THE DAYS AND THE SEASONS

On a misty grey morning in late March, 1793, Judoc Guiscard, a Vendéan peasant fox, was recipient of a letter. This caused not a little stir in the village of St Émeric, where Guiscard was the first resident thereof to have received personal written correspondence; or at least the first peasant to have done so.

Like most French peasants, Judoc Guiscard rose before dawn. The air was crisp with the sharp rawness of a fading winter, and his feet crushed over frosted ground as he walked the short distance from his cottage to the adjacent barn, in which he kept his livestock. Guiscard could in no way be described as a wealthy fox, but he had got a couple milk cows, and a sow and piglets. He could hear the latter squealing, squabbling amongst themselves, as he reached the barn door. With a hand on the latch he paused, huffing small clouds of breath in the cold air, and gazed for a moment over the landscape.

This was the kind of scene favoured by landscape artists, in that it encompassed within it the entire world of a Vendéan peasant community. Here were the frost-covered fields, lined with low stone walls or with trees not yet in leaf; here were the little farmhouses, the barns, and storage sheds; here were the narrow country roads, empty in the dim light of morning. A drifting mist was draped about the land, one that hinted of warmer, damper days ahead, and through it the fox could see the spire of St Émeric's church, which was the largest building in the village. Across the road from the church was the town inn and coaching stables; aside from these the scattering of buildings comprised mostly private homes. In the other direction, past Guiscard's own land, loomed the dark and dismal towers of Mon Repos, ancestral home of the Counts de Tremblayne, an ancient noble family to whom most of St Émeric and the surrounding countryside belonged.

Within this timeless setting Guiscard himself cast a minor shadow. He was a lean, rangy vulpine, dressed in drab and nondescript peasant garb which, even when matched with his reddish fur, long since gone grey in his mane and about this muzzle, meant that he blended in with the landscape rather than standing out against it. Now in his sixtieth year, he bore evidence of his seniority not only in the grey fur but in a certain withered bearing, like that of trees too much exposed to hard wind and rain, the result of half a century spent largely behind a plough. His bony frame might have suggested to the viewer a pinched and hardened interior, but in reality the old fox was possessed of a deeply humble, gentle nature. The slightest of wags twitched his greying tail as he lifted the latch, swung open the barn door, and went in.

Much weighed on Guiscard's mind as he mechanically went through the motions of forking hay into a manager adjoining the stalls in which his cows resided. Far away in Paris the Revolution was at its height; the Jacobins were in control, and throughout the country rippled a current of change, a shocking, destabilising force. It had murdered the king, stripped the church of authority, robbed the nobility of its titles, and placed price controls on bread, thereby crippling the peasant economy that relied heavily on grain sales. Now in the Vendée rebellion had broken out; only two weeks prior, an Alsatian named Robert-Louis Ferrandin, now dubbed General, had started calling for the Vendéan peasantry to take up arms against the Republicans. Only by résistance could the Jacobin Reign of Terror be brought to an end. The peasants had always viewed the Revolution with scepticism; with time their hearts had turned against it. All General Ferrandin had to do was set a spark to the growing agitation. Now ignited, the fires of rebellion raged throughout the province.

As for Guiscard, he knew not what his own role in this drama was. The conflict had not yet come to St Émeric; perhaps it would avoid the village entirely, but just the same, the knowledge that hundreds of his countrymen were marching off to war unsettled the fox. Some present but unacknowledged, subconscious sense of duty, whether to a people, a way of life, a King or a God, awakened, stirred up conflicting emotions within, and made him glance about the familiar walls of the barn, or sniff the scent of hay and cattle and manure, as though he might soon be separated from them forever.

This sense of foreboding nonewithstanding, he was in a calm enough state of mind when, exiting the barn, he heard a voice bark out "Judoc? Judoc? Are you about?" accompanied by a sharp rapping upon the door of his cottage.

The voice was familiar, and as he rounded the corner of the barn the scent of coyote twanged in his nostrils. It was his neighbour, Armand Puget, a fellow peasant, and Guiscard's best friend.

The coyote was standing rather impatiently at the doorway of the cottage, tail twitching with excitement. "Judoc? Bernadette?" he barked again, before his tall ears caught Guiscard's footsteps, and his head swung round.

"Morning, Armand," said Guiscard as his ears pricked curiously. It was not his neighbour's custom to visit so early, which suggested he brought unusual news. Like as not, it involved the rebellion.

Armand wasted no time. "Judoc," he started in excitement, "or should I say, the most important man in St Émeric! A letter has come for you."

A letter? So not news of the war, then. "A letter?" repeated the fox. He had never before in his life received a letter; he could not even read. "How do you know?"

"It was left by the early coach, when it went through this morning." Armand reached inside his coat, feeling for something. "The driver left it at the inn, but I said I would deliver it to you." Clearly, the coyote was pleased with the role, if minor, he had played in the affair.

"I cannot think who would write to me," Guiscard shrugged. Letters, the written word, was not a part of his world; it was something belonging to Paris, the realm of salons and grand balls, a world to him as distant as fairyland. So it was with wonder and puzzlement he watched his friend extract a grimy rectangle of paper and hand it over.

Together the two peasants stared vaguely at the document, examining it with something of the same ignorant curiosity as might archaeologists when uncovering untranslatable hieroglyphics. The paper was stained from the journey, but on the front were a few scribbles; when they opened it they saw there was more writing on the inside.

For a moment both men considered the document. "It is a mystery," Armand declared.

Guiscard, however, was thinking. "Who in the village can read?"

The coyote thought for a moment. "Father Cyprien can." He glanced towards the distant spires of the church. "He reads mass from texts. That," and he gestured to the letter, "must be simpler than Latin."

Again they both considered the letter. Neither could tell in what language it was written. After a moment the fox shrugged again, and stepped up to the door of the cottage. He pushed in the upper part of the door, which opened separately from the lower. "Bernadette," he called, addressing his daughter, who was aside from him the only resident of the place. "I am going with Armand to meet Father Cyprien."

His daughter, a pleasant-faced, comely young vixen, appeared with a milk bucket in paw, as in the mornings it was her task to milk the cows. Her ears were perked in curiosity. "Are you going to confession again?" In Vendéan parishes it was the tradition to confess one's sins once a year.

Guiscard shook his head. "No, I- I will tell you about it when I return." He gave the girl a reassuring smile, saw her expression relax, and her tail wag. But as he and his neighbour set off down the path, out to the main village road from which one could visit either the village itself, if turning to the right, or Mon Repos, if turning to the left, his thoughts were again troubled. In Guiscard's peasant world consistency was law, change was a threat, and unexplainable circumstances were viewed with suspicion. This letter business was unsettling; never before in the fox's 60 years had the world of letters troubled itself to acknowledge his existence, why should it be doing so now? His ears flicked uneasily as he and Armand trod the well-beaten path to the village.

About them the village was coming to life in early morning; smoke rose from chimneys, windows swung open, and here and there a passer-by mumbled a greeting. "Do you think," said Armand, "that the Parisians are summoning you?" He meant of course conscription, as there was talk in the air that the new Republican government was calling up many new conscripts for its army. Those would have been young men though; they would have little interest in a man of Guiscard's age.

"I don't know," said the fox. They were now approaching the inn, from which drifted warmth and the intermingled scents of various men and cooking food. Suddenly he chuckled. "Perhaps it is a rich vixen saying she has heard of my merits and wishes to marry me."

Together the two canines laughed, tails wagging. That was, Guiscard thought, all one could do with life at times, to laugh at it, and make from it a story. "Ah Judoc," laughed Armand, "you know no vixen would marry you now; you are far too ugly."

"Do not mistake your own reflection for me," returned Guiscard good-naturedly. They were approaching the church now, a small, crypt-like structure, featuring the traditional spire and bell-tower, but which with its grey stone walls and red slate roof otherwise resembled the surrounding homes. The grounds about it were mostly taken up by a sprawling graveyard, through which a path of uneven stones lead up to the church door.

At this door the two men paused, gazing upon the weathered door as though afraid their kind were not permitted entry, then Guiscard's black-furred hand reached out, and pushed it open.

At first as he stepped inside he thought perhaps the priest was not about, as the chapel hall was empty, though several candles burned lowly upon the altar. As always the place had a vague smell of age and decay about it, a damp scent of old walls, melted candlewax and burned incense. Guiscard and Armand nodded their heads reverently at the altar, glancing about. They caught the sound in the same instant: the muffled echo of voices, from the end of the hall. Two pairs of ears swivelled in the direction of the confessional stand.

"I shall wait," the fox began to say, not wishing to interrupt someone's confession, but before he could finish, the door to one end of the confessional stand opened. Father Cyprien, the parish priest of St Émeric, was a shaggy brown and white Spaniel dog of some forty years. He wore the traditional black robes of his order, and being near-sighted, had glasses perched on his muzzle.

Guiscard nodded in deference to the priest as he approached. "Guiscard, Puget," the spaniel addressed them, "are you too here to confess?" There was a slightly vexed expression upon his face, as though oddly ill at ease.

"No, Father," replied Guiscard. "A letter has been brought me on the coach." He took the letter from his pocket. "I cannot read, and I do not know anyone who can but you."

Now Father Cyprien's ears perked with interest. "You, received a letter?" he took the piece of paper from the peasant's offered hand.

"We were as surprised as you, Father," added Armand. "Can't imagine why anyone would wish to write to Judoc."

The fox smiled modestly, with the slightest of a tail wag, and politely asked the priest if he could read the note.

