At dawn the tower awoke rapidly to spread outside, revive the flames and pull what food there was out of the reserve. What meager meal the men snatched last night had still left them starved, so they hurried to pick bowls of gruel.
All but their noble who had only climbed down to find water.
There he worked on shaving what ginger hair had sprouted on his neck and cheeks.
"Tsk."
He lowered his knife, looked at the blade before pressing his fingers where it had warmed. The cut was insignificant, yet sir Corentin clenched his teeth.
"The real sorcery is how that hunter does it..." He muttered.
Had he known that Joan was standing silently in the back, watching him, his anger would have only swollen.
Outside, Brenin was talking with the entrance sentries. He looked tired, eyes heavy but his smile kept him going regardless. They were joking about what game could be hunted around, each swearing to catch more than the others.
No bell rang in the distance.
But brother Aymon came out and those eating assembled around him. They knelt, they lowered their head. Sir Corentin did the same, as would everyone else.
She mimicked them.
So the priest began to sing the glory of the saintess. His words, his voice, made Joan stagger. The curse could not stand it. No matter how hard she tried to stay, soon enough she was forced to retreat even past the wooden walls, on the road and to the carriage.
It was lucky for her she could move so swiflty, so silently that no matter her allure, none noticed her fleeing the prayer.
Except Grisval.
After the song Aymon talked, blessed the very bucket the noble had used for his toilet and used that holy water to spray the assembly. She looked from afar with envy.
But once they were done and the guards returned to eat, others working on the carts to disembark weapons and tunics, Grisval crossed the road in turn to meet her.
"Not fond of prayers?"
"They hammer my skull." She admitted.
He had expected more resistance of her, but the hunter switched from his mocking pretense to the pretense of pity. His hand patted her arm.
"So sorry to hear it, milady. Let us pray the saintess soothes your pain."
"As long as she blesses the wedding, I do not care."
"Really." His voice had gained a more honest edge. "You are eager to enter the church, stand in front of the altar and get sprayed with holy water."
"I will prove myself as many times as it takes, hunter."
It was his surprise again to find little resistance, but some excitement on her part. That human could truly not grasp the ways of a wild heart.
Yet his should have had some affinity to it.
But two guards came and interrupted them. They carried a chest from the carts, with order to load in on the carriage. When they put it down Joan perceived from noise and weight what it carried: clothes and jewelry.
All that was needed for the ceremony held in that fairly small wooden box.
She chose that moment to pull the hood on her head. Up in the distance the knight had finished equipping himself. He now rode toward them, trotting on wet grass until the hooves met the road and guards noticed him.
Three more men approached with spears to defend their lord's lady.
After them followed Aymon and Brenin, one worried, the other curious, such that their pace was wildly different.
The knight had already approached enough that the spears were threatening him.
"Stand back, knight!" A guard warned. "You have no reason to be here."
But the knight's cold voice shouted past them, for Joan:
"Show me your hair!"
The lady would not even turn for him, but offer only her gray mantle to see. Even then she could perceive all of it, the man's impatience at her refusal.
"Back, I said! Back, before sir Corentin sees you harassing his court."
As for the noble, even through the commotion he still took time to give his captain the last of his instructions. He was in no hurry to come to her aid.
Nor did he need to.
She liked it. She liked how that human, on his horse, pressed to see a glimpse of her. Whatever his motives, she had him restless.
With luck, she thought, he would call her for a duel.
"Show me!" The knight shouted again.
He had pushed closer with his horse, but the spears forced him back. In turn his calm, his sheathed sword kept them at bay.
"A lady who fears a knight errant." He observed.
His provocations were in vain. For all his cold and calm demeaner she had him restless, trampling hooves around without a glance past the mantle.
So the knight accepted his defeat. He pushed away, back on the road and with a last gaze in her direction, anger hidden behind his cold traits, the warrior trotted away.
It made Joan laugh.
If the men-at-arms around her hardly reacted, the three men at her side were taken aback by that light, joyful laugh. It sounded vicious, as it should, yet still too light for a creature like her.
That knight bore murder in his heart.
Sir Frederic, she repeated for herself, wanted her dead. But he was so weak and so kind that it was truly a laughable thought. For him to raise his sword against her would make her day.
"We have rested enough."
Sir Corentin had finally mounted his horse to join them. He had not even a look for the knight who had departed.
"Where is the coach? Let us make haste before the rain falls again."
"There will be no rain." Brother Aymon approached the noble. "The saintess would not taint this holy day."
Had he been able to avoid those words, Aymon would have stood silent; but he was a priest and defending the saintess was his duty. Nor did sir Corentin take umbrage, as his wedding had just been praised.
They got onboard, Aymon first expecting the hunter to follow, but Joan was next, then Brenin and Grisval last, such that the brother found himself facing her near the curtain.
Both of them stood silent, so the others spoke for four.
With his men exhausted, Corentin had exchanged them for four footmen from the tower garrison. He and his knight alone rode along the carriage, so that their pace did not improve.
This was Cormoran.
Soon the meadows got replaced by fields, the groves by treelines and orchards. A few farms, with their low walls, punctuated the landscape.
Cormoran had two streams but no pond. It did count two hills, one low and flat enough where the castle had stood while another had vines growing on its slopes. This was the ridge that the carriage approached on the muddy road.
And there was one stream, larger but shallower than that of Pivert.
The last storm had it still threatening to overflow, even though its current had calmed and the brown foaming mass had returned to a clear surface.
There had been one of the wooden bridges crossing it and at the bridge's side, the same knight again, dismounted.
The bridge had collapsed.