Chapter 9
Fougères, Brittany
Zoé stood on a hill with Freddie and the others, gazing down at the Château de Fougères. They were exhausted from the day’s events and glad to have arrived at their destination. Behind them, the setting sun cast its rays on the sand-colored stone, making the castle appear golden, like some celestial city lowered to earth.
Giles had not been exaggerating when he described the castle as a medieval fortress. The massive edifice, built on a rocky outcrop, stood high above the river that circled its oval base like a moat. Zoé counted thirteen towers built into the stone walls, some very large.
Gabe removed his hat to brush his dark curls off his forehead. “My family is from Le Havre and I have seen many sights sailing with the capitaine, but there have been none like this.”
“The château is one of the largest in Europe,” said Erwan. “It was built to protect Brittany against sieges from her enemies, a warning for them to turn back from our borders. In times of war, the people took shelter behind the castle’s ten foot-thick walls.”
Zoé’s gaze drifted to the stone houses pressed closely together on three sides of the fortress and the small village that lay on both sides of the path leading to the castle’s main gate. “Is that why the town grew up around it?”
“Oui,” said Erwan. “The people wanted to be close if the enemy came in spite of the warning.”
“As long as the fortress is held by Boisguy,” put in Freddie, “it serves the same purpose today.”
Erwan helped Isabeau from the horse and the girl hurried to stand next to Zoé, taking her hand as she looked down at the castle. “I was here once before… with my parents.” The sadness in the girl’s eyes and her quavering voice spoke of her lingering grief.
Zoé squeezed her small hand unsure of what to say, remembering the day she, too, had been orphaned. The deep wound to her young heart had only been healed by the love of her uncle and aunt, who was then Lady Joanna West. And the friendship of Joanna’s younger brother. She had thought Freddie most annoying at first but the passage of years had shown her that he was a true friend.
On her other side, Freddie took off his felt hat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Let’s hope Boisguy will welcome us. A bed and dinner would not go amiss.”
“What river is that circling the castle?” asked Zoé.
“’Tis the Nançon,” replied Erwan, “and this is the Nançon Valley.”
Zoé’s eyes took in the narrow valley, a swath of verdant vegetation and forests surrounding the castle. The trees and foliage had flourished in the spring rains. Red, blue and pink wildflowers blossomed from every crevice, reminding her of Guernsey.
“We’d best seek our host,” said Freddie, “before we lose the light.”
As they began their descent, Zoé looked down at the men milling around the outside wall. “Why has no one approached us?”
“I suspect we are under observation,” said Freddie. “As we get closer to the main gate, Boisguy’s men will make themselves known.”
To reach the gate that would take them past the castle’s outside wall, they had to first walk through the village and then cross a small bridge that spanned the moat. Freddie led the way, Zoé and Isabeau fell into step behind him. Gabe and Erwan followed with the black mare.
The villagers peeked their heads out of doors and windows to regard them with suspicious eyes. The women frowned at Zoé. She assumed it was due to the way she was dressed. Isabeau might pass for a lad but only from a distance did Zoé think her disguise would be convincing. The women of Fougères wore dresses or loose smocks tucked into long skirts, over which they donned short vests or jackets. Most of their hair was hidden beneath white caps, some with lace edges.
One woman pointed to Zoé. “Un autre Capitaine Victor?”
If they thought she was another Captain Victor, the woman who led a company of Chouan fighters, it meant she had been here. Zoé grew excited at the prospect of meeting such a woman.
No sooner had they reached the path leading across the bridge to the castle’s main entrance than two men bearing grim expressions on their hardened faces blocked their advance. Each carried a musket and wore the sacred heart patch on his coat and a long rosary around his neck.
Freddie gestured to Erwan to join him and the two walked toward the Chouans. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out the message Cadoudal had given him. “For General Boisguy,” he said in Breton, bowing slightly.
Erwan spoke a few words to the Chouans, the only one Zoé recognized was “Cadoudal”.
Isabeau, who knew French as well as Breton, leaned close to whisper, “Erwan has told them we come from M’sieur Cadoudal and the message is from him.”
