Carmine.
Her mind had naturally wandered in that direction. If a church burning was this rare then the coincidence was too much to not suspect some message.
All Joan could not figure out was why a wolf would bother, but she still could not conceive of her previous rival wasting time denying her the forest. So it could be that the wolf had schemed to ruin her own plans.
Instead of just killing her.
But they were slowly approaching the burned down church. A clouded sky kept the tarnished stone from contrasting too much with the barren fields around.
In the church's court, the knight's horse paced idle, waiting for her owner. The main door, its ogival frame blackened by the fire, opened on an interior filled with dim light. Walls and paved floor choked under the carpet of ash.
The back door had collapsed. Near it, in the court, white stones had been piled to form a grave.
Two days, Joan concluded. The church had burned at the tail end of the storm, at night or dawn. A wolf or more likely an accident, some candle, some hand, it took little for a human den to fall prey to warmth.
And, she reassured herself, the survivors had simply dispersed after that.
But the knight had come out through the main door, his mail covered in soot. He could see the carriage approach but simply stood there, his back against the wall, head toward the sky.
The closer they got, the more the men around her looked shaken. Only their mounts and cattle remained indifferent.
Those at the village of Cormoran had stopped their tasks to gather at the edge, not two dozen of them, watch that noble on the road.
A whole domain at sir Corentin's feet.
When the wheels stopped, brother Aymon waited no longer, jumped out again to rush at first, then stop, then walk past the low stone wall and into the court. No matter what he tried, the priest could not hold himself; before the door he was running again.
The knight let him enter without a glance.
Which meant there was no body inside.
The guards themselves didn't want to go past the wall. The noble himself wavered there, nervous like a pup at its first prey. Still he pushed his mount past that invisible barrier, trod on the church's ground up to the entrance.
So his troop had to follow.
Only the carriage stayed behind with two horsemen. Everyone was dismounting in turn, spreading around under their noble's gaze.
"What have you done." Brenin scowled under his breath.
He had stopped praying, then broken his silence to accuse her. Joan, however, had regained her confidence. This arson was the act of humans, from up close the ruins could not lie.
So she had no need to defend herself.
Outside the men-at-arms were measuring the depth of the destruction. All they already knew was being confirmed: the fire had consumed everything and left no one. They too were forced to conclude it was arson but believed it had happened last evening.
"And nobody saw the flames?" The noble simmered. "No one came to warn us? The villagers are bound to know!"
At this his own knight should have offered to go get answers from them, but he stood there at his side, as anxious as the rest.
"Sir Garnin, go fetch them, the whole lot, and bring them here."
"Milord..."
The knight was looking for the right words to address a noble he knew to already be angered.
"Milord, it would be better for us to leave Cormoran at once."
"Certainly not."
"Please see reason, milord. Without the saintess Cormoran will not survive the winter. The domain is lost. Any hour we spend on this forsaken land will only drag us down with them."
Nonsense, Joan would have scoffed, if she hadn't heard about that rotting bridge.
"Nonsense." Sir Corentin scoffed. "The saintess is right here with us and the Pivert own Cormoran, we will not shirk from our right!"
"Iron can't win against famine, milord!"
"Watch us!"
"Where is the saintess then?"
And the noble to turn and point at the church, his horse rearing a bit at his movement.
"Right here! We have a priest, that is more than enough!"
"One priest?!" The knight nearly lost patience. "Milord, you can't possibly believe your own words!"
"I am the bear, my word is truth, you would do well to remember that. I ordered you to bring me those villagers, why are you still standing there? Are those the colors of Pivert you wear?"
Men-at-arms all around still looked after the knight, for him to retort. Their eyes hoped he would drag them out of this madness.
But the knight deferred to his liege.
Authority alone had not spoken. Even from through the curtain Joan had been able to tell this knight had considered taking the matter to a duel. He had bowed to words as much as to a stronger warrior.
Sir Corentin turned to the other men.
"It should be about noon. Aren't you hungry? Fetch us fresh food from a farm, bring enough for the villagers as well. And one of you go bang that bell, I'm tired of this silence."
They could tell he was just as nervous as them. Those sounded to his men like dancing on a fire, but they still obeyed.
So the nobled went to that oathless knight next.
"What is my priest doing?"
The knight looked at him with curious eyes, then took a peek inside. They could both clearly tell the black robe prostreted before the bashed down remnants of the altar.
"Crying."
"Crying is what priests do best. Wailing for our souls in front of the saintess. But I need him to administer a wedding."
Though the knight errant hardly reacted, behind that calm mask the man's heart had warmed for the noble; it froze at those words.
His curiosity died down, returning to a hollow gaze.
"I suppose it is too much to ask of you to go tell him?"
The knight nodded.
"Then tell us what good you are just standing there in the ruins? You have places to be, bandits to kill I am sure. How about finding who dared raise a hand on the saintess?"
"Mh."
The man searched under his mail to bring out one of his neck pendants. Just a silver symbol of the saintess that he clutched in his fist.
But when he raised his eyes back to the noble they strayed to the side, toward the carriage.
So sir Corentin turned as well to see both Brenin and Grisval leaving it in a hurry.
"I forgot about them." He muttered before raising his voice: "Are you going anywhere?"
And Brenin, with an almost mocking voice:
"Pardon us milord, your future wife is changing for the wedding."
"She is?"
She was.
Once she understood that sir Corentin had not given up on marrying today she had risen from the bench, reached for the chest and brought out the dress that had been prepared for her.
It was that scarlet skirtle with a black surcoat.
Who chose it or why, the lady hardly took the time to wonder. She had already started to remove her own dress, which had the two men with her leave with a flurry of protests.
In truth her heart had gone from fear to calm, to swelling with pride at that man who would not let anything stand in his way.