A cruel crowd was present to see her approach the charcoal. Guards used to raids and warfare. They knew well enough how to close their hearts to the realm.
What troubled them was the lady's smile.
Brenin himself, some steps behind her, watched expecting the flames to somehow comfort her. In the mud that coal fumed like devil tongues.
As for the knight near the carriage, he knew how firewalk worked: as long as people walked fast enough, that coal was not as fierce as it seemed. Bare foot could come out indemn. His knowing eyes just waited to see if that lady shared that trade.
Joan looked past the coachman holding his oxes still. Behind him the curtain was drawn, but a hand had pulled it enough to glance.
Brother Aymon rushed out, only to be pinned down by the guards.
She had already put one foot on the coal, added the other and stepped to the center of that small fire. Black smoke and flames, still excited by the resin, covered the scene up to the ankle.
So for the several seconds she stood there, none of them could tell if she even suffered.
But when she moved again her legs were shaking, threatening to give up. The feet emerged and plunged into the mud, calming a gruesome spectacle.
This was a human body.
What it had all been for, none of the humans could tell. Elated, Joan turned to the twin who, for sole reaction, pulled out a scroll he gave her.
She picked it, opened it to read nothing but a poem.
"I asked your priest to tell us about you. This is what he wrote."
He calmed his horse with the reins, trotted around her and around the man in gray mantle that had accompanied her. Brenin would not look up at that noble even when he pulled the hood down.
Joan, meanwhile, was trying to make sense of the poem.
It was being very diplomatic, having been written under the scrutiny of a future husband. Reading like a manual at times, the piece called her not a woman but a warhound. Her wilds, apparently, were what the priest had fallen for.
"She should be proud, hold her head high..." She muttered.
After the pleasure of proving herself on the charcoal, those written words reminded her of the cold damp weather. Of course, Joan thought, those blessed by the saintess could not just see her true nature but how submissive she was.
She turned her eyes to brother Aymon who, near the carriage, was as frightened to see her hold his work as he had been seeing her walk on fire.
In his eyes, she was a mutt.
It was pity, not her strength, that had drawn this coward to her. He had seen a wounded beast and thought, if unconsciously, it was one he could tame. But what was love, she considered, if not a leash for humans to hold each other? To a monster it made the most sense.
She walked up to brother Aymon, pushed that scroll on his chest and let him pick it up in a hurry as she passed him by to board the carriage.
The frail man had not even had time to stammer some words.
But the guards had starved the coal, picked it up, put it back in a sack so that they could depart. At sir Corentin's gesture twelve wheels rolled on the mud, battling the rills and puddles to advance.
Brenin had stood immobile. He watched two horsemen tread past, then the carriage and before it passed him a guard tapped his shoulder. They wanted him to board as well so he approached the footboard to climb in.
Inside brother Aymon and his muddy black robe didn't know where to put himself. Opposite at the back Joan didn't spare him a look.
"Good to see you again, Brenin."
Grisval helped him come onboard.
The hunter was wearing a new mantle whose scent had Brenin dizzy but he otherwise hadn't changed. The silver dagger still at his belt, near a new sword, dangled against the bench.
"Sit down, it will be a long trip." He kept going with his false pretense of friendliness.
The woodcutter obliged.
"You sure seem in a good mood, Grisval. I didn't know I had left such a good impression on you."
"I hope it's mutual, my friend. I may be a bit rough, but I'm not a bad fella."
"And you, brother?"
Aymon felt Brenin's eyes on him and shrinked some more.
"This is brother Aymon," the hunter interceded, "who will marry the future lord of Cormoran."
"Nice! That's quite the honor, brother. I'm Brenin. Should I say sir Brenin at this point?"
But the priest would not answer. Rather, he quickly caught on that the man feared him.
"Eh, what's the matter? Is it me, have I done something wrong?"
"You will have to forgive him. The saintess' blessed see our hearts, you see? He is afraid of me as well, aren't you brother Aymon?"
And he pushed the young priest with his elbow, forcing him to react.
"Uh, yes." The man sheepishly offered.
But Brenin had understood all too well what it meant. Suddenly a barrier had fallen between him and the brother; it was his turn to shrink, but his stature would only let him withdraw in a somber silence.
"Ah, Brenin, don't take it like that. We all have sins, don't we? Come on, it's not even midday, you'll have the whole travel to make our friend here lighten up."
"Sure. You really enjoy this, don't you Grisval? You're like a cat with a mouse, always amused."
Grisval approached and lowered his voice so as to not be heard by the guards outside.
"There isn't enough space to swing my sword in here."
The facade of friendliness had broken a moment to give way to a human's guts, the raw feeling of a pet thrown in the den of lions.
Had it just been Brenin, even then the hunter would have felt tense. But all along Joan had been present, distant, her gaze through the curtain's gap looking at the trees afar. If anything, to Grisval Brenin was a reassuring presence.
"Oh! I have something for you!"
And he picked his gourd that the man took to taste.
"Cider! Lucky you."
"I'm more than willing to share. Let's keep this trip quiet, though. Sir Corentin isn't fond of noise."
"He will behave."
Joan's cold statement had the three men pause and look at her before returning to their conversation.
"Good to hear! Good to hear. Are we boring you, milady?"
"Yes." She still wouldn't turn to them. "Your eyes are hesitant. You should only see preys, hunter, and ways to draw blood out of them. That softness of yours is detestable."
Brenin groaned: "Not all of us walk on flames for fun."
"But a hunter would." Her tone was almost nostalgic. "Under duress a hunter would not bat an eye but tread on deadly ground with pride. A hunter tracks his prey without mercy, traps it and feasts on its corpse."
And she sighed.
"One who can't do that much is worthless."
"But you are not a hunter, milady." Grisval observed. "Whatever you think of my profession should not concern yours, does it?"
"There are predators and there are preys. I don't intend to join the latter."
"B... but..."
Brother Aymon had tried to say something. He went silent almost as quickly, especially once the other men had turned their attention to him.
"What? Come on, don't be shy. Tell her!"
"Nothing." He lied. "It's nothing."
No matter they pressed him, that brother would not tell them the obvious. Joining preys was exactly what Joan had done.