A Fierce Wind (Donet Trilogy Book 3)

by Regan Walker

  His eyes never leaving Freddie, the strange Chouan left the shadows to take his stance beside the young general. “And these with you?” he challenged Freddie.

  Freddie gestured to Zoé. “Mademoiselle Zoé Donet, a friend of the comte de la Rochejaquelein,” naming for the first time in her presence the fallen hero she had once idolized.

  The young general’s dark eyes gleamed as they alighted on Zoé, giving her man’s attire an approving smile. “Henri and I were friends from our youth. We fought together as brothers until our enemies took him from us.”

  Despite the young general’s relationship to the fallen de la Rochejaquelein, Zoé had never spoken of the chevalier du Boisguy as someone she knew. Yet, here was another handsome young leader of the royalist cause. Might he be another hero for Zoé to worship? An alarm sounded in Freddie’s head. How could he compete in her eyes with such matchless figures?

  Zoé offered the general her hand and he bowed over it. “Mademoiselle.”

  Happy to interrupt Boisguy’s interest in Zoé, Freddie gestured to Isabeau. “This child is Isabeau le Gallou, the daughter of two who paid with their lives for their loyalty to the Chouans. Her brother is one of Cadoudal’s men.”

  Isabeau said nothing but moved close to Zoé and stared at the two strange men.

  “You are most welcome here,” said Boisguy to the young girl.

  Freddie then introduced Erwan as a Vendéen soldier and Gabe as a member of the crew of the ship that had brought them to Brittany.

  Passing his gaze across the visitors, particularly the men, Boisguy said, “If your words be true, and you are who you claim to be, I welcome you. If they are not, your lives will be forfeit. Traitors do not live long among us.”

  “Of course, Mr. West’s words are true!” protested Zoé, her furrowed brow and indignant expression making clear she resented Freddie’s word being questioned.

  Freddie smiled to himself, pleased at the wildcat she became in his defense.

  “We come at great risk,” she went on, “to provide the English with accurate information of the needs of your growing army to help you fight Robespierre’s Terror.”

  “It is our intention when we are done here,” Freddie put in, “to travel to Maine where we hope to meet with Jean Cottereau, the one called Jean Chouan, on this same mission.”

  Boisguy raised a brow, inclining his head toward the mysterious Chouan standing next to him.

  Freddie directed his attention to the young general. “We were hoping you could help us locate him and gain his trust.”

  A twinkle in Boisguy’s eyes matched his amused look. “You will have to gain the trust of Jean Chouan on your own, mon ami anglais. But you will not have to travel to Maine to meet him. You are most fortunate to have come when you did. It is Jean Chouan who stands beside me.”

  Surprised, Freddie shifted his gaze to the man next to Boisguy. “Indeed, this is fortuitous. You have made possible our gaining the needed information in a single meeting. We thank you.” He could tell from the skeptical look on Jean Chouan’s face that he harbored doubts about the truth of Freddie’s stated purpose.

  “It is nearly time for dinner,” said Boisguy. “You will join us and when the food and wine have been served, we will speak of what England can do for us.”

  Zoé had been to Versailles with her uncle before the revolution and she had been in fine estates in Saintonge, but she had yet to dine in a medieval castle, particularly one of this size. When she followed Freddie to Brittany to meet with the royalist fighters, she never anticipated being in a place haunted by ghosts of centuries long past. In her mind’s eye, she saw the rich tapestries that once hung on the now bare walls. She heard the clang of metal armor and spurs of knights crossing the stone floor.

  Light from torches set into the walls and candles on the long tables illuminated the vast stone hall that echoed with men’s voices eager for the evening meal. Where once there would have been knights dining with their lord, now were gathered farmers turned into fighting men. They did not fight for riches, lands or glory, as the knights had, but for freedom from tyranny, their faith and their way of life.

