11th July, evening; A riverside bounty

The rasping crunch of footsteps on dry grass grew gradually closer and Madame Benveniste appeared in the firelight. She checked briefly at the sight of the pair sitting a short distance away, then gave Blanchard a tired smile and went to store her tonnelet. Gilles and Philippe were both sleeping soundly and did not stir as she removed several of the carefully folded blankets from the pile beside them.

Returning from the wagon, she sank to her knees beside opposite Jeremie. "She was not any trouble, I hope," she asked gently, easing Mathilde, who had slumped sideways against Blanchard in her sleep, onto her side and tucking another blanket around her.

Her? Trouble? Never.

"No." Jérémie shook his head, lifting his arm clear as Mathilde's sleeping form was eased away to a more comfortable position on the ground. "She has been very good."

Margot chuckled softly. "I am glad to hear it," she said, getting to her feet and draping the remaining blanket across Blanchard's shoulders. Quietly she collected the mugs and brought them over to the fire where she set about rinsing and wiping them clean, adding, "You're welcome to a place by the fire for the night, love."

He muttered a "Thank you" and got to his feet, picking up his musket as he did so. His pack would be safe enough where it was, he thought. The firelock was the only thing he wanted to keep with him tonight anyway.

"Have..." Jérémie interrupted himself so he could sit again - a handy, if brief, distraction so he could be sure he was phrasing this correctly. "You seen Paol?"

Splashing some water from the kettle into the pot, Margot swished it with her fingers, rubbing loose the worst of the dried stew. "Aye," she replied after thinking a moment, "It was early into my rounds, but yes, I did see him wandering about."

Shit.

Jérémie sighed. He had not told Paol anything of his fight with Quentin, but it would have done no good to do so. Now, however... the situation was different. The people involved had, indirectly, been the cause of the fight. Or one of the causes, anyway. He felt his face beginning to grow warm again and decided it was best to just say it before his nerve failed.

"Are you going out again?" Stupid thing to ask. He glanced down at his hands, his eyes briefly straying to the slight swelling around the knuckles on his left hand. "I mean... there was a bit of trouble earlier and..." And there will probably be more, later. But could he bring himself to admit to that?

Margot set the pot down very deliberately and looked up, "Trouble?"

"Not with Paol," he clarified, lest that part be misunderstood. He wouldn't remark on the reasons for Paol's absence, either. Christ, why hadn't he just kept this to himself?

"One of the lads was talking... too much." Jérémie forced his hands open, having realised they had closed into fists. He would not repeat anything Quentin had said. "Then there was a fight. Or it started as one..." And ended in a complete disaster.

He shrugged helplessly, caught between his own embarrassment and an honest concern.

He had just described an average night in the regiment. "You'll have to do better than that, love," she said, not unkindly, but in a tone which brooked no argument.

The word idiot was racing around inside his head. It was all he could do not to blurt out everything, since the whole story was now threatening to come out.

"Quentin," he said at length, his gaze fixed on the fire. If he didn't look around, or at her, he might have a chance. "We were on picquet. He was... saying things. I tried to shut him up. It... went badly." A grimace crossed his face. "He might come round wanting... well. Might be more trouble. I don't know."

He didn't realise it, but he had drawn his musket up into his lap and was holding it tightly in both hands.

"I see." For a long moment she was silent. Her immediate and dominant reaction was anger, cold and vicious, but entirely inappropriate for the present company. She drew in a long breath. forcing her hands to return to work. "I would not," she said at last, "Worry overmuch about Quentin. For all that he is a brute, there are lines that even he will not cross. Besides," she added with a certain grim satisfaction, "Navarre owes me a favor." If anyone could put the fear of God into the bastard, it was that devil of a southerner.

She noticed then the way Blanchard was clutching his musket and her expression softened somewhat. Poor lad. "Thank you, Jérémie."

Her words went some way toward reassuring him, but it was difficult to completely shake his misgivings. His own view was biassed, of course. It was easy for him to imagine that only further ill could come of that earlier encounter, regardless what anyone said.

"I did little enough," he began, then caught himself. What he considered that he'd done and what she thought he'd done were clearly vastly different. "I hope this all comes to nothing." At least with respect to possible outcomes to Quentin's remarks. In truth, he didn't care a whit if anything untoward happened to Quentin himself.

She clucked her tongue, clearly disagreeing with his first statement and rose, wiping her hands on her apron. For several moments she was lost to sight behind the wagon, but when she reappeared again it was with a small cup which she offered to Blanchard. "Drink that and try to get some sleep," she told him, warmly matter-of-fact.

At first, her departure confused him but Jérémie understood, mostly, when she returned, carrying a cup. He was surprised, however, when she offered it to him.

"Thank you," he said. He needed no real urging to drink, though the cup's contents were not what he'd expected. Brandy. The gesture was appreciated. Jérémie swallowed the fiery liquid, then held the cup out. Sleep, she'd said. That was the one thing he didn't think he could let himself do. Not tonight. Not even with her expression of certainty that things were safe.

Still. He could hold off relocating himself until she retired. All he had to do was keep his eyes open.


Jérémie appears next here.