Chapter Twenty-Two
BEAST RAISES HIS DROOPING SWORD, but a curt command from the man with the leather nose stays his hand. He tilts his head up to the branches above us. I follow his gaze and see a dozen archers hidden there, arrows trained upon us. We all eye one another warily.
The leather-nosed man steps forward. He is small and wiry and wears a dark tunic and a leather jerkin over patched breeches. As he moves out of the shadows, I see that he is not as dark-skinned as I had first thought—he is coated with grime. No, not grime. Dust. Or ash, mayhap. As he draws closer still, I see a single acorn hanging from a leather cord around his neck, and then I know. These are the mysterious charbonnerie, the charcoal-burners who live deep in the forests and are rumored to serve the Dark Mother.
With no more noise than a breeze rustling through the leaves, the rest of the charbonnerie emerge from their hiding places. There are twenty of them, counting the archers in the trees. I glance over at Beast. We cannot fight our way out of this one.
With an effort, Beast straightens in his saddle. “We mean you no harm. By right of Saint Cissonius and the grace of Dea Matrona, we wish only to pass the night in the forest.” It is a bold gambit, and a smart one, for while the Dark Matrona is not accepted by the Church, the Nine are her brethren gods, and invoking their blessing cannot hurt.
One of them, a thin fellow with a chin and nose as sharp as blades, spits into the leaves. “Why do you not spend the night at an inn, like most city dwellers?”
“Because there are those who wish us ill, as you just saw.” As Beast speaks, another of the charcoal-burners—a young, gangly fellow who is all elbows and knees—sidles up next to the leader and whispers something in his ear. The leader nods, his gaze sharpening. “Who are you?”
“I am Benebic of Waroch.”
The man who had murmured in the leader’s ear nods in satisfaction, and whispers of the Beast go up around the charcoal-burners. Beast’s exploits have made him famous even among the outcasts.
“And who is it the mighty Beast wishes to avoid?”
“The French,” Beast says. “And those who would support them. At least until I can heal and meet them in a fair fight.”
I hold my breath. The charcoal-burners hate the French as much as most Bretons do, and I can only hope that having a common enemy will give us common cause. One of the older men, the one with a wooden arm, nudges a body with his foot. “These men aren’t French.”
“No, they’re not. But they are traitors to the duchess and wished to detain us.” Then Beast grins one of his savaage grins. “There is plenty of room for you in the war against the French, if you so desire. I would be honored to have such skilled fighters on my side.”
There is a long pause, which makes me think the charbonnerie receive few such invitations.
“What is in it for us?” the sharp-faced man asks, but the leader motions for him to be silent.
Beast smiles. “The pleasure of beating the French.” To him, any fight is its own excuse.
The leader reaches up and scratches his leather nose, suggesting it is a recent replacement. “You can spend the night in the forest, but under our watch. Come. Follow us.” He motions to the others, and a half a dozen of them fall in around us.
They are eerily silent as they guide us deeper into the forest, and our horses’ hooves are muffled by the thick layer of decaying leaves on the ground. The gangly youth cannot keep his eyes off me, and when I catch him staring, he blushes to the roots of his hair.
The trees here are ancient, tall and thick and gnarled like old men bent with age. Even though there are hours of daylight left, little sun gets through the thick tangle of foliage overhead.
At last we reach a large clearing ringed by a half a dozen mounds of earth, each one as big as a small house. Smoke burbles from holes in the mounds, which are tended by nearby men. Interspersed among the mounds are small tents made of stripped branches and stretched hides. Cooking fires are watched over by drably dressed women, while dark, gritty children play close by. When we enter the clearing, everyone stops what they are doing and turns to look at us. The youngest child—a girl—sidles up to her mother and slips her fingers into her mouth.
The leader—Erwan is his name—grunts and points to a section of the clearing far away from the earthen mounds. “Make your camp there.”
All of them watch as Yannic and I dismount, secure our horses, then turn to help Beast off of his.
His breath comes in quick, shallow gasps. “Did you take a new injury?” I ask quietly.
“No.” His grunt is followed by a short bellow of pain. By the time we have him off his horse, the entire camp knows of his condition. Yannic and I are able to steer him but a few feet before he comes to a complete stop. “I think this is a good place to make camp,” he says, then grabs for a nearby tree so he will not crash to the ground.
“Not sure that one is going to live through the night,” the wooden-armed man mumbles, and I glare at him.
The gangly fellow catches my eyes. “Oh, don’t mind Graelon, miss. That’s just his way.” He glances mischievously at the old man, then leans in closer to me. “He was like that before the fire got his arm.” The youth’s charm is infectious.
“I’m Winnog, my lady. At your service.”
“As if she’d have you,” someone mutters.
Ignoring the mutterer, I give Winnog my brightest smile. “Thank you.” As I turn back to Beast’s side, it is all I can do not to clap my hands at the onlookers and cry, Shoo! But they would no doubt consider that a rude repayment of their hospitality, meager as it is.
I sense a movement behind me and feel the beating of a lone heart. Still untrusting of these charbonnerie, I whirl around, hand going to the knife concealed in my crucifix.
The woman I see pauses and casts her eyes down in a gesture of submission. She is dressed in a dark gown, and, like the rest of the women, her hair is wrapped tightly in a coif of some kind. She carries a small sack. “For his wound,” she says. “It will help.”
After a moment, I take the sack from her and peer inside. “What is it?” I ask.
“Ground oak bark to keep infection from setting in. And ashes of burned snakeskin to hasten the healing.”
“What is your name?” I ask.
She glances up at me, then down again. “Malina.”
“Thank you,” I say, and mean it. For I am running out of ideas on how to keep Beast’s wounds from overtaking him before we make it to Rennes.
“Do you need help?” she asks shyly.
While I am certain Beast will hate having his weakness seen by others, it seems prudent to accept any help they offer, an attempt to forge some tenuous bond between us. “Yes, thank you. Do you have any hot water?” She nods, then slips away to fetch it. While she is gone, I quickly sniff the oak bark and the ashes, then put a dab to my tongue to be certain it will do no harm.
“It was not in jest that I invited them to fight with us.” Beast’s voice rumbles up at me. “Did you see how ferocious they were? How unexpected their tactics?” He is as excited as a squire with his first sword. “They could prove valuable allies.”
“If they do not stab us in the back,” I mutter. “Are they not known to be clannish and untrustworthy?”
Beast considers a moment. “Clannish, yes, but that is not the same as being unworthy of trust.”
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.
“Which is why the Church did not invite Her into its fold. The priests saw Her as competition for their Christ and His promise of resurrection.”
Malina reaches up and fondles the acorn at her neck. “The darkest hours of night, just before dawn, belong to Her. The moment when all hope is lost, and yet you dare to hope one more time. That is the power of the Dark Matrona.
“It is She who gave us the gift of coal. Back when we were simple forest dwellers, we grew careless with our fires, and the entire forest went up in flames. For days it burned, killing every tree, every bush, every shrub and blade of grass, until nothing but ash and dust remained. Or so we thought.
“But hidden in those ashes were pieces of wood that had only partially burned and still held the heat of the flames. That charcoal was Her gift to lead us to a new livelihood.”
