Kydd(78)

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 êtes 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 pitié, 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 mijoté 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.

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. “Espèce 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 ragoût.

“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.”