by Regan Walker
Zoé gave the general her full attention, her mouth hitching up in a grin. “But you wear a uniform of sorts, do you not?”
Boisguy shrugged. “My men think so. Like me, many of the officers come from the nobility, asked to lead the fight by their tenants and villagers. We merely retain the dress we started with. That and the white cockade set us apart for our men.”
Zoé allowed her mind to wander back to the last time she had seen the dashing comte de la Rochejaquelein sitting atop his chestnut stallion as he rode off to join the Royal Guard of King Louis XVI. “Henri dressed like you, monsieur, impeccably attired even when he was riding off to battle. Beneath his crowned hat, his golden curls were never out of place.”
“Ah, oui, de la Rochejaquelein was the perfect soldier, the perfect officer, a brother to his men, eating their food, sleeping on the ground under the trees. And happiest with a pistol in one hand and a sword in the other. Of course, all the women threw their handkerchiefs at his feet, sent him love notes and tokens of their affection. So foolish. Henri and I used to laugh about them over our wine.”
A knot formed in Zoé’s throat. Had they laughed about her? She had sent Henri notes and given him small tokens to carry with him, a ribbon from her hair, a ring he wore on his smallest finger. “But surely, Henri had someone who was close to his heart, someone whose token he treasured?”
“Non, mademoiselle. I assure you, he did not. The sacred heart patch was his Madonna. He had no room in his heart for a mere female. Women like Captain Victor were useful to him and therefore he admired her skill with a sword, but he never loved a woman. Most he considered a nuisance.”
The scales fell from Zoé’s eyes, as she realized why Henri had never given voice to the words of love she had longed to hear. Not wanting Boisguy to see how his barbs affected her, she hid her despair beneath a cough. Her gut twisted to think she was among the women they had laughed about. Boisguy might not know her name as one of Henri’s devotees but she felt the shame as if he did. She could not chide Henri for his indifference for he was gone. But here was another. Was Boisguy just like him?
“Are you of the same opinion as Henri, monsieur?”
Her hand was on the table. Boisguy covered it with his own, his warm skin pressed against hers in too intimate a gesture for their brief acquaintance. “Non, mademoiselle. I am not like Henri. I make room in my heart—and my bed—for women I like.” His eyes took on a dark, predatory gleam. “Particularly one as lovely as you.”
Zoé pulled back her hand and slipped it under the table.
“Have I made you uncomfortable?” he asked with feigned innocence. “You see time is so short for us. We’ve only this night to know each other better. There may be no time for love but there is always time for pleasure.”
Disgusted, Zoé got to her feet, looking down at him. “You have, indeed, offended me, monsieur, but then you do not know me well. I am not one to fall at the feet—or into the bed—of the heroes you speak of. For that, you will have to seek out another.”
She turned and, with her chin in the air, took her leave.
As she walked away, she heard him chuckle before saying, “Quelle femme!”
She wanted nothing to do with so-called heroes like Henri and his friend Boisguy. They lived for today and for a cause or, in Boisguy’s case, their own needs, using whomever they would without regard to the hearts they broke along the way. Zoé might admire their courage and their leadership among men, but she would never want to be the woman of such a man. She wanted to be the world for the man she loved, be it in the middle of war or in peace. Her uncle had taught her such was possible and she did not want less for herself.
Chapter 11
Freddie did not question Zoé when she asked if she and Isabeau could take dinner in their chamber, saying she wanted to retire early. Perhaps she was tired from her excursion into the woods with Captain Victor and little sleep the night before. He was just glad she had returned unscathed, the patrol without incident. The journey tomorrow would be long and she would need her rest. Besides, the evening allowed him time to transcribe his notes into code.
The next morning brought a steady rain as they readied for their departure. Despite the weather, Freddie was anxious to leave. Now that he had the information he had come to collect, there was no reason to linger. Boisguy’s repeated urgings for Zoé to stay had, to Freddie’s great pleasure, fallen on deaf ears.