"Of course, of course," nodded Father Cyprien. "It is addressed to Judoc Guiscard of St Émeric..."

As the letter was unfolded Guiscard watched it with growing curiosity. He was aware now that the individual to whom Father Cyprien had been giving confession had not excited the confessional, but that did not matter; confessions were private, and the news that he, Judoc Guiscard, had received a personal letter, would at any rate soon spread throughout the village, if it had not already. So he, and Armand, listened attentively as Father Cyprien read aloud the following message:

Father,

I am writing to tell you that I shall in the next day or two be arriving in St Émeric or the surrounding vicinity; I have business thereabout. It would please me greatly if we could meet again, providing you are all still living, so I write ahead to warn you of my arrival.

Give my respects to Mother, Bernadette, etc.

Your son,

Hector Guiscard

_ _

There was a brief silence after Father Cyprien read this name, as all three men processed the information, and then Guiscard gave a bark of joy, his tail burst into frenzied wagging, even though the church was not considered the place for such behaviour, and he fell to his knees, hands clasped together, pointed his muzzle upwards, crying, "God be praised, I am a blessed man! My son is coming home."

Hector Guiscard was the fox's only son, and consequently was his father's pride and joy. In a peasant community it was intensely important that one had a son, who would inherit the family farm, and take care of his parents in their old age, but even had this not been the case Judoc Guiscard adored his son, that clever kit, overflowing with potential. And so, when that same son, at the age of 17, announced that he was going away to Paris, to pursue some greater purpose than that of farming, Guiscard had been aghast. He had pleaded with the boy: reconsider! He himself could not comprehend wanting a life other than that he had; a bigger farm, more land, more livestock, these perhaps had appeal, but not Paris, with its haughty nobles, its world of letters, its mobs and poverty and petty rivalries. And yet that world had called to Hector, and he answered.

"And what will you do there?" Guiscard had asked his son.

"I shall make my way in the world," Hector replied. He had walked away down the road one summer morning in 1785, and for eight years his family heard nothing more of him. He might be dead or alive; his mother died without knowing what had become of him. For a long time the thought of him at all had been painful to Guiscard. And yet here, written in the voice of an educated man, was evidence he was alive, and returning.

For a few moments Guiscard could comprehend nothing but the immense swell of joy and gratitude within himself, and with tail tucked modestly, ears reverently laid back, and hands clasped, he bent his head and half-whispered those few prayers to which he knew the words. Armand and Father Cyprien, both realising what this moment meant to the fox, watched him sympathetically, the former laying a hand upon Guiscard's shoulder. "It is fine news, Judoc." For a moment it seemed as though the fox was about to cry.

When the prayers were finished he stood, looked between either of the other men, and smiled, his tail resuming its frenzy. "My son is coming home," he affirmed to neither in particular; "my prayers are answered." Then he looked to the note, as if for the first time comprehending how little it had really said. "He has been gone so very long..."

"And he has, it seems, changed," remarked the somewhat more-observant Armand. "Hector an educated fox! But he was always clever, that one."

Father Cyprien, for his part, was still a little distracted; he had other worries, but this little scene of a father warned of a prodigal son's return warmed his heart, and he thought: it is a good omen.

"He must have met with educated men," said Guiscard by way of explanation. His tail was still wagging, his head and black fox ears held high with pride. "Business in the area, he said; those are the words of a man of importance."

Following these words the sound of a door sliding up disturbed the three men, and three pairs of ears swivelled in the direction of the confessional. It was open, and they watched as a hooded figure stepped from it and began to approach. It wore a long dark cloak drawn about the body, giving in aspect the impression of a grim reaper, and both peasants momentarily forgot the note and shivered, ears dropping and tails slipping between legs. But Father Cyprien only bent his head a little, and addressed the spectre: "Pardon, Mademoiselle. I am sorry to have kept you waiting."

At the priest's words a grey-furred hand reached out from the cloak and drew back the hood, revealing the noble features, the handsome muzzle, the smallish alert ears, the long loose tresses of mane, and shrewd dancing eyes of Desiderata, Countess de Tremblayne, the last scion of a declined, ruined family, and lady of Mon Repos. She was a wolf, the last such to live near St Émeric. At seeing her both Guiscard and Armand joined Father Cyprien in bending their heads in deference.

In the time of the ancien régime most of the French aristocracy lived in a state of decadence in Versailles, but in this respect the Vendéan nobility was an exception, preferring to remain at their remote country estates, far from courtly intrigue. For this reason the peasantry of the region maintained a degree of reverence for their lords and ladies that had in other parts of the country declined, and still looked to the local count or countess as a source of authority.

The Countess wasted little time. "Judoc," she begin, as she knew many of the local heads of houses by Christian name, "forgive me, but I have overheard your conversation. Would you mind greatly if I read your son's letter myself?"

Guiscard could little imagine what interest his son's return would have for her, but one does not question an aristocrat. "Of course." The wag had returned to his tail as he recalled how fortunate he was. "I am a fox blessed by God."

A short smile altered the Countess's long lupine muzzle, but then she took the letter and read it, and the smile faded. There was silence for a moment, Armand curious, the priest resigned and silent, and Guiscard carelessly jubilant. "We shall have to take this as a warning," said the Countess. She was looking at Father Cyprien now. "'StÉmeric or the surrounding vicinity,' it says, within a day or two. So it is here they are coming, after all."

The priest frowned. "Unless it is a coincidence. Hector Guiscard travelling at the same time..."

"I do not believe in coincidence," the wolf replied dismissively, but as she turned back to Guiscard, her tone was softer, her ears not so splayed. "Judoc, am I right in recalling you have not heard from your son in many years?"

Guiscard had watched this exchange with a little confusion, but now his tail twitched again, and he nodded happily. "Not for eight years, but now, by grace of God, he is coming home!"

"So we know not then what he has been doing." She glanced at the letter. "But these are the words of an educated man. He might be an officer, or a merchant supplier, or one of those ghastly journalists the Parisian rags employ."

"I don't know," said the fox. He did not understand why his son's return inspired such questioning.

Father Cyprien had grown decidedly sombre. "You had best warn him, daughter."

Armand, again quicker-minded than his neighbour, suddenly understood. "Has this to do with the rebellion?" He grinned a clever coyote smile, ears pricked. "Is it coming here?"

Countess Desiderata smiled sadly. "It has already come, Armand."

Guiscard's mind was racing. The rebellion, here? What could she mean? And how could that involve Hector? He watched as the Countess folded the letter and handed it back to him. "We shall hold a meeting," she resolved, "at the inn. In about an hour's time. Father Cyprien, Armand," she nodded to the collie and coyote, "can you rally the villagers?"

Both promised they would. "You may go now, then," said the Countess, drawing her hood back over her head. "I shall see you all in an hour."

When Guiscard and Armand had left the church, both their heads were spinning with wonder. "The rebellion here!" the coyote enthused. "Judoc, we must fight! I have half-a-mind to go fetch my pitchfork." But Guiscard himself was still pondering how this might involve his son.

"She seems to think Hector is travelling with the Republican army," he mused as they returned to the main road through the village. But to travel with an army in a time of war was dangerous...

A few moments ago his heart had blossomed with joy at learning his beloved son was to return, but now if it was to a battleground he was returning, the prospect of a safe and secure homecoming seemed compromised. Armand was running from house to house, banging on the doors and rousing men to arms, but Guiscard found himself clasping hands again, praying reverently that his son might be delivered home safely to him, free from harm.

In an hour's time the greater part of the villagers and local peasantry had gathered in the inn, which now filled to bursting.

Countess Desiderata had taken up a position by the great hearth of the inn, calling for all the villagers and peasants to gather round her, among these Guiscard and Armand. In the last hour the former's thoughts had returned again to the excitement of Hector's imminent return; after eight years of waiting, the shock of this approaching reunion would not easily abate, and so as the villagers excitedly talked amongst themselves, questioning what occasion might inspire this gathering, the fox thought again and again: my son is coming home! The excitement of the meeting, the nearness of the rebellion, was invigorating enough as it was, but with his son returning too, it seemed as though all days of Guiscard's life lead up to this one, the pinnacle of his experience.

Presently the Countess stood up upon a chair, calling out for silence, and addressed the gathering: "Good people of StÉmeric, friends and neighbours, Frenchmen and Frenchwomen - I have called you here today because it is likely that the rebellion shall soon be coming to our village." Instantly a buzz broke out amongst the gathered villagers, but the wolf raised her hand for silence. "Intelligence suggests that the Republican Army is a day or two away. This is not the regional divisions but an army sent specifically from Paris, whose only purpose is crushing our rebellion. Our task is to send them back with tails tucked....or better yet, to hell."

At this last declaration cries of 'hurrah' and 'vive le roi' broke out amongst the assembly. Countess Desiderata smiled. "The traitors in Paris will say that we fight because we hate the Revolution, but they are wrong. A viper does not strike out of malice but in defence. We who fight for France, for our families, for our King, and for our God do so because we love these things, and would resist those who would destroy them." Another round of cheers and slogans followed the wolf's words. "We are all here good Frenchmen," she continued. "But for a moment let me hand this helm to he who we all can thank for the existence of the rebellion itself," and she thrust her head up proudly, "he who I, and all true subjects of the King, call General: General Ferrandin, our future is in your hands."

