by Regan Walker
Drawing a steadying breath, she met his intense gaze. A jolt of emotion surged through her but she couldn’t have explained why if she’d been asked. Here was Freddie, possibly her best friend, paying her a compliment. He had done so before, not often but she could recall a few times. So why should this time be different? They were joined in a cause, surrounded by danger but could it be something had changed?
Chapter 7
Rennes, Brittany
After days of tramping through the rain-soaked woods and sleeping in decrepit sheds and deserted cottages, Freddie had cause to wonder if Zoé still had faith in his decision. But he could count among the reasons he had agreed to go with Cadoudal and his men that they were in the company of trained fighters and headed in the right direction.
“I will never again complain of rough seas,” said Zoé, looking down at her mud-caked boots.
“At least tonight you will be sleeping in a bed and not in the woods, Pigeon. Though the call of the tawny owl last night was a pleasant inducement to sleep, don’t you think?” The owls had been active the night before, some of them, he was certain, were Chouans returning from their night patrols. They were so good at mimicking the bird’s call it was difficult to tell which call was real and which the counterfeit.
She tossed him a sardonic smile. “A sound I will always remember.”
As they reached the outskirts of the city, Freddie took comfort in what Cadoudal had told him as they traveled north. The city of Rennes, the capital of Brittany, had a population numbering thirty thousand. It was hoped their small number could remain hidden among so many people.
Cadoudal paused and looked ahead to the walled town. “To oppose the Chouans and the Vendéens who fight with us, the republican army has used fortified towns like Rennes, defending them with their territorial guards. Their commander is General Rossignol, a man of military incompetence and violent passions, who has never considered himself constrained by society’s morals or his wedding vows. I happened to be in Paris when word came of his promotion to chief commander of the Army of the Coasts of Brest. Much laughter was heard in the city when the tale was told of his wife rushing to the National Convention to argue before the deputies her husband was unfit for the post. She was right, of course, but Robespierre approved the promotion and sent Rossignol back to the army in triumph where he now glories in barbarity and lascivious behavior.” He let out a deep sigh. “Alas, Rennes is his headquarters.”
One of the Chouans spat in the dust, muttering Rossignol’s name and a few words in the Breton tongue.
Erwan translated. “He speaks of ‘that bastard and his false Chouans’.”
“Another of Rossignol’s ideas,” put in Cadoudal. “To create fake Chouan outlaws who engage in thievery and worse in order to discredit us.” With a stern expression, he said to Freddie, “Be mindful of such when you leave us.”
Cadoudal gave orders to his men in Breton. Immediately, they divided into three groups. Turning to Freddie, he said, “We will be less noticed if we separate and take different routes to the place we will stay.”
Each of the men removed the royalist patch from his coat and added the tricolor cockade to his hat. Cadoudal, too, altered his attire to change his appearance from a Chouan officer to a supporter of the revolution.
Freddie and his companions unpinned the patches from their own coats and stuffed them into their pockets. On their hats, they now donned the cockade that was the emblem of the revolution.
“You and your companions best stay with me,” said Cadoudal. Gesturing two of his men to go with him, Cadoudal nodded to the other two groups that quickly departed. Then he set out, taking the path to the right toward the eastern side of the city.
Freddie, Zoé, Gabe and Erwan followed.
As they drew nearer to the city, republican soldiers became more evident, making Freddie’s skin crawl. Congregating in groups, their blue and white uniforms appeared everywhere.
“They are like swarming locusts,” he said.
“Do not be concerned,” said Cadoudal. “Our numbers are greater than theirs, just unseen until they are needed.”
Rennes was a city of contrasts from medieval buildings on narrow cobblestone streets to great stone edifices on wide avenues opening into grand squares rivaling any in Paris.
At the far end of one large square stood an imposing building of two stories, its slanted slate roof reminding Freddie of buildings in Paris. Seventeen tall windows stretched across the façade with a single wooden door leading to its entrance. “What is that?”
