Page 40 of A Fierce Wind

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 and 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.”