A Fierce Wind (Donet Trilogy Book 3)

by Regan Walker

  The girl nodded.

  “Well then, remember you fight for what is right and you must trust God to keep Giles safe.” She squeezed Isabeau’s hand. “We will pray for him each night.”

  With that thin thread of hope, the girl’s countenance brightened. She and Isabeau had more in common than the girl knew. “When I was a few years younger than you, with my parents both dead, my uncle became my guardian. He and his English wife, Freddie’s sister, became like parents to me. Through my uncle, I have traveled much. You will meet him when we leave Brittany, for we will sail on one of his ships.”

  “He has ships?” Isabeau asked, her eyes full of awe. “I’ve never been on a ship.”

  Freddie turned back to caution them. “Best not to speak more while we are on the road. We cannot predict who we may encounter.”

  Zoé nodded. How could she argue when he was right? At any moment, republican soldiers could appear out of the woods to question them… or worse.

  She had never witnessed Freddie leading others before, but as she observed him, he seemed to grow taller, more confident, truly comfortable in the role. Pride filled her as she realized how easily he had accepted the responsibility for them all.

  Hours later, Freddie called a halt and directed them off the road to a small clearing surrounded by oak, yew and beech trees. Above them, the branches teemed with twittering birds. The light rain had stopped and the sun glistened off the wet leaves. Around them, wildflowers appeared wherever the rays of the sun pierced the canopy.

  Freddie asked Gabe to stand guard near the road and told the rest of them to find a place to sit.

  Zoé handed Gabe some of the dried beef and apples the Chouans had given her and then shared what remained with the others. She found a seat on a large rock as they passed around skins of water.

  Casting his gaze first at her and then at each face in their small circle, Freddie said, “If you’re feeling up to it, we can press on until we arrive at Fougères. We will not reach the town until day’s end but there should be sufficient daylight for us to find Boisguy and secure lodgings.”

  Zoé preferred not to stop no matter how weary she would be when they finally arrived. She knew by the pace Freddie had set that he, too, was anxious to reach Boisguy. Still, they had to consider Isabeau’s ability to keep up.

  Freddie must have had the same concern as he studied the girl. “If, at any point, you feel too tired to go on, Isabeau, we can spend the night at the mill house Giles spoke of and resume our journey tomorrow morning.”

  “Je ne suis pas fatiguée,” insisted the girl, raising her chin. Considering what she had been through, Zoé thought her a hearty soul to deny her fatigue. Perhaps for her brother’s sake she wanted to appear one of the valiant Chouans.

  “You have done well to keep up,” Zoé told her. “But no one will fault you should you want to stop sooner than Fougères.”

  A few hours later, they skirted the town of Combourtillé and Freddie asked them if any were of a mind to stop for the night. Zoé inquired of Isabeau, but the girl bravely shook her head. Nonetheless, Freddie suggested that before they pressed on, he should call on the miller to see if he had any messages for Boisguy.

  “I’ll take Erwan with me since he has the best command of Breton. The rest of you stay here, off the road and hidden among the trees. Gabe will stand guard.”

  Zoé was about to remind Freddie she could be useful in a fight, but something in his expression told her to hold her tongue.

  From the edge of the trees bordering the stream, Freddie observed the two-story stone mill house some thirty feet away. Its chimney rose above a sloping slate roof typical of the countryside. While the house appeared in good repair, the six paned windows were devoid of curtains, a woman’s touch clearly lacking here. Smaller buildings of similar ilk but without windows stood nearby. He assumed they were for grain storage, equipment and animals.

  An eerie quiet permeated the area. No birds sang in the trees. Even the stream was silent in its sullen passage. ’Twas as if nature was holding its breath.

  Freddie’s nerves were taut with expectation. “Keep alert, Erwan.”

  They were about to step from the cover of the trees when the faded blue door of the mill house burst open and two Chouans strode outside, their jackets bearing the sacred heart patch. Each carried a bayoneted musket. A third man, coming from the side of the house, joined them.

  Freddie raised his arm in front of Erwan, holding him back when he would have stepped forward. “Wait.”