Now a complete hush fell over the gathering, as from one of the back corners of the room stepped a very tall man, who as he came into the light seemed to grow larger and taller still. He was an Alsatian, a big dog with a broad muzzle and wide shoulders, yet when the light from the windows fell upon the golden fur of his head, he almost seemed vaguely angelic. He wore a grey soldier's jacket over a very white waistcoat and had a dark cloak about his shoulders. Around his waist he had slung a general's sash, through which were thrust a brace of pistols. As he joined the Countess he lifted a big gauntleted hand in greeting, his tail swinging lazily behind him.

At this time General Ferrandin, that doomed hero, was only beginning to come into power, but already his fame and reputation was spreading throughout the Vendee, so that after he had died, villagers in towns many miles from St Émeric, in whose streets he had never actually stepped, would swear he had came to them, encouraged them, and lead them into battle. Always more myth than man, and yet just the same not undeserving, he symbolised in one person all the hopes of the Vendéan rebellion. He was not an aristocrat, or a Parisian, or wealthy; only a common dog who had stood up for an ideal he believed in, and for this the Vendéans loved him.

The villagers had not known he was anywhere near St Émeric; when last heard of he had been near Cholet, at which his army had scored a victory. Now to find him in their own inn seemed to the residents of the village an honour in itself.

"Good people of St Émeric," the General begin, "it is in desperate times I call upon you. No doubt you are all now aware that an army marches on us from Paris. For that you may blame me, for I am told that it is because of the successes of our rebellion that the Revolution has turned its beastly eye upon our humble province. On that end I trust you will forgive me." There was a friendly sense of camaraderie in his manner of addressing, less of a leader to subjects as of a brother amongst brothers. "This is not just any army that we face. It is lead by a Colonel Faucheux, who does not seem to be extraordinary in any aspect, but more direly, he is accompanied by a particularly odious character, a man they call 'the Inquisitor.'" At this last name the crowd momentarily resumed its buzz of conversation.

General Ferrandin held up a hand for silence. "No doubt some of you have heard of him before. I am told he is a disciple of Marat, involved from the early days at the heart of the Jacobin insurrection, called 'the Inquisitor' because he is particularly adept at filtering out supposed counter-revolutionary elements in Paris. It is rumoured that it was he who was responsible for the accusations that lead to the death of your young Count de Tremblayne."

Again the angry buzz returned, and several villagers cursed or cried out angrily as hackles rose. Countess Desiderata's dark eyes glimmered, her ears flattened slightly. Three months prior, a mob of sans-culotte in Paris had murdered, among others, her brother, Alain de Tremblayne, the only other living member of her family. To hear that the man responsible, in word if not in deed, for this crime was himself coming to St Émeric was to the villagers the most prized piece of information of all.

The General allowed a few moments of reaction before again holding up a hand. "My army is encamped nearby," he informed the assembly. "We are already many. Any of you who wishes to join us will have my thanks, and those of the King, and of God." He glanced briefly at the Countess. "We will engage Faucheux and this Inquisitor in battle," he snarled with bared teeth, "and we will send them to hell."

The villagers cheered. "Vive le roi!" barked the General, drawing from his side a sabre, which he thrust into the air.

"Vive le roi" howled the villagers in return, Guiscard and Armand as loud as any of them. Around the room feet pounded, tails wagged, and voices chanted royalist slogans.

For Guiscard the excitement of the day with so many revelations was somewhat overwhelming, but for Armand the spirit of the moment was so intoxicating the coyote could not help leaping upon a chair and barking out, "brothers, Vendéans, arm yourselves!" Motioning towards Guiscard, he cried, "Come, Judoc, join us," and then jumped down, pushed through the crowd, and out the door. Only a moment passed before the greater part of the assembly, in a flurry of excited voices and wagging tails, departed after him, leaving the fox to ponder all that had transpired.

As he walked back to his farm, some time later, Guiscard's mind was spinning. When he had woke that morning it had seemed an ordinary early-spring day, unremarkable in any respect from those preceding it, and yet now his entire world had turned upside down. Hector was alive, he was apparently educated, and he was returning. This thought in itself still inspired surges of joy and relief within the father's heart. And yet just the same there was the undeniable coincidence, if coincidence it was, that he was returning at the very same time that a Republican Army was invading the Vendee, apparently, if General Ferrandin was correct, marching towards StÉmeric.

There might be in itself an easy explanation. He might be employed by the army; he might be merely travelling alongside it. The former possibility carried the unhappy possibility that he sympathised with the Revolution, but as to that Guiscard could worry later. That Hector was returning at all was what mattered. The most pressing concern was what the fox himself ought to do now. General Ferrandin's words had inspired the patriotic spirit within him as much as any of the others, but he did not know what he ought to do with it.

It was now midday. Standing upon the road Guiscard paused briefly, letting his eyes gaze over the countryside he so loved, savouring the scent of the road, of smoke from chimneyfires, of the wild free smell of the farms. Here on the trees he passed were fresh buds, here grass was pushing up, here green was beginning to show upon the fields. In the inn the air had been heavy with the scents of all the men, of their excitement and their intermingled joy and anger, but here it felt free again. Guiscard closed his eyes, briefly remembering a time before war, before Hector had left, when none of the things he loved had ever seemed in danger of being lost to him.

Just the same, he had never been the kind of man who postpones a decision in need of resolution. He walked on, nearing his own farm. The question was: ought he join up with General Ferrandin, become part of this makeshift volunteer army, as Armand and most of his other friends were likely doing, or wait it out? He had lived long enough that had Hector still been here it would have been an easy decision to hand over the farm to his son and go off to fight, but now if he left he risked either missing Hector's visit, or worse, in the event Hector was affiliated with the Republican Army, fighting against his own son.

At his own cottage he came to a conclusion. Best for now to go about his day as though nothing was amiss. Tend to the animals, inspect the fields, and eat the midday meal with his daughter. In the cold months it was his custom to go to the inn in the evening, there to drink with Armand and other friends, and to tell stories, for Guiscard had a reputation in the village for being a very fine storyteller. He would go through this routine as usual, and pray that an answer came to him in the interim.

In the evening Judoc Guiscard went again to the inn.

It was a glorious evening, the sunlit kind which hints at spring's approach, winter gently relinquishing hold on the landscape. With lifted muzzle the fox could almost scent the smells of pollen and growing grain and ripening grapevines which would, in a few months, fill the air about the road as he walked into town. The chill of that morning had lifted, so that it was to him as if nature and God were smiling upon the village, lighting it up for Hector's return. At the thought his tail swung evenly from side to side, a modest wag.

There were not as many men running back and forth about the streets of the village now as earlier, though from windows housewives and children glanced with a little nervousness as Guiscard walked by. All about was a simmering apprehension, born of knowing an invasion was imminent, the balance between victory and defeat ever in question.

Guiscard had thought long, whilst tending the pigs, and examining his vineyards, and dining with Bernadette, over what his next option ought to be. To choose country, or family; a choice he never could have imagined being faced with. There were, he reflected, men built for times of peace, simple men designed to farm and reproduce and carry on traditions - men like himself - and then there were other men, men like General Ferrandin, designed to raise to the challenge of such times as this was, in which individuals like Guiscard himself were useless.

The inn was quieter when he entered it, though the scent of beer, wine, and assorted species of men was the same. The Doberman barmaid recognised him, gave a smile in greeting. "Some wine, mademoiselle," the fox asked her, though it was his custom to drink beer. Near the hearth a gathering of a dozen or so men remained, relaxed in quiet conversation, and it was to them Guiscard went to pull up a chair. By scent and sight he had realised that General Ferrandin was yet among them. The tall Alsatian's big triangular ears swung back, ever alert, as Guiscard approached.

"Ah, Judoc," barked Armand from beyond the General; already, in his clever way, the coyote had found himself into Ferrandin's circle, it seemed. "General, this is the fox of whom my lady the Countess was telling you. Whose son is..." the way his words trailed off suggested to Guiscard that suspicion of Hector's involvement with the Republicans had spread.

General Ferrandin's big muzzle turned in Guiscard's direction again, and a casual, easy wag disturbed the thick wool of his cape. "The success of our venture may owe much to your son's warning, friend," he remarked, with a quiet smile. "On behalf of my men I ought to thank you for that."

"Oh, it is not I you should thank," deferred Guiscard modestly; "believe me, General, my son has nothing to do with that army." As he spoke the words he inwardly prayed they were true.

The Alsatian's smile remained tranquil as ever, though something shifted indecipherably within his eyes. He had peculiarly grey eyes, Guiscard thought, like the colour of clouds on a moonlit night, not unattractive, but such that gazing at him from so close a vantage point, the fox had the vague impression of staring into a grave. Ferrandin's grey orbs resembled more the spectral vacancy of a skull's eye sockets than the eyes of the living.

"Tell me then about your son," the General suggested. The eyes of the other men, who aside from Armand were all strangers, were upon the fox now.

Assuming instantly that he was now being required to defend Hector, Guiscard flattened his ears, laying his weathered hands upon the table before him. "General, my son is no Republican. He is not the enemy you seek."

Ferrandin flinched and splayed his own ears in an apparently genuine sense of concern. "Good fox, do not fear for your son's welfare; we mean him no harm." He glanced at the other gathered peasants as if including them in his statement. "Whatever assessment has been made of his reasons for travelling the same road as our enemies is all conjecture. I merely thought to ask you why your son went away." As his ears perked again, so returned the smile. "I suppose it is merely that I like to remind myself from time to time what we are fighting for."

The barmaid put a mug of wine in front of Guiscard as the fox considered Ferrandin's words. "For our families?"

