Kydd (26 page)

Several cavalrymen reined their horses to a walk as they searched the sides of the road. An isolated scream sounded once but in the main they passed on up the road, prodding the scattered corpses as they went.

Kydd and Renzi crouched, motionless, the pungent scent of the undergrowth almost overpowering.

“We can’t follow the road,” Renzi whispered. “Despard will be marching on St. Pontrieux just as soon as he can. The road’s going to be alive with soldiers.”

It was impossible to tell what lay over the crest above but they had no choice. Fighting their way cautiously upward, they broke through the bushes into poor grass interspersed with weathered granite outcrops. Soon the road was out of sight.

“Nicholas, your pardon, but I am foundered, beat. Could we not . . .”

“Of course, dear fellow.” It would mean the end of any chance to catch up with their shipmates, but Renzi looked about for somewhere to rest. The sun was already out of sight beyond the crest of the hill and the chill of evening was coming on. The resting-place would have to serve for the night as well.

The best that could be found was an overhanging rock under which they sat, Kydd groaning with exhaustion.

“It has a certain attraction, this country I find,” Renzi said, musing through his own aching fatigue. “A definable quality of beauty that stems perhaps from its very wildness.”

“Yes,” said Kydd, in a muffled voice.

“A grandeur, a nobility that one supposes can only exist as a consequence of man’s inability to impose his will on this rugged land.”

There was no answering comment. Kydd’s head drooped and he slid sideways against his friend.

Renzi could not bring himself to speak of his fears. Without doubt St. Pontrieux would be taken very soon and the British would give up the project, and sail away. He tried not to think of the consequence. Abandoned in a hostile land, he and Kydd would not last long.

While Renzi brooded and dozed, Kydd slept; a deep, profound and necessary sleep for a youthful body not yet fully hardened by sea life.

Renzi awoke shivering. It was dark and chill, the nearly full moon veiled in cloud. Kydd was awake and Renzi noted ironically that he was now leaning up against his friend.

“B-bloody c-cold!” Kydd said.

They both shuddered uncontrollably, hugging their knees.

“What o’clock is it?” Kydd croaked.

“Past midnight, is all I can say,” Renzi replied.

Kydd stood up stiffly and cuffed himself. “This is no good — we shall die of the cold. We must go on.”

“Yes, of course.”

Their bodies aching and protesting, instinctively they headed for the top of the ridge. They trudged slowly, letting their muscles take up again, on and up the shadowed slopes. The moon-distorted countryside felt cruel and hard. Renzi foresaw them trying to hold to a steady course in the night, crashing into unseen obstacles, going in circles, awakening a hostile countryside. It was madness. Dark patches of tussocks lay everywhere and the hilltops in the distance were tinged with silver. It was deathly still, disturbed only by unseen scurries of wildlife. A soft flutter of wings signified either a bat or an owl, and a rabbit screamed as it was taken by a stoat.

They reached the top just as the moon retreated behind the clouds once more. They stumbled on in the dark, tripping over rocks and plow
ing through bushes, conscious all the while of gnawing hunger.

The moon emerged again, and Kydd jerked with surprise. On all sides they were surrounded by gigantic structures rearing up in black evil ranks, glowering down on them. His hair stood on end; there was something primeval and overpowering about them.

“Cromlechs!” Renzi breathed.

“What?”

“The Breton dolmen! I’ve never seen one before — a mighty building of stone, untold ages old. Built by an unknown people, for who knows what purpose?” Renzi wandered about the big stone circle, marveling. “Look, I do believe that we should wait until the morrow,” he said, “until we can see where we should go.”

“So we can gaze upon y’r stones?” Kydd snapped.

“Not at all,” Renzi lied. “So that we are in no danger of having to retrace our steps.”

“Then I wish you joy of y’r rest. I will continue.” Kydd’s face was indistinct in the shifting patterns of moonlight.

“You will find that St. Pontrieux has been taken,” Renzi said softly.

A slight hesitation. “Do y’ think I’ve not thought of that? Enough waste of time. I’m leaving.”

Renzi noted the slumped shoulders, the dragging feet. Kydd was past caring. His heart went out to the lonely figure hobbling stubbornly through the gloomy megaliths and out of sight. For a minute or so he waited alone, then reluctantly went after him, only to see Kydd heading back toward him, head down.