  Sun glinted off the Chouans’ clothing revealing what looked like fresh blood splashed across their shirts and waistcoats. Two of the men carried bulging sacks.

  “Boisguy’s men?” Erwan whispered.

  Somehow Freddie didn’t think so. “Or men who would have us believe they are.”

  “The false Chouans?”

  “Possibly.” When the three men had departed into the woods, Freddie carefully left the cover of the trees, his musket raised. By his side, Erwan drew a pistol. Slowly, they crept toward the mill house.

  The front door stood ajar.

  No sound emanated from the interior.

  Freddie whispered to Erwan, “Inquire in Breton if anyone is home.”

  Erwan spoke the words loud enough for anyone in the house to hear.

  Silence greeted them, and the eerie feeling Freddie had experienced earlier returned. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. Light from the windows and open door filled the large room. The first thing he noticed was the wooden table fallen on its side, the broken dishes it once held lying scattered across the stone floor.

  Freddie crossed the room and stooped before the fireplace searching for heat. Warmth emanated from the ashes. “There was a fire here not long ago.”

  “It seems the Chouans, or whoever they were, meant the mill owner no good,” said Erwan.

  Freddie scanned the room. The shelves contained a few books, cooking pots and tankards. Over the fireplace was a miniature portrait of a woman.

  There was no evidence of blood.

  “Take a look at the rest of this floor, Erwan. I’ll see about the upstairs.”

  Freddie took the stairs two at a time, dreading what he would find. Perhaps the man died in his sleep and the men had discovered the body and decided to plunder his home, robbing the dead man of his valuables.

  But that would not explain the blood splashed across their clothing.

  Inside one of the bedchambers, a gruesome sight confronted Freddie, confirming his worst fears. A man of middle years with lined skin, his brown hair peppered with gray, lay across the bed fully clothed. He had been stabbed in the chest and his throat slit. Blood seeped from his wounds into his clothes and onto the bedcover, the coppery scent of his life’s fluid filling the air.

  Freddie returned to the top of the stairs. “Erwan, up here.”

  Erwan gasped as he entered the room and came to stand beside Freddie. The two of them stood over the body, crossing themselves.

  Erwan shook his head. “A terrible way to die.”

  “Aye, a bayonet to the chest and a knife to the throat to make certain the man did not live.”

  “But why?” asked the Breton.

  Freddie could only speculate. “The man’s support for Boisguy likely became known. I’d bet this is the work of Rossignol’s false Chouans. None that we saw leaving the mill house wore rosaries.” Freddie did not wish to linger where their enemies had been. “See if you can find a shovel. We must bury the man. It will take time we can ill afford but Boisguy would expect it. While you find the shovel, I’ll check on the other buildings.”

  In one of the buildings, Freddie found a black mare unharmed. Next to the horse was a dead stable boy lying in the hay, stabbed like his master. Crossing himself, he muttered, “The republicans make no exceptions for the young.”

  Leaving the lad in the hay, he found Erwan. “We’ve another body to bury, a young stable boy.”

  Erwan let out an oath, then held
up his hands in which he held shovels. “I found these.”

  “Good. Oh, and a horse will be joining us. I must tell Zoé and Gabe of our discovery. Once the dead are laid in the ground, we’ll continue on.” He wanted to get Zoé out of the woods in which the false Chouans might still be prowling. “I am more eager than ever to reach Fougères.”

  Freddie returned to where Gabe guarded Zoé and Isabeau. Addressing the girl, he asked, “Did you know the man who lived here, Isabeau?”

  Beneath her felt hat into which she had tucked her brown hair, Isabeau truly appeared to be a lad. “Non.”

  He was glad for her answer. The girl had suffered enough. “It seems the man has died.” He would not speak of murder, not in the presence of one so young. “We will bury him and move on. As he left behind a horse, you can ride.”

  Drawing Zoé aside, he said, “The man and his stable boy were murdered. Erwan and I will make sure they are in the ground before you and Isabeau join us.” To Gabe, he said, “You might see if you can help Erwan.”

  Gabe nodded and headed in the direction of the mill house.

