The Unicorn Hunters: A Novel(98)

“A knight,” said Louis, haughtily. “And this lady, who is weary.” He walked forward and Anne dropped back a pace on the side of his shield-arm, to free him if he must use his sword.

But only the old man awaited them, white hair to his shoulders and a strong-boned face. Anne began to relax. “Come in and eat, lady, if you are weary,” the old man said hospitably. “I cannot recall when I last had a guest.”

“You are kind,” Anne said.

His face expressed only a gentle—even detached—interest. “Come in at once, daughter, and do not mind the rain. It falls always upon my roof, though the night is clear.”

They crossed the threshold, and indeed, once within, they heard the rain whisper, though it had been dry outside.

The old man’s house was smaller than a tradesman’s—which would have had workshops attached, and quarters for apprentices and journeymen—but it was finer than any villein’s hovel, even a prosperous one. Its floor was of flagstone, perfectly smooth, and the inside was all paneled wood, with tapestries to keep the warmth. The hearth gleamed and smelled of fat meat, and the table was scrubbed. He had chairs, which a peasant would not own. A sword hung on the wall.

The old man bustled in, smiling gently. “My lady is not here,” he said. “She will return at dawn. But I can contrive in the meantime—yes—yes. Sit you down, Madame, and there is cider—I shall draw it. Then supper.”

Anne sat. The chairs were cushioned and the cider was sweet, fresh as though the harvest had been mere days ago.

Warily, Louis said, “Who are you, Monsieur?” He had not sat down, and was keeping the sword on the wall in the corner of his eye.

The old man wrinkled his brow. “I was—I hardly remember,” he said apologetically. “I came here a long time ago.” The faded eyes sharpened. “I am a man and not a korrigan, though. And even here, it is only the monstrous that violate the laws of hospitality.”

Louis nodded slowly. “Very well.”

The old man began spooning soup into two wooden bowls. A loaf and knife and some freshly washed butter lay upon the table. The faerie-food in the castle of Never-Was had been airy and insubstantial. Here, they both made a hearty supper. The old man didn’t ask a single question. Not their names or homes or where they were bound. He only waited until they were licking their fingers and said, “If you wish to sleep, travelers, just there behind that door is a narrow stair and a room above. But I must leave you and keep watch for my lady. My lady is coming and I must see her when she does.”

With that, the old man bustled out, taking his lantern.

They were alone. But were they safe? Did it matter? Anne could go no farther.

Louis said, “I have my cloak. I’ll sleep here on the hearth to be sure that none shall come at you in the night.” He turned to add a log to the fire.

Anne watched him. “Will you? Our host did not act like a man who fears attack, and he has been nothing but hospitable himself.”

Louis said nothing.

“You’d be more comfortable upstairs,” she added.

He was staring into the fire.

She was thinking of the wedding-night that had always been waiting for her. Public, impersonal, inescapable. But she had left that future behind when she left the castle of Never-Was. She and Louis might die or be lost forever in this trackless wilderness, but if she did return, it would not be to trade her inheritance and her maidenhead to a king far away.

“Orléans?” said Anne. “Louis?”

Finally, he raised his head and looked directly at her.

“Even if we fail,” she whispered, “everything has changed.”



* * *





They climbed the stair and passed beneath the low lintel to the bedchamber. It was austere, clean. The moon shone through the casement, while the rain whispered impossibly overhead. Anne sank onto the bed. It smelled of fresh linen and clean wool and herbs.

In the darkness, Louis was reduced to a faint shine of eyes and the glitter of embroidery from his torn doublet. He hesitated at the door. Then he crossed the room, slowly, and knelt before her. Their eyes met. There was a question in his. Then he looked down at the hem of her skirt, which was also torn, and her slippers, which were mere rags now, with her feet bruised beneath. He traced her instep with a single finger. “Has anyone ever gone questing in such shoes, I wonder?”

“Only fools,” said Anne.

Very gently, he levered one slipper off, then the other, and paused. “May I?”

She nodded, breath coming short. He pushed away her skirt enough to untie her stockings and roll them down. When she was barefoot, his warm hands closed lightly around her feet and he stayed there a moment, head bowed.

“Yes?” he asked her, still looking down. He sounded breathless. “You are not tired?”

She found herself laughing. “I will not be climbing any more cliffs this evening, Orléans, but no, not in the way you mean. Are you?”

He did not answer in words but pulled her to her feet and kissed her. Against her mouth, he murmured, “Almost I could believe that we are back in Never-Was.”

She pulled away, laughing. “Oh?” she asked innocently. “Was this one of your rooms after all? And I thought you wished only to admire me doing embroidery by firelight…”