Page 37 of A Fierce Wind

Somehow Freddie didn’t think so. “Or men who would have us believe they are.”

“The false Chouans?”

“Possibly.” When the three men had departed into the woods, Freddie carefully left the cover of the trees, his musket raised. By his side, Erwan drew a pistol. Slowly, they crept toward the mill house.

The front door stood ajar.

No sound emanated from the interior.

Freddie whispered to Erwan, “Inquire in Breton if anyone is home.”

Erwan spoke the words loud enough for anyone in the house to hear.

Silence greeted them, and the eerie feeling Freddie had experienced earlier returned. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. Light from the windows and open door filled the large room. The first thing he noticed was the wooden table fallen on its side, the broken dishes it once held lying scattered across the stone floor.

Freddie crossed the room and stooped before the fireplace searching for heat. Warmth emanated from the ashes. “There was a fire here not long ago.”

“It seems the Chouans, or whoever they were, meant the mill owner no good,” said Erwan.

Freddie scanned the room. The shelves contained a few books, cooking pots and tankards. Over the fireplace was a miniature portrait of a woman.

There was no evidence of blood.

“Take a look at the rest of this floor, Erwan. I’ll see about the upstairs.”

Freddie took the stairs two at a time, dreading what he would find. Perhaps the man died in his sleep and the men had discovered the body and decided to plunder his home, robbing the dead man of his valuables.

But that would not explain the blood splashed across their clothing.

Inside one of the bedchambers, a gruesome sight confronted Freddie, confirming his worst fears. A man of middle years with lined skin, his brown hair peppered with gray, lay across the bed fully clothed. He had been stabbed in the chest and his throat slit. Blood seeped from his wounds into his clothes and onto the bedcover, the coppery scent of his life’s fluid filling the air.

Freddie returned to the top of the stairs. “Erwan, up here.”

Erwan gasped as he entered the room and came to stand beside Freddie. The two of them stood over the body, crossing themselves.

Erwan shook his head. “A terrible way to die.”

“Aye, a bayonet to the chest and a knife to the throat to make certain the man did not live.”

“But why?” asked the Breton.

Freddie could only speculate. “The man’s support for Boisguy likely became known. I’d bet this is the work of Rossignol’s false Chouans. None that we saw leaving the mill house wore rosaries.” Freddie did not wish to linger where their enemies had been. “See if you can find a shovel. We must bury the man. It will take time we can ill afford but Boisguy would expect it. While you find the shovel, I’ll check on the other buildings.”

In one of the buildings, Freddie found a black mare unharmed. Next to the horse was a dead stable boy lying in the hay, stabbed like his master. Crossing himself, he muttered, “The republicans make no exceptions for the young.”

Leaving the lad in the hay, he found Erwan. “We’ve another body to bury, a young stable boy.”

Erwan let out an oath, then held up his hands in which he held shovels. “I found these.”

“Good. Oh, and a horse will be joining us. I must tell Zoé and Gabe of our discovery. Once the dead are laid in the ground, we’ll continue on.” He wanted to get Zoé out of the woods in which the false Chouans might still be prowling. “I am more eager than ever to reach Fougères.”

Freddie returned to where Gabe guarded Zoé and Isabeau. Addressing the girl, he asked, “Did you know the man who lived here, Isabeau?”

Beneath her felt hat into which she had tucked her brown hair, Isabeau truly appeared to be a lad. “Non.”

He was glad for her answer. The girl had suffered enough. “It seems the man has died.” He would not speak of murder, not in the presence of one so young. “We will bury him and move on. As he left behind a horse, you can ride.”

Drawing Zoé aside, he said, “The man and his stable boy were murdered. Erwan and I will make sure they are in the ground before you and Isabeau join us.” To Gabe, he said, “You might see if you can help Erwan.”

Gabe nodded and headed in the direction of the mill house.

Zoé looked up at Freddie with trusting eyes. “Do you have any idea—”

He loved her all the more for her unflinching reaction to what had happened. Not many women would nod at the word “murder” and inquire the cause.

“Yes, and we will speak of it later.” In a louder voice, he said to her, “Why don’t you and Isabeau rest here while we take care of the task?”

“Can I help?” Zoé asked.

“Aye, you can say a prayer over him when we are ready.”

With the shovels Erwan had found in a shed, Freddie and the other two men soon buried Boisguy’s friend and his stable boy. Zoé said a prayer over the common grave that Erwan, certain they were fallen Chouans, marked with a large stone.

Freddie hoped this was not to be a sign of what was to come.