Cadoudal frowned. “The Palais de Justice where they keep the prisoners. Very convenient for them as the guillotine stands close.” He pointed to one side of the square.
Freddie’s gaze shifted to where the instrument of death rose fourteen feet in the air above its wooden platform, the mechanical monster’s jaws still soaked in the blood of its victims.
Freddie turned away from the hideous sight to see Zoé’s expression turn to loathing. Setting her jaw, her eyes burned with anger. She had lost friends to that demon device.
A group of republican soldiers suddenly turned to stare at them.
Freddie moved to block their view of Zoé. He wanted no undue interest in her by soldiers who thought the Breton peasants were available to them. He doubted she could pass for a lad to an observant man who would recognize her for what she was, a beautiful woman. He comforted himself with the thought people rarely stopped to look closely. Most saw only what they expected to see.
“Come, let us go!” Cadoudal whispered, moving from the square and quickly rounding a corner. A few streets away, they encountered buildings four stories high that looked to Freddie to be from the times of the Tudors.
“That one,” Cadoudal said, pointing to a smaller building, “once housed priests. Now it is a tavern frequented by the Blues where Rossignol brags to his men of the priests he has killed, a strike against his already black character none of us will forget. Some of the priests were members of Breton families.”
At his side, a look of despair crossed Zoé’s lovely face. “Erwan and I might have known them.”
Erwan shook his head, his eyes downcast. “I knew many.”
Freddie fought the urge to pull Zoé into his arms and soothe her grief. Instead, he placed his hand on her shoulder as an older brother might. “Those priests are now in Heaven, Pigeon, a place Rossignol will never see.”
Cadoudal led them down a cobblestone street away from the city’s center to where there were fewer republican soldiers. As the street widened, they came to a building made of warm golden stone with a tavern opening onto the street. A row of black shutters marched across the front like soldiers at attention. “Ours,” said the Chouan leader. “A safe place to pass the night.”
From what Freddie could ascertain, the customers of the tavern, if not the inn, were farmers and tradesmen who, at the moment, were sitting around drinking wine. Were they all Chouans, royalist fighters? He wondered. Several men, slouched over their tankards, looked up as Cadoudal entered and nodded in recognition.
The Chouan leader acknowledged them with a dip of his head and strode to the bar. In French, he addressed the proprietor, a rotund man of middle years, a bald head and a large mustache. “Good sir, I hope this day finds you well. My friends and I have traveled far and require rooms for a night, perhaps two.”
The man busied himself wiping down the top of the wooden counter, glancing up at Cadoudal for a brief moment. “Bien sûr, I have several chambers on the top floor you can have.”
A look passed between the Chouan leader and the proprietor that told Freddie this scene had been enacted many times before, but to one who had just strolled into the tavern, it would appear a first encounter.
The proprietor handed Cadoudal a handful of keys and waved him to the stairs at the back of the tavern.
“But where am I to sleep?” Zoé asked when Freddie followed her into the chamber and closed the door behind them.
Fredd
ie’s mouth hitched up in a grin. “Here with me, of course.”
“With you!” She surveyed the room, noting the small bed that could accommodate two only if they slept close together, a side table with basin and pitcher, and a table and two chairs. She knew travelers’ inns often required guests to share beds but she had never done so, not even with her aunt. Her uncle had sufficient homes so that they rarely frequented inns and, when they did, they were fine establishments.
Freddie shook his head. “Not in the same bed, Zoé, but neither will I leave you alone. ’Tis the floor where I’ll make my bed. Erwan and Gabe will guard the door.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he said, “Count yourself fortunate not to be sleeping in the woods.”
She let out a breath. “Oui, I suppose you are right. If it were anyone else but you, Freddie, I would refuse the arrangement.” Resigning herself to the awkward accommodations, she asked, “So, when are the Chouans to rescue the child?”