“Be damned to both you and y’r stones, Renzi!” Kydd said thickly, swaying past and dropping to the ground in the lee of the central one.

“You will find that our mysterious ancestors always built at a prominence,” Renzi said gently. “Tomorrow we shall have such a splendid view as will make you stare.”

The long cold night eventually gave way to a gray misty dawn, the light of day turning the gaunt black megaliths to gray, lichen-covered crags. The mist stayed with the daylight, a quiet enshrouding white that dappled all things with a gentle dew. They cast about, and it was not long before they came across a well-worn animal track meandering along the ridge top. Hunger had become an insistent, hollow pain. They tramped on, not speaking.

A muffled sound carried through the mist. They stood absolutely still.

Hooves! It was impossible to say from where the sound came in the enfolding white and they remained rigid, ears straining. Then out of the mist trotted a small goat. It saw them and stopped in surprise.

“Breakfast,” Kydd whispered.

“
Yes
!” gloated Renzi.

Kydd advanced slowly on the animal, which pawed the ground uncertainly.

“Pretty little one, come to me . . .”

A few feet away he lunged, and grappled the terrified animal by the horns, wrestling it to the ground. It kicked and struggled, bleating piteously, but eventually it lay still.

Kydd held it securely, its big frightened eyes rolling. “What do I do now?” he gasped.

“Kill it!”

“How?”

So focused on the animal were they that the little girl was able to come upon them unawares. “
Qu’est-ce que vous faites avec ma chèvre?
” she cried out, aggrieved.

“
Sois calme, mon enfant!
” Renzi said, in a soothing tone, removing his battered hat politely. “Your little goat, my friend thinks it has hurt its foot,” he continued smoothly. He went to the goat and stroked its head. “You think it’s hurt its foot!” he muttered at the mystified Kydd, who immediately began carefully to inspect a dainty hoof.

Kydd let the goat go and smiled winningly at the little girl.

“Who are you,
M’sieur?
A villain perhaps, or a lost Royalist?” she said, looking at them doubtfully.

“But, no!” said Renzi, frowning at the suggestion. “We are, unhappily, lost. We seek the farm of
Monsieur, er, M’sieur
. . .”

“Pleneuf?”

“Yes, child. May we know in which direction it lies?”

“I will tell you. It is back along the track. You go down the hill there.”

Renzi smacked his forehead. “Of course! A thousand thanks for your kindness.” He bowed.

“
Viens avec moi, mon fou!
” he told Kydd, beckoning to him unmistakably. They walked away, Renzi waving reassuringly at the little girl.

They followed the track down, the mist clearing as they went. Pas
tures and cultivated fields gave warning of the farm and they stopped at a safe distance.

“We must eat or we perish,” Renzi said. “I have the liveliest recollection that in the barns they cure the most excellent bacon and keep stone jars of cold cider. Shall we proceed?” His eyes gleamed.

They stole toward the farm buildings, uncomfortably aware that in their seaman’s rig they were utterly unlike the smocked and gaitered rural folk and would have no chance of passing themselves off as anything but what they were.

The ancient barn smelled powerfully of old hay as they slipped in through the vast doors hanging ajar. As their eyes adapted to the gloom, they went farther in, rummaging feverishly for stone jars or hanging flitches.

A sudden shadow made them look up, then wheel round — but it was too late. The man in the sunlight at the door held a fowling-piece, an old and ugly but perfectly serviceable weapon, its long barrel trained steadily on them.

“
Ah, Monsieur
— ” began Renzi, stepping forward.

“
Non!
” The flintlock jabbed forward. “
Qui êtes vous?
” The darkjowled farmer moved carefully into the barn to take a closer look. “
Diable! Les foutus anglais!
” The muzzle jerked up.

There was nothing they could say or do as they were marched out.

“
Par pitié, Monsieur!
We are famished, thirsty. For the love of Christ, something!”

The farmer said nothing, and outside the stables threw a key to the ground. He indicated to Kydd that he should open the massive old padlock. They entered a small stable. Still keeping the gun trained on them, he closed the lower door. Before the top half shut he leaned in with a triumphant look and spoke. He would immediately go to town and fetch soldiers, but out of pity he would first ask his wife to bring a little of the morning
mijoté
for them to eat, and possibly some cider.