  She and her companions sat with their host at a table perpendicular to four long tables stretching the length of the hall. As if by magic, peasant women entered the great room from doors on one side. They carried pitchers of wine and platters of venison. The rich meat seasoned with rosemary and thyme sent a mouthwatering aroma into the air. Roasted vegetables, too, appeared in great wooden bowls. After the meager fare they had endured on the road, Zoé was delighted.

  “I’m surprised you eat so well.”

  Boisguy, on her right, leaned in close. “Many of my men are hunters. As long as the forest provides, we dine well.”

  The men’s voices were soon reduced to the sounds of eating.

  Freddie spoke from her left. “Best eat while you can, Pigeon. We still have the return trip where food may be scarce.”

  Zoé needed no encouragement. She eagerly bit into the venison, which was succulent and tender, the herbs making it tasty. The white wine of Brittany, too, was very good.

  Setting down his wine, Boisguy said, “We are not often so many at table, but Jean’s men have joined mine and there are others who have recently come to us, a few whom you might like to meet.” With a poignant look, he added, “Friends of Henri’s.”

  Zoé was impressed that this general of thousands of men was of an age with her. And, even though his ancestral lands were in Brittany, it struck her that his voice and manners were those of a member of the French aristocracy who would have been comfortable in Paris. Likely, he had been educated well and expected to manage his family estate. All that was gone now, of course. The revolution had changed his life forever, as it had hers. Yet he seemed given over to his new purpose without reservation.

  “Do you think to win against the Blues?” she asked him.

  His eyes lit with an inner fire. “We fight to win. Our cause is just and, thus far, God has blessed that valiant cause. But even should we fail, to a man we would rather die fighting against a godless, bloodthirsty régime than live in a country that would murder its king and priests and refuse its people the freedom to worship as they choose.”

  She set down her wine and let out a sigh as memories rushed into her mind. She remembered a night in La Rochelle when she and Henri had dined together, a candle between them. Henri’s golden face had been lit with the fervor of a righteous man willing to die for a cause he judged more important than his life. “Henri often spoke with the same passion in his voice.”

  Boisguy’s eyes bore into hers. “I can see you understand, Mademoiselle Donet.”

  Freddie chose that moment to interrupt. “Did you tell the general of what happened at the mill house outside of Combourtillé?”

  “Non. Perhaps you might, Freddie.” She was loath to tell Boisguy his friend had been murdered. Freddie had always been better at delivering bad news than she, his voice remaining steady and calm whereas hers would falter.

  Freddie leaned across her to relate the story, including that Isabeau did not know of the gruesome deaths, only that the miller had died, adding at the end, “The villains were just leaving as we arrived. Until I saw the blood on their clothing, I had thought them Chouans.”

  Boisguy closed his eyes tightly, shaking his head as if to deny the horrible truth. When he opened them, anger had replaced sorrow. “The miller was a man of honor and a great friend to the Chouans. For that, the republican dogs who did this will pay. We must rid Brittany of Rossignol’s parasites.” Looking about the hall, his gaze came to rest on a tall slender figure standing to one side talking with another man. “Captain Victor!” Boisguy called.

  The slender figure, white plumed hat in hand, turned and started toward the general. As the Chouan drew close, Zoé realized this must be the woman Henri had spoken of. Absent her hat, her long dark hair, confined to a plait falling halfway down her back, framed a feminine face with high cheekbones a
nd large dark eyes. But her clothing spoke of her rank in the Catholic and Royal Army: a charcoal-colored coat fitted close to her body, a white neckcloth over a linen shirt, cream-colored breeches and black boots. At her hip was a sword and tucked into a white was a small pistol.

  The female Chouan passed her gaze over Zoé and her companions before turning to Boisguy. “Sir?”

  “It seems we have lost Jodoc to the villainy of Rossignol’s false Chouans.”

  For a moment, Captain Victor’s face reflected horror, but that gave way to a stony resolve in her dark eyes. “Do you want me to take a patrol and clean out the rats’ nest?”

  “Oui, if you can find them. At first light or tonight, if you prefer.” As his captain turned to leave, Boisguy said, “Wait! I want to introduce you to our visitors.” Turning to Zoé and the others, he said, “This is Mademoiselle Victorine du Rocher du Quengo, captain of our division in Bécherel to the west.”