"Yes, among other things. You might say," the Alsatian mused, "that this is a war entirely about family; after all the King was said to be our father, and the Jacobins have murdered him. The predicament of the Church is much the same. We fight in defence of these things, our earthly and our spiritual homes. But on a lower level, a more personal one, we fight for our families - that they will not starve, that they will grow up free from the tyranny of a distant regime who cares little for them, that they will not find themselves unable to enjoy what pleasures we ourselves have savoured. I have no son," and by the flick of his ears and the remote catch in his voice it was evident this was a regret, "and perhaps, conditions being as they are, I am unlikely to live to father one now...in that respect I suppose I envy you, Guiscard. You have a real family to fight for."

At hearing this Guiscard felt a twinge of guilt that he had not more eagerly taken up arms. "My son went away when he was a very young fox," he explained, sipping the wine carefully. "He did not want to be a peasant. I said to him: 'Hector, we have always been peasants, what else would we be?' and though he could not answer me, he went away just the same. I have not seen him in eight years. Until this morning, I had for some time thought he was dead."

"Then you must feel yourself a very fortunate man," Ferrandin reflected quietly.

Behind the bench Guiscard's bushy tail wagged easily, and he smiled. "I do. So many nights I have prayed that God would return him to me, and now..." the General was a good and honest man, perhaps he would understand Guiscard's confliction. "I feel I ought to take up arms and fight alongside the rest of you, but I fear...I am not afraid to die, I have lived long enough, but I want to see my son again before I die, and I fear that if I go away to war with you I will miss seeing Hector, and he will go away again." Within the hearth a log collapsed in a shower of sparks.

Ferrandin grinned, a big broad-muzzled smile that showed white fangs. "Forgive me fox, but you need not feel yourself torn between your son and your sense of duty. Whatever I may wish otherwise, our rebellion will not be ending this week; we have a long fight ahead of us. My men and I will be going away from here tomorrow anyway." From behind the General Guiscard saw Armand watching him, and realised this might be the last night he ever sat and drank with his friend. Within him regret, loathing for change, rose like bubbles in a freshly-poured mug of beer.

"It is young men that are of greatest use to us, besides," continued the big Alsatian. "So please do not feel you ought to miss this reunion on my account. Stay here, meet with your son, and if the opportunity to serve in our rebellion presents itself again, as is likely, at that time you may do your part if you wish."

"Don't you worry, Judoc," Armand quipped in his usual, tail-waggy way, "there will be plenty enough Jacobins left for you."

Guiscard flicked his ears and smiled. There was wisdom in Ferrandin's words; he, after all, knew far more about the rebellion than Guiscard himself did. "I shall remain here then," he resolved, lifting his mug. The other men did the same, and as they drank, the fox felt a surge of brotherhood, here in this fraternal ambience of alcohol and warfare, where the scent of the men, mostly unwashed from days on the road of war, was not offensive to his nose but merely evidence of the sacrifices of rebels. "Thank you, General," he told the Alsatian, in the fashion of a page thanking a knight who has released him from service.

Again Ferrandin smiled modestly, tail rustling against his cloak. There was a slight twinkle in his ghostly eyes, like a solitary star on a dark night. "You do not need to thank me. I was reflecting," and now he seemed to be addressing all of them, "on something I saw this morning, when I visited your village church to pray. As I was leaving after prayer I happened to notice a lily growing among the graves of the churchyard. It seemed to me a very symbolic thing. France has had the fleur-de-lis stripped from her, but among a graveyard a lily yet springs up to bloom. So the same," and he raised his mug again, "is our rebellion: our country may be a grave, but from it springs true Frenchmen to raise France from the grave again."

A cheer of barks and howls arose from the men as each drank to this vow of patriotic sentiment, in which Guiscard, feeling somewhat more relieved and excited now that the burden of immediately joining up with Ferrandin's band was lifted from him, joined in easily. He drank a draught of good Vendéan wine, met Armand's eyes and grinned back when the coyote's long muzzle turned up in an encouraging smile. Again his tail wagged, and he thought of how he could now situate himself to the business of preparing for Hector's arrival. He would tidy up his modest cottage, he would request of Bernadette that she begin preparing a celebratory feast, he would slaughter one of the piglets for it. Had a rebellion not been going on he would have called for a outdoor party and invited all the villagers to it to celebrate in his good fortune, but under the circumstances something less extravagant seemed more appropriate. Just the same, he would do what he could to rejoice in this day he had so long awaited. The cottage would be a beaming beacon of welcoming hominess, to which Hector might fly like a moth to a flame.

It was now dark outside. Within the inn's hearth the fire yet crackled; the Doberman barmaid again came to refill the men's mugs with beer or wine. Generally after dusk on certain evenings, if Guiscard was at the inn, he would be requested to tell a story. It was a tradition he had learned from his grandmother, an ancient vixen now four decades dead, who had in her time been famed in the region as one of the best libraries of folklore. Old grandmother Guiscard knew every fairy-tale or legend of western France; she had heard them all, and when she told them to a captivated audience, it was as though a play was being performed by a brilliant actress. From penniless disinherited sons to fair maidens to monstrous ogres, she became all her characters at once, so that her listeners could envision they were really in a palace or a dungeon or an enchanted forest, and that the aged vixen before them was not really a storyteller but a clever hero or a malevolent rogue. Guiscard had learnt some of the stories from her when he was a kit, and gathered more of his own since, and while he himself was humble of his talent, he was reputed as having much of his grandmother's spirit in him when he told a tale.

Now he was was half lost-in-thought, half listening to Armand elaborating to General Ferrandin on why the wines of St Émeric were superior to those of the neighbouring regions - the soil had been blessed by St Émeric himself, the coyote claimed - when without warning the door of the inn was thrown open, and a bark of alarm resounded through the room.

It was the Countess, and she swept into the room in a wave of swirling skirts and the scent of agitated wolf. "General," she cried as heads turned, "you must flee. A Republican regiment has appeared out of nowhere."

General Ferrandin was on his feet in seconds, and about him Armand and his other followers scrambled to grab up their weapons, which had been laid against walls or under tables. Guiscard himself also stood, though uncertain what to do. His tail folded against his legs has the Alsatian barked out a question. "How far off are they?"

"Under a mile, and moving fast," came the answer. Countess Desiderata's ears were flat, her tail raised in alarm. "They must have been making a very good pace today. I thought we had got more time."

The men were all gathered around the General now, awaiting an order. As they watched he checked each of the pistols thrust through his sash to assure himself each was primed and ready. "How much time have we got now?"

"Half an hour at most. A quarter, more likely."

"Someone must have warned them we were in vicinity," Ferrandin growled. "I should have liked to have had more time to plan a strategy of attack in which the odds were in our favour, rather than being forced to fight by necessity."

"Shall we fly then?" asked one of the other men.

"Yes, we shall have to make hast. I do not wish to fight now, when we do not know the Blues' numbers, nor how well they are armed." With a wave of his gauntleted hand, he gestured towards the back door of the inn. "Call up the men and head west. I shall follow in a moment."

As the other men hurried to the door, Armand gripped Guiscard by the shoulder, gave him a confident grin, and said, "Take heart, Judoc. And don't drink all the wine before I return!" Guiscard watched in mixed sadness and trepidation as the coyote disappeared out the door, a fugitive in his own village.

General Ferrandin and the Countess were still conferring, in whispers, and then, to Guiscard's surprise, the Alsatian leaned forward and kissed the shewolf on the muzzle, gave her a smile, and followed Armand out the door.

For a few moments the tread of footsteps rang out through the night, and then silence settled over the inn, as Guiscard and the Countess both stared wistfully at the door.

Aside from the two of them those in the inn at this point comprised only the barmaid and a handful of other old men who had judged themselves too advanced in years to take up arms. Guiscard had himself not moved since the news of the army's imminent arrival had been announced, and now he considered what he ought to do. Go home, was probably the wisest answer, but even there might not be safe. For a week or two the residents of St Émeric had been hearing horror stories of villages burned and farms pillaged, slaughtered livestock and, in the worst tales, women raped and men shot. The thought of his daughter at home alone suddenly made the fox stir and reach to drain the last of his wine. He had had enough of this affair.

Countess Desiderata, however, had not. A moment or so after Ferrandin's departure she crossed herself, then beckoned to the barmaid and asked for wine, and when it had been brought to her, drank from the mug deeply as if it had been just water or beer. When she looked up again red drops dripped from her muzzle and fangs, like blood. "I trust none of you shall speak a word about any of this to the Blues, when they come here," she said, wearily. "As come they will. If someone has warned them that the General was near St Émeric they have no doubt come here to search for him."

Around the inn heads nodded, and the barmaid crossed herself. "If only we had been warned sooner," the wolf continued, her ears still flat. "It will not take them long to search the village, and then they will find the tracks of our own army, and set off in pursuit of it. Unless," and she looked towards the inn's main door, in the direction the Republicans would be arriving in, "we are able to delay them." She seemed to be talking to herself as much as to the others. "Perhaps this Colonel Faucheux, whoever he is, can be tempted to rest a little while here, if...the right kind of distraction tempts him."

The other men merely nodded, and the barmaid, who had started sniffling and whimpering, looked as if she would rather the Blues' visit be as short as possible, but Guiscard, watching the shewolf, realised what it was she meant, and was disturbed. "No, mademoiselle," he began, his own ears splaying, "you cannot do that. Do not dishonour yourself."

