tricorn on his head and asked:
“Were you headed home?”
“No, to the village.”
“Then mount Sirocco with me. Two can ride as easily as one. No objections, please—I insist!”
It struck Phillipe that the youth wasn’t accustomed to having anyone go against his wishes. Remarkable. Especially for a thirteen-year-old. Without a word, he followed the red-haired boy back toward the stamping sorrel.
ii
“The crime was theirs, not yours,” the boy shouted over the roar of the wind, while the sorrel pounded through the snow toward the village. “Any soldier has the right to kill his enemy in battle.”
“I’ll try to remember that,” Phillipe yelled, hanging onto the boy’s waist with one hand and gripping the spontoon across his shoulder with the other. But his mind still swam with ugly visions of Auguste bleeding.
Snow stung his face. Ahead, he discerned the first of the cottages at the end of Chavaniac’s single winding street.
“I must get off soon,” Phillipe cried. “I walked to town to buy cheeses for—wait! Slow down!”
But the boy nicked the sorrel’s flank with a spur, and the horse bore them up the short cobbled street, soon leaving it behind. The boy turned the sorrel’s head westward.
“Where are we going?” Phillipe demanded.
“To my home. It’s just ahead. There’ll be a warm fire, and some wine, and I can show you a trick or two with the lance. You’ve had no training in arms, have you?”
“None. My father was a soldier, though.”
The remark came out unbidden as the sorrel plowed through drifts beneath the limbs of bare, creaking trees. All at once Phillipe knew where he was. But he didn’t believe it.
“So was mine,” the boy shouted in reply. “He fell at Minden in fifty-nine. Hit by a fragment of a ball from a British cannon. What was your father’s regiment?”
“I can’t remember.” The sorrel bore them past the facade of an immense, blockhouse-like chateau at whose corners two towers rose. “He’s no longer with our family, you see.”
“Can you remember your own name?” the boy asked, amused.
“Phillipe Charboneau.”
“You must call me Gil. The whole of my name is too tedious to pronounce.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Marie Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier. And since my father’s death, Marquis de Lafayette. See, I warned you! Make it just Gil and Phillipe. Fellow soldiers,” he finished, turning the sorrel into a spacious stable behind the chateau—
Which belonged to the Motier family. Richest in the neighborhood. Each hour, it seemed, the winds of fortune were blowing him in new and astonishing directions.
iii
The relatively calm air inside the dark, dung-smelling stable came as a relief. Gil nosed the sorrel into a stall and leaped from the saddle. Then the young marquis took the spontoon from Phillipe’s hand, knelt and began rubbing at some dried blood still visible on the head.
“As to the story we must tell,” he said, never glancing up from the work, “you discovered me at the roadside. Floundering in the snow and hunting for Sirocco, who stumbled, fell, unhorsed me, then ran off. After some delay, and with your assistance, I finally located the animal.”
Gil looked up. “Agreed?”
Held by the steadiness of those young-old hazel eyes, Phillipe murmured, “Agreed.”
Light flared from the far end of the stable. An old groom with a lantern hobbled toward them. He spoke with a clicking of wood false teeth:
“So late home, my lord! How was the hunting?”
“Poor,” Gil replied. “Except that I found a new comrade. Give Sirocco an extra ration of oats, please.” He took Phillipe’s elbow with perfect authority and steered him out of the stable. They crossed the yard through the whipping snow, then entered the chateau, where new wonders awaited.
iv
“I don’t believe the tale for a minute,” said Girard, much later that night. He was warming his stockinged feet at the fire in the common room. “You stole the
“Were you headed home?”
“No, to the village.”
“Then mount Sirocco with me. Two can ride as easily as one. No objections, please—I insist!”
It struck Phillipe that the youth wasn’t accustomed to having anyone go against his wishes. Remarkable. Especially for a thirteen-year-old. Without a word, he followed the red-haired boy back toward the stamping sorrel.
ii
“The crime was theirs, not yours,” the boy shouted over the roar of the wind, while the sorrel pounded through the snow toward the village. “Any soldier has the right to kill his enemy in battle.”
“I’ll try to remember that,” Phillipe yelled, hanging onto the boy’s waist with one hand and gripping the spontoon across his shoulder with the other. But his mind still swam with ugly visions of Auguste bleeding.
Snow stung his face. Ahead, he discerned the first of the cottages at the end of Chavaniac’s single winding street.
“I must get off soon,” Phillipe cried. “I walked to town to buy cheeses for—wait! Slow down!”
But the boy nicked the sorrel’s flank with a spur, and the horse bore them up the short cobbled street, soon leaving it behind. The boy turned the sorrel’s head westward.
“Where are we going?” Phillipe demanded.
“To my home. It’s just ahead. There’ll be a warm fire, and some wine, and I can show you a trick or two with the lance. You’ve had no training in arms, have you?”
“None. My father was a soldier, though.”
The remark came out unbidden as the sorrel plowed through drifts beneath the limbs of bare, creaking trees. All at once Phillipe knew where he was. But he didn’t believe it.
“So was mine,” the boy shouted in reply. “He fell at Minden in fifty-nine. Hit by a fragment of a ball from a British cannon. What was your father’s regiment?”
“I can’t remember.” The sorrel bore them past the facade of an immense, blockhouse-like chateau at whose corners two towers rose. “He’s no longer with our family, you see.”
“Can you remember your own name?” the boy asked, amused.
“Phillipe Charboneau.”
“You must call me Gil. The whole of my name is too tedious to pronounce.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Marie Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier. And since my father’s death, Marquis de Lafayette. See, I warned you! Make it just Gil and Phillipe. Fellow soldiers,” he finished, turning the sorrel into a spacious stable behind the chateau—
Which belonged to the Motier family. Richest in the neighborhood. Each hour, it seemed, the winds of fortune were blowing him in new and astonishing directions.
iii
The relatively calm air inside the dark, dung-smelling stable came as a relief. Gil nosed the sorrel into a stall and leaped from the saddle. Then the young marquis took the spontoon from Phillipe’s hand, knelt and began rubbing at some dried blood still visible on the head.
“As to the story we must tell,” he said, never glancing up from the work, “you discovered me at the roadside. Floundering in the snow and hunting for Sirocco, who stumbled, fell, unhorsed me, then ran off. After some delay, and with your assistance, I finally located the animal.”
Gil looked up. “Agreed?”
Held by the steadiness of those young-old hazel eyes, Phillipe murmured, “Agreed.”
Light flared from the far end of the stable. An old groom with a lantern hobbled toward them. He spoke with a clicking of wood false teeth:
“So late home, my lord! How was the hunting?”
“Poor,” Gil replied. “Except that I found a new comrade. Give Sirocco an extra ration of oats, please.” He took Phillipe’s elbow with perfect authority and steered him out of the stable. They crossed the yard through the whipping snow, then entered the chateau, where new wonders awaited.
iv
“I don’t believe the tale for a minute,” said Girard, much later that night. He was warming his stockinged feet at the fire in the common room. “You stole the
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