"What, none of 'em?" yelled someone. "Put a torch up the backside of one of the lackeys and they'll soon blab."
"That stink, what is it?" Could they smell the fetid damp?
"Your bloody boots, I daresay."
The canvas was heavy beneath Raoul's arm. He longed to let it drop but he dared not move. It seemed an eternity before the violence outside ceased and the duke's rooms were silent. The girl tried to shake free. At least she was not hysterical. Raoul slowly lifted his hand from her mouth.
"Stay still. I need to find my flint." Her breath was irregular as he knelt and lit the candle, keeping it well away from her petticoats. "That's better, eh? You're a brave girl." It was a grudging admission but not well received. After all, she could not study his relieved face behind the neckcloth. Although she was intelligent enough to hold her tongue, the knuckles clutching her laden skirt to her waist glimmered white.
It was not easy to see without a lantern. The candle dazzled them and the chit struggled to clutch her trophies one-handed, freeing her right hand to shield her eyes so she might manage the stone steps. Raoul had less visibility than her but he remembered these stairs—how her half-sisters had locked him in; how, smouldering with anger, he had been compelled to edge his way down them, his courage lit only by the thought of revenge. Back then he had fought off the irrational fear that had threatened to choke him; the terror of being enclosed. Even now the sweat of fear was prickling on his skin.
"How did you know of this?" the girl whispered.
"Be quiet!"
"Are you the same thief who stole my father's snuffbox from his escritoire last week? Did you—?"
"Be quiet!"
It would take merely one push to send this girl tumbling down the narrow stairwell. Only the fact that she had had no part in her half-sisters' escapade kept her alive.
She was silent but not for long. "Do you have to wear that stupid scarf?" She halted and twisted round to speak, her cheeks shiny and pimpled in the flickering light. He ignored her and with a huffy little shrug she continued the descent. The dankness had a disturbing trace of smoke in it as they reached ground level. Merciful God, he hoped that the rest of the passage was clear and he would be able to get the trapdoor open.
"Not far now," he muttered, marvelling at how well the girl was bearing up. How brave would she be if she had to feel her way alone, in total darkness, with rats running across her bare feet?
"I'm freezing."
Gallantry battled with common sense. His greatcoat would have drowned her and impeded her progress. "Like the rest of France," he answered.
His boots squelched in the water puddled in the passageway. They must be clear of the house now. Another twenty paces should take them beyond the stable to the glasshouse.
The passageway ended in a wall of earth. The crude ladder, left for the convenience of escaping dukes or—more likely—visiting whores, looked too rotten and ancient to bear Raoul's weight while he dislodged the trapdoor. "Hold these!" He loaded the girl's overburdened arms and she waited stoically while he pushed upwards. The trapdoor did not move. Cursing, he tried again, straining as he had that time before when some fool gardener had left a barrow over it. Heaving with all his strength, he felt it give, and slowly he pushed it upwards. The sweeter air, even though it was scented with potting earth and horse manure, smelled more blessed to him than a mistress's perfume or a roasting duck.
Worth trying the ladder now, he decided, but the second rung snapped under his foot. He sprang onto the third rung and up so swiftly that it took his weight and he was able to scramble out. "Hand me up the painting."
"Only if you promise not to shut me in."
"Would I have damn well bothered with you if that were my plan?" He took the booty she passed up piece by piece. "Now put that candle out!" He passed down a tub for her to stand on, and helped her hoist herself up. Brushing her skirts and palms, she joined him like a comrade-in-arms as he stood staring out through the glass.
"Oh, good God!" she whispered. The panes beyond the potting trays were dirty but there was no mistaking the fire lighting the windows of the chateau. He heard the draw of breath and slapped his palm against her mouth before her involuntary scream burst forth.
"There is nothing you can do," he muttered. "Stay calm." Her shoulders trembled and he kept hold until her shaking gradually ceased. She shook him off and glared through the window.
"They're taking out the horses," she muttered, cursing beneath her breath.
"So now is a good time to run."
"I'm not going anywhere," she exclaimed bravely. "This is my home, so give me back my father's pistol! I'll kill myself if I have to."