The Countess looked up at him curiously. "What does it matter? It would be more dishonourable to stand aside and do nothing to defend our rebellion and those...things we love within it." Guiscard remembered the kiss she had shared with General Ferrandin, and thought, there is more to this than mere patriotic allegiance, she is in love with him.

That was, perhaps, the nature of conflict, the fox reflected, people were driven to extremes and sacrifices because they loved things - when, in his grandmother's fairy tales, a fox kit went away to slay a dragon or outwit an ogre, it was invariably to win the affections of a pretty vixen, or rather the approval of her father. Love was, in whatever way, tangled up in the reasoning. And it in this reflection he saw what he had to do.

"Forgive me, Comtesse," he watched the wolf's ears perk towards him again, "but there may be...another way."

Countess Desiderata tilted her head curiously, as if surprised to find solutions being suggested by so humble a source. "Oh? And what do you suggest, Judoc?" there was a little irony in the voice, but Guiscard was too distracted to notice it.

"I heard it mentioned earlier that the Blues do not know what species the General is," Guiscard said simply. His tail had lost its wag, for he knew if he went through which what he was about to suggest, he would not likely be around to meet Hector when his son returned. But the call of duty, of honour, a notion he could not have defined if asked to do so, swelled up within him, and he could not betray it.

"No," replied the wolf, frowning. "Reports have been conflicting as to his appearance, or so we have been told."

Guiscard's eyes had fallen closed; within his mind he suddenly pictured a long ago harvest party, surrounded by his friends, his wife then yet alive, Hector and Bernadette mere kits running about half-naked through the vineyards. Without warning he felt amazingly old and tired. But he opened his eyes, and met those of the Countess. "Then perhaps I should...become the General, for a time."

"You? But..." she cried, and then her voice fell away, her ears splayed, and she stared at him with a guise of half-understanding, muzzle slightly open.

"You have all," Guiscard said, as though the half-dozen people listening represented the whole village, "always said that I had my grandmother's gift of becoming other people, through storytelling."

The Countess had put down her wine, and was watching him with new appreciation, as though the idea was forming in her own mind as well, though her eyes were sad. "My father heard your grandmother tell stories long ago, when he was young, and he spoke of her as being almost bewitching when she spun a tale..."

"If the Blues know only of General Ferrandin that he is a Vendéan peasant, they will have no reason to suspect I am not he," continued Guiscard. Despite the situation, he felt increasingly calm; his tail no longer between his legs. "I have heard enough about the General's recent victories to talk of his rise to fame with..." he struggled for a word.

"Credibility," finished the Countess. "Yes. I have heard you tell tales before, if you can play a rich master or a witch or a prince believably, I daresay you can become a peasant general."

Now the army would not be far off, there would be but little time to set the stage, as it was. "But do I look the part?" the fox asked, for here he could not merely pantomime the physical aspect of the character he played, but must become it. "I ought to have asked the General for a spare sword."

"Nevermind that," replied the Countess, as reaching into her cloak, she retrieved a brace of pistols. "These are locked and loaded, they will serve well enough as evidence of your identity." She thrust them out at the fox. In the following minutes, taking a cape from one of his fellow villagers, and a sash from the barmaid, through which he thrust the pistols, he assembled a simple costume which vaguely resembled that of General Ferrandin. The other villagers present were likewise armed, with knives from the inn's kitchen, or an axe from its woodshed, so they could play the part of rebels.

In the distance now they could all heard many pounding feet. "Are you certain," said the Countess softly, "that you wish to go through with this? When, for it will certainly happen, they discover your true identity..." she did not finish.

Guiscard nodded calmly. "It will be all right. Ought you flee, mademoiselle?"

Countess Desiderata flicked her ears. "No, I shall not flee. It will lend believability to your identity if I remain with you. If we all play our parts well, we shall win the General enough time to, at very least, put much space between himself and our enemy."

"You forget," said Guiscard, with a very foxlike smile, and the softest of tail-wags, "that General Ferrandin is still in this room."

The Republicans arrived at the inn at perhaps half-past 10. As the inn was the principal building in the village, excepting the church, it was perhaps not surprising that it was to it the leaders of the Army came, trampling in noisy, tired, hungry, and thirsty. When they first burst in it was with guns raised, as if prepared for an ambush, and though Guiscard and the others made a show of snatching for their pistols or knives, the soldiers quickly had them disarmed, though not without bloodying some muzzles in the process. When all had been disarmed, the small group of villagers were directed to stand near the hearth, while a few of the commanding officers were summoned to deal with these initial prisoners.

As he stood with the Countess and his supposed soldiers, Guiscard watched alertly, seeing what kind of men it was that had been sent to crush the rebellion. They all wore the standard blue uniform of the Republican Army, and as they had yet to meet any of the Vendéans in battle, their clothes were untarnished save for the general wear of a long march on muddy roads. None had washed recently, and their eyes had the slightly feral glint of the hungry. A few of the petty officers pounded on tables, calling the barmaid, who was almost speechless with fright and shivering, to bring out all what wine or beer she had, and food besides, to feed his men.

Watching the enemy, knowing they were probably going to plunder the village, his home, gave Guiscard a sense of resolve; these men were evil, and whatever it might cost him, he could not stand aside and let them destroy his world without resisting, in whatever form resistance took. Beside him the Countess with raised hackles seemed to glow with barely disguised hatred. She did not have to act; to her the role of rebel came naturally. Both of them were filled with the vague sense of something irreversible having now taken place; from this point on, there was no going back.

It did not take long for the inn to fill up with men, far more than it usually held, but presently a break opened in the crowd, and two men pushed forward to gaze upon the prisoners.

The elder of the two was a spaniel, black and white, who wore an officer's uniform and who by his plumed hat Guiscard took for some sort of high ranking official. He was a plump dog in middle-age, tired and rather out of breath. His companion was taller and younger, a jackal, and as was stereotypically said of his species, more alert and clever in aspect. Unlike the spaniel, however, he wore civilian clothing, though clearly a man of some status.

"These were all that we found, your excellences," one of the soldiers was saying, "we took a brace off the fox," and he pointed at Guiscard, "and assorted weaponry off the others, including the woman."

The spaniel had been given a mug of beer and half a partridge by the barmaid, and he ripped at the bird with his teeth as he addressed the prisoners. "You," he pointed at the Countess, "must be the Comtesse de...de..."

"Tremblayne," said the jackal.

"The Comtesse de Tremblayne," repeated the spaniel. "Do you deny it?"

"I am she," said the Countess proudly.

"And who are you then?" the spaniel asked Guiscard.

The fox smiled slyly. "No one of any importance."

"Answer!" insisted the spaniel, but the jackal held up a paw.

"Forgive us, Comtesse, and companions," he interrupted. "I do not mean to be rude. My name is Moïse, and this is Colonel Faucheux. I believe you know why we are here."

"Enlighten us," growled the Countess stonily, her ears and tail raised in defiance.

The jackal's cold expression did not change. "We have been warned that the counter-revolutionary traitor Ferrandin, called by the rebels General, is in this vicinity." All about the room the atmosphere was one of tension; the scent of fear, of challenge, of malice. "Can you tell me anything about his whereabouts?"

"None of us shall tell you anything," replied Countess Desiderata.

"They were all armed like rebels, Sir," one of the soldiers interjected.

Now Guiscard became aware that the spaniel, Colonel Faucheux, was staring at him. "What about that one?" he asked. "He is dressed differently than the others, and has a sly character..."

As eyes again turned on him the fox's own eyes raised calmly to meet those of his captors, his tail relaxed in perfect precision, losing some of its bushiness, he seemed to grow taller, and younger, in the confidence of his bearing. The jackal who had called himself Moïse, the biblical Moses, was nodding now. "You there, the fox. Who are you?"

"Merely a humble traveller." Guiscard's voice, to the ears of the Countess and his fellow villagers, seemed altered, as if he had magically transposed General Ferrandin's slightly altered accent into his own tongue.

"He is playing with us, have the fool shot," growled Colonel Faucheux impatiently, but Moïse held up a paw again. He, not Faucheux, was the dangerous one, Guiscard thought; the clever one. His nose suddenly caught from within the tangled scents of those around him some sort of urgency in the Countess, a change in her manner, and he realised what she must be thinking: was this jackal the infamous "Inquisitor?"

Still holding a paw up to silence the Colonel, Moïse stepped forward, his golden jackal eyes peering inquisitively at Guiscard. There was a sparkle of curiosity in them, and Guiscard felt inwardly a surge of excitement: the hook was set. "If that is so, then you must forgive us for our interruption of your evening," the jackal began in his cold, controlled voice, "but to preserve my conscience I must ask you more specifically: upon your honour, if as a so-called General you believe yourself to possess such, can you honestly state that you are not Robert-Louis Ferrandin, the leader of the Vendéan insurrection?"

Next to Guiscard the Countess tensed up, her hackles raised again, her tail puffed out, ears tightened. The fox knew it was all part of her act, but Moïse glanced at her with interest, noting this poorly-disguised show of anxiety. Guiscard swallowed, met the jackal's eyes, spoke calmly, without lowering his ears or tail. He clapped his hands together. "Gentlemen! Yes, it is as you have surmised. I am General Ferrandin. I am glad that Paris has finally answered my summons." Beside him the Countess gave a whimper of alarm, and several of the old men posing as rebels reached for weapons they no longer had, as though wishing to rise to their General's defence.

This display of arrogant bravado seemed to convince Colonel Faucheux, as the spaniel growled and pinned his ears. "Silence, traitor! We ask the questions." Then, turning to Moïse, he asked, "so you think it is him?"

