Bonaparte's Warriors by Richard Howard

Author:Richard Howard [Howard, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: RO:HIS
Publisher: Canelo
Published: 2018-08-09T00:00:00+00:00

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Alain Lausard rode south, through the Faubourg Saint Jacques district of Paris. Eventually, he turned along an easterly route, practically following the path of the Seine all the way beyond the confines of the capital. Buildings began to thin out and the metropolis gave way to sprawling countryside. Here and there, wheat waved in yellow masses beneath a watery sun as he guided his horse along. He saw farmers working in their fields. As he passed a windmill, he noticed sacks of flour being loaded by two young men who waved happily to him as he passed. After an hour he paused at a stream, filled his canteen then allowed his horse to drink. He picked a handful of blackberries from a nearby bush and ate them, enjoying their succulent taste. When the horse had drunk its fill, he remounted and continued his journey. There was no urgency about his progress and, for the most part, he barely coaxed the chestnut beyond a steady canter. Like a nobleman surveying his lands, he rode sedately, drinking in the sights around him, listening to birds singing in the trees, glancing up occasionally to see that the sun had finally forced its way out from behind the scudding clouds. It cast deep shadows behind him and, as noon passed, the temperature began to rise.

Ahead of him the narrow road forked. To the right lay the village of Brieneville, a farming community of less than five hundred people. Lausard took the left-hand fork. He rode beneath a canopy of trees that blotted out the sun and cooled the sweat on his face and neck. Where rays of light managed to penetrate the natural umbrella, the ground was mottled light and dark. The smell of earth was strong in his nostrils. He guided the horse on, towards an open area free of the rustling trees. When he emerged the heat of the sun was more powerful than he’d imagined but, despite the warmth, the hairs at the back of his neck rose and he tugged on the reins to bring the horse to a halt.

The iron gates before him were rusted. One was barely attached to the perimeter wall by its hinges and the stonework around it was discoloured like the flesh around an untreated wound. Parts of the stone wall were damaged, but Lausard knew that this was caused by more than the ravages of time. He slowly swung himself out of the saddle and walked up to the gates, holding his horse by its reins. Beyond the gates lay a wide pathway, now overgrown and neglected. Grass grew to his boot top. The pathway led towards what had once been an imposing house but, like the perimeter wall, it too had suffered from exposure to the elements as well as something more malevolent. Even from such a distant vantage point, Lausard could see that the roof was holed in several places. Some of the windows had been boarded up. Others were smashed, some had even lost their frames.

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