"Oh no, you'll live," he promised, his voice a hiss of menace. Despite her courage, let her know what it was like to feel helpless and hungry for a while. "Where are the rest of your accursed family?"
"At court. Maman died a few months ago." The pain in her voice was still raw. He did not answer. "Oh, bon Dieu, someone's coming."
"Keep your nerve."
Raoul pressed her down under the potting shelf and crouched beside her.
"Who's in there?" A lantern waved. "I know you're hiding. Who's there, I say?"
"A friend."
"Growing cabbages, are you? Come out and show yourself."
"I'm enjoying a woman," Raoul called out. "You have a quarrel with that?"
"I said show yourself."
To Raoul's astonishment, the duke's daughter let out a rich gurgle of feminine laughter worthy of any nubile chambermaid.
"Sounds like you are already doing that." A chuckle filled the silence. "Well, don't be long. We're going to torch everything before we leave."
She giggled again, a small self-satisfied laugh, as the latch was dropped, then in a less courageous voice, she demanded: "What did you mean, 'enjoying a woman'?" Was she taunting him?
"Where did you learn to laugh like that?" he countered, wondering if she was already corrupted by her despicable half-sisters.
"From Celeste, one of the maids. She giggles like that whenever my brother tries to kiss her."
Well, thank heaven for Celeste, he thought grimly, mentally adding "seduction of maidservants" to his list of grudges. A great pity King Louis had not asked for cahiers de dolerances against individual lords. His most Christian Majesty could sell them afterwards as scandal sheets.
"Come on." Raoul prodded her down towards the glass door furthest from the chateau. "My horse is hidden at the grotto. Can you lead the way?"
"Of course!" The reply was haughty.
Then what would he do with her? Deal with that later, he willed himself. Now he needed to concentrate on getting the pair of them out of the grounds.
He followed her along the kitchen garden wall behind the basse-cour and then they skirted a small hedge, keeping their heads ducked in case the flames shooting up from the glowing windows lit their presence. Once the girl looked back across the lawn, her face white and horrified at the screaming and the demoniac figures running to and forth.
"Go on!"
She halted, out of breath with her exertion, against an oak. "How did you kn—? Jesu!" A mighty, inhuman trampling came towards them. Raoul cocked the pistol, taking aim but then an ugly braying erupted from the bushes and a dark shape lurched towards them.
"Blanchette," Cupid exclaimed in relief. "The chaplain's donkey."
"Wonderful!" Raoul took her arm to drag her away.
"But we can't leave her here."
"Yes, we can," he snarled. This was the last thing he needed crashing along with them, but the donkey did not share his opinion. It followed. All he needed now was a celestial choir and a couple of shepherds and they could volunteer for next Noel in the cathedral. No, forget the shepherds. They were probably splintering the Louis Quinze chairs.
He heard the sound of Nostradamus's hoofs and the rattle of his bridle before they reached the grotto. Someone was trying to make off with him. A huge fellow! Fierce and not just desperate
but armed with a cleaver. Oh God, he would have to jump the wretch and—
"Thomas!" admonished Cupid primly, recklessly shoving in front of him. "That is not your horse."
"Stand back, man, or I'll shoot," growled Raoul, pushing her aside. He raised the pistol.
"But you havent got it lo—" Oh God, a far too clever child!
"Yes, I have," lied Raoul. "Did you hear me, scoundrel, stand back from that horse!"
"Mademoiselle," exclaimed the huge man, his face softening. "Nom de ciel, is that you?"
"This is Thomas, our underchef," said Cupid cheerfully, obviously feeling correct etiquette was necessary. "And this man is a thief but he has been generous enough to help me escape."
And now it was the unsuspecting Thomas's turn to play knight errant, decided Raoul. Yes, he remembered the man vaguely. It might be a risk to put the girl in the fellow's hands, but he certainly sounded gentler than he looked.
"Attend to mademoiselle's safety, mon brave. Take her and the damned donkey and get out of here!"
A gasp came from the darkness, followed by a silence as though the huge man was weighing the matter. "Very well," he answered finally.