The upper door slammed shut and they sank down on the straw.

“What’re our chances?” Kydd said.

Renzi answered, with some hesitation, “Well, we can take it now that St. Pontrieux has fallen, probably without a fight. The soldiers therefore will be cheated of their victory, and will be in an ugly mood.” He scratched his side — there were fleas in the stable. “What is worse for us,
many of our men will have been saved because the ships will have taken them up, and this they will have seen. Perhaps it is not a good idea to be a sailor at such a time.” The lines in his face deepened.

Kydd said nothing: if there was something to be faced, then he would face it without flinching.

There was a rattling of the padlock and the door was flung open. In the glare of sunlight they became aware of the mob cap and pinafore of a woman. Preceded by the farmer with his flintlock, she entered warily with a tray. She gave a little scream and the tray crashed to the ground. The farmer growled in bafflement. “
Les anglais!
” she faltered. “They — look so fierce!”

The farmer relaxed. “
Espèce de connard!
” he said dismissively.

He waited until fresh food had been brought, and swung in a stone jar. The door slammed shut and the two fell upon the food.

“Silly woman!” Kydd said, without malice, savaging a chicken leg that had found its way into the ragoût.

“I think not,” Renzi said meaningfully. He tore ravenously at the country bread. It was infinitely the best meal he had ever had, the rough cider complementing the natural flavor of the Breton cooking.

Puzzled, Kydd looked at him. An urgent rattling at the door was his answer. It was flung open and the farmer’s wife was standing there. “You must go now!” she said urgently, in accented English.

“Marie,” Renzi said, in a low voice.

“No! Leave now! He will be back with soldiers soon.”

“But — ”

“Nicholas, I am married now. Married,
hein!
Please go!”

Renzi moved forward and held her. She sobbed just once, but pushed him firmly away. “Go to the house of Madame Dahouet,” she said quickly. “It is the white house on the corner of the avenue du Quatorze Juillet off the square. She is a —
sympathisante
. Her son die in Paris.”

Renzi stood reluctant.

“Take care, my love —
allez avec Dieu
!” She drew back against the door, her eyes fixed on his. “Go,” she whispered.

K
ydd and Renzi waited until the first light of dawn before entering the town. The river lay to their left, an easy signpost to the plaza they had left just days before. There were no more Bourbon lilies on display, no more white banners. Instead, the flag of revolution hung everywhere around them.

The town was silent, a curfew obviously in force. They removed their shoes and crept noiselessly toward the square, keeping well in to the side of the street. In the silence the measured tread of approaching sentries gave them adequate warning.

On one side of the square stood a tall structure in the dark. “Guillotine!” Renzi whispered.

Kydd shivered — the smell of blood hung in the air.

A sentry paced slowly by the guillotine. He was militia, dressed raggedly. His Phrygian cap had a tricolor cockade, just as the patriotic prints had it in the shops in England.

Timing their movements, Kydd and Renzi worked their way round toward a once grand house, which, as it was the only white building off the square, had to be their destination. The sky was lightening noticeably in the east when they reached it.

“Shy a pebble at th’ window,” Kydd whispered.

“You,” Renzi hissed, sure that Kydd would do it better.

Kydd picked up a light stone, judged the distance carefully and caught the pane. It rattled and the stone fell.

Nothing. The first rays of morning were appearing; the gray dawn was fast disappearing in the promise of another fine day. Kydd tried
again. Still nothing. The window remained shut. By now they would be easily visible to anyone chancing along the street. Kydd picked up another stone.

The door opened suddenly and noiselessly. They were yanked roughly inside. A sharp-faced woman glared at them. She had papers in her hair and wore a floor-length chemise and faded slippers. “You fools!” she said bitterly in English. “Do you beg to be caught?”

“Madame Dahouet?” Renzi enquired, with the utmost politeness, making an elegant leg.

Surprised, the woman bobbed in return. Then suspicion returned to pinch her face.

“Madame, might I be permitted to present my compliments and those of Madame Marie Pleneuf, who wishes to be remembered to you.” He spoke in the flowery French of the old regime.