Chapter 5 #2
“Come into my home,” Girard offers. He is handsome in the way of soldiers and nobility both: an indulgent mouth and a physique with the sharp-hewn musculature of soldiers.
Heaving barrels of wine and hoisting patrons from the floor has left Girard with a body that draws the eyes of matron and maiden alike.
I ought to like the look of him, guilt reminds me.
“Girard . . . I told you I could not continue that.”
The flash of hurt on his face is brief. “Let me look after you. Did she hurt you? Is that why you were at the physician’s?”
“Isabeau? No. Not at all.” Before I can turn away to hide the flush of longing that comes of thinking of her, Girard touches my wrist—wholly inappropriately—and says, “One of my cousins will take the duties of the tavern in another year. I am joining the W?chter.”
“Oh?”
“I have motivation,” Girard says. “If my station were improved, perhaps we could—”
“No.”
“The earl said—”
“No, I am my own person, and I will not be marrying you, Girard. What we shared . . . It was not a promise.”
“I would be a good Hunter,” he objects.
“You will not. I am the next Hunter. I realize I may have set up a false hope for you, but—”
“You could stay home. Research. Raise babies. Do noblewoman things.” He sounds so earnest, and not unkind, but I am not interested in “noblewoman things” or raising babies.
Or him.
I tried to find the spark that others reputedly found in his bed.
Repeatedly. In different positions. No matter what we tried, bedding Girard was disappointing.
The novels I had read alone in my room spoke of tremors, of stars exploding, of knowing such joy that a woman feels like she might die.
My experience with Girard, however, was a sticky, messy event that left my body sore—and created a false reason for Girard to be possessive.
Talking about his hopes, ones I don’t share, isn’t why I have stopped here. So I redirect the conversation: “The traveler . . .”
“Hugh,” he supplies.
“Tell me about him.” I watch Girard shift from a hopeful spurned lover to the person I thought he was before my folly.
“Good man, weak constitution. A few pints and he was vulgar. Another pint and he had to be told not to make overtures to Agnes.” Girard grins at me.
I can’t help but laugh. Agnes is a statue in the square that is purported to be a saint or maybe a warrior. Weather and time have turned her into a blob that the village has named Agnes.
“I’m not convinced Agnes is even a statue of a person.”
“Hugh was convinced. Fondled poor Agnes last visit before proposing.” Girard sobers slightly. “He made untoward remarks toward James’ wife, too. That one landed him a blackened eye.”
“He was nearly beheaded in the wood,” I say. I choose not to mention that I think the same creature may have attacked me.
“James isn’t that sort of man,” Girard quickly objects. “Polly was the one that socked him, too.”
I nod. “James is not strong enough to have beheaded Hugh, and Polly isn’t either. Honestly, the only person in the village that might be strong enough is you, and you . . .” I shake my head. “You’re not that sort either.”
“You think it was one of them.”
“I do,” I confirm.
“Any green blood?”
“No.” I don’t mention the faery blood at my attack.
We aren’t discussing that. I weigh my thoughts with my fears and doubts, and I hate that I echo my father’s hopes in the next statement.
“One victim isn’t a pattern. Maybe Hugh will be the only one.
Still, I’d feel better if the villagers were on alert.
And if any other expected traveler fails to show up . . .”
“I’ll send one of the lads up to the manor.” Girard catches my cloak in his hand, and I struggle not to wince at the jarring feeling in my injured arm. “Gabrielle?”
“Yes?”
“Gossip from the city finds its way here, too, you realize?” He stares at me as if I am about to be scandalized by his next words, and then he says, “Ashmore is a lot like Hugh. She may not fondle old Agnes there”—he nods toward the square where the statue stands—“but she’s bedded half the eligible women and more than a few widows, too. ”
I smile. “Lucky women.”
Girard’s eyes widen. “What?”
“Tell me you wouldn’t do the same. I’ve been in your arms and in hers, Girard. I know exactly what sort of sport you both enjoy.” I wonder briefly whether the beast is targeting those who are active in their pursuits of intimacy. If that’s the case, both Isabeau and Girard are targets, too.
One body is not a pattern, logic reminds me.
“Please be careful,” Girard says. “With the beast and with Ashmore. Even if you and I are ended, I want you to be well and safe.”
I let out a heave of a sigh. “And that, Girard, is why all the women lift their skirts for you. You’re not a bad man.”
He chuckles, gestures at his arms, and pats his flat stomach. “I suspect there are other reasons, too.”
“Stay out of the wood, please?” I blurt out. “If the creature is looking for men like Hugh . . .”
“I don’t fondle Agnes.” Girard scowls. “Or married women.”
“But every other interested one? You do. You have. And I doubt that you stopped even as you spoke to me of marriage.”
He looks sheepish. “I have no need to go into Brimmond Wood.”
“Good. And send a message if anyone else seems a likely target. Until we know what makes this creature attack, what it is, and how to kill it, we need the village to be cautious, especially any amorous villagers. Let the guests at the Goose know to only travel in groups and that we aren’t sure yet what it targets.
Drunkards and men who try to bed anyone available .
. . That’s what we know so far based on Hugh.
” I meet Girard’s eyes. “It took no money, but the death was brutal. The Hunter will stop it, but until then . . .”
“I will be sure every household in the village knows.” Girard heaves a deep sigh and says, “Could we marry so I can take this burden, and you . . . seek your pleasure with Ashmore or others? I care about you, Gabrielle. The thought of you having to hunt these creatures haunts me.”
My heart aches a little, realizing he understands that my interest is still fixed on Isabeau and that his affections did not sway me. “This isn’t about bedding, Girard. This is about my familial duty. I have been raised and trained to be the Hunter my entire life.”
“But you’re so small.”
I snort. “My father lacks your tree-trunk legs, too. There are gifts that come with the duty, ones that help us survive longer.”
“And surviving is enough? Marry me and—”
“My father’s theory that it would pass to a man I marry is untested.” I don’t mention that it’s also insulting. Instead I point out what should be obvious. “You—and the village—are also a part of why the Fleuristes have and continue to succeed in our duty. Don’t forget that.”
Although my duty doesn’t feel like a gift sometimes, I cannot imagine a life where I chose to hand it away, even if I could, even as I wince when I mount my horse, even when my head thunders from an attack, even as the fear blooms inside me when I realize that either my attacker or my rescuer took my samples.
This is who and what I am.