That thought excluded her from any further conversation.
All they would get from her would be meaningless answers from that banter of theirs that knew no end. After a rough start both men had gone back to smiles and jokes, mostly about Grisval's likely made up childhood.
They were waiting for the early afternoon.
They were struggling to get the priest to open to them. He was willing enough, but too shy and frightened to really contribute.
That man's eyes kept glancing at her, which unnerved Joan.
She could feel it however, how the moon was about to culminate. Gone were the days when that human could resist its call. The moment he started to sweat, head throbbing suddenly, was the moment she felt her blood boil.
Their talk died down. Hand on his dagger, the hunter observed that human who had undone the brooch, turning his mantle from cloth to cover. He looked feverish, eyes going wild while the headache ravaged his mind.
Brother Aymon was terrorized.
"All good in there?" A guard knocked on the carriage's side.
"All fine, just tired."
The hunter's voice had faked its friendly tone once more, as natural as flowing water. His face had turned back to the steely resolve Joan prized so much.
She was letting Brenin transform, impatient to see if the human would fall to raw instincts.
Brown fur already stretched on his arms and legs. He was grunting, coughing, pain jolting his muscles as the body expanded. His tunic was gone, replaced by a wild chest and broad shoulders.
With some effort he pulled the mantle over his body once more, before it slipped out, hid his legs as best he could but buckled under the curse.
So, as the first fangs bared, the beast brought one hand to his face.
Once he had turned, the face could neither see nor smell. His tears were the only kind a beast could cast. Regeneration made it all the more painful.
For one minute the werewolf stood there, heaving slowly, heavily, while droplets fell at his feet. The only other sound was brother Aymon's feeble prayer as he hid inside his robe.
Another minute before the trembling body relaxed, before the claws left his face and the beast could breathe.
"Curse you..." His bestial voice muttered. "Curse you, witch."
Grisval in turn: "She is already cursed."
He let go of his dagger, if barely, but could not hide his own anxiety. Even for the hunter, no matter his nerves it had been too close.
The man put his hand on Aymon's shoulder, shook him a bit until the priest came out and faced the carriage. There was the beast mostly hidden by the mantle, facing him, his face trickling. The maw of a monster still retched.
And there was Joan who had not moved from the curtain.
Had they seen her face, those humans would have realized just how much pride had swelled in her heart. Because the werewolf was with her, his strength reflected on her.
He had just proved his worth.
"How are you feeling?" Grisval inquired.
"Like... hungry. Like the realm is devouring me."
"Does talking help?"
"Yeah. Yeah, anything that distracts is good to take. Let's talk... about flowers and peace."
Brenin was keeping his eyes close. If not for his muzzle and feet, had anyone peeked inside they would have seen a sick man bent down, struggling to breathe.
There was nothing in his heart right now but hate.
Yet Grisval had turned back to the other beast in that carriage.
"What about you? You seem to handle this rough road rather well."
That drew a sick chuckle out of Brenin: "Poor, poor little Joan!"
"How come you stand the hour so well? It's like you are not even bothered."
"That's because she..."
Brother Aymon stopped as fast as he had begun. Whatever had encouraged him to speek vanished when he had looked at her again, even though she still looked away.
"Oh no!" Grisval brought his arm over the priest's neck. "You're not staying silent this time! Come on, tell us, what's the secret?"
It sounded jovial. Maybe it was. And Aymon in turn almost pleaded.
"Ah! Please! I didn't mean... anything by that!"
"Oh but you did! Brother, give us a guess if nothing else!"
"Yes, brother." Brenin groaned, still struggling. "Take a guess for us."
His own tone was plain menacing. To him the priest's resistance had to be excruciating, the thought of a man who could help him and would not.
Again brother Aymon glanced at her, desperate. Joan gave her nothing, so he relented.
"I meant... to say, I merely wanted to suggest that... that..." His voice trembled. "That she is not hu..."
"That I am not what?"
Joan had turned, anger flaring in her eyes. At just this sight the priest nearly motioned to jump off the carriage but Grisval held him in place.
"That I am not what?" She repeated and stood up as much as the wooden ceiling allowed. "Say it. Say it!"
She approached the priest, only for the hunter to stand in her path.
He had drawn no weapon, only his arm yet still stood firm, a mask of confidence over his fears. She felt like tearing him to pieces.
"Move."
"No."
Her hands itched. Her human hands, with human nails, so frail and gracious. Brenin could feel it in turn, his alpha's bloodthirst. It was engulfing him as well.
But she relented once more.
Looking away, stepping back after the pride of showing off had her ashamed.
"Then say it, priest. Say what I am."
"Y... you... yo... You are lady, lady Joan of... you are..."
"Lady Joan of Cormoran." Grisval concluded for the terrorized man.
She could still not budge, still furious at that puny prey.
Just how much did he know?
Just how much did that coward know about her, to have uttered those words, what did he see, what was he hiding from her, those were the sources of her ire.
Or rather, of her fear.
Yes, Joan considered, she was just a fearful critter to have risen and raised her voice at an insect's bite. Her bark was pathetic, the hallmark of an idiot but if he knew of the very past she had cast off, that was a truth that could not be allowed.
So of all men in that convoy she feared the weakest the most.
And he in turn had been brought to tears, not the least from relief when she turned away to sit back near the curtain.
But outside she caught a horseman standing near the road, on grassy grounds the storm had spared.
He bore no tabard, no color, no sign, only a worn down mail over the gambeson. His horse was nude, a black steed better fed than her owner. While not blocking the road, that man was too close for the guards to ignore.
A knight errant.
But he wasn't looking at sir Corentin who was the closest and best clad. That oathless knight had his sight straight on the carriage.
The cold and distant look of a murderer hiding, she could tell, a heart too soft for the realm.
But the noble had decided to ignore him, had his troop march past and noticed how that knight would keep looking at the carriage only, despite two carts full of weaponry.
So he raised a hand, stopped his men and turned around to trot and meet him.