Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The next days were some of the most tortuous of Philippe’s life.
He was racked with ineptitude and impatience as he held his crew in the brush, surveying the rebels.
He had been horrified to find, the morning after they had set up their own camp, that Giroux’s numbers had doubled.
This whole time they’d been tracking two groups of six and eight each, and now there were sixteen men together around his enemy’s fire.
Philippe didn’t know where they had come from or how they had assembled so fast. At the very worst, Philippe had always thought his party could overwhelm Giroux and take them all prisoner, but now he realized that would not be possible.
Instead, he held out hope that Giroux himself would depart to meet his captain. But now that, too, seemed unlikely.
There had been no sign of their leader and no sign of movement from the rebels.
In fact, every day Philippe watched their camp become more and more established.
They had built a fire pit with a spit. They toiled to create semi-permanent shelters and hung the kills from their hunts out to dry.
They dug out banks and inlets from the river for washing.
Philippe and his men, on the other hand, were hardly living.
They were dirty. They were weary. They were hungry and tormented by the smells of cooking meat each night from the camp below.
Other than trading off to go back and tend the horses or replenish supplies, they moved very little.
Philippe’s muscles were tight and tired from the complete stasis.
His party was deteriorating while the men below them rested and regrouped.
The one good thing that had come of this waiting was that Philippe was forced to think out the situation.
In these moments, he began to formulate a theory about what exactly was going on.
The lack of food and movement had catapulted his mind into a clarity he had rarely experienced.
Giroux wasn’t the only one being manipulated, he realized.
He’d finally sent a communication to his father.
Though a letter could reach Chevalerie within just a few days from their current position, it would take time to arrange a party and he could not count on reinforcements to help their current situation.
It was time to reevaluate what he was going to do in the present now that he didn’t expect any change in his enemy’s position.
He could not make his men wait like this forever.
They could not be sustained without proper meals and exercise and then expected to fight if they waited much longer.
Nor could he. Their energy stores were not infinite.
He looked across his men. Their faces were hard, but he could tell they were fatigued.
Their eyes had gone sallow and their skin papery.
It would be wonderful for all of them if they could attend the Marquis’ ball in two days’ time.
For nothing more than to get their minds away from the tragedy of losing their fellow soldier.
Philippe’s heart ached at the thought. Looking back, he realized what an unrealistic promise it had been to make it back in time.
He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.
He had to follow the right path or he would lose everything he had worked for.
When he opened his eyes again, his decision was made.
He gathered his men and explained the new strategy.
He saw light in their dirty faces. They began then to work out new positions and tactics.
He was thankful for the high standard of training demanded of Chevalerie’s soldiers, as such an outnumbered attack could never work with mere thugs.
It would be slower than he would have liked, and they’d still need a little luck.
He may not be able to get them all at once, but they could take them out one at a time.
For Chevalerie. For Maurice.
The Duke was standing in the gardens when he saw the messenger tearing across the road toward the palace.
The sun had almost left the sky for the evening, and he was glad he had not yet gone in for supper.
As the man came closer, he recognized the colors of Peillon.
Guillaume braced himself for the news. The messenger galloped to the gates, and at once Guillaume saw the guards respond and direct the man to the gardens.
Guillaume walked swiftly across the gravel to meet the man, the palace footmen and stablemen jogging behind the horse, ready to be of service.
When the messenger was within a few meters of the Duke, he jumped from his horse and fell into a bow.
“My Lord,” he said, struggling to catch his breath. “Lord Philippe has sent post. Messengers have been riding nonstop to deliver this parchment to you.” He thrust his hand into his wainscot and pulled out the letter. The Duke recognized his family stamp.
“Please rise,” the Duke responded as he took the letter. Then to the nearest footman. “Get this man some water.”
“Oui, Monsieur,” he said, rushing off.
Guillaume popped the seal and turned to get the light from the last moments of sun.
Father,
I regret to inform you that the situation is not yet contained.
Though we have flushed them from the caves, their leader remains in hiding.
They have retreated to a hidden camp in the forest northwest of Aliette, where we have set up our own surveillance.
We are outnumbered, and I fear an outright attack will do no good...
As Guillaume continued to read, his face changed.
His fears about this mission getting out of hand seemed to come true.
In his letter, Philippe had asked for more men, which Guillaume had already anticipated, but the most interesting thing of all was Philippe’s theory about who was behind the problem.
When he finished reading, the Duke sighed and refolded the letter.
Could it be true? As he let the idea settle for a moment, he realized he didn’t think Philippe was wrong.
Of course. In his mind, he was finally able to close his hands around someone’s neck.
He turned to the butler who was a few steps behind him. “I need to get post to Aliette. Ready a messenger.”
The man nodded.
“I will let Michel know he must prepare at once,” Guillaume continued.
“Oui, Monsieur.” His butler turned and began directing the footmen. In seconds they were all running to complete their tasks. The Duke hurried to find his eldest son. There was much to do that evening.