"But where shall I go?" Cupid's hands tugged beseechingly at the front of Raoul's greatcoat as though he had become her nurse.
"Now don't be foolish, little one," he exclaimed. "You have family."
"But they have all gone to Versailles. Shall I—?"
"No! Not Versailles," he advised swiftly. The court was no safe place for a young girl. "Somewhere else, eh?" He shook her elbows. "Some other relative?"
"An uncle in Normandy but I hardly—"
"Then go to him. Thomas will take you. Get going, man. I will see you on your way!"
The lodge gates had been ripped down and the cottage was on fire but astonishingly there was no one about. "Come on!" Raoul wrapped his coat round the girl and, drawing his horse behind them, hurried her past, hoping she had not seen the old gatekeeper lying in a puddle of his own blood.
Unfit, Cupid halted, bent over with the pain in her side from running. Raoul urged her into the cover of the bushes edging the Clerville road. "I'm leaving," he told her as the large man came lumbering up with the donkey. "Go with Thomas now and do as he says."
The girl straightened. "Who are you? How shall I know you again? Why won't you let me see your face?"
"Because, being a Montbulliou, you might have me hanged," he answered coldly, retrieving his coat.
"You are a thief!" she retorted matter-of-factly.
"Yes, mademoiselle, not worthy to lick your shoes." The bitterness in him rose like bile as if he tasted the words. Marguerite, the girl's oldest half-sister, had lashed him with that taunt. He tied the canvas across his saddle pommel. He would secure it better later. "Adieu.'
He was glad to be free of her, and as he rode away, skirting the town, the burning chateau lit the night sky, blinding the stars.
Chapter 1
March 1793
"I am glad you do not know about equality, mademoiselle," Fleur told her donkey as they took the shorter way over the hill, "else I should be carrying your load." She reached out a fond hand to Blanchette's nose and received a friendly huff in return.
They threaded their way warily amongst the oaks, alert for the startle of birds' wings that might warn them of wild boar or two-legged danger. Fleur was humming softly under her breath. Her weekly sortie to Caen had been satisfactory; no one had challenged her and her disguise as a boy had worked yet again. Even if any of the citizens of Caen remembered a plump schoolgirl who had once attended Trinité School, they would hardly see the resemblance in a thin lad, peaky from a winter of hunger. Now she and Blanchette had only to descend and cross the main track that traversed the forest and then they would be almost home.
It was amazing what contented Fleur these days. Once she would have been heartbroken to leave the excitement of the town; these days she found reassurance in the forest, for oaks and elms did not change the laws from one day to the next. This was her refuge. To think that as a child she had daydreamed of living in a woodland cottage like a hidden princess. She had never guessed it would become a necessity, that her kind would be hunted like foxes. Ciel! She had even conformed to wearing a revolutionary rosette of white, red and blue on her cap; a wonder that Blanchette was not expected to wear one too!
There had been several times since 1791 when starvation had nearly taken her, when thieving or else bringing down a pigeon with her catapult had enabled her and Tante Estelle to survive. And it was worse now. Because the grand seigneurs had fled and foresters were no longer employed to scare away poachers, the peasants were slaughtering the deer and other game as if the forest could be easily replenished. Soon there would be nothing. Many a time Fleur had wished the man who had forced her to leave her father's chateau had shot her through the heart, for the future was as bleak and desperate as her past.
She and Tante Estelle endured a meagre existence. Cécile, her half-sister, was somewhere in England, and her uncle and brother had fled Paris in '91 to join the King's brothers in Coblenz. If they returned, it meant the guillotine; the Paris mob had already slaughtered Papa and Marguerite, God rest their souls! And even in the depths of Grimbosq, Fleur lived in uncertainty, for any relatives of émigrés were suspect and if the authorities discovered she was the daughter of the infamous Duc de Montbulliou, there would be no acquittal. This cursed Revolution! Even innocent Thomas, who had brought her safely to her uncle's house, was barely eking out a living selling sausages in Bayeux.
"Diable! What now?" She froze as sounds of a scuffle reached her from the road. Charlotte, her friend in Caen, had warned her that she took too many risks, journeying on her own so much.