The man who had accepted the missive motioned for them to wait. Leaving his fellow Chouan to guard them, he crossed the bridge and walked with determined steps through the arched entrance.
When Freddie looked back at Zoé, she asked, “You are not worried?”
“Not yet. When we stopped to rest I asked Erwan to read me the message since it was in Breton. In veiled terms, it describes our mission as seeking information on their weapons and stores, to understand their needs. I assume he wrote it so that we could pretend to be on the side of the revolution should we be searched by republican soldiers. Clever that he should think to do that. As a result, it will take a bit of explaining to assure Boisguy we are here to help.”
Only minutes had passed when the Chouan reemerged from the gate and beckoned them to follow. They followed him through the tunnel that cut through the thick outer wall.
Inside, a lad took the horse’s reins, leading the mare toward what looked like a stable.
Not wanting to cause Zoé undue angst, Freddie had omitted telling her about the part of the message that urged Boisguy to judge for himself “the sincerity of the government’s stated purpose”. Left unspecified was which government but, coming from Cadoudal and signed in what appeared to be code, Boisguy would know it was not revolutionary France that Freddie represented.
The guards led them up three flights of damp stone stairs before stopping in front of a wooden door with rust-stained ironwork that led into one of the larger towers.
One of the guards knocked. At the shout of “Entrez!” he opened the door and gestured Freddie, Zoé, Isabeau, Gabe and Erwan inside.
The chamber was circular, like the tower, and smelled of musty leaves and burning wood. In the center of the room was a large desk. Sitting behind it was a young man with intense dark eyes. Freddie noticed immediately his fine blue coat and his elaborate white cravat spilling over his waistcoat. His long black hair fell to his shoulders.
The only sound was the hissing and popping from the fireplace.
The well-dressed young man rose and came around the desk to face them, crossing his arms and leaning back against the desk. Freddie had to remind himself Aimé du Boisguy was “not yet twenty”, for the man who stood before him had a noble bearing and an air of authority of a much older man, one who owned the respect of other men.
As he introduced himself, his aristocratic accent and elegant French gave proof of his noble origin. “I am Aimé du Boisguy, general of the Chouans in this area. Who might you be?”
Knowing he had but moments to convince Boisguy of his benevolent purpose, he said, “I am Frederick West, brother of the Earl of Torrington. I come on business of His Majesty the King of England. The government wishes to understand the needs of the Chouans both in Brittany and Maine so that we may provide assistance in your fight against revolutionary France. Our Prime Minister abhorred the murder of your king and means to win the war.”
A movement drew Freddie’s gaze to the shadows where a rough-looking man leaned against the wall, his disquieting gaze fixed on the new arrivals. He was older than the other Chouans they had encountered, in his mid-thirties, Freddie judged. The man’s short hair and long downturned mustache were a dark brown, not unlike that of most Bretons. Freddie might have judged him a farmer for his face, lined and tanned like those who spent their days in the sun. He reminded Freddie of Donet’s vineyard workers. However, his wide-brimmed black hat bore the Bourbon white cockade and a white plume, marking him an officer in the Catholic and Royal Army. Around his neck over his white shirt he wore a brilliantly colored scarf splashed with red and a long rosary of black beads. Freddie amended his assessment. This man was no farmer, at least not anymore.
His eyes never leaving Freddie, the strange Chouan left the shadows to take his stance beside the young general. “And these with you?” he challenged Freddie.
Freddie gestured to Zoé. “Mademoiselle Zoé Donet, a friend of the comte de la Rochejaquelein,” naming for the first time in her presence the fallen hero she had once idolized.
The young general’s dark eyes gleamed as they alighted on Zoé, giving her man’s attire an approving smile. “Henri and I were friends from our youth. We fought together as brothers until our enemies took him from us.”
Despite the young general’s relationship to the fallen de la Rochejaquelein, Zoé had never spoken of the chevalier du Boisguy as someone she knew. Yet, here was another handsome young leader of the royalist cause. Might he be another hero for Zoé to worship? An alarm sounded in Freddie’s head. How could he compete in her eyes with such matchless figures?
