Exploring the Crown

With half a pork pie wedged in his mouth and several more stuffed into the pockets of his new white robe, Foucheaux slipped into the hallway and tiptoed down the passage, hoping to find a safe place to hide from all these English that seemed to be everywhere.

This was as crazy a place as anything he could have imagined. Fancy to a fault and more confusing than a new ship. Whatever this place was, it was nowhere he would normally be. Yet here Stéphane was, carelessly tracking pitch onto the gleaming hardwood floor.

His sense of surreal detachment was heightened when he spotted a man clad in something long, white, and fluffy, and in the act of cramming a pastry into his crumb-lined mouth. "What the hell are you?" He demanded without a thought as to who he might be addressing.

Clad once more in his damp uniform -- he'd been unable to shake the sense of unease he'd felt in the strange, fluffy garment -- Paol rounded a corner and abruptly collided with a tall man in a red hat. "Sorry! I-- Foucheaux?"

Another man appeared then, crashing solidly into Stéphane's back, though this one was dressed in proper clothes. Or not, Stéphane amended quickly, recognising the man's uniform for what it was.

"Swine," he sneered, taking an involuntary step back. The army. The God-damned army. Was this one of their garrisons? If it was, he was clearing out of here and fast.

Paol frowned in confusion. "Sorry," he repeated, taking a step back himself. "I didn't see you."

No, of course he hadn't. Soldiers never saw the people they walked over. Unless they were keen to steal from them or destroy everything they possessed.

"You got eyes, don't you?" Stéphane retorted. "Or are they only good for seeing where to shove your - "

It occurred to him then that the other man was probably a soldier too, and that there were others undoubtedly close by. He should at least moderate his volume or the whole garrison would be down on his head in a moment. Suddenly wary, he glanced sharply around, his hands curling into fists. If any more soldiers turned up, he was confident he could handle at least a few before numbers got the better of him.

"I'm sorry, I--" Paol broke off, seeing the other man's hands ball into fists. Had he just completely missed something? "Steady, mate. No one's lookin' for trouble."

For a soldier, this one was given to apologising. He must be new to the life. He wouldn't have learned how the army was. Stupid bastard.

"That'd be a first, for one of your lot." Stéphane glanced toward the man in the daft dressing gown, feeling uneasy at his continued silence. "So how many of you bastards are there here? A company?"

He really should get out of here, regardless. Lingering like this smacked solidly of idiocy. Yet he felt he had to know, if only to be sure that this was a place to avoid at all costs.

Ah. So that's what this was about. One of his lot. Right. Suppressing a sigh, Paol shrugged. "Dunno. Ain't rightly sure what this place is."

That admission caught him off-guard, just a little. Of course, it was folly to trust a soldier.

"I'm sure you don't," Stéphane grunted, expecting a horde of other soldiers to appear at any moment. His sense of self-preservation was beginning to get the better of him and he edged toward the door through which he'd originally come.

An instant later, he halted, a scowl darkening his face. "The coast. Where is it?"

"The coast?" Paol asked, wondering if he had misunderstood the man's French.

Christ above.

"The coast," Stéphane repeated. "Borders the sea. You might know about it? It's big and blue and wet."

Or maybe he didn't. Bretons weren't all that sharp, after all.

Paol flushed darkly. "I don't know where here is," he admitted. "No idea about the coast." Last he remembered he'd been in Spain.

Wasn't this just his luck. Not only had he run into a soldier, he'd found the stupidest one in existence. Maybe this was a not-so-subtle sign that he'd be better off figuring out where he was by himself.

"God-damned Bretons," Stéphane grumbled, mostly to himself. It was clearly time to be away from here. He sized the two soldiers up, then decided the continued absence of others of their sort meant he might have a chance. "The hell do you know?"

"I know it's warm, dry, there's food, and no one's trying to shoot me," he retorted, exasperation finally getting the better of him. "The hell's it matter where it is?"

"Why'nt you just bugger off and find a ship," Foucheaux said around a mouthful of food. He tossed one of the pork pies to Kerjean as if it were a ball. It very nearly was, being round, cold and quite solid.

Roux came around the corner, and breathed a sigh of relief at seeing familiar faces.

"Paol! What's going on?" Then he paused, blinking at them. "And what the hell is Foucheaux wearing?"

Stéphane's scowl deepened. Obviously this was indeed a garrison, if soldiers felt safe here. Which meant he was stupid for hanging about.

"It's nothing you would understand," he snapped. Then, the soldier in the dressing-gown decided finally to speak, and any wariness Stéphane might have had of him vanished - though when the man lofted one of his pastries toward his companion, Stéphane's hand was quick to flick out and snatch it from the air.

"A ship? Funny, that's precisely what I'm doing. So I'll ask it again, where's the coast from here?"

The arrival of a third soldier heightened his already-sharp sense of danger, but it was important to know where to go before making any escape. Even if it meant getting that information from these bastards.

"Houx!" Foucheaux exclaimed, crumbs exploding from his mouth. He tossed Roux a pork pie as well, and then reached across and handed another to Kerjean, giving the sailor a smirk. He swallowed his mouthful and spoke again. "Lookin' for the coast, eh?" He pointed down the hall. "Go down there to the front door, then go out and turn right. Just keep going until you come to the sea. Can't miss it."

"Thanks!" Paol said in surprise as Foucheaux handed him another of the pies – how many did he have? – then turned grinning to the familiar, redheaded figure. "No idea!"

"Suppose it doesn't matter when he's sharing food!" Roux said, grinning and taking a large bite from his pork pie. "Thanks!"

He raised his eyebrows at the cross-looking little man in the red hat.

"Why would you want a ship?" he asked around a mouthful of food.

Directions, at last. Though judging from the tone in which they were given, most likely not accurate ones. Still, a response was a response and Stéphane had more or less gotten what he wanted.

But why did he want a ship? Honestly? He regarded the third soldier with narrowed eyes, wondering if perhaps this one was more stupid than the first man.

"A ship is something any man of sense wants, I do believe," he said blandly. "Or at least any good sailor does."

Roux shrugged, taking another bite of pie.

"Fair enough."

Paol frowned, thinking. "Ain't there a navy officer 'round here somewhere? He might know."

Stéphane swung round toward the idiot soldier, his fists clenching. "Why in the hell would I want a Navy officer?" He spat.