“Tonight when few lanterns light the square and the guards are tired and about to change shifts. Some of the Chouans will appear as their replacements.”
“They can do that?” she asked, bewildered. “Transforming a Chouan into a republican guard would take a miracle.”
“Apparently they are confident they can. They know the routine of the guards and they have the proper uniforms. I don’t wonder they have posed as the guards before.”
Zoé removed her brush from her satchel and shedding her hat, took down her hair and began to brush the dust from the long strands, all the while thinking of the danger they would face. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Freddie watching her. She paused in her brushing. “What?”
“Oh, nothing,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Are you hungry?” Then, without waiting for her answer, he took one of the blankets from the bed and set it next to the fireplace, reminding Zoé he intended to sleep on the floor. They would still be sleeping in the same room, of course. Images of his suntanned chest sprinkled with auburn hair rose in her mind. Did he sleep naked?
“You can stay here and rest if you like,” he said, walking toward the door. “It might be awhile before the proprietor thinks to send up our dinner. I’ll bring food for us.”
She thought of the men she had seen in the common room, a hardened lot who would easily see through her disguise. “If you don’t mind, it might be best.”
“There will be plenty of time before I leave for the rescue for us to eat.”
She set down her brush and faced him. “You’re going with them?”
He nodded. “How could I not? Besides, Erwan wanted to go as well. You needn’t worry. Gabe will stay with you.”
“’Tis not myself I am concerned about, Freddie, ’tis you! Such a reckless venture. Why, ’tis fraught with danger. What is your role to be anyway?”
“One of Cadoudal’s men will lead the group disguised as guards. The Chouan chief would go himself but he fears recognition. I will go with Cadoudal and the rest of his men to wait on the edges of the square should we be needed.”
She chewed her bottom lip, thinking of the planned rescue that would have him facing republican soldiers. “It seems an unnecessary risk with all that lies before us. We have yet to reach even Fougères.” The thought of losing him to a skirmish or worse was too horrible to contemplate. She had tended his wounded body once; she could not bear to see him bleeding again.
He left the door, crossing the distance between them. In a soft voice, he said, “Cadoudal has helped us, Pigeon, and he has promised to set us on the path to Fougères. It didn’t seem right not to participate now when he may need every man.”
She could not let him go alone. “Then I will go as well.” She could at least cover his back.
His face turned rigid. “No, you won’t. And that’s an order.”
Zoé could feel her temper rising. She wanted to argue, to plead with him not to go, but she knew Freddie well enough to know when he got that look, he would not budge. Too, this was his mission and she had promised to follow his lead. Resigned but not liking it one bit, she pressed her lips together and crossed her arms. “You will be careful, oui?”
“Of course,” he said with a nonchalant smile, which only made her fret more.
Freddie shared dinner with Zoé in the room he now thought of as their chamber. The small table set before the fireplace made for an intimate setting as the fire subsided to embers and a single candle illuminated their faces.
Their meal was a humble one but, shared with her, it seemed a feast. He would have called the thick soup “beef stew” if he’d been in one of England’s taverns. The rich broth contained pieces of beef, carrots, onions and potatoes, the latter being a vegetable Cadoudal had told him was previously considered unacceptable by the French. But famine, brought on by poor crops and fields abandoned when farmers were conscripted into the republican army, had forced the potato on the country.
The only thing the meal lacked was a slice of thick crusty bread and butter. Still, the wine was good and there were apples for dessert. And the company was all he could hope for, though Zoé spoke little and ate less, occasionally moving her spoon around in her soup.
She did drink her wine, running her tongue over her bottom lip and driving him half-mad with want of her. Even dressed as a Chouan, she raised a longing within him so strong, he had to fight the urge to take her in his arms and make his dreams a reality.
Patience, he reminded himself, was a virtue. “Aren’t you hungry?” he inquired. “You’ve been walking all day.”
