“God’s Holy trousers, lass, I thought you were screaming the Devil’s own tune.”
She sniffed, rubbed her face with both hands, and sat up. “Just another nightmare. I haven’t had one since I left here, Padre. I found peace in the mountains, and I think maybe that is what Louis had in mind. I feel a serenity inside like I haven’t felt since before my father died.”
She took a sip of water from the metal cup at her bedside. She examined the ornate vessel, and realized it had a religious purpose. Her eyebrows both went up as she looked at him, then back at the cup.
“Louis?” the priest said, waving away her look as he took back the communion cup.
“Louis Dumars, my cousin. Well, my mother’s cousin, and my cousin too, somehow. The man who sent me here—he died in my arms trying to protect the people he cared about. I couldn’t help him then, so I was trying to live up to my promise now.”
“Saint’s preserve us, you never told me that.”
It was a lack of trust on both sides, she knew.
She said, “Do you have something to tell me, Padre? Like how I failed those people and Louis too? It’s nothing I haven’t told myself, but I have accepted the fact that I am not more than I am. I am Kate Senlis, my father’s darlin’ girl. That is all, and that is enough, because it has to be.”
He studied her a moment. “You look different, child, you look . . .”
She sighed. “I thought I was different too until this last dream.”
“Do you want to tell me about it, I wonder?”
She shook her head.
He shrugged, “Suit yourself, but it’s a heavy burden you carry.”
“Do you know those people up there?”
“In the village near the shrine? Yes, they are a strange lot. Influenced by the many pilgrims that come through, I would think, but set in their own ways as well. They had the same priest for fifty-odd years. Then he died not a year ago. I pity the new man, for he considers the lot just a thorn in his side since the first day that he went up there.”
“He isn’t up there now—thank Providence. They said he’s down meeting with the cardinal in a city somewhere. Why aren’t you, Padre?”
He chuckled and held out empty arms. “I have no ambition, I have all that I want right here. Besides, I never mistake motion for action.”
That last part was Benjamin Franklin again. She said, “Then you are at peace as well, Padre.”
“I will be, in a moment.”
“Why in a moment?” she said, then grabbed the cup and finished the water before he thought better of using it this way. Maybe it was holy, maybe not, but she could use a bit of blessing in any case.
He got up and opened the door, tapping his temple before he left her. Kate could see him move about the chapel. Still on the bed, she pulled up her knees and rested her chin on them as she waited.
The priest now held a key. He went to the Altar and flipped up the cloth. He slid out a small box, wiped it free of dust, then opened the box and pulled out another key. Then he went to his own rooms. Kate could not see him, but could hear him rummaging about.
Something fell; he swore, but then added, “God forgive my blasphemy.”
Kate tried not to giggle when he came back to her with an oilskin pouch in his hands and a batch of cobwebs on his head.
“You can treat wounds with those cobwebs. They cauterize a wound like they dry up the body of a trapped fly,” she said.
“God protect me from women’s ways.” He brushed them away and set the pouch on the bed. “You’ll be having a look at these. I’ll come back when you have made yourself decent, and I’ve committed a few more minor sins.”
She studied the pouch for a moment, holding it tightly to make sure it was real. Then she pulled the string and gently unrolled it out flat.
The writing looked familiar. They were dispatches—plans and schemes for long dead hopes. They were the papers of Louis Dumars, the ones he sent her to find.
Kate set them aside on the bed, and then found herself unable to move much more. In a moment, she started to hum. The priest tapped at the door. It brought her back to her senses.
She called, “Just a moment.”
She quickly dressed. When Kate opened the door, the smell of brandy hit her first. “More minor sins?” she said.
“Aw, you found the papers all there?” the priest said.
“I suppose. Why didn’t you give these to me before?”
“I thought you were with him, the one who came before, I mean. You talk the same, you see. The man made my skin crawl, and old Jose would have nothing of him. Taken together, that’s gospel, God forgive my blasphemy.”
He crossed himself, but with little conviction. Kate was getting used to the motions now as a form of the priest’s punctuation more than his devotion.
“Who else was here?” she said.
“Forgot the name, didn’t think it was the right one anyway. Sure, but he was a strange-looking man. Round head, hollow eyes, looked like a pumpkin at a pagan holiday. He sweated too much and drank all my port. No, Jose didn’t like him at all, that being the plain truth.”
Ambrose Standish. Ambrose had been here, but had not mentioned it at all. Kate didn’t know whether to feel lucky she was not near him now or just angry that he had as good as lied to her. What was he about?
The priest added, “Besides, you ask me that question after the time you have just had there at your mountain shrine?”
True, it was hard work, Kate thought, but it was well worth it in her mind. She had much to show for her effort.
She made friends with the mule, which was no easy feat.
She met new people. Some she helped, but some taught her a thing or two.
All of them she liked. Grandmother Earth felt close to her now, and her goodies were once again plentiful. Kate had picked a few more kinds of plants from the advice of several of the old ladies in the village. And even if Louis Dumars hadn’t meant for her to find such resolution, she was glad she had it anyway.