Zoé offered the general her hand and he bowed over it. “Mademoiselle.”
Happy to interrupt Boisguy’s interest in Zoé, Freddie gestured to Isabeau. “This child is Isabeau le Gallou, the daughter of two who paid with their lives for their loyalty to the Chouans. Her brother is one of Cadoudal’s men.”
Isabeau said nothing but moved close to Zoé and stared at the two strange men.
“You are most welcome here,” said Boisguy to the young girl.
Freddie then introduced Erwan as a Vendéen soldier and Gabe as a member of the crew of the ship that had brought them to Brittany.
Passing his gaze across the visitors, particularly the men, Boisguy said, “If your words be true, and you are who you claim to be, I welcome you. If they are not, your lives will be forfeit. Traitors do not live long among us.”
“Of course, Mr. West’s words are true!” protested Zoé, her furrowed brow and indignant expression making clear she resented Freddie’s word being questioned.
Freddie smiled to himself, pleased at the wildcat she became in his defense.
“We come at great risk,” she went on, “to provide the English with accurate information of the needs of your growing army to help you fight Robespierre’s Terror.”
“It is our intention when we are done here,” Freddie put in, “to travel to Maine where we hope to meet with Jean Cottereau, the one called Jean Chouan, on this same mission.”
Boisguy raised a brow, inclining his head toward the mysterious Chouan standing next to him.
Freddie directed his attention to the young general. “We were hoping you could help us locate him and gain his trust.”
A twinkle in Boisguy’s eyes matched his amused look. “You will have to gain the trust of Jean Chouan on your own, mon ami anglais. But you will not have to travel to Maine to meet him. You are most fortunate to have come when you did. It is Jean Chouan who stands beside me.”
Surprised, Freddie shifted his gaze to the man next to Boisguy. “Indeed, this is fortuitous. You have made possible our gaining the needed information in a single meeting. We thank you.” He could tell from the skeptical look on Jean Chouan’s face that he harbored doubts about the truth of Freddie’s stated purpose.
“It is nearly time for dinner,” said Boisguy. “You will join us and when the food and wine have been served, we will speak of what England can do for us.”
Zoé had been to Versailles with her uncle before the revolution and she had been in fine estates in Saintonge, but she had yet to dine in a medieval castle, particularly one of this size. When she followed Freddie to Brittany to meet with the royalist fighters, she never anticipated being in a place haunted by ghosts of centuries long past. In her mind’s eye, she saw the rich tapestries that once hung on the now bare walls. She heard the clang of metal armor and spurs of knights crossing the stone floor.
Light from torches set into the walls and candles on the long tables illuminated the vast stone hall that echoed with men’s voices eager for the evening meal. Where once there would have been knights dining with their lord, now were gathered farmers turned into fighting men. They did not fight for riches, lands or glory, as the knights had, but for freedom from tyranny, their faith and their way of life.
She and her companions sat with their host at a table perpendicular to four long tables stretching the length of the hall. As if by magic, peasant women entered the great room from doors on one side. They carried pitchers of wine and platters of venison. The rich meat seasoned with rosemary and thyme sent a mouthwatering aroma into the air. Roasted vegetables, too, appeared in great wooden bowls. After the meager fare they had endured on the road, Zoé was delighted.
“I’m surprised you eat so well.”
Boisguy, on her right, leaned in close. “Many of my men are hunters. As long as the forest provides, we dine well.”
The men’s voices were soon reduced to the sounds of eating.
Freddie spoke from her left. “Best eat while you can, Pigeon. We still have the return trip where food may be scarce.”
Zoé needed no encouragement. She eagerly bit into the venison, which was succulent and tender, the herbs making it tasty. The white wine of Brittany, too, was very good.
Setting down his wine, Boisguy said, “We are not often so many at table, but Jean’s men have joined mine and there are others who have recently come to us, a few whom you might like to meet.” With a poignant look, he added, “Friends of Henri’s.”