For a moment, she stared at him over her glass. “I am tired and my feet are protesting my boots, but my appetite has escaped me.” A small smile played about her lips. “I promise to save an apple to celebrate your return.”
She would never admit it, but he glimpsed fear in the tightness around her eyes and the way she worried her bottom lip between her teeth.
He set down his spoon, leaned his elbows on the table and drew a steadying breath. “Pigeon, rest easy. I am not new to this game of assuming another man’s identity.” Hoping to bring a smile to her face, he said, “I can curse with the best of the sailors in Guernsey’s taverns; I can fish with the oystermen and pass myself off as one of them; and I can speak enough of the local French in the port towns to move easily among the dockside workers.” He smirked. “Trust me to blend with the peasants tonight and to be quick in a fight if it comes to that.”
She frowned despite his attempt at frivolity. “It may very well come to that, Freddie, and you know it.”
“Are you worried for me?” He had thought he glimpsed such worry in her eyes but would she admit it?
“Why… non,” she said defensively. “I just don’t want to lose the man leading our mission.” She let out an exasperated sigh and her eyes turned the color of storm clouds. “You may play games in Guernsey’s taverns, Freddie, but what do you know of war? Or of fighting with that sword you carry for that matter?”
More than you know, he wanted to say. Instead, he met her disquieting gaze and said nothing. Would it help for her to know he was not just d’Auvergne’s man but also Evan Nepean’s, the British Undersecretary of War? She was intelligent enough to have questioned where he went when he disappeared for weeks at a time. He had always managed to avoid giving her a full answer. Finally, deciding he must say something, he assured her, “I have had the usual lessons and I can use the sword if I must.” He would not tell her of his training with the finest sword master in London nor the times he had survived because he was that good with a blade. Another reason Nepean had recruited him.
Nepean’s exact words were, “You have skills that the others I could send into France do not, West. Those skills would be wasted on a ship. Why, even I cannot speak French in as many dialects as you. You are also conversant with the codes we use. And then there is the family connection to the Frenchman, Jean Donet. Not a man to be taken lightly, I understand. Now that he is ferrying émigrés to England, you will have transportation when you ne
ed it. Of all the choices, you were first on my list. You can serve England better this way than in the Admiralty, as you have proposed.”
Freddie had accepted the charge Nepean had given him and Donet had consented to being involved, but neither he nor Freddie had told Zoé he was England’s spy.
Lifting the wine to her lovely lips, Zoé took another sip and stared into the pale liquid glistening in the candlelight. “I suppose,” she began slowly, “there is much I do not know of your work or why d’Auvergne chose you, an Englishman, for this task.” Raising her gaze to meet his, she said, “We have been friends for years and yet, in some ways, you are still a mystery to me, Frederick West.”
A knock sounded on the door, relieving Freddie from having to comment. Rising, he said, “There will be time for you to ask me about that in the days ahead, but for now I must go.”
Freddie slipped out with Cadoudal, taking the route agreed upon by the Chouans that would bring them to the square in front of the Palais de Justice. The moon was a mere crescent against a black sky dotted with stars as they wove their way through the deserted streets. A chill had Freddie turning up his collar and buttoning his coat.
Light from the lanterns hanging from posts set about the square cast faint light on the imposing structure where the Parlement of Brittany had met before being closed by the National Assembly. Freddie thought it ironic that a building dedicated to justice now imprisoned those who sought it.
In the ghostly atmosphere, the guillotine took on a sinister appearance as if the monster were lurking in wait, its jaws eager for the blood of its next victim.
Freddie moved with Cadoudal into a darkened corner just as another group of his men took their places on the other side of the square. The six men who had donned the uniforms of the National Guard arrived two by two, coming from different directions to converge on the entrance.
The guards that would have relieved the ones on duty were nowhere in sight. Freddie didn’t have to ask what had been their fates. He imagined they were sleeping off a blow to the head in some deserted alley.