Kydd

hostile land, he and Kydd would not last long.

While Renzi brooded and dozed, Kydd slept; a deep, profound and necessary sleep for a youthful body not yet fully hardened by sea life.

Renzi awoke shivering. It was dark and chill, the nearly full moon veiled in cloud. Kydd was awake and Renzi noted ironically that he was now leaning up against his friend.

“B-bloody c-cold!” Kydd said.

They both shuddered uncontrollably, hugging their knees.

“What o’clock is it?” Kydd croaked.

“Past midnight, is all I can say,” Renzi replied.

Kydd stood up stiffly and cuffed himself. “This is no good – we shall die of the cold. We must go on.”

“Yes, of course.”

Their bodies aching and protesting, instinctively they headed for the top of the ridge. They trudged slowly, letting their muscles take up again, on and up the shadowed slopes. The moon-distorted countryside felt cruel and hard. Renzi foresaw them trying to hold to a steady course in the night, crashing into unseen obstacles, going in circles, awakening a hostile countryside. It was madness. Dark patches of tussocks lay everywhere and the hilltops in the distance were tinged with silver. It was deathly still, disturbed only by unseen scurries of wildlife. A soft flutter of wings signified either a bat or an owl, and a rabbit screamed as it was taken by a stoat.

They reached the top just as the moon retreated behind the clouds once more. They stumbled on in the dark, tripping over rocks and plow ing through bushes, conscious all the while of gnawing hunger.

The moon emerged again, and Kydd jerked with surprise. On all sides they were surrounded by gigantic structures rearing up in black evil ranks, glowering down on them. His hair stood on end; there was something primeval and overpowering about them.

“Cromlechs!” Renzi breathed.

“What?”

“The Breton dolmen! I’ve never seen one before – a mighty building of stone, untold ages old. Built by an unknown people, for who knows what purpose?” Renzi wandered about the big stone circle, marveling. “Look, I do believe that we should wait until the morrow,” he said, “until we can see where we should go.”

“So we can gaze upon y’r stones?” Kydd snapped.

“Not at all,” Renzi lied. “So that we are in no danger of having to retrace our steps.”

“Then I wish you joy of y’r rest. I will continue.” Kydd’s face was indistinct in the shifting patterns of moonlight.

“You will find that St. Pontrieux has been taken,” Renzi said softly.

A slight hesitation. “Do y’ think I’ve not thought of that? Enough waste of time. I’m leaving.”

Renzi noted the slumped shoulders, the dragging feet. Kydd was past caring. His heart went out to the lonely figure hobbling stubbornly through the gloomy megaliths and out of sight. For a minute or so he waited alone, then reluctantly went after him, only to see Kydd heading back toward him, head down.

“Be damned to both you and y’r stones, Renzi!” Kydd said thickly, swaying past and dropping to the ground in the lee of the central one.

“You will find that our mysterious ancestors always built at a prominence,” Renzi said gently. “Tomorrow we shall have such a splendid view as will make you stare.”

The long cold night eventually gave way to a gray misty dawn, the light of day turning the gaunt black megaliths to gray, lichen-covered crags. The mist stayed with the daylight, a quiet enshrouding white that dappled all things with a gentle dew. They cast about, and it was not long before they came across a well-worn animal track meandering along the ridge top. Hunger had become an insistent, hollow pain. They tramped on, not speaking.

A muffled sound carried through the mist. They stood absolutely still.

Hooves! It was impossible to say from where the sound came in the enfolding white and they remained rigid, ears straining. Then out of the mist trotted a small goat. It saw them and stopped in surprise.

“Breakfast,” Kydd whispered.

“Yes!” gloated Renzi.

Kydd advanced slowly on the animal, which pawed the ground uncertainly.

“Pretty little one, come to me…”

A few feet away he lunged, and grappled the terrified animal by the horns, wrestling it to the ground. It kicked and struggled, bleating piteously, but eventually it lay still.

Kydd held it securely, its big frightened eyes rolling. “What do I do now?” he gasped.

“Kill it!”

“How?”

So focused on the animal were they that the little girl was able to come upon them unawares. “Qu’est-ce que vous faites avec ma chevre?” she cried out, aggrieved.

“Sois calme, mon enfant!” Renzi said, in a soothing tone, removing his battered hat politely. “Your little goat, my friend thinks it has hurt its foot,” he continued smoothly. He went to the goat and stroked its head. “You think it’s hurt its foot!” he muttered at the mystified Kydd, who immediately began carefully to inspect a dainty hoof.

Kydd let the goat go and smiled winningly at the little girl.

“Who are you, M’sieur? A villain perhaps, or a lost Royalist?” she said, looking at them doubtfully.

“But, no!” said Renzi, frowning at the suggestion. “We are, unhappily, lost. We seek the farm of Monsieur, er, M’sieur…”

“Pleneuf?”

“Yes, child. May we know in which direction it lies?”

“I will tell you. It is back along the track. You go down the hill there.”

Renzi smacked his forehead. “Of course! A thousand thanks for your kindness.” He bowed.

“Viens avec moi, mon fou!” he told Kydd, beckoning to him unmistakably. They walked away, Renzi waving reassuringly at the little girl.

They followed the track down, the mist clearing as they went. Pas tures and cultivated fields gave warning of the farm and they stopped at a safe distance.

“We must eat or we perish,” Renzi said. “I have the liveliest recollection that in the barns they cure the most excellent bacon and keep stone jars of cold cider. Shall we proceed?” His eyes gleamed.

They stole toward the farm buildings, uncomfortably aware that in their seaman’s rig they were utterly unlike the smocked and gaitered rural folk and would have no chance of passing themselves off as anything but what they were.

The ancient barn smelled powerfully of old hay as they slipped in through the vast doors hanging ajar. As their eyes adapted to the gloom, they went farther in, rummaging feverishly for stone jars or hanging flitches.

A sudden shadow made them look up, then wheel round – but it was too late. The man in the sunlight at the door held a fowling-piece, an old and ugly but perfectly serviceable weapon, its long barrel trained steadily on them.

“Ah, Monsieur – ” began Renzi, stepping forward.

“Non!” The flintlock jabbed forward. “Qui etes vous?” The darkjowled farmer moved carefully into the barn to take a closer look. “Diable! Les foutus anglais! ” The muzzle jerked up.

There was nothing they could say or do as they were marched out.

“Par pitie, Monsieur! We are famished, thirsty. For the love of Christ, something!”

The farmer said nothing, and outside the stables threw a key to the ground. He indicated to Kydd that he should open the massive old padlock. They entered a small stable. Still keeping the gun trained on them, he closed the lower door. Before the top half shut he leaned in with a triumphant look and spoke. He would immediately go to town and fetch soldiers, but out of pity he would first ask his wife to bring a little of the morning mijote for them to eat, and possibly some cider.

The upper door slammed shut and they sank down on the straw.

“What’re our chances?” Kydd said.