"Who are you, sir?" Corentin asked.
The knight only then deigned to turn his attention to him.
"Sir Frederic."
His voice was as harsh as his traits. There were beasts less fierce, warriors who would be intimidated even on the battlefield. Nobles who would frown at his lack of manners.
But the son of Pivert ignored it.
"What has you so interested in my carriage, sir Frederic?"
"I am looking for a woman."
The noble gave him a few seconds to continue, only to see that knight turn his head back to try and peek past the curtain at the back.
He could not see the dog facing him.
Coward, Joan had called herself, for fearing to use spirit walk. Her body remained limp, asleep in its corner while she walked outside to gauge that knight.
Like Corentin she had quickly guessed this man had served the family of Cormoran. Odds were he had known Joan. While many other possibilities existed, this was the most likely.
To the Pivert, therefore, that man was a threat.
To her a mystery.
"Where are you from, sir Frederic?"
"Who is asking?"
That made Corentin smirk: "Sir Corentin of Pivert, the future lord of Cormoran."
"Then I am from your domain, milord."
She recognized this almost derisive way of saying the word. The knight was bored of this conversation already. All he cared for was the carriage.
As a spirit she could not really make out his traits. The realm boiled and smoldered, shredding the shapes in its swirls.
"You seem oathless. Why not serve the domain again?"
"Let me peek inside that cart," the knight pointed at the makeshift carriage, "and I will consider it."
"Join my retinue and I will consider your request."
Both men locked eyes in a silent duel of wills. One had ten men and a spear, plus the backing of a whole family. The other but his old sword and mare for all support.
So neither would give in.
At the same time Joan perceived movement near her body. Grisval had caught on to her sleep. He had drawn his dagger, ready to leap.
Brenin in turn, seeing him do, felt the cursed urge to defend her but remained steadfast. His eyes were inviting the strike.
It was Aymon who, realizing the tension and then the weapon, rushed to prevent it.
Both he and the hunter struggled silently for a bit.
Aymon had nowhere near the strength to defy a man like Grisval, but Grisval could not afford to make much noise. So the priest held on with all his might, which gave him the upper hand. He exhaled when that blade was sheathed.
Outside, the noble gave that knight a last look before parting.
She woke up. The wheels turned anew, bumping on the rills and puddles.
Around her everyone was acting as if nothing had happened.
"Grisval, look outside." She ordered.
The hunter did no such thing, but brother Aymon who was close to the footboard gave it a look. He passed his whole head outside and watched, freckles in the fresh air, before withdrawing.
"There is a knight."
"There are a lot of people on these roads." The hunter observed. "We aren't so bored as to gossip about passerbys, are we lads?"
"He is following us." The priest noted.
And Joan: "He is after me."
"Oh? Is it someone you know? I guess it's normal, lady Joan, we are headed for your domain after all."
"How does he look?" Brenin groaned.
His bestial voice made the priest shudder. The werewolf was addressing him, unable to sound anything but dangerous.
But what he meant was whether that knight was indeed human.
Of course, at this hour no werewolf could hide its nature. But Brenin had good company to doubt that and so his question was not so absurd. Still, it irked Joan that he still doubted her word.
Once Aymon understood the question he rubbed his hands: "Not like you, sir."
"Ah." And relieved: "Drop the sir, brother. Or don't. I don't... know anymore."
"A guy like you, being called sir, that would kill you for sure! A sir doesn't lock arms to dance around a bonfire."
"Sorry, brother. I'm not.. myself, these days."
"Sorry." The priest whimpered. "I won't bother you."
"Who said... you are not bothering anyone. Brother." Brenin fought the taste on his tongue. "God if the saintess is welcome here."
"Indeed, brother. Open up a bit, you've got only friends here!"
And the hunter gave Joan a glance.
"Only friends."
She had long stopped paying attention to their whims. Her mind was focused on the knight outside who, she was almost certain of it, knew Joan of Cormoran.
And because she was that woman, Joan wanted to meet him, to ask him about her past, about who she was and what she had done. What had become of her. Because Joan was Joan, she wanted to know who this man was to her.
He was following the carts from behind, some forty meters away, far enough that at a curve the grove hid them from him.
By then the woods had crawled dangerously close. Joan felt a jolt along her spine at the thought of two eyes fixed on her. Memory or imagination, it was frightening nonetheless. If even by accident she skimmed those trees, it would be her end.
None of the humans had noticed she had become tense.
Her life was a disguise.
But dusk was falling on them and still the group kept going in that narrow, damp plain. Colors faded, replaced by a heavy gray that slowly darkened.
Behind the clouds the sun had just gone.
Still they pushed on, only stopping to light torches for a few men. Yet in the carriage they kept the curtains drawn, even with Brenin a human once more. Because that knight still followed.
"There!" The knight of Pivert, alongside Corentin, pointed in the distance.
As the last clouds were losing their hues, in the horizon they saw the silhouette of a tower rising above even the highest trees.
It guarded the road, extended with a wooden wall two meters tall within which the occupants had lit a campfire. Dinner was long past, night had come but the flames still endured, guards feeding it with a whole log that had embers fly around.
That tower counted nine men, all of them guards, plus four horses attached to a pole. They mounted them to meet the troop.
Corentin rode ahead to meet them.
"Milord." A horsemen greeted him. "Welcome to Cormoran."
From the carriage Joan had no trouble hearing them.
"Are you the captain?" The noble checked. "How are you faring?"
"So far spared from the illness, milord. I have three men camping near the village. Bandits are roaming free, I am afraid."
"We will put an end to that. I bring you nine men and sir Garnin, as well as weapons for dozens more. Train me a guard, captain, and I may dub you."
"Yes, milord. Saintess willing, by spring you will have a castle and an army."
But they parked the carts just outside the wooden wall and the carriage on the other side of the muddy road, its passengers invited to enjoy the relative warmth of the fire and stone.
At the forest's edge, under the beginning of another drizzle, a knight was removing his chainmail, turning his gambeson into a mattress to lie on it.
Eyes still drifting toward the tower where he had, for a few seconds, guessed the shapes of a lady escorted inside.