The jackal did not answer, merely asking Guiscard, "Why are you here, Ferrandin?"

"Why I am here?" repeated the fox. He had decided by now to play up the stereotypical fox slyness; after all the Blues knew nothing of Ferrandin's real personality. "I am calling up villagers to arms, so that we may defeat you."

"I see only a handful of old men and a spare aristocrat," observed Moïse.

In response to this Guiscard smiled slyly, as if suggesting that he knew more than the jackal did. "Clearly you have adequately accessed the situation."

Moïse and Colonel Faucheux glanced at each other. "Sentries have been posted?" the jackal asked.

When the Colonel confirmed this had been done, Moïse turned back to the prisoners. "I suppose I ought to know better than to believe with entire faith anything any of you say, but mademoiselle, is the story this fox tells true?"

The shewolf met her interrogator's eyes defiantly, though her body was still tense. "I shall say nothing."

"Nothing?" barked Colonel Faucheux. "Clearly you do not know, Comtesse, that we have with us the Inquisitor, who knows better than any other patriot how best to find out the truth where traitors or anti-revolutionaries are concerned." At this both the Countess and Guiscard glanced towards Moïse, but the jackal made no show of confirming his identity. "After all, mademoiselle," Colonel Faucheux continued, "I am told it was the Inquisitor who uncovered the treachery of your late brother..."

At this taunt the Countess snarled, bared her lupine fangs and fixed the Republican Colonel with a stare of entirely unconcealed revulsion, such that several of the soldiers stepped forward and lowered their muskets, with bayonets fixed, in the direction of the wolf. Colonel Faucheux chuckled. "Quite feral, this shewolf. Careful, Comtesse; if you act unwisely your family line may end tonight."

Listening through this exchange Guiscard decided that the Republicans were trying to incite the Countess to slipping up and giving away some piece of information, either to betray him by affirming his identity, or perhaps to confirm its invalidity. Now she thrust her head up proudly, the scent of anger and hatred radiating off of her as she snarled back a rejection of Faucheux's warning. "You cannot frighten me. Kill me, if you must; I am not afraid to die. Even if that means there will be no more Comtes de Tremblayne."

Colonel Faucheux seemed to be enjoying this, the feeling that he had control of the situation. "You ought to have fled with the other émigrés," he observed.

Countess Desiderata snorted. "Fled? No, this is my home. My blood and my bones belong to this place. My ancestors have lived at Mon Repos for centuries, I was born here, and I shall die here. My place is at the General's side, not in England, or-"

Here Guiscard saw Desiderata's cleverness, for she gave a half-gasp and bit her lip, so intensely that a trickle of blood ran out of her muzzle. Both Moïse and Colonel Faucheux had caught the mention of 'the General's side,' and again their eyes both turned to Guiscard as if with a sense of confirmation. "So it is true, then," said the spaniel.

"Apparently," agreed Moïse. "I would have thought him a younger man."

"More fitting if old, perhaps," said Faucheux. "See here men," he called to the gathered soldiers, all busy stuffing themselves with alcohol and food, "look at this little gathering. A lone noble, and a handful of old peasants led by a fox pretending to be a general. A perfect picture of the ancien régime, of old France, under Louis Capet."

At the mention of the dead King, both Guiscard, the Countess, and the villagers barked defiantly, Vive le roi!"

"Ba," Faucheux spat, wrinkling his nose as if the scent of the prisoners offended him. "Take them away. I am sure you," he glanced at Moïse, can get more out of these two." His gaze was still on the two principal prisoners.

So it had worked. Within himself Guiscard felt a sense of triumph; he had pulled it off. He had become, for the time being, a general, in doing so he was giving General Ferrandin much time to escape and form a plan of attack. But the price for this transformation, the price he himself would have to pay, was yet to come.

The jackal, Moïse, was calling together a number of the soldiers now, apparently to form a guard. "Take mademoiselle de Tremblayne and the fox Ferrandin to the manor," he instructed them. "As for the others-"

Mention of Mon Repos apparently reminded Colonel Faucheux of something. "I ought to inform you, Comtesse, your home is being repossessed by the Republic, as regional headquarters while this insurrection is being suppressed. I do not think you yourself will be needing it much longer, anyway."

"I should rather you burnt it," muttered the shewolf.

"No, I think not," said Faucheux. His voice was cold, businesslike, without the earlier taunting. "But," and his words now seemed more directed at his soldiers, "do burn the village."

At this the Countess and several of the villagers gasped, and Guiscard swore under his breath. "Colonel, do not punish this village on my account," he began, "My men and I came here of our own accord, not by request. Surely you will-"

"Silence, knave!" Faucheux waved a paw. "We need to make an example of what should be expected when villages harbour enemies of the Republic."

"But my people are gentle, peaceful peasants," the Countess interjected, ears now splayed more in fear than anger, "most are old, pups, or women."

"Burn it!" the spaniel insisted. Moïse, if the Inquisitor he was, had apparently decided not to interfere further. "The houses, the church, all of it. But find what food you can, first."

Within Guiscard something was breaking. Here he was hearing something he could never have foreseen, hearing an army being given orders to burn down his home, the village he had lived in, the home he had loved, the centre of his world, and he could do nothing to stop it. His heart was breaking, but he could not give up the game; he must continue to be a General who had only this day come to St Émeric, sympathetic but not personally connected. Several of the villagers playing the rôle of rebels could not help themselves however and cried out; Countess Desiderata snarled, and then many things seemed to happen at once: the Countess threw herself forward and seized from upon the table, where the various weapons confiscated from the prisoners had been piled, one of the pistols she had earlier given Guiscard. She must have been eyeing it for some time, Guiscard thought, so quickly did her hand close around it. Soldiers moved, muskets rose, hands grabbed, but the wolf had moved too quickly; up rose the pistol, directed at Colonel Faucheux's chest, and the Countess's finger closed round the trigger.

Several gunshots went off at once, so that Guiscard impulsively ducked low, as nearby his flattened ears caught, amidst the blast of the gunfire, someone howl out in pain. Many voices shouted or barked in alarm, but the smoke of the muskets and pistol, within the crowded and darkened interior of the inn, obscured the commotion somewhat, so that a moment or two passed before Guiscard could again make out all that was going on about him. The scent of gunpowder stung his nostrils, intermixed with the sickening coppery tang of blood. An anguished voice whimpered, and from somewhere farther off he thought he could hear the Doberman barmaid sobbing.

Voices were clearer now: Moïse's high jackal bark demanding, "Did you get her?" and another voice in response, "Sir, the shewolf has escaped. She got through the door somehow."

Several voices cursed as Moïse commanded, "Then search for her. She cannot get far, especially not if wounded." The smoke was clear enough by this point that Guiscard could see Colonel Faucheux collapsed back over one of the tables, with a crimson fountain bubbling up gruesomely from the cavern in his chest. Dead, most certainly. One of the villagers was also down, with the others gathered round him, and two of the soldiers seemed to be wounded, shot by their own comrades in the confusion. It seemed that when the Countess had shot Faucheux several of the Blues had immediately fired their own muskets, without regard to the crowded conditions of the inn. In the midst of this chaos Desiderata had, apparently, by some miracle pushed through the crowd and fled.

As Guiscard stood, wrinkling his nose to get the vile scents from it, Moïse appeared again before him. "You there," he called to several nearby soldiers, "Come with me. We must get this man up to the manor house." An Alsatian soldier grabbed Guiscard's arm, as Moïse said to him, "Come now, General." The jackal's voice was taut, not so calm as before, and his ears were flat.

"Very well then," the fox replied, remembering to keep up the assumed sly confidence with which he portrayed Ferrandin. "That was certainly a bit unexpected, wasn't it?"

Moïse ignored him as they escorted him out of the inn, but as they stepped through the door he heard one of the lesser officers barking an order: "the Colonel's command still stands. Burn the village, and take what you can find," and again a tremor of anguish ran through him. As they walked out into the dark street, he now surrounded by at least a dozen armed soldiers, he could not help but feel the sharp sting of fear welling up within him.

The walk up to Mon Repos was a silent one. Neither Moïse nor any of the soldiers said a word to Guiscard, but he could hardly have heard them; his ears were too full with the howls of voices shouting back in the village, and what was worse, the screams of women, the yelping of pups, as the villagers were ran from their homes, or saw their livestock slaughtered. When he looked over his shoulder he could see fire amongst the darkness of the night, fire here, fire there, fires raising up from all those places within the darkness at which were the homes of his neighbours, and the church, and perhaps also the inn. He did not know what had been done with the men who had posed as being Ferrandin's soldiers. He thought he might know what was being done to the barmaid, but he did not wish to think of it.

But, he thought, looking upwards because at least in that direction nothing was burning, had not his goal been accomplished? It had now been some time since General Ferrandin had fled, he and his army, he and those friends, such as Armand, who had joined up with him. The ruse had worked, time had been won. I have, thought Guiscard, perhaps played a larger role in this affair than anyone thought possible of me.

To be fair, he reflected, as his feet walked this road for perhaps the last time, it was not all his doing; the Countess had played her role well besides. He could not feel any sense of betrayal towards her for having fled, for leaving him; after all, he was only an old peasant fox, no one of any importance whatsoever in the greater scheme of the matter, someone with no value or honour of his own, who had merely risen to a heroic role because the story called for it. Perhaps, at least, that was how his grandmother would have put it, had he been a character in one of her tales. He would never himself be a hero, but he might put on the guise of one, and thereby inspire heroism in others. General Ferrandin, the Countess, Armand - they had all got away, and that was what mattered.

