So he sat his horse lumpishly, his crippled left leg too weak to tolerate a trot. He could post with his overdeveloped thighs, but a few minutes' work with his calf created a burning, engorged numbness before it went slack and nerveless. A canter or lope was much better, but even a poor horseman such as he could see that this horse was not up to a fast pace for long. After the road junction, he'd rested his gelding, gone down the Finale road and torn off his Republican cockade to leave a false scent, as he'd read that Rousseau's Noble Savages did. He'd then loped for three-quarters of a mile inland, until his horse began to toss its head, and slowed to a steady, long- legged, distance-eating walk. Once on the northwest road, the going was more level and easier, the inclines gentler among the rock-bound pastures filled with goats and sheep, the gleaned-over fields of stubble, the orchards and patches of forest. Easier on the horse… and him.
'Maniac,' Choundas whispered in uneasy awe, recalling again the
British agents? How pleasurable it had been, to send Pouzin's spies off on a false errand, knowing from the first which ship carried the gold. His next report would damn Pouzin for being led astray by a 'Bloody' plot, for failing, as he had concerning Alassio, and the loss of the convoy and warships. Choundas suspected British agents, and a vague description of a Jew from London, a banker-he sounded like a cadaverous butcher who'd confounded him in the Far East-Twigg! It was more than possible. And with Pouzin gone, himself installed as a replacement, he could recall that whore Claudia Mastandrea to France-to answer questions! Lewrie had had her, so he must. Then lure Lewrie to his death, with her the bait, this time. His bait!
But that death would be a long time coming, Choundas vowed to himself. Oh, yes! First he must scream for mercy, for forgiveness, that he'd maimed me, and made me so ugly! Months, it could last, no torment, no agony too great. Then leave him just as ugly, crippled, and abhorrent! A slug, trailing useless legs behind him, so ugly his pretty English wife and adoring children would shriek to see him, and that handsome, cocksure, swaggering brute slashed and carved into so hideous a creature, he'd be as repulsive as a leper! His whore from Corsica-Mastandrea, too?-have them in front of him, make Lewrie wail and gnash his teeth in impotence?
Choundas was so intent on his revenge, so rapt in savage dreams, that he missed the fact that the road began to curve north as it wound through a stretch of wooded hills, and did not wind back, but kept on trending more to the east, following the path of least resistance.
'Only one horse has been along here, this morning,' Peel stated with certainty as they took a rest at the northern edge of a copse of wizened trees so interlaced and convoluted they looked woven together. Before them stretched about a half mile of small woodlots and orchards, some small grain fields, to the beginnings of a series of winding hills covered in tall pines. 'Were I out on vedette, I'd say some guns were along here yesterday… perhaps a troop of cavalry.'
'Yes, but whose?' Lewrie asked, beginning to question what he was doing away from his ship, this far inland, playing at soldiers with the French Army in the offing. As far as he was concerned, if Choundas wanted to keep on riding, he'd be more than happy to let him. As long as he never heard from the bastard again.
'Well now, that's the question, isn't it, sir?' Peel chuckled.
'Another good'un would be 'where does this road go,' sir?' Mister Mountjoy muttered, sounding as if he was experiencing his own reservations about their little outing.
'Perhaps your captain might know, Mister Mountjoy,' Peel hinted. 'After all, he's been staring at more maps of this coast than we.'
'Charts,' Lewrie corrected, shifting his saddle to ease an ache. It had been two years since he'd been astride, and his inner thighs and buttocks were reminding him of it, rather insistently. 'Sea charts, do you see, Peel. Prominent stuff to steer and navigate by. But what's behind 'em, out of range-to-random shot, don't signify. I haven't the faintest clue where we
'Well, all roads lead somewhere.' Peel frowned. 'If it's good enough for Choundas to follow, it's good enough for us.'
He heeled his mount and clucked, and they lumbered into motion once more, working their way back to an easy lope for those far woods.
CHAPTER
10
Guillaume Choundas emerged from the woods at last, after a serpentine journey in the shadow of the pines. The day was warming up, and he threw his boat cloak back over his shoulders. Before him was a wide valley with low hills to either side, covered with broader grain fields and shrouded on three sides with bush-covered boulders, with more woods to the north and east. The road led straight on. Wary of being out in the open, he checked the priming of one of his three pistols, then rode into the sunlight. About 300 yards off there was a wayside shrine, at a crossroads. He rode to it, warily looking about, but he was quite alone. The shrine was footed with a stone watering trough, but it was dry, filled with crumbly leaves and a green-brown rime. His horse nuzzled it, snuffling disappointedly. A tapering stone column at a list as it sank into the ground, a small altar covered with brittlely dry flowers, surrounded by fluted columns and topped with a steepled roof. It had a cross, but that was a recent addition, he thought, for the moss-filled inscription was Roman, like some legionary burial sites he'd seen in his childhood Brittany. The figures, though, on the original stele, much effaced by time, were far older. They were Celtic! he gasped with pleasure. He took that as a good sign. Till the raven came.
The raven glided in from his right, flared its wings and alit atop the steepled roof that was streaked with bird droppings. One of Lugh's birds, he shivered; old Bretons still knew who'd built the dolmens, and worshiped at them. Lugh was the greatest old god, and his raven was a harbinger-an ominous one! It preened its feathers, shook and settled, then cawed once at him, silhouetted against the morning sun.
The raven's flight was the only clue he needed to turn away, and begin to ride off again, a good sign, he thought; that here in the land of the Roman conquerors of his ancient people, he was not alone, that a Celtic influence still resided. He dug in his heels, to urge the horse to get him out of sight before those lancers spotted him. A shout…?
'View halloo!' Peel cried as they left those maze-y woods, loped out into the broad valley. 'There's our fox, gentlemen! Tally ho!'
Heedless of their horses, they kneed them into a gallop, aiming to cut off the fleeing rider with the cloak flying behind his back, Mister Peel in front, with Lewrie and Mountjoy behind, neck and neck.
Almost at once came the shrill call of a trumpet to the right-rear as the troop of Austrian lancers entered the