He is right.
“Come.” His voice is filled with quiet urgency. “I want to reach the bridge before they spot us.”
“But surely you are one of them. They would not do you any harm.”
“I think the friends of mine you met in Ransle have led you to mistake the nature of mercenaries. Most are like Andry and Tassin. Even more are like d’Albret’s men. And there are close to two hundred of them. Two hundred bored, hungry soldiers spoiling for a fight or at least a little sport. I do not want to be that sport.”
The full implications of his concern finally register. I press my heels along Gallopine’s flanks to urge her along.
Luck, or mayhap the gods, appears to be on our side, and the clouds above us drop lower to the ground, turning into a thick, drizzling mist. Between the heavy fog and the trees, we are able to reach the bridge without being seen.
At the river’s edge, we dismount and lead our horses up the bank to where the bridge is built into the ground. We can hear them now, a loud steady clop of hooves. They are close.
Maraud whips off his cloak and wraps it around Mogge’s head, muffling her senses. I do the same. And then we wait. The first clop of hooves strikes the wooden planks of the bridge and is quickly joined by the thunder of dozens and dozens of horses making their way across. Just under the nearly deafening noise of the hooves is a faint metal jingle of harness and tack, weapons and spurs, and occasionally a man’s voice or a laugh.
They clear the bridge, but still we wait. When we can no longer hear any sounds of them, I start to edge out from our hiding spot, but Maraud grabs my arm and gives a quick shake of his head. When I nod in understanding, he releases my arm and we wait some more.
We wait for nearly an hour after they pass, our horses growing bored and restless. At last Maraud hands me Mogge’s reins before crawling up the embankment to see if the road is clear.
“They are gone,” he says when he returns. “And no stragglers remain behind. But I don’t like that they are traveling the same road we are. Any town we stay in will either be overrun by them or will have locked their walls until they’ve passed.”
“So we must sleep out on the road? Will that truly be any safer?”
“Only if we find a spot now and choose one that gives us the best advantage. It is early enough in the day that I do not think they will retrace their footsteps this far back to camp for the night. But neither would I bet either of our lives on that.”
* * *
By the time we set out again, the faint drizzle has turned into a light rain.
We had hoped to reach Vivonne by nightfall, but it is clear by the numerous hoof prints in the mud that the mercenary company has gone that way. To avoid them, Maraud chooses a small cart track that leads off the main road. Just when I am convinced he has led us down naught but a deer path and we will be forced to sleep on the ground, a small village comes into view.
It is hardly more than a handful of cottages, and rundown ones at that. The entire village is still and quiet. At first I think the rain has driven everyone indoors, but none of the houses have so much as a wisp of smoke coming from their chimneys, or a dog or chicken roaming the yards.
“Do you think they are hiding from the mercenaries?” I ask Maraud.
“No. This place was abandoned long before today. A plague. A poor crop. Sick livestock. Take your pick.” He reins Mogge in, then dismounts, and I do the same. Together we survey the village. No one has come out to greet us or chase us away, which only heightens the sense of desertion.
The cottages are simple ones, with thatched roofs and lime wash. A common well sits near the center of the village. Just beyond it is a small church.
Maraud ties Mogge to one of the nearby fence posts. “I think it is deserted, but better to make sure.” He draws his sword. “I’ll take the houses on the left. You take the right.”
I nod and draw my own sword. As I creep forward, all of my senses are heightened. The door of the first house is ajar, and it is easy enough to see that its one room is utterly empty. The second house has a thick oak door with iron hinges that creak as I open it. Inside there are a bench and two wooden hoops hanging from the wall, as well as a tripod for cooking. I draw my toe through the straw on the floor. It is old, but dry. No one has likely occupied this house for days.
I move on to the next house, and the next, each of them equally barren. When I am finished, I return to the horses, where Maraud joins me. “They’ve been gone a month,” he says. “Maybe more than that, but not much more.”
“I agree they’ve been gone awhile, but why do you think as recently as that?”
He flashes me a grin. “Because there are feral chickens behind one of the cottages. I say we pick a cottage and I will go hunt for our dinner.”
I stare at him, my mind consumed by the image of him stalking feral chickens. Unable to come up with any semblance of a reply, I simply say, “Very well. The second house on this side was sturdier than the others, with a thick door that locks. There’s also a small barn in back.”
“That will do.”
I leave him to his adventure and lead our horses to the barn. When I return to the cottage, I remove my damp cloak and begin poking around, happy to find half a sack of large gray peas and two onions. I lift the patched iron pot from its hook on the wall and go outside to fill it with rainwater from the barrel. In addition to the rain barrel, there is a large stack of firewood within easy reach of the door.
Once I have set the pot on the hearth, I return to collect some wood to start a fire. With a brief plea to Saint Cissonius, the patron saint of travelers, I search the stones near the hearth, looking for flint and tinder, and am pleased when they are there. Maraud returns just then, triumphantly bearing a plucked chicken in his left hand.
I raise my eyebrows. “You think it safe to start a fire?”
“I think the company we saw earlier is too far away by now to see any smoke. Besides, the cloud cover and darkness of night should mask it well enough.”
“Excellent.” I nod to the pot, then to the spit iron standing leaning against the hearth. “Do you want to stew it or roast it?”
He glances at the chicken. “Which is faster?”
I cannot help it. I laugh. “The pot, I think. Also, it is most likely a tough old bird and could use some stewing.”