clouds of snow.
Blood spurted from all around the vibrating lance. The fabric of Auguste’s coat had been driven into his wound. Bertram checked a lunge, goggling at his fallen cousin. Auguste writhed onto his side, staining the immaculate snow a bright scarlet.
“Christ preserve us,” Bertram quavered. “Cousin?”
Then he glanced at Phillipe with raging yellow eyes. The red-haired boy ran to the little sorrel, opened a sheath and drew an immense pistol.
Bertram pointed at the unmoving body. “Murderer. You killed him!”
With audacity Phillipe could hardly believe, the young boy showed Bertram the muzzle of his pistol.
“You’ll find yourself in a similar condition if you’re ever seen near Chavaniac again. My aunts told me Auguste du Pleis had taken to thievery after his father died. But I didn’t assume that included-snatching rabbit hunters.”
Phillipe stared at unblinking hazel eyes in the freckled, young-old face. The boy’s voice sounded assured. Though he was three or four years younger than Phillipe, and slightly built, he handled weapons—the lance and now the pistol—with perfect familiarity.
The boy took a step toward Bertram.
“Don’t you understand me? Get away from here or I’ll shoot you. I’m giving you a chance. Take it.”
All at once Bertram read the lesson of the pistol’s eye. A moment later he was gone, boots thudding away into the wind-bent pines. Then not even that sound remained.
Phillipe moved shakily toward Auguste. “Is he really—?”
“I’d say so,” the boy interrupted, planting a boot on Auguste’s neck. “An officer doesn’t carry a spontoon into battle for show. They’re killing instruments.”
With no trace of emption, the boy twisted the gory head of the lance until it came free of Auguste’s belly. Then he indicated the pistol he’d thrust into his belt.
“It’s lucky those two knew nothing of firearms. I couldn’t have got a ball off in this damp. The powder would have flashed in the—here! Stop looking so nervous! I’ve scared the other one off. We won’t see him again. And you killed this one in my defense. Let’s drag him deeper in the woods. When he’s found next spring, not a person around here will know how he died—or care.”
Despite the boy’s words, Phillipe had started to shake with reaction to the struggle. He had slain another human being. And apparently the red-haired boy was not the least upset.
The boy tossed the spontoon aside. He reached down for Auguste’s collar, then glanced at Phillipe with a touch of irritation.
“Look, will you help me?”
Phillipe wiped snow from his eyelids. “Yes. Yes, I will. But—how old are you?”
“Thirteen, if that matters.”
“You handle weapons like a soldier.”
“Well, I’ve been up to Paris for two years now. I only came back for Christmas, to visit my aunts and my grandmother. In the city, I’ve been schooled in the use of swords and pistols by an old officer who’s one of the best. De Margelay’s his name. When spring comes, I’ll be a cadet in the Black Musketeers.”
Again that stare of annoyance when Phillipe didn’t respond. “Surely you’ve heard of the regiment that guards King Louis!”
Phillipe shook his head. “I don’t know about such things. My mother keeps an inn near here. The Three Goats.”
“Ah! I’ve ridden by it.”
“Why did those two attack you? Hope of ransom?”
“Undoubtedly. It’s no secret that I returned home for the holy days: I was searching so hard for rabbit tracks, they took me by complete surprise. But you won’t be punished for killing this one. I can assure you of it. In fact, what happened makes us blood comrades. In the military, there’s no stronger tie. Now come on, let’s move him.”
Phillipe’s shock and fear were lessening moment by moment. He and the boy hid the body in a drift some distance from the clearing. The young soldier kicked snow over Auguste’s ghastly face. Then he resettled his
Blood spurted from all around the vibrating lance. The fabric of Auguste’s coat had been driven into his wound. Bertram checked a lunge, goggling at his fallen cousin. Auguste writhed onto his side, staining the immaculate snow a bright scarlet.
“Christ preserve us,” Bertram quavered. “Cousin?”
Then he glanced at Phillipe with raging yellow eyes. The red-haired boy ran to the little sorrel, opened a sheath and drew an immense pistol.
Bertram pointed at the unmoving body. “Murderer. You killed him!”
With audacity Phillipe could hardly believe, the young boy showed Bertram the muzzle of his pistol.
“You’ll find yourself in a similar condition if you’re ever seen near Chavaniac again. My aunts told me Auguste du Pleis had taken to thievery after his father died. But I didn’t assume that included-snatching rabbit hunters.”
Phillipe stared at unblinking hazel eyes in the freckled, young-old face. The boy’s voice sounded assured. Though he was three or four years younger than Phillipe, and slightly built, he handled weapons—the lance and now the pistol—with perfect familiarity.
The boy took a step toward Bertram.
“Don’t you understand me? Get away from here or I’ll shoot you. I’m giving you a chance. Take it.”
All at once Bertram read the lesson of the pistol’s eye. A moment later he was gone, boots thudding away into the wind-bent pines. Then not even that sound remained.
Phillipe moved shakily toward Auguste. “Is he really—?”
“I’d say so,” the boy interrupted, planting a boot on Auguste’s neck. “An officer doesn’t carry a spontoon into battle for show. They’re killing instruments.”
With no trace of emption, the boy twisted the gory head of the lance until it came free of Auguste’s belly. Then he indicated the pistol he’d thrust into his belt.
“It’s lucky those two knew nothing of firearms. I couldn’t have got a ball off in this damp. The powder would have flashed in the—here! Stop looking so nervous! I’ve scared the other one off. We won’t see him again. And you killed this one in my defense. Let’s drag him deeper in the woods. When he’s found next spring, not a person around here will know how he died—or care.”
Despite the boy’s words, Phillipe had started to shake with reaction to the struggle. He had slain another human being. And apparently the red-haired boy was not the least upset.
The boy tossed the spontoon aside. He reached down for Auguste’s collar, then glanced at Phillipe with a touch of irritation.
“Look, will you help me?”
Phillipe wiped snow from his eyelids. “Yes. Yes, I will. But—how old are you?”
“Thirteen, if that matters.”
“You handle weapons like a soldier.”
“Well, I’ve been up to Paris for two years now. I only came back for Christmas, to visit my aunts and my grandmother. In the city, I’ve been schooled in the use of swords and pistols by an old officer who’s one of the best. De Margelay’s his name. When spring comes, I’ll be a cadet in the Black Musketeers.”
Again that stare of annoyance when Phillipe didn’t respond. “Surely you’ve heard of the regiment that guards King Louis!”
Phillipe shook his head. “I don’t know about such things. My mother keeps an inn near here. The Three Goats.”
“Ah! I’ve ridden by it.”
“Why did those two attack you? Hope of ransom?”
“Undoubtedly. It’s no secret that I returned home for the holy days: I was searching so hard for rabbit tracks, they took me by complete surprise. But you won’t be punished for killing this one. I can assure you of it. In fact, what happened makes us blood comrades. In the military, there’s no stronger tie. Now come on, let’s move him.”
Phillipe’s shock and fear were lessening moment by moment. He and the boy hid the body in a drift some distance from the clearing. The young soldier kicked snow over Auguste’s ghastly face. Then he resettled his
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