Page 39 of A Fierce Wind

Inside, a lad took the horse’s reins, leading the mare toward what looked like a stable.

Not wanting to cause Zoé undue angst, Freddie had omitted telling her about the part of the message that urged Boisguy to judge for himself “the sincerity of the government’s stated purpose”. Left unspecified was which government but, coming from Cadoudal and signed in what appeared to be code, Boisguy would know it was not revolutionary France that Freddie represented.

The guards led them up three flights of damp stone stairs before stopping in front of a wooden door with rust-stained ironwork that led into one of the larger towers.

One of the guards knocked. At the shout of “Entrez!” he opened the door and gestured Freddie, Zoé, Isabeau, Gabe and Erwan inside.

The chamber was circular, like the tower, and smelled of musty leaves and burning wood. In the center of the room was a large desk. Sitting behind it was a young man with intense dark eyes. Freddie noticed immediately his fine blue coat and his elaborate white cravat spilling over his waistcoat. His long black hair fell to his shoulders.

The only sound was the hissing and popping from the fireplace.

The well-dressed young man rose and came around the desk to face them, crossing his arms and leaning back against the desk. Freddie had to remind himself Aimé du Boisguy was “not yet twenty”, for the man who stood before him had a noble bearing and an air of authority of a much older man, one who owned the respect of other men.

As he introduced himself, his aristocratic accent and elegant French gave proof of his noble origin. “I am Aimé du Boisguy, general of the Chouans in this area. Who might you be?”

Knowing he had but moments to convince Boisguy of his benevolent purpose, he said, “I am Frederick West, brother of the Earl of Torrington. I come on business of His Majesty the King of England. The government wishes to understand the needs of the Chouans both in Brittany and Maine so that we may provide assistance in your fight against revolutionary France. Our Prime Minister abhorred the murder of your king and means to win the war.”

A movement drew Freddie’s gaze to the shadows where a rough-looking man leaned against the wall, his disquieting gaze fixed on the new arrivals. He was older than the other Chouans they had encountered, in his mid-thirties, Freddie judged. The man’s short hair and long downturned mustache were a dark brown, not unlike that of most Bretons. Freddie might have judged him a farmer for his face, lined and tanned like those who spent their days in the sun. He reminded Freddie of Donet’s vineyard workers. However, his wide-brimmed black hat bore the Bourbon white cockade and a white plume, marking him an officer in the Catholic and Royal Army. Around his neck over his white shirt he wore a brilliantly colored scarf splashed with red and a long rosary of black beads. Freddie amended his assessment. This man was no farmer, at least not anymore.

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.