  Zoé looked up at Freddie with trusting eyes. “Do you have any idea—”

  He loved her all the more for her unflinching reaction to what had happened. Not many women would nod at the word “murder” and inquire the cause.

  “Yes, and we will speak of it later.” In a louder voice, he said to her, “Why don’t you and Isabeau rest here while we take care of the task?”

  “Can I help?” Zoé asked.

  “Aye, you can say a prayer over him when we are ready.”

  With the shovels Erwan had found in a shed, Freddie and the other two men soon buried Boisguy’s friend and his stable boy. Zoé said a prayer over the common grave that Erwan, certain they were fallen Chouans, marked with a large stone.

  Freddie hoped this was not to be a sign of what was to come.

  Chapter 9

  Fougères, Brittany

  Zoé stood on a hill with Freddie and the others, gazing down at the Château de Fougères. They were exhausted from the day’s events and glad to have arrived at their destination. Behind them, the setting sun cast its rays on the sand-colored stone, making the castle appear golden, like some celestial city lowered to earth.

  Giles had not been exaggerating when he described the castle as a medieval fortress. The massive edifice, built on a rocky outcrop, stood high above the river that circled its oval base like a moat. Zoé counted thirteen towers built into the stone walls, some very large.

  Gabe removed his hat to brush his dark curls off his forehead. “My family is from Le Havre and I have seen many sights sailing with the capitaine, but there have been none like this.”

  “The château is one of the largest in Europe,” said Erwan. “It was built to protect Brittany against sieges from her enemies, a warning for them to turn back from our borders. In times of war, the people took shelter behind the castle’s ten foot-thick walls.”

  Zoé’s gaze drifted to the stone houses pressed closely together on three sides of the fortress and the small village that lay on both sides of the path leading to the castle’s main gate. “Is that why the town grew up around it?”

  “Oui,” said Erwan. “The people wanted to be close if the enemy came in spite of the warning.”

  “As long as the fortress is held by Boisguy,” put in Freddie, “it serves the same purpose today.”

  Erwan helped Isabeau from the horse and the girl hurried to stand next to Zoé, taking her hand as she looked down at the castle. “I was here once before… with my parents.” The sadness in the girl’s eyes and her quavering voice spoke of her lingering grief.

  Zoé squeezed her small hand unsure of what to say, remembering the day she, too, had been orphaned. The deep wound to her young heart had only been healed by the love of her uncle and aunt, who was then Lady Joanna West. And the friendship of Joanna’s younger brother. She had thought Freddie most annoying at first but the passage of years had shown her that he was a true friend.

  On her other side, Freddie took off his felt hat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Let’s hope Boisguy will welcome us. A bed and dinner would not go amiss.”

  “What river is that circling the castle?” asked Zoé.

  “’Tis the Nançon,” replied Erwan, “and this is the Nançon Valley.”

  Zoé’s eyes took in the narrow valley, a swath of verdant vegetation and forests surrounding the castle. The trees and foliage had flourished in the spring rains. Red, blue and pink wildflowers blossomed from every crevice, reminding her of Guernsey.

  “We’d best seek our host,” said Freddie, “before we lose the light.”

  As they began their descent, Zoé looked down at the men milling around the outside wall. “Why has no one approached us?”

  “I suspect we are under observation,” said Freddie. “As we get closer to the main gate, Boisguy’s men will make themselves known.”

  To reach the gate that would take them past the castle’s outside wall, they had to first walk through the village and then cross a small bridge that spanned the moat. Freddie led the way, Zoé and Isabeau fell into step behind him. Gabe and Erwan followed with the black mare.

  The villagers peeked their heads out of doors and windows to regard them with suspicious eyes. The women frowned at Zoé. She assumed it was due to the way she was dressed. Isabeau might pass for a lad but only from a distance did Zoé think her disguise would be convincing. The women of Fougères wore dresses or loose smocks tucked into long skirts, over which they donned short vests or jackets. Most of their hair was hidden beneath white caps, some with lace edges.

  One woman pointed to Zoé. “Un autre Capitaine Victor?”

