Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Commander

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? Was death too good for him?

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 are, much less where this road goes. Frankly, I was hoping you did!"

"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.

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 sun! Choundas sat bolt-upright, twisting his head to scan the empty valley. It was a bit past midmorning, yet the sun was in his eyes! He was facing southeast! All the time in the woods where the sun didn't reach, had he missed a trail, gotten turned around? His stomach chilled as he saw a patch of blue through a notch in the woods-the sea. Vado Bay! The cart track by the shrine led down to Porto Vado; or back to the west. But it might take him back where he needed to go. He strung out a rein to guide his thirsty horse, as the raven cawed once more, spread its wings, and lifted away, not six feet over his head, winging off to the west. Choundas then heard what had disturbed it-the thud of hooves, the jingle of chains and scabbards, and the clomp of feet. In the woods there was movement, shakoed infantry, and a troop of cavalry on the tracelike Vado road, lance pennants fluttering and points glittering above their heads. Austrians!

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 valley and wheeled to form two ranks across as they trotted forward, quickly changing to the canter.

"Peel!" Lewrie warned. "We've got company!"

"Bugger 'em!" Peel threw over his shoulder, drawing his saber and laying it point-down, extended beyond his horse's neck. "On!"

"They think we're French…" Lewrie panted, "runnin' away… and you'll think buggery!" He turned his head to see the front rank lower its lances and break into the charge at the urging of a trumpet. "They're after us, you damn' fool! Speak… bloody German… anybody?"

"I do, sir!" Mountjoy called, his clothes filthy with clods of earth and grass thrown up by Peel's horse's hooves. "Some, anyway. I… picked up a few phrases… from Rahl and Brauer!"

And before Lewrie could tell him not to, Mountjoy reined in and turned away to trot back toward those glittering lance points, into the teeth of the charge, with his hands up, screeching "Meine herrйn, meine herrйn, bitte! Hilf mir! Eine Fransozich spion voir verfolgen! Bittel"