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.
CHAPTER 9
Kydd 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.