"Perhaps your captain might know, Mister Mountjoy," Peel hinted. "After all, he's been staring at more maps of this coast than we."
"Charts," Lewrie corrected, shifting his saddle to ease an ache. It had been two years since he'd been astride, and his inner thighs and buttocks were reminding him of it, rather insistently. "Sea charts, do you see, Peel. Prominent stuff to steer and navigate by. But what's behind 'em, out of range-to-random shot, don't signify. I haven't the faintest clue where we are, much less where this road goes. Frankly, I was hoping you did!"
"Well, all roads lead somewhere." Peel frowned. "If it's good enough for Choundas to follow, it's good enough for us."
He heeled his mount and clucked, and they lumbered into motion once more, working their way back to an easy lope for those far woods.
CHAPTER
10
Guillaume Choundas emerged from the woods at last, after a serpentine journey in the shadow of the pines. The day was warming up, and he threw his boat cloak back over his shoulders. Before him was a wide valley with low hills to either side, covered with broader grain fields and shrouded on three sides with bush-covered boulders, with more woods to the north and east. The road led straight on. Wary of being out in the open, he checked the priming of one of his three pistols, then rode into the sunlight. About 300 yards off there was a wayside shrine, at a crossroads. He rode to it, warily looking about, but he was quite alone. The shrine was footed with a stone watering trough, but it was dry, filled with crumbly leaves and a green-brown rime. His horse nuzzled it, snuffling disappointedly. A tapering stone column at a list as it sank into the ground, a small altar covered with brittlely dry flowers, surrounded by fluted columns and topped with a steepled roof. It had a cross, but that was a recent addition, he thought, for the moss-filled inscription was Roman, like some legionary burial sites he'd seen in his childhood Brittany. The figures, though, on the original stele, much effaced by time, were far older. They were Celtic! he gasped with pleasure. He took that as a good sign. Till the raven came.
The raven glided in from his right, flared its wings and alit atop the steepled roof that was streaked with bird droppings. One of Lugh's birds, he shivered; old Bretons still knew who'd built the dolmens, and worshiped at them. Lugh was the greatest old god, and his raven was a harbinger-an ominous one! It preened its feathers, shook and settled, then cawed once at him, silhouetted against the morning sun.
The sun! Choundas sat bolt-upright, twisting his head to scan the empty valley. It was a bit past midmorning, yet the sun was in his eyes! He was facing southeast! All the time in the woods where the sun didn't reach, had he missed a trail, gotten turned around? His stomach chilled as he saw a patch of blue through a notch in the woods-the sea. Vado Bay! The cart track by the shrine led down to Porto Vado; or back to the west. But it might take him back where he needed to go. He strung out a rein to guide his thirsty horse, as the raven cawed once more, spread its wings, and lifted away, not six feet over his head, winging off to the west. Choundas then heard what had disturbed it-the thud of hooves, the jingle of chains and scabbards, and the clomp of feet. In the woods there was movement, shakoed infantry, and a troop of cavalry on the tracelike Vado road, lance pennants fluttering and points glittering above their heads. Austrians!
The raven's flight was the only clue he needed to turn away, and begin to ride off again, a good sign, he thought; that here in the land of the Roman conquerors of his ancient people, he was not alone, that a Celtic influence still resided. He dug in his heels, to urge the horse to get him out of sight before those lancers spotted him. A shout…?
"View halloo!" Peel cried as they left those maze-y woods, loped out into the broad valley. "There's our fox, gentlemen! Tally ho!"
Heedless of their horses, they kneed them into a gallop, aiming to cut off the fleeing rider with the cloak flying behind his back, Mister Peel in front, with Lewrie and Mountjoy behind, neck and neck.
Almost at once came the shrill call of a trumpet to the right-rear as the troop of Austrian lancers entered the valley and wheeled to form two ranks across as they trotted forward, quickly changing to the canter.
"Peel!" Lewrie warned. "We've got company!"
"Bugger 'em!" Peel threw over his shoulder, drawing his saber and laying it point-down, extended beyond his horse's neck. "On!"
"They think we're French…" Lewrie panted, "runnin' away… and you'll think buggery!" He turned his head to see the front rank lower its lances and break into the charge at the urging of a trumpet. "They're after us, you damn' fool! Speak… bloody German… anybody?"
"I do, sir!" Mountjoy called, his clothes filthy with clods of earth and grass thrown up by Peel's horse's hooves. "Some, anyway. I… picked up a few phrases… from Rahl and Brauer!"
And before Lewrie could tell him not to, Mountjoy reined in and turned away to trot back toward those glittering lance points, into the teeth of the charge, with his hands up, screeching "Meine herrйn, meine herrйn, bitte! Hilf mir! Eine Fransozich spion voir verfolgen! Bittel"
"Bloody damn'…!" Lewrie yelped, knowing it was suicidal, but unwilling to abandon the hen-head! He reined back himself, slowing his horse so quickly it crow-hopped after its skid, quite willing to throw him off! He swung back to join Mountjoy, at an inoffensive canter, his hands empty and outstretched. The only thing he knew that might identify himself was to break into a loud song-"Rule, Brittania"! The lancers came on, like an imminent collision between two ships, lances still lowered as Mountjoy continued yelling. He had a childlike urge to cover his eyes, and only watch the outcome through his fingers!
At the very last second, though, the front rank parted, raising its lances and sawing back to a lope, to circle him and Mountjoy. Alan let out a huge whoosh of relief, and plastered a grin on his phyz.
"Guten morgen, mein herr," Mountjoy was babbling to a pimply faced young officer. "Herr leutnantP Mein kapitan, Lewrie… Konig George, Britisch Kфniglich Kriegsmarine? Wir verfolgen ein spion."
"Parlez-vous Franзais?" the blotch-faced young lieutenant said.
"Well, oui … certain, s'il vous plais, mein herr."
"Good." the officer laughed. "German is so inelegant. What do you say you do, m'sieur?"
"Thank bloody Christ," Lewrie muttered under his breath, once Mountjoy got to slanging. Grateful that it wasn't just the Russians' aristocracy who hated their own tongue, and mostly spoke in French.
"They'll help us pursue, sir!" Mountjoy announced. "Leutnant Baron von Losma will follow us with his troop. I've told him that he shouldn't mistake Mister Peel for Choundas, when we catch him up."
"Bloody good. Let's be at it, then." Lewrie beamed.
"Trupp!" von Losma piped, his teenaged voice breaking with the effort, though damned elegant in his movements. "Vorwarts!"
Off they went again, the lancers in a column of twos, thundering up through those bouldered, bushy hillocks, through a patch of forest, and out into another, smaller valley, where they caught up with Peel, perhaps only a half mile from where they'd split off from him. He was circling his horse at a breather-trot, waiting for them. Beyond, they could see Choundas, just as he put his struggling horse to a slope. "What'd you stop for?" Lewrie demanded, reining in.