Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(88)
Toward late afternoon, we reach a small forested area—a secluded place the charbonnerie scouts have picked out for us. The soldiers do not like it and grumble, for it is a dark, primordial tangle of trees and underbrush. Indeed, the trees here are so very large, their roots have burst from the ground and run along the surface, like the ancient bones of the earth itself. Although I cannot say why, I feel at ease in this place, as if the presence of Dea Matrona is strong. No. Not Dea Matrona, but the Dark Mother. For even though I do not worship Her, I can feel Her presence in the rich loam and leaf mold beneath our feet, and in the quiet rotting of the fallen logs. Perhaps that is what makes the soldiers uneasy.
Our party has grown throughout our journey, as if Beast is some mad piper whose tune calls eager young men who wish to fight at his side. In addition to the men-at-arms and original charbonnerie, we have been joined by a dozen more of the charcoal-burners, two blacksmiths, a handful of woodcutters and crofters, and three burly farmers’ sons. One of whom is Jacques, Guion and Bette’s elder son.
Soon, the clearing is full of the bustle and industry of nearly fifty people making camp ready for the coming night. I feel twitchy in my own skin, as if the very sap that runs through the trees is now running through my veins, bringing me alive after a cold, hard winter.
Wishing for something to do, I offer to help Malina prepare dinner, but she shoos me away. “You are a lady, and an assassin besides. You do not belong with the soup pot.”
I turn and survey the camp. Some of the charbonnerie are busily erecting rough tents in the clearing; others are collecting water from a nearby stream so that the tired horses may drink. The soldiers have gone off hunting for our dinner, and even the greenlings have been sent to gather firewood. Since I refuse to sit idly by while others do the work, I snag one of the slings for gathering wood and head into the trees.
Moving among the trees calms me. In that quiet and stillness, I find myself content, a feeling I barely recognize. I like this life—the days full of hard riding and the evenings filled with chores and necessities, with little time left for idle pleasures or twisted games.
Mayhap I can simply ride at Beast’s side as he travels throughout the kingdom raising an army to the duchess’s cause. That thought has me smiling, for it is a fanciful notion that I would not dare indulge in were I not out here alone with no one to see it.
But am I alone? Voices and some strange cracking noises reach my ears. I move forward cautiously, careful not to step on any dried leaves or twigs that might give me away.
I come upon a clearing and find it is only the boys from the camp who have paused in their wood collecting. They have taken two branches and are playing at sword fighting. They are strong boys, but their movements are clumsy and unskilled. The charbonnerie are right to call them greenlings. I start to smile at their antics, but instead a cold chill slithers down my spine. This is no game we play, and I suddenly despair of our chances—not only of success, but of survival.
I step from between the trees. “Fools!” I scold. “You are not beating the straw from mattresses!”
The boys freeze, their faces filled with both embarrassment and defiance. “What do you know of such things?” the woodcutter’s boy asks sullenly. “My lady,” he adds as an afterthought.
“More than you, it would seem. You do not whack each other as if chaffing wheat. There is a rhythm of thrust and parry, attack and counterattack that you must know else you’ll be gutted like pigs.”
Resentment flares in the young woodcutter’s eyes. I have pricked their male pride, and rubbed their noses in their lack of privilege, for of course they have had no opportunity to even witness sword fights, let alone practice at them. “There is not time in the three days before we reach Morlaix to teach you the art of sword fighting. That takes years. Add to that that there are no extra swords to be had, and you are wasting your time.”
“What would you have us do? Collect wood?” One of the blacksmith’s boys kicks at a branch at his feet in disgust.
“No,” I say, stepping closer. “I would have you learn a few quick, deadly ways to kill a man so that you can be of service to the duchess in this mission.”
The greenlings’ faces are mixtures of suspicion and hope. “And who will take the time to teach us these skills? My lady.”
I smile. “I will.” I reach for my wrists and pull my knives from their sheaths. The boys’ interest quickens, except for the blacksmith’s son, who is still skeptical.
“What can we learn of fighting from a maid?” he asks the others, and looks of doubt appear on their faces. Two of them actually snicker. I want to take their fat heads in my hands and knock them together like empty jugs.
Jacques speaks up. “That is no mere maid, you fool. Did you not hear the commander yesterday? She serves Mortain.” He lowers his voice. “She is an assassin.”
The blacksmith boy blinks. “Is this true?”
In answer, I take one of the knives and throw it. He has time only to gape in surprise before his cloak is firmly pinned to the tree behind him, right above his shoulder. “It is true,” I tell him.
Without further discussion, I turn to Jacques. “You will partner with me. The rest of you, pair up according to your size.” With a sheepish glance at the others, Jacques shuffles across the forest floor to stand in front of me, hands hanging limply at his sides.