Kydd

Renzi answered, with some hesitation, “Well, we can take it now that St. Pontrieux has fallen, probably without a fight. The soldiers therefore will be cheated of their victory, and will be in an ugly mood.” He scratched his side – there were fleas in the stable. “What is worse for us, many of our men will have been saved because the ships will have taken them up, and this they will have seen. Perhaps it is not a good idea to be a sailor at such a time.” The lines in his face deepened.

Kydd said nothing: if there was something to be faced, then he would face it without flinching.

There was a rattling of the padlock and the door was flung open. In the glare of sunlight they became aware of the mob cap and pinafore of a woman. Preceded by the farmer with his flintlock, she entered warily with a tray. She gave a little scream and the tray crashed to the ground. The farmer growled in bafflement. “Les anglais!” she faltered. “They – look so fierce!”

The farmer relaxed. “Espece de connard!” he said dismissively.

He waited until fresh food had been brought, and swung in a stone jar. The door slammed shut and the two fell upon the food.

“Silly woman!” Kydd said, without malice, savaging a chicken leg that had found its way into the ragout.

“I think not,” Renzi said meaningfully. He tore ravenously at the country bread. It was infinitely the best meal he had ever had, the rough cider complementing the natural flavor of the Breton cooking.

Puzzled, Kydd looked at him. An urgent rattling at the door was his answer. It was flung open and the farmer’s wife was standing there. “You must go now!” she said urgently, in accented English.

“Marie,” Renzi said, in a low voice.

“No! Leave now! He will be back with soldiers soon.”

“But – ”

“Nicholas, I am married now. Married, hein! Please go!”

Renzi moved forward and held her. She sobbed just once, but pushed him firmly away. “Go to the house of Madame Dahouet,” she said quickly. “It is the white house on the corner of the avenue du Quatorze Juillet off the square. She is a – sympathisante. Her son die in Paris.”

Renzi stood reluctant.

“Take care, my love – allez avec Dieu!” She drew back against the door, her eyes fixed on his. “Go,” she whispered.

CHAPTER 9

Kydd and Renzi waited until the first light of dawn before entering the town. The river lay to their left, an easy signpost to the plaza they had left just days before. There were no more Bourbon lilies on display, no more white banners. Instead, the flag of revolution hung everywhere around them.

The town was silent, a curfew obviously in force. They removed their shoes and crept noiselessly toward the square, keeping well in to the side of the street. In the silence the measured tread of approaching sentries gave them adequate warning.

On one side of the square stood a tall structure in the dark. “Guillotine!” Renzi whispered.

Kydd shivered – the smell of blood hung in the air.

A sentry paced slowly by the guillotine. He was militia, dressed raggedly. His Phrygian cap had a tricolor cockade, just as the patriotic prints had it in the shops in England.

Timing their movements, Kydd and Renzi worked their way round toward a once grand house, which, as it was the only white building off the square, had to be their destination. The sky was lightening noticeably in the east when they reached it.

“Shy a pebble at th’ window,” Kydd whispered.

“You,” Renzi hissed, sure that Kydd would do it better.

Kydd picked up a light stone, judged the distance carefully and caught the pane. It rattled and the stone fell.

Nothing. The first rays of morning were appearing; the gray dawn was fast disappearing in the promise of another fine day. Kydd tried again. Still nothing. The window remained shut. By now they would be easily visible to anyone chancing along the street. Kydd picked up another stone.

The door opened suddenly and noiselessly. They were yanked roughly inside. A sharp-faced woman glared at them. She had papers in her hair and wore a floor-length chemise and faded slippers. “You fools!” she said bitterly in English. “Do you beg to be caught?”

“Madame Dahouet?” Renzi enquired, with the utmost politeness, making an elegant leg.

Surprised, the woman bobbed in return. Then suspicion returned to pinch her face.

“Madame, might I be permitted to present my compliments and those of Madame Marie Pleneuf, who wishes to be remembered to you.” He spoke in the flowery French of the old regime.

She fingered his dirty seaman’s jacket doubtfully.

“I am, as you see, necessarily in disguise, Madame.”

“Ah!” she said, satisfied. “Your French is very good, Monsieur.” She went to the heavily curtained window and peeped outside, checking carefully. She spoke in English for Kydd’s benefit. “It is not safe here, but I have a hiding place prepared…”

The hiding place was an ancient pigsty – still very much in use.

They looked at it in dismay. Fat pink and black pigs lay in a sea of mud and dung and on the far side of them was a rickety old wooden construction.

“No!” blurted Kydd.

“No cochon of a brave revolutionary would soil himself in that place. You are safe there.”

“We can’t – ” Kydd felt sick at the thought.

The woman’s eyes darted back across the yard fearfully, and she stamped her foot in exasperation.

Hastily, Renzi agreed. “Yes, Madame, you are right. This will prove an excellent hiding place – we thank you most heartily.”

He lifted his leg over the low palings and plopped it down into the sty. The nearest pig rolled over to peer up at him. He brought the other leg over – the mud was ankle deep. As he began to wade over to the low entrance of the shed, the pigs scrambled to their feet, squealing and snuffling. Renzi, certainly no farmer, felt alarm at their huge presence.

“They won’t bother you – go on, Monsieur,” Madame Dahouet said to Kydd, who followed Renzi into the mire.

Renzi reached the entrance, bent down – and recoiled. But there was no avoiding it: he went down on his hands and knees in the muck and shuffled in.

Kydd held his breath and followed. It was utterly black inside, despite the few tiny chinks of daylight that showed between age-distorted boards. The floor was a little more firm, but it was strewn with rancid straw, which made his eyes water.

“Well, now, look ’oo’s come to visit.” The deep-chested voice startled them.

“Who -?”

A bass laugh followed. “Sar’nt Piggott, Private Sawkins ’n’ Corporal Daryton, at yer service, gemmun!” His fruity chuckle subsided.

The darkness lessened: it was possible to make out three forms leaning up against the back side of the shed. Inside it was steamy hot and close.

“Renzi and Kydd, seamen in Duke William. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“Ooh – lah-de-dah! ’N’ who’s yer lady’s maid, then?” the bass voice rejoined. “Yer’ll find we’re no frien’s of the Navy – yer chums jus’ sailed off leavin’ us, ’n’ there we was, fightin’ rearguard while they offs to save their skins.”

“Well, you soldiers didn’t do so bloody well keepin’ the Frogs off our backs when we was pullin’ your guns!” Kydd retorted bitterly. A fly buzzed and settled. Kydd slapped at it, but it