Page 6 of A Fierce Wind

From the back room, the only bedchamber, two women emerged, one older and one younger. Each wore a shawl over her head, hiding any hint of shorn locks that might betray the vows of their cloistered lives. Their worn female clothing mirrored that of the tradeswomen in Granville. No one would have guessed they were nuns, that is, until the older one gave Zoé an assessing look and spoke in a refined speech that belied her feigned lower station.

“M’sieur Donet, she could be your daughter, Claire, when last I saw her.”

Zoé had been told there was a resemblance between her cousin, Claire, who lived in England, and her although Claire was ten years older.

“Oui, my niece has the Donet look about her.” He gave Zoé a slight smile that hinted at his approval. Her father and her uncle were so alike in appearance they had often been mistaken for each other. Both had bold features, coal-black eyes and hair, her uncle’s now liberally threaded with silver.

Addressing the nuns, he said, “Allow me to present my niece, Mademoiselle Zoé Donet.” Then to Zoé, “These are Sisters Augustin and Angélique, who are very dear to my daughter and to me. Claire was educated in their convent school.”

Zoé inclined her head, but did not curtsey. She never curtsied when she wore the clothing of a citoyenne of the Republic. Her fine manners she saved for the Isle of Guernsey where Joanna, her uncle’s wife, insisted she act the lady.

Suddenly looking impatient, her uncle turned to the nuns. “We must make haste; my ship awaits and, by now, I fear my quartermaster is cursing me under his breath.”

They were nearly to the quay when two soldiers in the blue and white uniforms of the republican army stepped out of the fog and into their path.

Her uncle muttered a curse.

Beneath his bicorne, the fat soldier displayed plump red cheeks and a bushy brown mustache. The cold eyes of his companion matched his thin lips, curved into a cruel smile, as his gaze roved over Zoé and the younger nun. “Eh bien… what have we here? One man with three women? That seems hardly fair when, as you can see, we servants of the revolution have none.”

The soldier with the mustache laughed, one hand on his ponderous belly, the other on his long musket. “Surely you can share, citoyen.”

From their leering eyes, Zoé did not put rape past either of them. Rumors abounded of the soldiers’ abuse of the local women. The thought of one of these touching her made Zoé’s skin crawl.

The younger nun gasped and was stilled by the hand of the older on her shoulder. Zoé stepped in front of them and slid her hand into the small slit in her full skirt to reach the sharp knife strapped to her thigh.

“Ah, mes amis,” said her uncle, adopting the common speech, “on another occasion, if these were but stray cats, I would be happy to invite you to join my party but, alas, this is family business. These are my sisters and my wife, women under my protection.”

His tone hinted of velvet laid over steel and the red-cheeked soldier did not fail to notice. The smile faded from his corpulent face as his fingers nervously played with the end of his mustache.

Seeing his companion falter, the thin-lipped one aimed his musket at her uncle. “You will share, as I have said, or reap the consequences, mon ami.”

If the republican soldier thought to intimidate Jean Donet, he picked the wrong man. Her uncle had a fierce reputation known to many in France.

Zoé was tempted to inform these idiots, who played at being soldiers, they were dealing with the great capitaine of la Reine Noire, the Black Queen, but she held her tongue, knowing her uncle could swiftly deal them a deathblow if he chose.

“Je ne pense pas,” he said to the soldiers. “Not tonight.” Before they realized what was happening, her uncle slipped his knife from the sheath at his wrist and sent the deadly blade hurtling through the air and into the neck of the thin-lipped one. His eyes bulged and he made a gagging sound as he clutched his throat, spurting blood, and dropped to the ground.

Zoé did not even blink. Behind her, Sister Augustin exclaimed, “Mon Dieu!”

The rotund soldier began to back away, apparently forgetting he held a musket.

Her uncle drew a pistol from the pocket of his frock coat and pointed it at the mustached soldier. “Go now and you will live. The streets of Granville are full of enemies and your comrade did not see the blade coming, d’accord ? Neither did you see the one who killed him.”

The soldier nodded slowly and then, as if coming out of a trance, turned and ran.

“You have killed him!” Sister Augustin scolded, coming around Zoé and bending over the soldier bleeding profusely from his neck.

The young Sister Angélique, apparently more pragmatic, knelt beside the man and swept her hand over his face, closing his eyes as she murmured a prayer for his departed soul.

Zoé’s uncle retrieved his knife, wiping the blade clean on the soldier’s uniform. “This is war, Sister, and, in war, to hesitate is to accept defeat. That I will never do.”

By the time Zoé and her uncle arrived at the quay with the two nuns, Erwan had settled the four refugees into the waiting skiff and slipped back into town where his plain clothing would enable him to blend with the peasants.

Relieved to see their capitaine restored to them, the six seamen touched their foreheads in respect, acknowledging his return.

Zoé shook her head at the boat riding low in the water with the added weight. “The boat is full,” she said to her uncle. “We had better stay and ask the crew to return for us.”

“There is no time,” he said with a worried look. “If the fat one talks, the republican soldiers will be fast on our heels. I will stay but you should go.”