  If they thought she was another Captain Victor, the woman who led a company of Chouan fighters, it meant she had been here. Zoé grew excited at the prospect of meeting such a woman.

  No sooner had they reached the path leading across the bridge to the castle’s main entrance than two men bearing grim expressions on their hardened faces blocked their advance. Each carried a musket and wore the sacred heart patch on his coat and a long rosary around his neck.

  Freddie gestured to Erwan to join him and the two walked toward the Chouans. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out the message Cadoudal had given him. “For General Boisguy,” he said in Breton, bowing slightly.

  Erwan spoke a few words to the Chouans, the only one Zoé recognized was “Cadoudal”.

  Isabeau, who knew French as well as Breton, leaned close to whisper, “Erwan has told them we come from M’sieur Cadoudal and the message is from him.”

  The man who had accepted the missive motioned for them to wait. Leaving his fellow Chouan to guard them, he crossed the bridge and walked with determined steps through the arched entrance.

  When Freddie looked back at Zoé, she asked, “You are not worried?”

  “Not yet. When we stopped to rest I asked Erwan to read me the message since it was in Breton. In veiled terms, it describes our mission as seeking information on their weapons and stores, to understand their needs. I assume he wrote it so that we could pretend to be on the side of the revolution should we be searched by republican soldiers. Clever that he should think to do that. As a result, it will take a bit of explaining to assure Boisguy we are here to help.”

  Only minutes had passed when the Chouan reemerged from the gate and beckoned them to follow. They followed him through the tunnel that cut through the thick outer wall.

  Inside, a lad took the horse’s reins, leading the mare toward what looked like a stable.

  Not wanting to cause Zoé undue angst, Freddie had omitted telling her about the part of the message that urged Boisguy to judge for himself “the sincerity of the government’s stated purpose”. Left unspecified was which government but, coming from Cadoudal and signed in what appeared to be code, Boisguy would know it was not revolutionary France that Freddie represented.

  The guards led them up thr
ee flights of damp stone stairs before stopping in front of a wooden door with rust-stained ironwork that led into one of the larger towers.

  One of the guards knocked. At the shout of “Entrez!” he opened the door and gestured Freddie, Zoé, Isabeau, Gabe and Erwan inside.

  The chamber was circular, like the tower, and smelled of musty leaves and burning wood. In the center of the room was a large desk. Sitting behind it was a young man with intense dark eyes. Freddie noticed immediately his fine blue coat and his elaborate white cravat spilling over his waistcoat. His long black hair fell to his shoulders.

  The only sound was the hissing and popping from the fireplace.

  The well-dressed young man rose and came around the desk to face them, crossing his arms and leaning back against the desk. Freddie had to remind himself Aimé du Boisguy was “not yet twenty”, for the man who stood before him had a noble bearing and an air of authority of a much older man, one who owned the respect of other men.

  As he introduced himself, his aristocratic accent and elegant French gave proof of his noble origin. “I am Aimé du Boisguy, general of the Chouans in this area. Who might you be?”

  Knowing he had but moments to convince Boisguy of his benevolent purpose, he said, “I am Frederick West, brother of the Earl of Torrington. I come on business of His Majesty the King of England. The government wishes to understand the needs of the Chouans both in Brittany and Maine so that we may provide assistance in your fight against revolutionary France. Our Prime Minister abhorred the murder of your king and means to win the war.”

  A movement drew Freddie’s gaze to the shadows where a rough-looking man leaned against the wall, his disquieting gaze fixed on the new arrivals. He was older than the other Chouans they had encountered, in his mid-thirties, Freddie judged. The man’s short hair and long downturned mustache were a dark brown, not unlike that of most Bretons. Freddie might have judged him a farmer for his face, lined and tanned like those who spent their days in the sun. He reminded Freddie of Donet’s vineyard workers. However, his wide-brimmed black hat bore the Bourbon white cockade and a white plume, marking him an officer in the Catholic and Royal Army. Around his neck over his white shirt he wore a brilliantly colored scarf splashed with red and a long rosary of black beads. Freddie amended his assessment. This man was no farmer, at least not anymore.