Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(28)
Duval shrugs. “I would like to believe she had no knowledge of his true purpose. The alternative is most disturbing.”
“Your suspicions are ill founded,” I snap. I take my goblet and drain half of it, as if the wine can wash the foul taste of his mistrust from my mouth.
As I set the goblet down, Duval leans across the table. “Now, I have shown good faith and answered your questions, and I would have you answer one of mine. I want to know more of these marques and how they work.”
“I am sorry, but I cannot share such things with you.”
He leans back and his eyes grow as cold and stark as the winter sky. “That is unfortunate, demoiselle. For until I learn more of how the convent makes its decisions, I will have to regard it — and you — with suspicion.”
I give him a false, brittle smile. “It seems we are both bound by duty.”
The serving maid arrives at that moment, breaking our impasse. She sets down loaves of fresh crusty bread, a roast capon, two bowls of stew, braised turnips and onions, and a wedge of cheese. Famished by the day’s long ride, we dig into our supper.
Once the worst of my hunger pangs have been appeased, I risk another question. “And what of Martel? Do you claim he worked for you too?”
“Could it be you are asking me for more information, demoiselle? when you have refused to give me so much as a morsel in return?”
It sounds unfair when he puts it like that. I soften my voice so he will think I regret this, but of course, I do not. “I will share what I know with you, but I cannot reveal the secrets of our order.”
He looks away, a small muscle in his jaw tightening. He is silent for a long moment, then turns back to me. “Very well. I will tell you of Martel, but only in the interest of showing you why you must stay your hand until you have gathered all the facts.
“Martel did not work for us, no. But I believe he could have been persuaded to tell me who at court was working for the French regent.”
I take a sip of wine to cover my distress. “Feeling a twinge of conscience yet?” Duval asks.
“No,” I lie.
A shadow looms near the door and pulls my attention from Duval. The largest man I have ever seen steps into the room. Half a head taller than Duval, he is travel stained and road weary and looks like an ogre who has strayed out of a hearth tale. His face bears the roughened texture of pox scars; his nose — broken at least twice — is a lumpen knob. His hair is shaved close to his head, and his eyes are creased in a permanent squint.
The man’s iron gaze sweeps across the room and lands on Duval. His eyes narrow, and he strides in our direction. every muscle in my body tenses, and my hand creeps to the dagger at my waist. Duval catches the movement. His eyes widen in surprise, then he glances over his shoulder.
He is up on his feet in an instant, heading toward the stranger at full tilt. They crash into each other with the force of two tree trunks colliding. It takes a moment for me to realize their blows are those of joyful greeting and not attempts to pummel each other into the ground. I let out a slow breath and remove my hand from my knife.
As they finish pounding each other, I notice a small cluster of stable boys and apprentices hovering in the doorway, pointing at the stranger. Duval nods his head in their direction, and the giant man rolls his eyes good-naturedly before turning and greeting them. They smile and talk excitedly among themselves until the innkeeper shoos them back to their duties.
Duval then drags the stranger to our table. The man does not improve upon closer inspection. His light blue eyes are startling in his scarred face and put me in mind of a wolf. In truth, he may be the ugliest man I have ever seen.
“Ismae,” Duval says. “This is Sir Benebic of waroch, otherwise known as the Beast. Beast, this is Demoiselle Rienne.”
My eyes widen in surprise, for even we at the convent have heard the tales of the Beast of waroch, of his ferocity and valor in battle, his extreme disregard for his own life that causes some to think he is mad. “Greetings, my lord.”
The Beast of waroch reaches for my hand and lifts it in a gentle grip, then makes a courtly bow. His pretty manners surprise me, as they do not match his face. when he speaks, his voice is low and rumbles like far-off thunder. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, my lady.”
“I am not noble born,” I murmur, embarrassed.
"Every maid Beast meets is a lady as far as he is concerned,” Duval explains.
Beast straightens and lets go of my hand. “Only those who do not run away from me in terror,” he says with a grin. He intends it to be rakish, but it looks more like he is baring his teeth before an attack. I like that he does not apologize for his looks, that he throws them down like a gauntlet. It is an approach I admire, and I immediately warm to him.
Of course, the number of French he killed in the last war does not hurt his cause any either. During the Mad war, it was his bravery that inflamed the imaginations and hearts of the peasantry and moved them to take up whatever arms they could find — pitchforks, poleaxes, shovels, scythes — and drive the French out of our country. If it were not for Beast’s inspiration and the peasants’ aid, the French might be here still.
“Sit, sit.” Duval shoves Beast onto the bench and takes a seat beside him. “I did not expect you back so soon. Nor to find you here.”
The men’s eyes meet and an unspoken message passes between them. "We made good time,” Beast says, then signals the innkeeper for another cup. The innkeeper is only too glad to oblige this legend come to life in his inn.