But the house was here, a mere stone cabin and when they reached it it looked empty, the door open. She noticed from afar how the wooden lock was still broken.
"Brenin!" The noble called.
There was someone inside, Joan could perceive it from sound and scent if not just by instinct, but she could also tell it was no woodcutter. Still, that person would not show up: the entrance remained bathed in only the outside light fading into darkness.
"Let's go inside." Joan was already walking toward that door.
"No thanks. You may like mud and stench but even basements are kinder to the senses than those dens."
"You have never experienced a den, milord."
She did like mud and stench as long as it was that of blood and sweat so damp as to penetrate even the rock. It was amusing to her to see this man balking at a bit of discomfort, even if it was to him like trudging in a pigs' pen.
"Then," she offered, "should I go by myself?"
"Milady, if you put a foot in that shack you will never step in our castle again."
That quarrel ceased before she could pick up on something in his voice; the person in that house had finally decided to come out.
It was the farm girl who, fearful, was taking small steps out with her eyes firmly on the ground.
"Pardon us, good sir. Brenin is not here."
"And you are?"
"Maud, sir." And she made something that resembled more of a crouch than a bow. "My parents' farm is across the stream."
"I heard Brenin was hurt. Would you know anything about it?"
"Ah! Yes, good sir. Two or three days ago, I am not sure, a bear tore his poor arm to shreds! But the saintess was with him and he recovered, good sir, he can still work!"
Corentin ignored her concern.
"Where can we find this brave man?"
"Thank you sir. Lady." She did the same crouch for Joan. "He must have gone to the woods and has not come back. I have visited three times now and found his house empty. Good sir, I fear the worst!"
Those woods were terribly close, but a horseman would not pointlessly err among their trees. He only gave it a look before turning back to the young woman.
"Does Brenin have friends, by any chance?"
"Oh, sir, everyone likes Brenin! But his best friend is Roland, the blacksmith apprentice. When Brenin was wounded, it was Roland who helped with his recovery. He has a kind heart and toils for three. If someone can find Brenin, it would be him!"
"I see. Roland. You should go back to your tasks, dear Maud. We will find Brenin for you."
"You will? Oh, thank you kind sir! Thank you!"
She did her crouch again for the both of them, her fingers holding the crude skirt before rushing back through the hamlet.
Corentin in turn left without a word, forcing Joan to do the same so as to stay ahead of his horse. They picked another path and rejoined the road back toward the village.
Her mind was racing a bit.
"Milord..."
"Corentin." He cut her. "Or sir Corentin if you must really pretend. Each time you call me milord all I feel is mockery."
"You do?"
She was walking on one side, him on the other, looking away as was his habit.
"There is no point in showing deference if your voice says the opposite. You pronounce that word like one would hold a rag."
"Just a moment. When I addressed his lordship..."
He pulled his horse to a stop.
"Here! Now you put weight on it. For me it is a bird's chirp, for him the clatter of steel. Are you not even aware of your own tone?"
"Milord." She almost scolded him. "It is true I find you meek and meager, but imagine what it would take for your father to call a peasant sir."
"You..." His gaze went wild. "You are treading mud and think yourself superior?!"
"One more time, draw your sword and prove otherwise!"
She had almost yelled.
And she had truly thought it would be enough for any man, be it beast or human, to accept the fight. Almost nothing, it would take almost nothing for this armed horseman to impose his might on her, she was begging for it.
He had not moved. His eyes, still boiling with anger, were already returning into that fleeting air that slid on her and left no mark.
In that silence, as Joan hoped for a battle, she realized he had pierced her with a weapon more potent than a spear. An annoyed disdain for a brat.
As a wolf, this insult would have had him killed.
But she retreated instead, swallowed the shame and lowered her head.
"My apologies, milord," and she put weight in that word, "for my insolence."
"I don't understand you. We don't understand you at all. But fine, what did you want?"
"Milord, what do you hope to find?"
"The truth."
And he pushed is horse ahead once more, forcing her in the same movement.
On his face remained the ravage of her previous words and she knew, for all the restraint he could show, he could not help but be churning in rage. He too was a warrior, while she didn't hold so much as a knife.
But why would she lie? In a fight, even as weakened as she was, he had no chance.
Ahead of them came back a few women with pack frames on their back, so lost in their banter yet not enough to miss the nobles that approached. With each on a side they occupied the whole space and so the women stopped, not knowing what to do.
Joan saw that and was about to move to the twin's side when she saw him already pulling at the rein and move behind her, the horse suddenly restless to have her so close.
But the commoners quickly moved past, eyes low and dared not stop. They had forced the lord's son to move aside and feared retaliation.
Then they met a priest in black robe who was also coming toward them, so Corentin did not bother and stayed behind Joan some more. She could feel his eyes on her, mostly on her shoulders as the silver hair hid most of her back.
But the priest had stopped and looked at them, even as they crossed, kept looking until she glanced at him and recognized his face.
It was the young man that had seen her in the keep's stairwell.
Those cut hair, those freckles and above all that frightful air, she had no doubt about it. And even though her eyes had made him shrink, he still kept looking at them, at her precisely, even after they had passed.
Even the noble had noticed it.
So she suddenly broke away from him and walked straight for that priest, to clutch him by the robe and confront him.
"You!" She fumed. "Little boy, if you have something on your heart say it!"
"Lady Joan..." Corentin grumbled behind her. "Could you leave the saintess' blessed alone, please?"
But she could not. The boy's eyes were locked on her and she needed to know. The werewolf needed to know if those servants of the saintesse could see her true nature.
"Go on, speak!"
And weakly, very weakly, the priest stammered words so faint even she struggled to hear them.
But he had managed to say: "I love you."