“Do you know about this?” She slipped the copied map from her underwear and pressed it flat on the bed.
He was blushing, she could tell even in the dim light.
“Sorry,” she said, “I forgot that you haven’t known me since I was six years old. I suppose I’m used to being around family and old friends. They don’t seem to notice me much anymore.”
He waved it away with his hand. “No, I’ll be confessing my sins concerning you for a good month or two. Don’t be sorry, my lass. The Lord has his tests, and we must all pass through.”
“Do you know this?” she said again.
“That’s not his writing, but it looks familiar. Where did you get this, I wonder?”
She told him of Paris. She told him of Louis’s last wishes and how he had died. She told him that she was supposed to find the evidence of counter-revolution and destroy anything that might endanger his friends and their families. This was not a battle of liberty or revolution now. This was a matter of a man protecting what he held most dear.
“His blood—” She choked off. Kate felt the tears rise up, for the look on the priest’s face was full of sorrow and something more—remorse.
“Something you want to tell me, Padre?” she said very low.
“I got him into this, me and my talk of the Irish woes.” He wiped at his face, but left his hand to cover his mouth. Still, he sighed though his fingers, and Kate thought he looked very tired.
“I doubt it,” she said, gently touching his shoulder. “You might have discussed such things, but Louis was a smart man, a good man. Anything he did, he did for his own reasons. If it’s any consolation though, I often feel that way too.”
“There is truth in that, lass. Still, I miss him.” He sighed and dropped heavily to sit on the bed.
“I didn’t know him that well,” Kate said, “though better in some ways than most people, I would think. You get to know a man when he’s dying bit by bit every day. I miss him t
oo. The world is not a better place now that he has left it.”
“You sound like you have opinions on such things as the state of the world. Comes from your travels, I suppose. Ireland and here, I have seen no other. Don’t think I care to now. What will you do with the papers?”
She turned the pouch over and over in her hands. Finally, she said, “I will do what I feel is best.”
He rubbed his chin in thought. The church bell started ringing, and he got up to go. “Blast me, and would you look at that. Me here chatting with lass, when I should be in nipping at the sacramental wine. I will surely burn in Hell, I surely will.”
“Maybe, Padre, but I have a feeling that it will not be for that.”
He nodded and was gone. Kate was left to contemplate the papers on her lap.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 23 - The Battle
She went for a walk and found the perfect spot. It was near the village, but not close enough for someone to come and ask questions. She gathered up small bits of driftwood and dried grass and stacked them in a small campfire pile. Using her body to shelter against the wind, she struck the flint patiently until the pile finally lit.
After the flame took off, she pulled out the papers and one by one set them afire. She didn’t even read them; she barely looked at them as they blazed. She had to scoot back when the fire got too hot, but it burned down just as quickly.
Kate tossed more dried dune grass onto the fire, but it was more smoke now than flame. She let the fire die down to the last embers. The day was beautiful, but cooler than it looked, and the small bit of fire was welcome. She poked at the bundle of embers that had once been Louis’s papers. It disintegrated into a tiny explosion of sparks.
She looked around her. The world was full of sunshine. Grey and white sea gulls floated so high above her that she could barely hear their playful squawks. The blue-green ocean was capped in white. A slight breeze rippled through the silver dune grasses, making them look like the waves on the water.
She could see for miles from here.
The Spanish had words for these scenes. What were they? Buena Vista?
No one was around this morning; the village was still in church. The priest had not asked any questions when she came out here to do her business alone. She knew he had some kind of involvement. It didn't matter now, she decided, for they each had to satisfy their own conscience.
Ambrose Standish would be angry when he found out that she burned the papers. And Kate had no doubt that he would find out. Why had he come looking for them? Was it for Louis, or for somebody else? Had he planned on selling them to the Republicans . . . or the British?
It made no difference now, she had destroyed them, and whoever might be hurt by the knowledge within them was now free of that danger, at least.
She told herself it didn’t matter; she hadn’t really ever trusted Ambrose Standish anyway. He lied for a living and her father hadn't trusted him either. And it wasn’t just that Ambrose's father had been a Tory in the war.
There were many Tories who still held the grudge against the Revolutionaries and hoped for the return of British control to the colonies. And the Patriots who had won the war, they had no love for the Tories still left in the United States either. Mutual disdain, so how had Ambrose gotten into his current position?
Easy enough to figure: He lied about his intentions, even his loyalties.
But there was something more that bothered her, an uneasiness she couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was the way he looked at people when he didn't think they knew he was looking. Was it envy? Disgust? Distrust? She wasn't sure, and she was glad to be here alone.
Would he have come anyway, if he knew? Would he have rowed in the boat for days to find the right time and place? Did he have the drive to put himself through something like that in order to fulfill a promise?
Kate figured she knew the answers: no. It only made her opinion of him worse, and to be fair, maybe through no fault of his own. She didn’t really know him that well, but she had to admit that if she never did know him better, it would suit her just as well.