  Freddie and the men rose.

  Jean Chouan retained his seat, his mouth curling up in a sarcastic smile. “Only you would have a name longer than the rest of us, Victorine.”

  The woman he called Victorine smirked. “You can be glad I do not expect you to remember it, Jean.”

  Boisguy interrupted, “Captain, I believe you will want to meet this first guest. Mademoiselle Zoé Donet was a friend of Monsieur Henri’s.”

  Zoé stood and offered her hand, which Captain Victor accepted while smiling at Zoé’s clothing.

  “I have long wanted to meet you,” said Zoé, her voice full of admiration. “Henri spoke of your achievements with much pride.”

  “You pay me a great compliment, for Henri was revered among us.”

  Resuming the introductions, Boisguy said, “Next to Mademoiselle Donet is Mr. Frederick West, who, if he is to be believed, is an emissary from the King of England.”

  Captain Victor’s brows rose as she gave Freddie a studying perusal.

  “Mademoiselle,” Freddie said in the clipped English of the British upper class.

  In a lowered voice, possibly for Isabeau’s benefit, Boisguy said to his captain, “You should ask Mr. West for a description of the men who killed Jodoc.” Then he pointed to the other side of Jean Chouan. “Over there is young Isabeau le Gallou whose brother serves under Cadoudal and, if I have it right, next to her are Erwan and Gabe.”

  Captain Victor acknowledged each of them, graciously inclining her head. “Bienvenue, welcome.”

  Boisguy addressed his captain, “They say they have come to learn of our needs so that England might help supply our growing army.”

  “Ammunition,” said Captain Victor without hesitation. “’Tis a critical need.”

  “Dan ce cas,” said Boisguy, “if the time has come for this discussion, let us sit.” He called to a serving girl, “More wine!”

  The servant returned with a pitcher and, while she was refilling their glasses, Boisguy asked her to take Isabeau to the other side of the great hall to introduce her to those closer to her age eating there.

  Captain Victor, Jean Chouan and Boisguy took seats across from Zoé, Freddie and the others.

  When their cups were again full and Isabeau had gone off with the servant, Freddie opened the discussion. “Your men are armed with muskets and knives, some with swords. In addition to ammunition, is your need for more of these?”

  Boisguy took a long drink of his wine. “Many of the weapons my men have were gained through our victories over the Blues. We could use more, of course, as men join us each day. However, we also have a need for small artillery and horses. We’ve no cavalry to speak of save for those of us who had horses and were trained to ride from our youth. And the only small mobile cannons we have are ones we seized in a raid.”

  “We do not fight like the English or even the French,” interjected Jean Chouan. “We fight from behind rocks, from between trees, taking care with our shots. Our army is made up of mostly peasant farmers. They are comfortable with muskets and knives. But the general is correct. In an open area we are at a grave disadvantage against the Blues’ horses and artillery.”

  Freddie rested his chin on his upturned palm, his eyes gazing at his wine. Zoé recognized the contemplative look, the one he always got just before deciding whether to share something he’d been hiding from her.

  Finally he looked up, meeting Boisguy’s steady gaze. In a voice only they could hear, he said, “There is talk of landing a British-backed émigré force off Brittany’s coast in which case you would have your artillery and many men to join you.”

  Boisguy sat back in his chair. “That is, if the British actually make an appearance this time. We have not forgotten Granville, l’Anglais.”

  “A sad chapter, I know,” said Freddie looking down at his wine. “Your chiding is well taken.”

  Jean Chouan huffed. “The supplies and weapons would be welcomed, but even if the British make good on their word this time, I have reservations about émigrés leading a force into Brittany. As I said, we Bretons do not fight like the British or even the French. It is one reason we have been successful.”

  “Such an operation,” put in Boisguy, “would require considerable planning and strategy to be successful. In the meantime, we have needs you can meet.”

