Of course, none will admit to such fear, and certainly not in front of me, so I lead the group deeper into the cave and have the boys secure the torches.
I place myself at the very back of the cave, for even though it is clearly one of Arduinna’s, I can feel Mortain’s cold breath upon my neck. I do not know why His presence should be so strong here, and I would not have the boys turn their backs to Him.
After much grumbling and complaining, the boys finally take their positions. “Begin,” I order, and their arms, clumsy with cold, start moving through the exercises we have been practicing. Within half an hour, the cold is forgotten, along with their fear, and they are concentrated on besting their opponents.
My focus on the greenlings is so great as I try to keep them from accidentally killing one another that it takes me a while to realize we have drawn a crowd. Easily a dozen of Beast’s soldiers have gathered round and are watching the boys with narrowed eyes and folded arms.
“My money’s on the smith’s boy,” de Brosse says. “The one with the long hair.”
“I’ll take that wager. I think the boy with the ax will win the bout.”
There is a rustle of purses and jingle of coin as bets are made. Their casual betting raises my hackles; this is no game. The boys’ lives likely depend on what they learn here. Besides, the greenlings do not need the distraction of being surrounded by true soldiers.
Or so I think until I see how the greenlings take the soldiers’ attention to heart. There—Samson has finally started taking the practice seriously, his face creased in concentration. Jacques, too, is no longer so worried about hurting his opponent and finally manages to wrestle him into position so that he can get the leather cord around his neck.
Cheers go up, and Jacques smiles shyly. Then Claude sneaks up from behind him and gets his knife handle around his neck. Another jingle of coin changes hands. I cannot decide if I am amused or annoyed that the soldiers’ opinions seems to carry more weight than mine. “Again,” I say. “And this time, Claude, try not to laugh as you slit your opponent’s throat.”
Dinner that night is a cheerful affair. Half of the soldiers’ purses are heavier from their wagers, and the greenlings’ sense of pride has grown in equal amounts. Even the charbonnerie seem to have relaxed some.
As men leave the fires to lie down on the cave floor, Beast comes to find me. I have selected a spot for my bedroll toward the back, still wishing to place myself between that faint chill of death that is haunting me and the others.
“We reach Morlaix tomorrow,” he says, easing down onto the ground.
I try to ignore the heat coming off his body, try to pretend he is not close enough for me to touch and that my fingers do not yearn to do just that. “I know.”
Beast reaches across the small space and takes my hand in his. It is a big hand, and hard, the entire palm filled with calluses and scars. “It was well done, you training the greenlings.”
“I know.” My answer startles a laugh out of him, but it is true—I do know that it was a good thing.
He shakes his head. “I fear I have lost my touch for commanding men. It is an assassin who has finally managed to bring them all together, not me.”
“Now you go too far and mock me. I do not have any knack for bringing men together.”
He threads his fingers through mine, then slowly brings my hand up to his lips and kisses it. “I would never mock you. I speak only the truth.”
It is the most comforting thing I have ever felt, that hand on mine, the quiet steadfastness it promises. That he offers me this after all the secrets I have told him humbles me. I want, more than anything, to keep that hand in mine and never let it go.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
NEAR NOON ON THE FOURTH day of our journey, we come in sight of Morlaix. We do not approach the town directly but stay on the far side of the river, where we can just make out the ramparts of the walled city.
Beast turns our party northward. The farther north we go, the more the land changes. The rich fields and forests turn scrubbier with tall rippling grasses, and the sharp tang of salt is in the air. In the distance I can hear the steady crashing of the waves as they throw themselves upon the rocky shore.
Beast directs the main portion of the party to set up camp in the thicket of trees that we can just see off to the east. He orders two of his men and two of the charbonnerie to accompany him, along with myself. We follow a trail that is naught but a deer track and find ourselves winding our way to the coast. When the rocky shore comes into sight, I see an old stone abbey and beside it one of the even more ancient standing stones. I glance at Beast. “Saint Mer?”
Beast nods. “The abbess of Saint Mer has been keeping Duval informed. She and her acolytes have been in communication with the British ships, and have been keeping track of the French movements in the area as well.”
I tamp down a little flutter of—not fear—apprehension. Saint Mer is a watery old hag of a goddess, with a tangle of seaweed for Her hair and bones formed of driftwood. She is wild, uncontrollable, both playful and deadly, beautiful and terrifying. Her appetite for men is insatiable and She often plucks them ripe from the boat, pulls them into Her watery maw, then spits them out when She is done with them.
When I was nine years old, long before I had heard the stories of my own birth and lineage, I adopted Her for my own. Most girls my age worshiped Amourna, but I had no use for Her and Her soft, gentle love that was naught but a lie told to keep girls hopeful and compliant. For a while, I turned to Arduinna, for She was the one goddess who carried a weapon, and that appealed to me greatly, but in the end, She let me down as well. As a protector of virgins, it seemed She failed as often as She succeeded.
And so I turned to Saint Mer. Her wildish nature called to me. I wished to dance with storms, like She did. I wished to pick and choose which men I allowed into my domain, then be done with them once I’d taken my pleasure. Not that I believed there was any pleasure to be had between a man and a woman, but the stories and poets spoke of it often, and if it existed, I would have my share of it.
Mostly, I wanted to be feared as Saint Mer was feared, to have men treat me with great respect and caution and be afraid of what might await them if they did not.
When we reach the abbey, we rein in our horses. As we dismount, the door opens and a shrunken old woman comes out. In her hand is the sacred trident of Saint Mer, and around her neck are nearly a dozen strands of cockle shells, which mark her as the abbess.
Beast bows low before her, as do Sir Lannion and Sir Lorril. I sink into a deep curtsy. The charbonnerie look uncertainly about them, then bob their knees.
“Come inside and be welcome,” the abbess says. She motions with her trident, and two girls emerge from the abbey door and come forward to tend our horses: the daughters of Saint Mer, born of the goddess and drowning men.
I am filled with curiosity, as I have never met anyone said to be born of another god before. Saint Camulos does not count, for He makes no claim to have sired His dedicants, merely accepts those conceived in His name.
There is a translucent quality to the girls’ skin, as if they spend more time beneath the waves than beneath the sun. Their hair is long and flowing, one light blond and the other dark. As they draw closer, I see that their feet are bare and they have the slightly webbed toes that mark them as one of Saint Mer’s. When I hand one of the girls my reins, she smiles at me. Her teeth are slightly pointed.
I nod in greeting and thanks, then hurry to follow the abbess into the abbey.
Her receiving chamber is sparse, with none of the luxuries the abbess of Saint Mortain enjoys. She offers us cool, clear water to drink, and naught else.