12th July, early morning; Surprises

He had told Mathilde he would see her before they struck camp, but he was no longer certain that was such a good idea. Not after the mess he'd caused last night. But then, he didn't really feel certain of anything at the moment, beyond his own blatant stupidity, so he kept walking. There was still time to turn around. Or perhaps not. He drifted to a halt, catching sight of a familiar figure approaching. Had he seen---hell.

Paol's face went crimson. The way they'd parted -- the way he thought they'd parted -- the night before would have been cause enough for uncertainty. But after the way he'd spent the night... Christ. The last thing he'd wanted to do was make things worse and that was exactly what he'd done.

Walking was, he quickly realised, probably not the smartest idea he'd ever had - though in that respect, there were plenty of things that similarly qualified. It seemed like every bruise and lump was awakening with particular ferocity and he nearly turned back for the wagon, with the notion that resting before the day's march might just be in order.

That entire train of thought was wiped completely from his mind when he spotted Paol not far ahead. This would have been positive, except Jérémie recognised that posture. It was how he'd carried himself the previous evening. And that telltale discolouration on the Breton's jaw...

Any number of coarse words came straight to his tongue, but all he could come out with was a disbelieving, "Jesus!"

Flushing even darker, Paol fidgeted with the strap of his musket, shifting it higher onto his shoulder. "Morning." The greeting sounded absurdly out of place, even to his own ears, but it was all he could think of to say.

It was impossible not to know what had happened during the night. Even without being told any details, Jérémie had a very firm idea of the way things had gone. He resented himself for bringing any of this around, however much it was too late for regrets of that sort.

"There's breakfast back there," he said, striving to keep his tone level. Maybe if it wasn't discussed, it would go away that much sooner. Right. That would last just as long as it took to walk back to the wagon. Today was already a misery and it was not long past sunrise.

"Sounds good," he said, falling in beside Jérémie, his expression lightening briefly, more hopeful uncertainty than a smile. But even that quickly withered beneath the dead weight of awkwardness which seemed to hang between them. "I didn't--" he tried, "I never--" Shut up. Just shut up. "I'm sorry."

That had to mean he knew. But he'd obviously found Quentin at some point during the night and without a doubt at least of the tale had come out. Which was... just perfect, if completely unsurprising.

"That makes two of us," he remarked dryly, turning to make the short return trek to the wagon. It went without saying that he felt 'sorry' himself in more than one sense of the word.

Paol said nothing. There didn't seem to be anything to say. Not that that stopped him wanting to blurt out some nonsense. Which was the worst possible thing he could do at the moment and he kept his mouth determinedly shut.

*

Margot looked up at their approach and started to laugh. "I'm afraid I am no miracle worker when it comes to loaves and fish, but I'll do my best."

The silence could mean anything, even though to Jérémie it seemed faintly accusatory. It was just as well, then, that they were now near enough to the wagon and the campfire to provide a distraction.

"So long as it's cooked," he said, pausing to retrieve his pack from where it had lain all night.

"That I think I can manage."

Mathilde, however, was rather less amused. She was frowning intently at Paol and then, without warning, seized his hand, pulling it up so she could see the knuckles, and abruptly hauled off and smacked his arm as hard as she could. "You said nothing was wrong!" That she'd known at the time this was a lie did not seem to matter.

Paol glanced down, managing to look at once startled, puzzled and contrite. "What?"

"Last night." She smacked him again. "You said nothing was wrong. You were fighting!"

"You were fighting?" echoed Gilles, "Who were you fighting? Did you win?"

"Peace, child," Margot interrupted, "For God's sake, I think he's been hit quite enough already."

This was getting out of hand. No. It had long since gotten out of hand.

"It's my fault." Jérémie swallowed and steadfastly ignored the burning in his cheeks. "If I had... it doesn't matter. It's just my fault."

To have admitted that things might have ended better had he won his own fight was pure folly. That would only open the path to too many questions about the fight and the causes of it.

Paol looked up sharply, Mathilde momentarily forgot. "What? No." How could he even think that? "I started the fight, it's my own damn fault."

"Sacre nom de Dieu..." Margot shook her head in disbelieving exasperation. "You should hear yourselves! There's someone to blame in all this and it ain't either of you. Now sit down. And stop fretting like a pair of idiots."

Those words pulled him up short, adding more colour to his already-reddened face. It was impossible not to fret or feel so thoroughly embarassed by the whole affair. Especially since the truth of it was indeed that he was to blame for it all.

He opened his mouth to offer an apology when a familiar voice spoke up from behind him. "Well there you are, Rosy. Heard you were near here. No surprise! How's your face?"

Paol felt his hackles go up. Of all the people to come sniffing around, it would be Bright. Christ. He turned, setting his musket, which he had unconsciously unslung, on the ground. "Michel," he greeted warily.

Marie-Eve emerged from the makeshift tent she had set up near the wagon. She had been nursing Rémy-Jean inside but had heard most of the conversation, and now she came to investigate.

"You two were fighting?" She frowned at Kerjean and Blanchard, but she was surprised and concerned rather than angry. Soldiers got into fights often enough, but she had never known Paol and Jérémie to argue with each other. "What on earth for? You've always been friends!"

A smirk was on Bright's face. "And the guard dog barks. You never were good at handling your own business, Rosy. Oh no, madame," he added, glancing toward the newcomer. "This all started last night, when Rosy had a go at Quentin. Lost mightily at it, I'll tell you, but it was a bold enough attempt!"