  “Like ammunition,” reiterated Captain Victor. “For that, you need no ships or landing forces, only small boats.”

  Gabe, who’d been silently watching until now, said, “My capitaine has delivered supplies for the royalists to the shores of Normandy and Brittany before.”

  “Who is your capitaine?” asked Boisguy.

  “My uncle,” said Zoé, “Jean Donet, comte de Saintonge, or at least he held the title until the revolutionary government took it away. He has three ships, la Reine Noire being his flagship.”

  “I have sailed with him on all three,” said Freddie, “and can vouch for his commitment to the royalist cause.”

  Boisguy gave his attention to Zoé. “I knew your name sounded familiar. Was your uncle at one time a privateer out of Lorient?”

  “He was,” said Zoé. “And a smuggler. Now, in addition to his merchant shipping business, he helps Erwan and me smuggle refugees out of France.”

  Boisguy’s dark eyes simmered as he continued to gaze at Zoé. “I sensed you were an unusual woman when I first met you, mademoiselle.”

  Perhaps he found her snatching men, women and children from the guillotine’s jaws a worthy endeavor. It was no more than others had done and less than the sacrifices of many. “Not so unusual in these times, Monsieur le chevalier.”

  Boisguy rose and offered her his hand. “As you’ve had a trying day and tomorrow morning will be soon upon us, it might be best if I escort you to your chamber.”

  Chapter 10

  Freddie abruptly stood, placing a protective hand on Zoé’s shoulder. “You have been a gracious host, General Boisguy, but there is no need for you to see us to our chambers. If a servant can lead the way, I will be happy to accompany Mademoiselle Donet.”

  After having seen the desire in the young general’s eyes whenever he looked at Zoé, Freddie had no intention of leaving her alone with him. She was too fetching a prize. Then, too, she might be vulnerable to the young royalist hero, who was a dark version of her glorious Henri.

  Zoé got to her feet and frowned. “Really, Freddie, I can follow the servant myself. You can both stay.”

  Gabe stood and addressed Freddie. “I will be attending the mademoiselle, as always. She will not be alone.”

  By now, everyone at the table was on their feet and the entire situation was becoming ridiculous. Freddie was considering letting Gabe escort Zoé when Captain Victor spoke up.

  “Allow me to accompany you,” she said to Zoé. “The towers can be confusing and our walk to your chamber would give us a chance to become better acquainted.”

  “I would like that,” said Zoé, smiling at the female Chouan.

  Freddie let out a breath. He had hoped for a moment alone with her. �
��Very good. Sleep well. I will call upon you in the morning.”

  As the two women walked off, Gabe trailing behind them with a lantern, Freddie took his seat across from Boisguy, whose gaze lingered a bit too long on Zoé.

  Drawing the general’s attention back to him, Freddie said, “I will make sure my contacts have the information regarding your army’s most urgent needs. Men and horses may take time, but small artillery, muskets and ammunition can be transported sooner to Brittany’s shores.”

  Boisguy took a long draw on his wine. “We would be most grateful. I expect the war in Brittany to go on for some time.”

  “Will you be reducing that list of our needs to writing?” asked Jean Chouan with a suspicious look. The Chouan from Maine clearly did not yet trust them.

  “I came prepared to do so,” said Freddie. “The writing will be in code, of course, merely a description of the local flora. That way, if I am wounded or worse, my companions can see the list reaches the right hands.”

  “If they were to take you,” said Boisguy, “I can assure you their methods to extract information would be ruthless, leaving little for the guillotine.”

  Jean Chouan leaned across the table, a wry smile on his lips. “But then the Anglais are typically shot.”

  Freddie shuddered. “Most comforting.”

  “Perhaps it would better inform you if you were to accompany me on tonight’s patrol,” said Jean Chouan. “My men and I will be leaving shortly.”

  Freddie thought the night patrol would be a good opportunity to see the Chouans from Maine in action and he suspected the Chouan leader wanted to observe Freddie more closely as well. He nodded. “I’ll be ready.”