At the castle’s entrance, Jean Chouan and Boisguy waited to see them off. The Chouans had made sure the departing visitors carried food for the journey, the kind of portable rations Boisguy’s men took with them on long excursions: dried meat, berries, hazelnuts and the white wine of Brittany. They were also provided with a map, Jean Chouan suggesting they return to Lorient by another route, skirting Rennes to the west.
“You’re in charge of the map,” Freddie said to Erwan, handing him the drawing. “Keep us on the right path.”
Erwan nodded, his finger tracing the route Boisguy had marked out before stuffing the map into a watertight pouch.
As before, Isabeau would be the only one of them to ride. Freddie helped her to mount. She sat atop the black mare she had named Sabre on a thick saddle blanket, crouched beneath her wide felt hat and huddled under her coat.
Handing the reins to Gabe, Freddie said, “I’ll leave you to watch over Zoé and Isabeau and lead the mare.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Ready everyone?” Freddie inquired. Their nods caused rain to cascade down from the brims of their hats.
Turning to the two Chouan leaders, he thanked them for their hospitality, vowing to see the needs of the Chouan army would be met. To complete the mission, he had only to get Zoé and the others safely to the shores of Brittany’s western coast.
Their first day on the road was long and monotonous, which encouraged Freddie to think they need only suffer four more days of the same to reach the coast and Donet’s ship. The rain ceased at noon and the sun showed itself, drying their soaked clothing.
They had stopped twice for brief periods to eat and rest but, otherwise, kept up a good pace.
Freddie planned to avoid Rennes by following Boisguy’s advice to go around the city to the west. Even so, about dinner-time, with the city just to the east of them, he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Casting his gaze about the forest, he felt as if a thousand eyes were focused on them.
He gave the signal to stop and waited for a long moment. Nothing moved amid the wall of green trees and he heard nothing save the birds in the canopy above them.
However, the foreboding did not leave him.
Twice he’d ordered his charges into the trees to avoid Blues on patrol. When the last company marched by them, he whispered to Zoé, “I don’t like it. The woods are crawling with Rossignol’s men.” Turning to Erwan, he said, “Scout ahead and see if the path is clear for us. We’ve hours of daylight remaining but I’d prefer to stop sooner for the night if we can find a safe place. Until you return, we’ll continue but more slowly.”
Erwan nodded. “I’ll find you.” He disappeared into the trees, his Breton clothing and long brown hair blending with the underbrush that closed around him.
Freddie looked at those who remained, assessing their strength to go on. Zoé leaned against a tree, obviously tired but uncomplaining. He suspected she wanted to remove her boots and give her feet some air, yet she had not done so. Perhaps she, too, felt uneasy at being so near Rennes. Gabe gave no sign of exhaustion but he watched his mistress closely. Atop the black mare, Isabeau gripped the reins yet her eyes bespoke her weariness. They all needed rest but Freddie could not risk stopping here. “Come, we will go on until Erwan rejoins us.”
They had not gone far when a shouted order in a gruff voice echoed through the woods. Though it came from some distance away, he thought he heard the command, “Fouillez partout! Search everywhere!”
Gesturing his companions off the path with a sweep of his hand, Freddie drew his p
istol and crept toward the direction of the voice. Not far on, he spotted a large number of republican soldiers fanning out to search the bushes, parting the undergrowth with the butts of their muskets. Looking for some poor Chouan, no doubt.
Freddie’s heart pounded as he realized the tide of Blues was sweeping toward them. There were too many to engage in battle and fleeing in haste would only draw their attention. Soon the company of soldiers would be upon them.
Retreating as fast as he silently could, he joined Gabe guarding Zoé and Isabeau, already knowing what he must do. “There’s a company of Blues coming toward us. Take Zoé and Isabeau ahead,” he ordered Gabe. “I will try to divert the soldiers away from you.”
“Non!” Zoé protested. “They will shoot you the minute you are seen.”
He took her by the shoulders. “There is no time, Pigeon. I cannot let you and Isabeau fall into Rossignol’s hands.” Hoping to convey with his eyes what he could only hint at with words, he said, “You know what it would mean for you and the girl. I cannot let that happen.”
