A King's Commander (53 page)

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 wood-lots 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.

G
uillaume
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 three hundred 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 herren, meine herren, bitte! Hilf mir! Eine Fransozich spion wir verfolgen! Bitte!”

“Bloody damn' . . . !” Lewrie yelped, knowing it was suicidal, but unwilling to abandon the hen-head! He reined back himself, slowing his horse so quickly it crow-hopped after its skid, quite willing to throw him off! He swung back to join Mountjoy, at an inoffensive canter, his hands empty and outstretched. The only thing he knew that might identify himself was to break into a loud song—“Rule, Brittania!” The lancers came on, like an imminent collision between two ships, lances still lowered as Mountjoy continued yelling. He had a childlike urge to cover his eyes, and only watch the outcome through his fingers!

At the very last second, though, the front rank parted, raising its lances and sawing back to a lope, to circle him and Mountjoy. Alan let out a
huge
whoosh of relief, and plastered a grin on his phyz.

“Guten morgen, mein herr,”
Mountjoy was babbling to a pimply faced young officer.
“Herr leutnant? Mein kapitan,
Lewrie . . .
König
George,
Britisch Königlich Kriegsmarine? Wir verfolgen ein spion.
”

“Parlez-vous Français?”
the blotch-faced young lieutenant said. “Well,
oui . . . certain, s'il vous plais, mein herr.
”

“Good.” the officer laughed. “German is so inelegant. What do you say you do, m'sieur?”

“Thank bloody Christ,” Lewrie muttered under his breath, once Mountjoy got to slanging. Grateful that it wasn't just the Russians' aristocracy who hated their own tongue, and mostly spoke in French.

“They'll help us pursue, sir!” Mountjoy announced. “Leutnant

Baron von Losma will follow us with his troop. I've told him that he shouldn't mistake Mister Peel for Choundas, when we catch him up.”

“Bloody good. Let's be at it, then.” Lewrie beamed.
“Trupp!”
von Losma piped, his teenaged voice breaking with the effort, though damned elegant in his movements.
“Vorwarts!”

Off they went again, the lancers in a column of twos, thundering up through those bouldered, bushy hillocks, through a patch of forest, and out into another, smaller valley, where they caught up with Peel, perhaps only a half mile from where they'd split off from him. He was circling his horse at a breather-trot, waiting for them. Beyond, they could see Choundas, just as he put his struggling horse to a slope.

“What'd you stop for?” Lewrie demanded, reining in.

“Them, damn 'em,” Peel spat.

“Oh.” Lewrie cringed.

A little beyond Choundas, at the top of that grassy slope sat a troop of French dragoons—heavy cavalry. It wasn't one hundred and fifty yards off, but it might as well have been the distance to the moon! A column of blue-coated infantry could be seen to the north, at the head of the small valley, marching for the low, bouldery ridge they'd left.

“Goddamn the man's shitten luck!” Peel cried. “After all we've done, got so close on his heels . . . now
this!
It's as if he's in league with the Devil, damn his blood.”

“Still a chance,” Lewrie muttered through a dry mouth. He alit from his horse, trotted to the tumbled ruin of a rock fence just beside the road, and unslung his Ferguson rifle. He'd killed Lanun Rovers at two hundred yards with it—winged 'em, anyway.

One complete turn of the trigger-guard lever, to lower the screw breech and open the barrel's hind end.

“Lewrie, it's over,” Peel pointed out. “We sit here, this dumb and happy, they have the slope of us. Sooner or later, they'll charge. And lancers ain't meant to tangle with heavy cavalry, head-on.”

“It's not over yet, Peel,” Lewrie snapped. “Sooner he's dead, the sooner you and Twigg leave me the hell alone.”

He bit off the folded end of a premade cartouche, the powder bitter on his tongue. Bullet end up the spout. Crank the breech shut and pull the flint striker's dog's jaws back, checking to see that the flint was firmly seated and didn't slip against the leather under the clamping screw's face. At half cock, he flipped open the frizzen, to bare the pan, and primed it with a measure from the powder flask that held the very finest, talclike igniting powder.