As they passed Guiscard's own farm he thought again of Hector. If things had gone differently he would be home now, within those twinkling windows - there was candlelight glinting there in the cottage, he could see it faintly through the night and the soldiers surrounding him; Bernadette would be waiting for him to come home. Bernadette! He envisioned his daughter, and said a prayer by some chance the soldiers would spare her.

Where was Hector now, he wondered? If he, the father, had been home now, he would be busying himself with preparations for Hector's arrival, but what kind of homecoming would his son receive instead...he did not wish to think of it. Gazing at the dark road, as they drew nearer to Mon Repos, he longed to run back to his cottage, to take out some big lanterns and hang them up by the doors, so that from a long way off the light might guide Hector home, as the lights of a port welcome ships into still water. Always he had thought of himself, or rather the family with him as head, as that light, a beacon to which Hector would, when he had found whatever it was he was looking for, return, but what would his son do now that that light was being extinguished? He would never find his way home.

A few moments later and the dark walls of Mon Repos loomed ahead of them. Guiscard had visited the manor house only once, many years ago, when as a teenager he had gone with his father to meet with the old Count, Desiderata's father, himself then a young man yet unmarried. Then it had seemed exciting, almost a palace from Guiscard's grandmother's tales, but now it inspired apprehension, changed from a palace to a warlock's castle. And the warlock, Guiscard thought, would be Moïse; he was fairly certain by this point that the jackal was the Inquisitor, and would soon throw him into a dungeon, and torture him until he confessed he was only a peasant.

Mon Repos had been built in the 13thcentury and comprised three main blocks of buildings and one outer wall, which together formed a square, within which was an inner courtyard and some smaller, one-storey structures. Apparently the manor had already been captured - Countess Desiderata's few servants had probably not put up much of a fight - while the events in the inn were taking place, as sentries were already posted by the gates, one of whom opened the main gate in the outer wall to permit the soldiers, and Guiscard, entry. The fox was shuffled in, forcing his muzzle to stay pointed towards the manor, for he did not want to look back and see StÉmeric all ablaze.

Once inside the courtyard he could see somewhat better, for some of the soldiers had lit campfires within it, around which groups of them were gathered. The flames lit up shadows against the walls, and now, as his bravery continued to desert him, Guiscard felt his tail slipping between his legs, his ears splaying. Whatever fate he was meant to meet within these walls, it could not be a good one.

As it was, this fate apparently was meant to come after a wait. Moïse merely had the fox taken to a storeroom of sorts, a pantry off the kitchens containing assorted foodstuffs, in which he was locked. Not a word was said to him before the door closed behind him, leaving him alone to ponder his fate.

When the soldiers next disturbed Guiscard a cockerel was crowing out in the courtyard, suggesting dawn was approaching, although within the storeroom it was still entirely dark. After a long time lying awake in the darkness the fox had finally fallen asleep against a few sacks of flour; at his age he could not hold off sleep forever, even in the most dire of circumstances or most uncomfortable of locations. When, after having been woken by the bird's crowing, he pushed himself up again, stretching his joints stiff from sleep in an awkward position, he reflected that had this been a normal day it would have been near this time he'd have risen to tend the animals. As it was, they had probably been slaughtered by the Blues by now.

A night's sleep had restored his resolve, to some extent. In his simple way he had never been the kind of man who questions fate, or moreover who rebels against it. His approach to life was much the same as his approach to weather; one accepted it as it came, accepted that sometimes it was good and sometimes not, and that there was no more to be said about it. He was not really afraid to die, having always known death would come sooner or later, rather what did bother him was knowing that as he prepared to leave the world, it was changing; he would rather have died knowingSt Émeric was unchanged, and with his son and daughter at his bedside. Instead he resolved himself to praying that Hector and Bernadette would find each other, and that brother and sister would help each other to get on without him.

The sound of hands fiddling with the latch of the storeroom door alerted him that the soldiers had come for him, so as the door swung open, he stood up, to face whatever awaited him on the other side of it.

He had half-expected to see Moïse, but instead only a few ordinary soldiers stared at him. "Come along then," one said, and they lead Guiscard out into the still-dark courtyard, then into one of the principal buildings through an entrance probably used mainly by servants, up a narrow stairway, and into a hall. The room he was eventually left in might have been a bedroom at one time but was now evidently not used; dust covered what furniture remained, and the hearth had clearly not had a fire lit in it in many years. Two candles stood upon a small bedside table which had been dragged out into the middle of the room. A chair had been placed behind this, in which Guiscard was directed to sit. He did so as the soldiers left, him, trying not to sneeze from the dust, which his bushy tail seemed to stir up naturally.

He was alone for only a moment or two before the door opened again and Moïse joined him. When Guiscard looked up at him he saw that the jackal was frowning at him, as though preparing to give a previously-rehearsed speech; he himself did not to know what to say. "Since we arrived here last night I have been given reason to believe," Moïse addressed him, "that you are not who you say you are. Do you have anything to say in your defence?"

The fox hesitated only briefly before replying, "I do not." At this point he was not sure how much point there was to keeping up the charade, General Ferrandin would be far away by now, hopefully preparing to counterattack.

"I thought so." The jackal turned his head and barked, "bring him in!" then, turning back to Guiscard, added, "I think you may reconsider after you see what I am about to show you." Behind him the door swung open, and the soldiers shoved in a fox, who fell sprawled on the floor, and whimpered. "Do you recognise this man?" Moïse asked him.

At first Guiscard was confused, uncertain what context this stranger might have to his own predicament, but as he stood and looked down at the cowering fox, he thought something about the plumy tail looked familiar, and then fox looked up, Guiscard gasped, and the other fox cried, "Father?!"

It was Hector. Beyond doubt, it was his son. He was dressed somewhat shabbily, and had dirt smeared on the fur of his face and arms, and perhaps a little blood; he was older, and slightly plumper, but just the same it was his son, his own son, the prodigal son of his dreams, so long awaited. Guiscard could not help himself - he bolted around the table and drew the younger fox, filthy though he was, into his arms. A choked cry caught in his throat.

"I have reason to believe that you are not the rebel commander called General Ferrandin but merely a local peasant fox, name Judoc Guiscard, the father of this traveller who blundered into the village this morning." Moïse's voice, from above, was cold, restrained, ever controlled. "Is this true?"

Guiscard hesitated. Ought he confess now? It might be dishonourable, but if he did not they might harm Hector, and after all, General Ferrandin was long gone....

"...if it is not true," Moïse continued, "you will no doubt have no personal interest in what is done with this fox."

At this words Hector spoke for the first time, the words sputtering out like he had only now regained his voice as his ears splayed: "Father, tell them I am not a rebel! They seized me on the road; they think I am a rebel spy. Tell them it's not true!"

Guiscard gave up. "Fine, fine," he threw his hands up, ears splayed, tail puffed out in distress. "What you said is true. I am Guiscard. Do what you want with me, but let my son go, he knows nothing of any of this."

Moïse had been pacing back and forth, but now he froze. "That is not for me to decide," he said. "Guard! Come take this man away."

"Hector!" the fox cried, grabbing at his son. How agonising now, after so many years, to have his son here before him, only to be jerked away a moment later! The soldiers must have been waiting just outside the door, for it opened instantly, Hector was seized, Guiscard himself pushed back into a dusty heap, leaving him again alone with Moïse. "Hector..." he felt like throwing himself upon the door, he wanted to fight, of all things it could not come to this; whatever happened to him, he did not want his son to be in the Blues' hands. "Please," he again begged of Moïse, "let Hector go. He is only a boy..." as he said the words he remembered that Hector must have grown up while he was away.

The jackal's voice was tight, as though concealing emotion. His tail never moved from its rigid position behind him. "I must report on this. Then it will be decided what is to be done with you."

Guiscard's ears splayed even further. "Then you are not the Inquisitor?"

"No," came the reply. "You met him earlier."

As the door clicked behind the jackal Guiscard did not stir from where he sat on the floor. His world seemed to be collapsing inward around him: his village destroyed, some of his friends killed and the rest fled, and now his son in the hands of the enemy. Dear God, he thought, what have I done wrong? The others had played out their roles well; General Ferrandin in his unwavering fidelity to his men, to his country, to his way of life; Countess Desiderata with her resolute lupine bravery, defiant in the face of danger; yet he, the fox, who had sought to be sly and clever, drawing wool before the eyes of the enemy, had somehow failed. They had found a way around his tricks, using Hector. Somewhere he had slipped up, and now his beloved son, of all people, would pay for it.

If he could not understand what he had done wrong, neither could he understand who the real Inquisitor was. Moïse had said he had met the Inquisitor already, but he had never spoken to any other of the Republicans besides the jackal himself and Colonel Faucheux, who was now dead, and who had been confirmed by General Ferrandin as being a distinctly different individual from the Inquisitor. So who was it, then? Had one of the soldiers who'd looked over him been the Inquisitor himself, but in disguise?

If only Hector could be spared. There in the darkness, amidst the dusty air, his empty stomach rumbling and his heart aching, he clasped his hands and bent his head, begging God in his tiny repertoire of prayers that the Inquisitor would, by some shred of mercy, release his son. Hector's scent lingered faintly in the air, even amid the dust, and as he prayed Guiscard breathed in that scent, the scent he had not smelt in eight years, and found in its vaguely familiar twang a sense of comfort. The scent, proof that Hector had been here but a moment before, was in its own way evidence Hector was yet alive. If only he had assurance that Hector would always be so...

