, and as yet unwed. They see our country as ripe for the plucking and are looking for any chance to do just that.”
Erwan appears unmoved. “What is in it for us if we fight?”
“Freedom from French rule,” Beast says simply. But it is clear these cautious men will need more to convince them than that.
“Your way of life,” I add, drawing their eyes to me. “We Bretons at least respect your right to the wildwood. The French will not, and they will claim all the forests and the wood in it as their own. You will be forced to pay dearly for what you now have for free.”
Erwan studies us in silence a moment longer, then barks out a harsh laugh and leans forward to put his arms on his knees. “Freedom, you say? Freedom to scavenge in the forest, reviled by all? Freedom to sell our wares to people who would like to pretend that we do not exist and that their charcoal is left on their doorsteps by some korrigan of hearth tales?”
Beast meets his gaze, unblinking. “The French will not honor your right to the old ways, your right of woodage and coppings. In France, men must pay hard coin for such rights; they do not come to them by birth. And while yours is not an easy life, it was always my understanding that you chose it, chose to follow your god into this exile.”
The other men shift restlessly on their seats and Erwan looks away from Beast to stare deep into the flames. “Choice. That is a funny word. Our father’s father’s father chose for us, did he not? And how long must we live with that choice?” He turns and looks to the pile of sprawling children asleep under their blankets. “And how long must they?” he asks, his voice softening.
“What would you wish different?” I ask.
He looks surprised by the question, but before he can answer, Malina does. “To not have people whisper when we walk by; to not have them make the sign against evil when they think we are not looking; to not be chased from villages or markets when all we wish to do is buy combs for our daughters’ hair or new wheels for our carts.” She looks at me, defiant, her head held high.
“Respect,” I say. “You want respect and to not be reviled.”
Our eyes meet in a moment of perfect understanding, then she nods. “Exactly so.”
“Perhaps if the people saw you take up the duchess’s—and the country’s—cause, they would regard you in a different light,” Beast suggests.
“Most likely not,” the dour Graelon says. “And we’ll have lost our lives for nothing.”
“Every action has some measure of risk,” Beast points out. “You could lose good men simply by doing nothing.” He gestures to those gathered around the fire, with their missing limbs and ruined faces, injuries received while tending the charcoal pits.
“Tell me of the Dark Matrona,” I say softly, giving the truth of Beast’s words time to simmer and do its work. “For I have heard very little of Her.”
Erwan snorts. “That is because the Church does not accept Her.”
Malina takes up the story. “It is said that when Dea Matrona and the rest of the Nine are not strong enough to answer your prayers, it is time to turn to the Dark Mother, for She is a fierce and loving god who especially favors the fallen, the scarred, the wounded, and the castoffs.
“She rules over those places where life rises up out of darkness and decay. The first green shoot in a forest devastated by fire, the pile of dead ash that holds a single red ember, the small creatures that are born in the midden heap.