Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Over the next week, they traveled northward, back and forth, in what seemed to be the pattern of the marauders.
Philippe was pushing them at a quick clip now, and for the last two nights, he moved them through the towns just long enough to investigate, then marched them well into the night before allowing everyone to settle down to camp.
He was impatient. Ponce was their final destination and only a two-day hard ride from Chevalerie, but their journey was lengthened by the need to visit each victimized town on the way up there.
He was finding that there was no great difference, however, or any good clues anywhere they stopped.
The story had been the same in each town: farms had been attacked just outside town walls, destroying an innocent family’s livelihood in the process.
Hoofprints and tracks indicated they were the same attackers, though witnesses always reported seeing fewer than there actually were.
It seemed as though whoever was doing this was trying to make it look like they had fewer resources than they did.
Loss of property was not the only way the towns were affected.
He saw it in their eyes, though they tried to put on a brave face when he questioned them.
The lords, magistrates, and other town leaders were fearful.
They couldn’t protect their people from these unknown attackers, and they had not yet gotten relief from the Duke.
Provence was a region of honored and independent lords, each fiercely protective of their territory, and though they worked well together under the Duke, very few would admit distress.
The charred frames of former homes at the edges of their towns spoke loudly: the region was under attack. No one knew who would be struck next.
In the last town they visited, a little hub that caught the traffic between Lyon, Geneva, and Chevalerie, the scene had been the most jarring.
This farmhouse was still smoldering, having just been attacked the night before.
The townsmen had been fast with water. They saved the barn and the back of the main house, but the family was missing their youngest son.
It was Laurent who had found him. Philippe’s party had entered a smoke-soaked bedroom, and as Laurent kicked the bed in disgust, the blackened body of a child tumbled onto the floor.
Philippe heard the men gag behind him, his own stomach heaving with revulsion.
Helplessness and rage pulsed through him as he had to inform the huddled family that the child had not escaped.
He bowed his head, knowing this was his fault.
The family would never be whole again because he was too slow to unravel the puzzle.
It consumed him. He was used to fighting men he could identify and overthrow either with his own sword or with the army behind him.
This game of chase in which he was engaged was almost too much, and it was all he could do to hold back and move thoughtfully through the countryside.
He wanted to charge, to attack. But he restrained himself, lest he cause the rebels to disperse prematurely.
Gathering intelligence was for his oldest brother or his father.
Philippe was a man of action and wanted his victory before anyone else was harmed.
There was a bright spot in this mission for Philippe, despite his frustration.
That funny little creature was still at the back of his procession, quiet and reserved, setting traps wherever they stopped.
His distance seemed to be what she wanted, and it was the only way he could think to make amends for his embarrassing behavior in Chevalerie.
From afar, though, he couldn’t deny that she made him smile.
Every so often he’d catch her eye and think for a moment that she’d softened towards him, and he’d feel elation well up in his chest. But then she would turn away, uninterested, leaving him unsettled and confused.
Why did he respond so foolishly towards her?
He wanted her to like him; that was true.
He wanted to prove that he was not such a bad guy.
He sensed that it would take time, but even that upset him.
What if they completed this mission, and she went on disliking him?
Philippe lived a life of assuredness and absolutes.
There were too many unanswered questions in his brain at the moment. Simply put, he was going nuts.
He had ridden his horse away from his men, through a low woodland area filled with waxy jasmine shrubs and violet harebells hanging from their stalks.
He needed to clear his mind of any thoughts of the little fox and rethink his plan.
He hadn’t thought they would get so far with no hard evidence.
He didn’t know from where the rebels originated.
He didn’t know from whom they took orders.
All he knew was that their numbers were small, and their hearts seemed cold.
His mind was going in circles. What had they missed?
Someone had to have seen something beyond shadowy figures in the night.
These were men, not spirits, escaping through the trees.
In the distance, he spotted a small farmhouse with a curl of smoke rising out of the chimney.
It was far out of town, and though it would be an easy target, Philippe guessed it might have been spared just because it would not have been noticed.
Still, something in his gut told him to knock on the door and see if the owner had anything interesting to tell him.