Page 61 of The Spy’s Song

Bourbon white.

Royalists.

The first rider saw them and, after a short pause, charged her. The path was scarcely wide enough for two horses abreast, limestone crowding one side and the drop toward the river the other. There was nowhere to maneuver. The horse gathered beneath the rider, his saber rose over his shoulder, and Louise understood with perfect clarity that he meant to kill her.

Her body did nothing. She remained in the saddle with the reins in her hand while the distance closed. His horse had foam at the bit. Mud dried across one white crossbelt.

Why could she see the mud?

Panting, Louise dragged the saber up. Steel struck steel above her shoulder with a crack that shook her skull. The force drove her arm backward and twisted through her wrist, elbow, shoulder, all the way between her shoulder blades. Pain burst across her palm. Her fingers opened. The saber nearly fell, but the guard caught against her sleeve, and she clamped down until it bit into her knuckles.

Louise sucked in air. Her whole right arm throbbed, pain pulsing from her palm into her shoulder each time she tightened her grip on the saber. She twisted in the saddle and saw the man turning back.

Her stomach dropped.

He came again, faster this time, his horse laboring beneath him as he raised the blade. Louise forced her right arm up. It felt heavier now, the muscles slow to answer, and she knew before he reached her that she would be late.

Then the horse put one forefoot wrong. The animal's head snapped down, neck stretching as it searched for purchase, and the rider jerked the reins hard enough to wrench the bit against its mouth. His saber arm flew wide. Beneath the horse's forelegs, the road's edge crumbled.

The rider shouted and threw his weight uphill, but the horse was already scrambling, iron shoes striking sparks from the limestone as its hindquarters slid. Loose earth poured away beneath them in a dark sheet.

They vanished over the edge together.

Louise recoiled in the saddle as branches cracked below, followed by the impact of a body striking rock and the horse's terrible scream.

Behind her came a grunt, a scuffle, the flat crack of Lefèvre's pistol butt connecting. Then quiet.

Lefèvre appeared at her shoulder, breathing hard. "Royalists? Here?"

Louise looked down the village track. Moonlight seeped through the trees and caught another pale flash below. The sound of steps striking limestone in rhythm, moving quickly uphill, raised the hairs on her arms.

Men emerged around the lower bend in single file. Ten. More behind them.

Twenty at least.

Rodrick had gone around the Prussian battery believing its rear unguarded. These men were climbing directly toward him.

"Alert de Brissac. Now." she whispered.

Lefèvre's gaze shifted from the enemies to her. "D'Arc—"

"Go."

Louise listened to his horse scrambling down the far side of the path until she couldn't hear it anymore. Then she turned Lucie to face the column and walked him to the narrowest point of the path, where the limestone pinched between cliff and void to the width of two men abreast.

When the officer saw her, he slowed. She heard the murmur travel back through the column, the shuffle of men checking their stride.

He was perhaps forty, square in the shoulders, the kind of man who had survived long enough to become careful. He looked at her—at the horse, the chasseur's jacket, the tricolor at her saddle—and then up at the ridge above.

"Soldat, stand aside."

Louise stilled Lucie with a soft pat on his neck.

"You are one man," the officer said. "Surrender, and I give you my word you will not be harmed."

The column pressed at his back. French men. French blood, French boots, French voices—and white coats. The Bourbon white.

The sight should have enraged her. But somewhere beyond the ridge, Rodrick was moving toward the battery with fifteen men, believing this path empty. Louise saw a musket rise behind him. Saw the flash before he had time to turn. Saw him fall without ever knowing they had been there.