Two masked horsemen were attacking a third rider, a large, older man who thrust his stick this way and that, trying to keep a seat on his terrified horse. His assailants were far too nimble for him and one of their blades drove into his belly. He gave a fierce yelp of agony. Bicorne hat and wig went flying as he tumbled off onto the slaty track and lay there convulsing. From her hiding place above the thicket of hazel, holly and brambles that coated the lower slope, Fleur watched appalled as the man's violent spasms gradually ceased. Was he dead? Perhaps not, for one of the brigands dismounted and kicked him over onto his back. Just as the villain drew back his arm to slash the man's windpipe, Fleur did the only thing she could think of to save him.
"Hola!" she bawled as if she had comrades lagging behind in the forest, and reached for her catapult. "Pierre, Jacques, vite! Stop slacking!"
The startled assassin tensed. He might have finished the bloody task but Fleur shot a stone into the flank of the other brigand's horse. It reared, terrifying the traveller's steed into flight, and bolted, leaving the second murderer to fling himself into the saddle and spur off after them. Since the track disappeared round a bend within some fifty paces, Fleur could not be sure they were truly gone. Her one extravagance, the pistol hidden beneath her jacket, might bring down one of the brigands. The other? It would have to be the knife in her belt.
With a huge shove, she drove Blanchette forward and hastened to where the man lay sprawled. Blood was staining the lower part of his waistcoat.
"Oh, monsieur!" Heedless of whether the assassins would return, Fleur threw herself to her knees. After such throes, she was positive the traveller must be dead, but she still reached beneath the expensive lace frill that cuffed his wrist, hoping there might be a faint pulse.
The man's eyes opened a crack. "Cross yourself, boy!" he hissed through clenched teeth. "Respect the dead! Remove your cap!"
Amazed at his quick-wittedness, she snatched off her bonnet, bent her head as if in prayer and then rose to her feet, waving to the hillside. "Hey, Jacques, there's a dead man here."
"Well done, lad!" muttered the traveller through the corner of his mouth. "Have they gone?"
"I cannot be certain." Fleur sprang up, whistled with all the vigour of a peasant stripling and waved
to her imaginary companions. "Down here, Pierre!"
How badly wounded was the traveller? Was he going to die? With dusk coming on, she could not leave him here to be run over by a carriage or some courier riding like the Devil. The bubbling blood persuaded her. He could bleed to death while she fetched help from the charcoal-burners or sabot-makers who worked in the forest. The nearest cottage was hers. Dared she take him there? The man did not look like a revolutionary, even though his tumbled hat paid lip service to Equality with a tricolore cockade, but it was hard to know these days. Human birds sang different songs depending who was listening.
"Give it another moment," the injured man rasped, his face contorting as if every word hurt. "Kneel and search my pockets as if you are looking for clues of identity. Pull things out. Examine them."
Fleur obeyed, her movements exaggerated, and finally the drum of retreating hooves told her the brigands had gone. With a loud breath of relief, she straightened up.
"Cl-clever lad." The whisper of praise took strength. He winced as she pressed the handkerchief from his pocket against the wound. "You would make a fine actor."
"Who are you, monsieur?" He was old. In his fifties, she guessed. That face had seen a lot of living. The florid skin, now ominously pale, was slack over his cheekbones; deep lines traversed the high, clammy forehead; and the cropped hair, flattened from the wig, held scant proof that it had once been mousy.
"Bosanquet, Matthieu Bosanquet." He tried to sit up but the pain was great.
Fleur undid the leather flask at her belt and, nursing his shoulders, let him take a swig of water. "I live close by. If I could assist you onto Blanchette..."
"Blanch–ah, yes. Quickly, eh?"
Glancing over her shoulder all the time lest the assassins return, she swiftly unbuckled the panniers from the donkey, and refastened the girth belt about Blanchette's shaggy pelt so that Monsieur Bosanquet could grip the leather while she put her arms beneath his shoulders and heaved him forwards onto his knees. He was so close to fainting that only his powerful willpower finally got him onto Blanchette.
Fleur-de-Lis Page 2