Zoé was impressed that this general of thousands of men was of an age with her. And, even though his ancestral lands were in Brittany, it struck her that his voice and manners were those of a member of the French aristocracy who would have been comfortable in Paris. Likely, he had been educated well and expected to manage his family estate. All that was gone now, of course. The revolution had changed his life forever, as it had hers. Yet he seemed given over to his new purpose without reservation.
“Do you think to win against the Blues?” she asked him.
His eyes lit with an inner fire. “We fight to win. Our cause is just and, thus far, God has blessed that valiant cause. But even should we fail, to a man we would rather die fighting against a godless, bloodthirsty régime than live in a country that would murder its king and priests and refuse its people the freedom to worship as they choose.”
She set down her wine and let out a sigh as memories rushed into her mind. She remembered a night in La Rochelle when she and Henri had dined together, a candle between them. Henri’s golden face had been lit with the fervor of a righteous man willing to die for a cause he judged more important than his life. “Henri often spoke with the same passion in his voice.”
Boisguy’s eyes bore into hers. “I can see you understand, Mademoiselle Donet.”
Freddie chose that moment to interrupt. “Did you tell the general of what happened at the mill house outside of Combourtillé?”
“Non. Perhaps you might, Freddie.” She was loath to tell Boisguy his friend had been murdered. Freddie had always been better at delivering bad news than she, his voice remaining steady and calm whereas hers would falter.
Freddie leaned across her to relate the story, including that Isabeau did not know of the gruesome deaths, only that the miller had died, adding at the end, “The villains were just leaving as we arrived. Until I saw the blood on their clothing, I had thought them Chouans.”
Boisguy closed his eyes tightly, shaking his head as if to deny the horrible truth. When he opened them, anger had replaced sorrow. “The miller was a man of honor and a great friend to the Chouans. For that, the republican dogs who did this will pay. We must rid Brittany of Rossignol’s parasites.” Looking about the hall, his gaze came to rest on a tall slender figure standing to one side talking with another man. “Captain Victor!” Boisguy called.
The slender figure, white plumed hat in hand, turned and started toward the general. As the Chouan drew close, Zoé realized this must be the woman Henri had spoken of. Absent her hat, her long dark hair, confined to a plait falling halfway down her back, framed a feminine face with high cheekbones and large dark eyes. But her clothing spoke of her rank in the Catholic and Royal Army: a charcoal-colored coat fitted close to her body, a white neckcloth over a linen shirt, cream-colored breeches and black boots. At her hip was a sword and tucked into a white was a small pistol.
The female Chouan passed her gaze over Zoé and her companions before turning to Boisguy. “Sir?”
“It seems we have lost Jodoc to the villainy of Rossignol’s false Chouans.”
For a moment, Captain Victor’s face reflected horror, but that gave way to a stony resolve in her dark eyes. “Do you want me to take a patrol and clean out the rats’ nest?”
“Oui, if you can find them. At first light or tonight, if you prefer.” As his captain turned to leave, Boisguy said, “Wait! I want to introduce you to our visitors.” Turning to Zoé and the others, he said, “This is Mademoiselle Victorine du Rocher du Quengo, captain of our division in Bécherel to the west.”
Freddie and the men rose.
Jean Chouan retained his seat, his mouth curling up in a sarcastic smile. “Only you would have a name longer than the rest of us, Victorine.”
The woman he called Victorine smirked. “You can be glad I do not expect you to remember it, Jean.”
Boisguy interrupted, “Captain, I believe you will want to meet this first guest. Mademoiselle Zoé Donet was a friend of Monsieur Henri’s.”
Zoé stood and offered her hand, which Captain Victor accepted while smiling at Zoé’s clothing.
“I have long wanted to meet you,” said Zoé, her voice full of admiration. “Henri spoke of your achievements with much pride.”
“You pay me a great compliment, for Henri was revered among us.”
Resuming the introductions, Boisguy said, “Next to Mademoiselle Donet is Mr. Frederick West, who, if he is to be believed, is an emissary from the King of England.”
Captain Victor’s brows rose as she gave Freddie a studying perusal.
“Mademoiselle,” Freddie said in the clipped English of the British upper class.