Her eyes welled with tears as she grabbed onto his coat. “But, Freddie—”
Taking the coded information from his satchel, he stuffed the papers into her hands. “There is no time to argue. You must get this to d’Auvergne on Jersey.”
She took the papers, tears streaming down her cheeks as she frowned her dismay. “They will kill you; I cannot bear it.”
His eyes bored into hers. “And I cannot live in a world where you are not.” This was the last time he would see her, his only moment to show her how he cared. He pulled her to his chest and kissed her full on the mouth, putting all his love into the only kiss he would ever give her.
She made a slight gasp as he forced himself to end the kiss. Bringing her fingers to her lips, she stared at him wide-eyed, on her face a look of wonder.
“I will try and convince them that I am too valuable to Rossignol to die here without ceremony. Perhaps I will live for a time.” And with that, he said to Gabe, “Take them away; don’t let her follow.”
Gabe nodded, in his eyes a solemn promise to do as Freddie bid him.
“Freddie, don’t do this,” pleaded Zoé. “Don’t go.”
With a last look at the woman he loved, Freddie turned and strode toward the oncoming company of Blues.
Gabe tugged at her coat sleeve but Zoé resisted. She had to know Freddie’s fate.
Stupid heroic Englishman.
Her lips still stung from his kiss. It had not been the gesture of a parting friend, one who was saying goodbye as he sacrificed his life for hers. Non, in his eyes she had glimpsed a depth of affection she had not seen before. Feelings for her he’d kept hidden until now. She remembered the first time he’d kissed her, the night of the Fête de la Fédération when fireworks exploded in the sky above them. That had been the innocent kiss of a friend, but this…
“I must know what happens,” she whispered to Gabe.
“One moment only, mademoiselle.”
Zoé strained her ears to hear what was taking place some thirty feet away.
“Halte-là!” came a shout. “Identify yourself!”
Speaking the terrible French of an Englishman acting in a comedy on stage, Freddie said, “Why, I am Frederick West, lately of England. Perhaps you might be of assistance. You see I seem to have become lost in these damn fine woods you Frenchies have.”
“Insolent cur!”
She heard the smack of a blow and flinched, touching her hand to her cheek where she could almost feel the pain of the impact.
“No need to be rough, good sir,” Freddie intoned. “I am but a humble public servant like yourself, a professor of botany to be precise.”
“Kill the English pig!” shouted a coarse voice.
“Now, do not be hasty,” advised Freddie. His voice sounded calm but, for all his brave front, Zoé believed his bluster masked fear.
Oh, Freddie.
“And why not kill you?” came a drawl.
“Well, for one thing,” Freddie replied, “I would very much like to meet your General Rossignol about whom I have heard so much. What’s a trip to Brittany without a visit to Rennes, n’est-ce pas? After days wandering about with only plants for company, to see the city I’ve heard so much about would be a treat.”
“He’s a spy!” exclaimed one of the men.
“Whether he is a spy or not,” said another, “he is most certainly English. Perhaps we should deliver him to the general and let him decide what to do with this lying English dog. Take his weapons.”
With that, she heard some muffled sounds and then boots moving off through the trees.
The woods fell silent. Even the birds held their songs.
Freddie was gone.
Zoé turned to face her friends, closing her eyes and shaking her head. Freddie had wanted her to go on and she would. But she would not give up. Surely there was a way to free him. Leading Isabeau’s horse, she followed Gabe down the path, wiping tears from her eyes.
“Will Monsieur West be all right?” Isabeau inquired in a shaky voice.
“We must pray that he will live, Isabeau. Pray very hard.”
Zoé knew royalists, particularly English ones, did not live long in Rossignol’s headquarters or Robespierre’s Paris for that matter, but she had to hold on to the hope that Freddie might survive. He was clever and smart. Her brave Englishman would live.