It was all Jérémie could do to suppress a shudder. He had a terrible idea he knew where this was going but he could not stop it. Or least he could not do much. "Leave it," he said. "It's not your business telling - "

"What?" Bright interrupted, his expression becoming surprised. His tone, however, smacked more strongly of smug triumph than surprise. "You mean you ain't told 'em the why of it, mate?"

With a muttered oath, Paol advanced on Bright. "Walk. Now."

Surprisingly, Bright held his ground. That alone was a bad sign. The Englishman spread his arms to indicate everyone around the camp fire. "You sayin' you don't want to know why you went harin' off tryin' to do Rosy's dirty work for him?"

It probably wasn't possible for his face to burn any hotter than it was at that moment. Jérémie's gaze was fixed on his shoes, his hands balled into fists at his sides. How in the devil did Bright know about this?

"It ain't too complicated anyway," Bright went on, warming to his topic. "Turns out Rosy here's got a spine after all. Least he does when somebody gets talkin' about what he - "

He was cut off when Jérémie abruptly rounded on him, dropping him rather neatly with a blow to the jaw. Christ, that hurt. Of course, he would've had to swing with his left, which was already aching from the previous night's scuffle.

"I... had better go," he said tonelessly, dropping his left hand and his gaze both. This had gone entirely too far and he was now feeling something new - shame. Without a further word, and studiously avoiding looking at anyone, he started off.

Paol stared after Blanchard in consternation. "Jeremie?" Damn it all. Everything had happened at once; if he'd reacted faster... But that hardly mattered now. He took a step to follow him, but was brought up short by Bright's prone form and, with a short, fervent curse spun round again. A bucket of water -- at least he assumed it was water -- was close by and he grabbed it, upending the contents over Bright's head. "Get up, damn your eyes."

"Bloody hell!" Bright sputtered, coming awake again with a start. He put a hand immediately to the right side of his face and grimaced when his fingers touched the fresh lump there. "Jesus, what's all that for?" He demanded, gingerly shaking his head in a futile attempt to dispel some of whatever it was that had been dumped over him.

Perhaps wisely, he obeyed the direction to get up, though he was not so sensible as to avoid smirking when he realised that Blanchard had departed. Typical.

It was all he could do not crack Bright over the head with the bucket, just for that. "Go on," he snapped, his voice a low growl, "'Fore I break your face like I done Quentin's."

He was no stranger to such threats but in the present circumstances, it was too dangerous to provoke matters much further. Accordingly, Bright withdrew a couple of steps, but he was not quite prepared to retreat without a parting shot.

"You really oughta get the whole tale 'fore you goes round doin' Rosy's dirty work for him," he said. "Or maybe takin' a thumpin' in ignorance is how you like it."

Then, shaking his head, he made his own exit, with a deliberate oath in English.

"That's my wash water!" Marie-Eve protested. She was less concerned with the water itself than with the spectacle of a brawl in front of the children. She looked at Margot questioningly, but at least it looked like the men were leaving now. "Go on, get out of here. For shame."

Paol turned round, the anger of a moment ago quickly fading to the more familiar confusion and not a little hurt as he realized she was not just addressing Bright. But what had he-- Paol glanced down at the bucket in his hand as though seeing it for the first time. Oh.

"That was brilliant!" Gilles exclaimed, his voice slightly hushed with admiration.

And that was his real mistake. It wasn't just the bucket. It was the bucket and the little ones and bringing the whole mess essentially into their-- Christ, he was a flaming idiot. With a mumbled apology, he set the bucket down and headed off in the direction Blanchard had taken.

There weren't enough recriminations in the world to adequately soothe his feeling of utter despair. Everything else had dissolved into that leaden weight, leaving Jérémie with the unshakeable sense that the only thing he had done right was to go before things got any worse.

At least it seemed that the column would be on the march soon. It would be easy - and no small relief - to lose himself in the monotony of marching. No less than that, he wanted the anonymity of his place in the file, when everyone else was more concerned with keeping pace than the stupidity of the men around.

Without realising it, Jérémie had wandered some way toward the river. He could not say what had guided his feet in this direction but it probably didn't matter. What mattered was that he wasn't near the wagon or the others. Not like they'd want him around anyway, after Bright's unwelcome visit.

Still, he came gradually to a stop, aware that he should not go too far away from the company. Damn.

Mathilde stared after Paol's retreating back, then between Madame Bellot and her mother, but neither of them seemed about to do anything. Not that there was anything to do. The damage had been done, in every possible respect. Her small chest felt as though it would burst with helpless frustration. It was all so impossible!

Her throat tightened and her eyes stung, and if she didn't do something quickly, she was going to end up in tears right here in front of everyone, in front of Marie-Eve even. Getting abruptly to her feet, she snatched up the bucket Paol had set down.

"I'll get more water," she said, wishing her voice didn't sound quite so odd.

"That can wait, petite," her mother said gently, "Have something to eat first."

"I'm not hungry." She couldn't help the faintly accusatory note which slipped into her voice, but at the moment she did not care. She just needed to get away.

Margot watched her go with a sigh, then glanced up at Marie-Eve. "Please tell me you're not going to go running off?" she said mildly. What a mess this had turned out to be.