In a lowered voice, possibly for Isabeau’s benefit, Boisguy said to his captain, “You should ask Mr. West for a description of the men who killed Jodoc.” Then he pointed to the other side of Jean Chouan. “Over there is young Isabeau le Gallou whose brother serves under Cadoudal and, if I have it right, next to her are Erwan and Gabe.”
Captain Victor acknowledged each of them, graciously inclining her head. “Bienvenue, welcome.”
Boisguy addressed his captain, “They say they have come to learn of our needs so that England might help supply our growing army.”
“Ammunition,” said Captain Victor without hesitation. “’Tis a critical need.”
“Dan ce cas,” said Boisguy, “if the time has come for this discussion, let us sit.” He called to a serving girl, “More wine!”
The servant returned with a pitcher and, while she was refilling their glasses, Boisguy asked her to take Isabeau to the other side of the great hall to introduce her to those closer to her age eating there.
Captain Victor, Jean Chouan and Boisguy took seats across from Zoé, Freddie and the others.
When their cups were again full and Isabeau had gone off with the servant, Freddie opened the discussion. “Your men are armed with muskets and knives, some with swords. In addition to ammunition, is your need for more of these?”
Boisguy took a long drink of his wine. “Many of the weapons my men have were gained through our victories over the Blues. We could use more, of course, as men join us each day. However, we also have a need for small artillery and horses. We’ve no cavalry to speak of save for those of us who had horses and were trained to ride from our youth. And the only small mobile cannons we have are ones we seized in a raid.”
“We do not fight like the English or even the French,” interjected Jean Chouan. “We fight from behind rocks, from between trees, taking care with our shots. Our army is made up of mostly peasant farmers. They are comfortable with muskets and knives. But the general is correct. In an open area we are at a grave disadvantage against the Blues’ horses and artillery.”
Freddie rested his chin on his upturned palm, his eyes gazing at his wine. Zoé recognized the contemplative look, the one he always got just before deciding whether to share something he’d been hiding from her.
Finally he looked up, meeting Boisguy’s steady gaze. In a voice only they could hear, he said, “There is talk of landing a British-backed émigré force off Brittany’s coast in which case you would have your artillery and many men to join you.”
Boisguy sat back in his chair. “That is, if the British actually make an appearance this time. We have not forgotten Granville, l’Anglais.”
“A sad chapter, I know,” said Freddie looking down at his wine. “Your chiding is well taken.”
Jean Chouan huffed. “The supplies and weapons would be welcomed, but even if the British make good on their word this time, I have reservations about émigrés leading a force into Brittany. As I said, we Bretons do not fight like the British or even the French. It is one reason we have been successful.”
“Such an operation,” put in Boisguy, “would require considerable planning and strategy to be successful. In the meantime, we have needs you can meet.”
“Like ammunition,” reiterated Captain Victor. “For that, you need no ships or landing forces, only small boats.”
Gabe, who’d been silently watching until now, said, “My capitaine has delivered supplies for the royalists to the shores of Normandy and Brittany before.”
“Who is your capitaine?” asked Boisguy.
“My uncle,” said Zoé, “Jean Donet, comte de Saintonge, or at least he held the title until the revolutionary government took it away. He has three ships, la Reine Noire being his flagship.”
“I have sailed with him on all three,” said Freddie, “and can vouch for his commitment to the royalist cause.”
Boisguy gave his attention to Zoé. “I knew your name sounded familiar. Was your uncle at one time a privateer out of Lorient?”
“He was,” said Zoé. “And a smuggler. Now, in addition to his merchant shipping business, he helps Erwan and me smuggle refugees out of France.”
Boisguy’s dark eyes simmered as he continued to gaze at Zoé. “I sensed you were an unusual woman when I first met you, mademoiselle.”
Perhaps he found her snatching men, women and children from the guillotine’s jaws a worthy endeavor. It was no more than others had done and less than the sacrifices of many. “Not so unusual in these times, Monsieur le chevalier.”
Boisguy rose and offered her his hand. “As you’ve had a trying day and tomorrow morning will be soon upon us, it might be best if I escort you to your chamber.”