She touched her fingers to her lips still tingling from his kiss. Freddie loved her. She had seen it in his eyes and felt it in his kiss. And though the knowledge had only just come to her, she loved him, too. Perhaps she always had.
She could not lose him now.
Some distance down the path, Erwan joined them. “The path ahead is clear of any soldiers,” he informed them. “Where is M’sieur West?”
“The Blues have taken him,” said Gabe.
A look of shock crossed Erwan’s face. “Taken?”
“He gave himself up to save us from discovery,” said Zoé. “Erwan, take some food and go to Rennes. See if you can find out what they intend to do with him. If Cadoudal is still in the area, he might be able to help you. We must go on, but will wait for you at Lorient. Bring us word he lives, I pray you.”
Erwan shared a look with Gabe before nodding. “I will do as you wish.”
Rennes, Brittany
Freddie wiped the blood from his chin. The cut lip and bruises were mere trifles given what he might yet suffer at Rossignol’s hands.
The Blues had summarily dumped him in a cell in the bowels of the Palais de Justice with only a rickety bench for a bed. A lantern, hanging from a rafter a short distance away, cast flickering shadows onto the stone floor around him.
Surprisingly, though musty, the cell did not reek of human waste nor was it as soot-ridden as he expected. Perhaps the swept clean appearance was due to the short time General Rossignol’s prisoners were typically held. The guard had taken special pleasure in telling Freddie his stay would be brief, that he would either meet the guillotine awaiting him just outside or join his fellow spies in a worse place.
Freddie would have to tell Zoé he’d encountered no rats. That is, if he ever saw her again. He did not regret sending her away and using Isabeau’s presence to ensure she went. As long as Zoé was safe, he could face death without regret. The kiss had been an afterthought, one he could not deny himself—or her.
He wanted her to know what was in his heart.
“Bring up the Englishman!” yelled a guard. “The general wants to see him.”
His hands locked behind him in irons, Freddie was hauled from his cell, forced up two flights of stairs and shoved into an opulent room with a red flowered carpet and a carved mahogany desk. The walls were graced with paintings and a gilded mirror over the fireplace. Apparently the revolutionaries kept some luxuries from the prior régime for themselves.
Rossignol stood with his back to Freddie looking out a window to the square below, but Freddie was certain the general knew
his prisoner had arrived. What better way to snub the brother of an English earl than to ignore him?
Keeping up his guise as a witless Englishman who had lost his way in the woods, Freddie said, “Good day to you, General Rossignol. I was hoping to make your acquaintance. Wandering in the forest for days can be dreadfully dull. Might you be able to assist me in finding my way home?”
Rossignol whipped around, his dark eyes narrowed on Freddie, his lips curled into a sneer. Trained to notice the smallest detail, Freddie’s gaze took in the lapels of the general’s dark blue uniform, embellished with gold embroidery, and the artful arrangement of his brown hair with curls around his face.
So, the general favored by Robespierre is as vain as he is debauched.
“Are all Englishmen so stupid as to wander into revolutionary France, Mr. West? Or, are you the spy my men believe you to be?” Not giving Freddie an opportunity to reply, he said, “Oui, I think you are un espion anglais, an English spy.”
“Oh, non, bon général,” Freddie protested, “unless you consider Arthur Young’s venture into France to observe agriculture a few years ago to be spying. He did keep a journal in which he wrote of his travels, which you might like to read. I found his musings quite fascinating. My own interest is botany and the plants that grow without human assistance.” Freddie had become familiar with botany for his code work and could have expounded for hours on Brittany’s vegetation.
“Ça suffit!” Rossignol glared at him with suspicious eyes. “Lies and subterfuge!”
Freddie tried to summon an indignant look. “Non, non, je vous assure.” Retaining a placid expression and mimicking the bloody bands of sans culottes he had observed arguing in favor of the revolution, he placed his palm over his heart, “Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité is my motto. I expect one day soon, England will come to see the revolution for what it truly stands for.” To Freddie’s mind that would be a thirst for blood and a disdain for everything true Frenchmen valued.