There was a rap, this time, on the door to warn him it was about to be opened, and again Moïse joined stepped into the room, closed the door, and started down at the fox. Jerked from his prayers, Guiscard did not know whether to start begging again that Hector be spared, or to continue asking God for assistance, but the jackal did not give him time to do either. "You may wish to stand," he said, with somewhat less force in his voice than before.

When Guiscard had done so, Moïse joined his hands behind his back, pointed his long muzzle at the fox, and cleared his throat. "There is no reason whatsoever why I should tell you this...I was not ordered to. Just the same, I feel I ought to tell you your son is safe. He has been...released."

Immediately Guiscard's ears flew up, and he again clasped his hands, as if to begin a prayer of thanks, but Moïse held up a paw. "I can also tell you that our soldiers have been given orders not to molest the livestock on your farm, or raid your house. So long as your daughter is not found to be connected to the rebellion, we will not disturb her."

Being told that Hector had been released was blessing enough, but to be now informed that Bernadette too, and the farm, were unharmed, and would remain so, seemed to Guiscard a miracle. His paws came together, he mumbled a prayer, a few tears squeezed their way out of his tired old eyes, tears of relief and joy, a loving father's tears of gratitude. He could scarcely focus on Moïse any longer, or comprehend the rest of the jackal's words, for his mind was full of images of his children, images of reassurance, of affirmation, of knowing that whatever fate might befall him today, his children were alive, and could grow old, could live and thrive and have children of their own. Relief, a faith in renewal, welled up within him.

"I am afraid that is all the good news I can give you," Moïse was saying, as the fox again looked up at him. For the first time he thought he saw a glint of emotion in the jackal's hard yellow eyes, perhaps it was the tilt of his head that gave the impression, or perhaps it was merely that he had granted Guiscard the boon of knowing his family was safe. "I don't know why I am telling you this, fox, but I feel sorry for you. I don't believe you really meant to be caught up in this rebellion business. You are probably more a victim of circumstances beyond your control than a born master of strategy...in terms of chess, a pawn given a rôle better suited to a knight. Outmanoeuvred by players cleverer than you, and who knew more."

Guiscard listened to him in vague curiosity, not knowing where this was leading, but as the joy of knowing his children were safe began to set deeper in, a sense of foreboding began to set in. That was it, he realised, what he saw in the jackal's expression: sympathy, or rather, pity. Which meant there was only one way this scene could end.

"That said, pawn or knight, the price is the same." Moïse straightened up, flicked his ears, and finished, with a sense of resignation in his voice. "The Inquisitor has reached a decision, and the orders have been given. You are to be executed, immediately."

A haze of golden sunrise was spreading across the sky as Guiscard was escorted out into the courtyard, in the light of which the space itself seemed more like a painting than real, though the scent of campfires, unwashed men, and cooking meat were real enough. Despite the circumstances the scent of the food caught in the fox's nose and made his stomach growl. The senses, he thought, go on working even when the mind knows the end is near.

Even now, after he had heard the jackal pronounce the sentence, he still struggled to comprehend this was happening to him; it must be a dream, the entire previous day, the last night, this morning. Any moment now he would wake up and find himself in bed, ready to get up and feed the pigs, ready for a simple breakfast with Bernadette.

Ten soldiers had been assembled near the outer courtyard wall, and it was there he saw he was being directed; so these were his executioners. At least, he thought, it was a beautiful morning. Better to die at the beginning of a beautiful day than in rain and mud. The two soldiers escorting him had tied his hands behind him, and now stood him up against the wall; he could feel the cold stone on his back. Before him the ten soldiers were tamping down the ball and powder in the barrels of their muskets.

In the final few moments his optimistic nature tried to rally. It had not all gone wrong, he thought; General Ferrandin had got away, Armand had got away, the Countess had got away. Colonel Faucheux was dead. His own children, Hector and Bernadette, and their family home, spared though he could not fathom why, were all unharmed. Only he alone of all of them would suffer, only he would pay the price, he who was older and less useful than the rest of them. Better that way. It had been a good life...

The soldiers were finished now. I will die bravely, Guiscard resolved. But I do not want to die looking down a musket barrel. So as the soldiers were fixing their muskets he turned his head, pointed his muzzle skyward, and gazed at the sunrise. Mostly his nose caught only the scent of ash, but perhaps there was among it a trace of pollen, a hint of spring? Life renewed, the same old rebirth that charmed him every spring.

The soldiers were steadying themselves; it would be soon. He swallowed, drew himself up, preparing. And then his lifted eyes caught sight of something not expected. It was in one of the windows in the tower block opposite the wall, the middle of the three main sections of Mon Repos, a window from which two individuals watched him. One he thought to be Moïse, the jackal's tall solemn form was easily recognisable. But the other looked oddly familiar.

It was Hector, he knew it, he knew his own son, but how could that be? The fox in the window seemed to be wearing a gentleman's clothes, jacket, waistcoat, and cravat, if his eyes were not playing tricks on him, dressed like a man of status, not in shabby dirty clothes as Hector had been when brought before him. Yet he knew that fox was his son; he could not mistake that muzzle. The fox - Hector - was watching him, watching the execution, with what seemed to be perfect calm, ears alert, eyes staring down as the act was carried out.

In the last moment a surge of confusion welled up in Guiscard, his ears splayed, his head cocked to the side in bewilderment. Hector a gentleman; Hector standing beside Moïse like an equal; Hector watching him die? He did not understand.

In one solitary volley ten blasts of gunfire shattered the relative quiet of the morning air.

From the bedroom window Moïse watched as the old peasant fox jerked and sprawled backwards against the stone, leaving a smear of blood on the wall as he slowly slumped to the ground. Beside him the Inquisitor, the official to whom he was chief aid, muttered, "It is done," and walked back to the dressing table at which, prior to the execution, he had been arranging his wig and rubbing oils into his fur. The Inquisitor was exceptionally fastidious, a trait he shared with Robespierre. In Paris Moïse had heard it whispered that because of the Inquisitor's humble origins he was eternally paranoid about appearances, always scrubbing at his claws lest some incriminating dirt still linger on them, but these sort of rumours were not spoken of in front of the fox himself. Probably he was now fearful that traces of the mud he'd earlier had thrown on him, in playing the accosted Hector Guiscard, yet remained in his fur.

Now the Inquisitor sat in front of the dressing table, examining himself in the mirror, and reaching for some scented power from one of the assorted canisters he travelled with. Moïse watched for a moment as the soldiers came to take Judoc Guiscard's body away, but the sight was oddly depressing, so he turned away. "Forgive me, Sir," he began, "but might I ask one question?"

"Yes," said the fox, without turning away from the mirror. There was an expectant tone to the voice, as though he already knew the question.

The jackal half-wondered if he would regret asking, but he flicked his ears and dismissed the thought. "Was that old fox really your father?"

The Inquisitor froze, then laid the canister of powder back on the dressing table. For a moment he stared into the mirror. "Let me tell you a little story, Moïse, before we lay this matter to rest." He paused, reflecting. "When it was requested of me that I come along with this campaign, owing to my knowledge of the area, and my expertise in dealing with counter-revolutionaries, I-" and he gave a humourless little chuckle, "fool that I was, was delighted. Here at last, I thought, an opportunity to see my aged parents and make them aware that I was not only yet alive, but among the architects of a new France, a greater, more equal, freer, liberated France. I thought they would be proud of me, proud of what their son has risen to become, proud of what I had helped to build. I thought that even these country peasants, stupid as they are, could see that they benefit too from the Republic." In the mirror Moïse could see a sarcastic smile spread down the fox's muzzle. "And instead, I find that my father is at the heart of an insurrection designed to destroy everything I have worked to build, everything I love. When I saw you lead him out of that storeroom this morning, I felt betrayed."

Now he turned around and looked the jackal square on, a stare Moïse never really got used to, unnerving, too incriminating in its intensity. "I thought that some fragment of Hector Guiscard remained within me, but I see now that he is dead. The son Judoc Guiscard loved is dead, is it not fitting to send the father where the son has gone? I am a new fox, and the Republic is the only father I need."

Still at the window, Moïse thought the Inquisitor had finished, and he said, indeed half-regretting having asked the question, "thank you for telling me, Sir. Shall I have some breakfast brought up for us now?" but the Inquisitor was not finished.

"If there is only one thing I wish for you to learn from our time together, Moïse," he said, "it is this: if you must ever choose between the Republic and your family, choose the Republic, always. A family is a minor, insignificant thing. But a cause like our Republic? Now that is something truly worth dedicating one's life to, and dying for. That is the lesson fools like Judoc Guiscard will never understand.

"Now!" he snapped his fingers, "breakfast, as you say. Have a chicken brought up for me, will you? I fancy one of those cockerels I heard crowing so lustily."

Moïse's thoughts were spinning as he turned to go, but as he looked away out the window again, he saw it was light and clear enough now to see all the way to the village. As the buildings there had burned through the night, nearly all had by now been reduced to rubble, but from the middle of the carnage the church's tall spire, twisted and supported only by charred timber and blackened walls, still rose, like a ghostly sentinel, standing resolutely amidst the burnt-out houses.

Rather emblematic, the jackal reflected, staring at the spire, as though it were the last remaining symbol of StÉmeric's villagers' résistance to change, and for another few moments he watched it as though transfixed, until at last the spire too, under his gaze, collapsed into ashes and dust.