Some gulls called out from down the beach. They were fighting over something. Spoils of value to a bird, she figured, probably something dead and washed up with the tide. At least it didn’t smell. Kate stood up, stretched, and started walking toward the sea.
The sun soon got the better of her, and she headed for a small batch of low-growing trees that were twisted from the constant assault of ocean weather. The shade was sparse and not too cool. She sat down and took a deep breath of the breeze blowing in.
"I miss the sea."
From her spot there, Kate could still see the town. The church door opened, and people started slowly flowing out. Then she heard another sound, rhythmic and constant. Like marching. It was horses plodding in rhythm. To her surprise, Kate saw a military column coming down the road.
Soldiers. French cavalry. She stretched to see more, but she did not stand.
They could not see her from where they rode, she figured, and Kate felt a comfort in that. The column stopped at the church. The commander exchanged a few words with the priest. Kate held her breath, but no words came to her on the breeze.
Then the cavalry column moved on, passing a low wall, and stopping at a large villa that was set far out on a point. Plenty of buena vistas from there, no doubt, she mused.
The soldiers dismounted. A few men took all the horses behind the villa. Must be stables there, she assumed.
She wondered: French soldiers on Spanish ground? They were allies then, the deal had already been struck—at least in some quarters. Maybe only a small faction, but if it was successful, it would spread.
The commander shouted out orders. She understood French well enough, but did not speak it, could not speak it. Her mouth would not go that way for some reason.
Kate understood a few European languages very well, but spoke them very poorly. She understood some words and phrases from various native nations too, and even a few from the Orient and India. But no French other than hello, goodbye, and the obvious swear words you could pick up on any dockside of international trade.
From behind the villa, another horse was brought out. It was adorned in fine livery to match its obviously fine bloodlines. The horse made the man and the occasion. He must be meeting with his superiors, she decided. The commander rode away in the opposite direction from where she sat. He rode in the direction of France.
Kate was frowning so hard that her forehead hurt. She forced herself to relax. She would be gone soon. She only had to keep her mouth shut and the rest of herself well out of sight for a few days more. The priest had made arrangements with the fisherman to get her to a larger port, and then she could catch a ship out.
“Only a few days more.”
Maybe less than that now that she had seen the French. The priest would be anxious too. Some children from the church had been playing down the beach, but now they were gone. She wondered if they were off to lunch and siesta, or maybe they didn't like the French either.
Far away down the rocky shore, three young women came around the side of a whitewashed house. They wore brightly colored skirts and white blouses with intricate lace shawls on their shoulders. They did not wear the confining corsets of fashionable women, nor was their hair constructed in an elaborate affair. It was the same sort of attire she wore now, though Kate wished she had also grabbed a shawl.
The women were walking slowly. Kate could hear their laughter and chatter on the breeze. Then she saw movement in the French garrison. The soldiers were also watching the women. Kate looked around the village, but there were no other signs of life.
When the women reached the point where the ocean and the garrison were the closest together, several French soldiers marched down toward the beach. The women stopped, whispered close, then started on towards the shelter of Kate’s trees at a faster pace.
Seven soldiers, Kate counted, and three women. The soldiers surrounded the women
, who had now stopped walking, and were huddled together. Unbidden, her mind flashed back to her brothers—somewhere, sometime, over the years her memories had all turned to good.
She blinked at the vision, trying to recall. It made her head hurt.
The soldiers were taunting the women, who answered them in Spanish and some broken French. But their voices were strained, and Kate knew they were scared.
She scrambled up and started walking towards them. Some of the soldiers grabbed at the women. The ladies resisted, but the soldiers laughed and only did it again. Now all the men were laughing at the game.
Kate swore under her breath and walked faster. Without thinking, she leaned over and picked up some good-sized rocks on the way. She had brothers; she knew the value of a good-sized rock. Maybe that’s why they came to mind.
She chose the stones that looked hardest and had square edges or sharp points. After a few steps more, she stopped and hurled the rocks toward the soldiers, one right after another, as best she could.
A couple of the rocks hit directly on the target, but most just hit the arms or legs and bounced off the thick uniforms. The rocks that hit their heads must have hurt, she knew, and Kate felt a surge of power as they looked around in alarm.
She picked up more weapons, these without as much careful selection and started to throw another round when one of the soldiers spotted her and started moving that way.
Kate felt the hot rush of fear sweep her face, and she swallowed back some bitter taste in her mouth. But she stood her ground and gathered more ammunition. But to her surprise, another volley flew at the soldiers, none of her own.
She looked back to see half a dozen children behind her in various stages of attack. All sizes, all ages, some still in their special church clothes. They called insults and threw at will. Kate rejoined the fray. Along the village street, she saw reinforcements gathering.
Meanwhile, the soldiers had dropped their muskets and were dodging the rocks as best they could. Kate heard that some of their calls were for mercy, but most were just insults and oaths, including the swear words she understood well enough and some she did not.
The Wilde Flower Saga: A Contrary Wind (Historical Adventure Series) Page 24