Back inside, the emptied farm was dancing at the rhythm of crackling flames. It hissed here and there while fighting the encroaching darkness.
Bowls and cauldron lay piled near the stone, close to the bench.
Sir Corentin had climbed on the wooden platform to throw the hay out with disgust. There too, rot had started to take hold; he had only smelled it from up close.
His clean tunic truly contrasted with the rustic wood he stood on.
"So much for a mattress." He turned to her. "I'll got fetch my gambeson."
"Use my mantle, milord."
"And what would you..."
He did not finish.
The man took another long, good look at that woman who was used to sleeping on floors. There was almost a hint of fear from him when he watched her climb in turn to join his side.
She laid the cloth down for him.
"Soon you will have a bed again."
"For now all I have is a mysterious woman and her esoteric retinue."
"And a name, milord." She nodded. "You are sir Corentin of Pivert, the new lord of Cormoran. None can deprive you of such a precious treasure."
Joan had approached her hand to touch his cheek: she wanted to put him to sleep and get to work unimpeded. One look from him kept her at bay.
She shirked away, wounded.
"You talked with this knight, sir Frederic."
He nodded: "We had a long talk indeed. How long have you known him?"
"This is the first time I met him. But he has known me for years and was deeply in love with me."
That had the noble hardly amused.
"He said he buried Joan of Cormoran with his own hands."
"I wager he found my corpse charred and torn under the rubbles of the Cormoran's keep."
She had seen the ruins from afar and heard enough about the fire that had devoured that castle. If Joan was there, Joan could bet there was little to be found.
"He didn't say, but let us pretend: he was still able to recognize her. To recognize you, Joan, among the many bodies. And of course, had you survived, has the fire changed your hair and face? Have you gained height by fleeing?"
Her wild eyes confronted his.
What had her heart beat was not this feeling of nakedness; it was thrilling, if anything, to picture a threat from it. It was the distance he kept, the doubts he cast, that had her irked.
"Can love die when the loved one changes?" Her voice remained equal. "He hates the name I bear while thinking of me as a perfect stranger."
"How rich coming from you! You yourself admit you had, how would you put it, forgot everything about him?"
"Yes. Tell me, milord, is love so weak?"
He paused for a second, not to consider it but to see where she was going. That, in turn, pushed him into a burst of laughter.
Now that he didn't need her to bring him the name of his fallen enemies, the lord was itching to tear it out from her. There was cruelty or rather revenge from him in this doggedness.
Were he to keep pushing, all she had to hide behind was the curse.
"That again..."
Corentin calmed down, still amused.
"So, to which do we owe your mantle? Love, or strength?" And he cut her with his hand. "I know it's not strength, you stand in our midst like a lion with flies. But love? You? You are toying with us, plain and simple. A church burned and I am sure it broke your boredom."
He wasn't wrong. What forced her to look away was how terribly not wrong he was.
She had known it too well.
That weakness she showed made him bolder. He opened his arms, content with the result. It was almost like a savage triumph.
"But love and strength, that's all you are! All you Joan ever talk about. Your realm must be very simple. You want to talk about love? Let's talk about love."
He stepped closer, rougher.
"Take the girls you like, keep them until you get bored, then discard them."
"That" she reacted "is the love I know."
"Then there is nothing for you to learn! That's all there is! All I have ever known. Nobles and commoners alike pursue their selfish whims until they vanish. What people call love is just desire! Go on, tell me I am wrong!"
Only when she stood silent a second too long did he realize just how close he had got to her, how much he had raised his voice and that her eyes were fleeing away and down, her hand holding her shoulder.
For a moment that human almost believed he was facing an actual woman. That soft, tender body gave him such a good illusion.
Her voice brought him back to reality.
"You have to be wrong."
There was some simmering rage in it that forced the noble back. But that rage was directed at herself.
Because every word he had said she believed in. What he had described was her own experience. The only understanding she could have of that feeling. She would not have known what to retort, what to offer to counter it.
So there was just this rage instead.
"Love has to exist. I will keep failing until it appears. I will throw my mantle for love no matter how cruel my heart may be. And if my strength is still an obstacle I will devour my muscles until this body of mine is capable of feeling it!"
"Like what, with your teeth?"
That mockery was just the human losing his balance, taken aback by her nonsense no less than by her anger.
He could simply not believe her.
She could not believe herself.
But Joan turned away entirely, took two steps away from the fire's dancing lights. She sat and readied to lie down on the floorboards.
"I am capable of hatred, why should love be foreign to me?" Joan was almost talking to herself. "Happiness, distress, despair, I've known them all. I can read a man's heart well enough and still they are closed to me!"
She could feel Corentin's gaze on her shoulders, judging her mad and dangerous.
A rabid dog.
"You claim to not know love, milord," she accused him, "but you care about your mother and brother. You look for friends, you seek approval, you still know more than you imagine."
"Anyone does." He rebutted.
"And anyone has a name, milord." Her eyes pierced his. "It is given to you and can't be withheld. Even beaten and broken you would still respond to it. Who would cherish something that comes so naturally?"
She curled up, her back to the mantle, legs and arms so close as to hide her head in them. The long silver hair showered all over her scarlet skirtle.
"You should sleep, milord." Her voice could still not tame her anger. "Harsh days lie ahead."
The human, still a bit fearful, decided to approach nonetheless. He crouched, touched the mantle then lay on it. It hardly offered any comfort.
There, arms crossed behind his head, he looked at the beams and thatch.
"No."
He had mused aloud. His eyes glanced at her back. She wanted for him to sleep but he would not.
"No, let's talk a bit more."