“Er, sir?” Mountjoy bickered. “The Herr Baron von Losma says we should hightail it. Soon, sir. He's
found
the Frogs, so . . .”

“A minute.” Lewrie sighed. “A minute.”

He pulled the Ferguson back to full cock and put it to his eye, resting the barrel on the rocks, settling himself. It looked to be at
least
two hundred yards, maybe more? And there was Choundas, stopping beside a French dragoon officer, pointing back to the valley. Smiling like everything, he suspected. Bragging about his escape, too!

There was the wind to consider; it was blowing from behind the cavalrymen on that far slope, and a little to Lewrie's right. A shot uphill, almost into the wind? He held high, aiming a foot above his nemesis's hat, a touch to the right, maybe a foot beyond Choundas's shoulder.

“Might as well shoot at the moon, sir, the
herr leutnant
says,” Mountjoy interrupted. “With a musket, at this range . . . ?”

“Shut
up,
Mister Mountjoy!” Lewrie barked. “
Not
a musket.” There was a raven's caw off to his left, so near his ear that he almost jerked the trigger. Tramp of marching feet, thud of a drum. Another column of infantry emerging far to left of the slope where the cavalry sat and stared. At least a battalion, coming to use the road they were on.

The raven swooshed past, zooming upward, gliding and tilting to gain altitude before beating its wings, again. Flying toward Choundas. Once it was past, the wind faded, the grass tips before Lewrie stilled their slight wavering, and he inched the barrel a bit more left. Took a quarter-inch more elevation.

“My congratulations on your breathtaking escape,
Capitaine,
”
the dragoon officer enthused, offering Choundas a silver brandy flask. “Though it is not every day we see our Navy among us. Do you wish me to sweep those Austrian scum who chased you away? Just sitting there, counting heads, the damned fools. Lancers . . . they're insane!”

“Their infantry is not far behind them,” Choundas cautioned as he slurped down a restoring measure of brandy.

“We wait for the rest of the squadron, then,” the dragoon said in disappointment. “For the infantry to flank them away.”

“We march on Vado Bay, at last?” Choundas beamed.

“Indeed,
Capitaine.
Soon, your ships will anchor there.” Choundas turned to look at the Austrian troop, and at the men in civilian dress who'd accompanied them, hoping that one of them was his
bête noire,
Lewrie. Was that him, kneeling down? So close, at last, so far from his ship, and all aid. With a word, he could urge this cavalryman to gallop down and take him for him. He could have Lewrie in chains in his cellars at Nice by the next evening, to begin the exquisite revenge he'd planned so long. Just a word, and . . .

There was a puff of smoke from the fence, from the kneeling man.

“It
is
him!” Choundas crowed. “The desperate fool!”

“Far past even the best musket shot,” the dragoon officer cried in derision, and his troopers guffawed at the hopeless gesture.

“Capitaine
Jonville, perhaps . . .” Choundas began to say.

A raven came soaring up the slope, flaring and riding the thermal off the hillside, climbing, climbing, then beat its wings, beginning to circle—to Guillaume Choundas's right hand. He
raised his right arm in supplication, remembering what the old people had told him . . .

“. . . couldn't hit a house, at that . . .”

A second or two in flight, arcing up, then down, as it lost its momentum, plummeting like a howitzer shell and regaining velocity . . .

The .65-caliber ball slammed into Guillaume Choundas with the impact of a heavy, hard-swung cudgel, smashing into the flesh and bone of his upraised right arm, just below his armpit! His horse screamed, almost as loud as he did, as he was flung sideways in the saddle, and dragged to the right and down by the force of it! His horse whirled as if to bite its own haunches, rearing and backpedaling for balance and slinging Choundas's total weight onto that weak left leg caught in the stirrup, shuddery and nerveless from his desperate gallop, caught by the iron brace that stiffened the thick left boot. He flailed to stay in the saddle, but his right foot was free, and he was falling, to land on that right shoulder and arm, and the back of his head, and to get dragged for a few paces in a maddened circle before a trooper sprang down to grab the reins, and another rushed to free his foot.