The Ruby Talisman

by Belinda Murrell

  The girls searched the apartment looking for more money, without success. Everything of value seemed to have been removed.

  Tilly did however find a small, thin sword that had been left in the corner of Henri’s chamber. It was heavier than the épéeshe used for fencing lessons, but she decided it might just come in handy. She buckled the belt around her waist and hid the sword under her riding cloak.

  Mimi climbed onto Amelie’s shoulder and they set off, each carrying a portmanteau.

  All was confusion down in the stables – they were not the only people planning their escape. Grooms ran hither and thither, saddling horses and harnessing carriages. Servants piled belongings up into carriages and carts.

  The girls hurried their steps. The row of stalls where the Comte’s horses had been kept was empty. Amelie ran towards Angelique’s stall. One of the Comte’s horses – a pale-grey Arab – was already saddled and tethered outside its stall.

  The black mare, Angelique, was still standing in her own stall. She was, however, in the middle of being saddled up by a strange young man.

  ‘Excusez-moi,’ blurted Amelie, ‘but this is my horse. Take your hands off her at once, s’il vous plaît.’

  The man look discomfited as he hefted the saddle girth tighter.

  ‘Pardon, mademoiselle,’ he replied, ‘but my horse has been stolen this morning, so I am now taking ownership of this mare. I must leave Versailles immediately. However, I will pay you handsomely.’

  ‘Merci, mais non,’ replied Amelie. ‘I do not want your gold. I want my horse. We, too, must leave Versailles immediately.’

  The man did not reply, instead slipping the reins over Angelique’s head and sliding the bit into her velvety mouth.

  ‘Monsieur!’ reprimanded Amelie.

  The man slipped his fingers into his pocket, extracted some coins and handed them towards Amelie. At the same moment, he gripped Angelique’s reins and started leading her out of the stall. Amelie let the coins clatter to the ground.

  In one quick movement, Tilly had flung back the cloak and unsheathed her sword.

  ‘Monsieur, my friend said she doesn’t want your gold,’ Tilly reminded him with a clenched jaw. ‘She wants her horse back.’

  The man laughed nervously and led Angelique forward, putting his arm out to fob off the girls.

  ‘Now, no need for that ... What sort of lady would draw naked steel on an unarmed gentleman?’

  ‘What sort of gentleman would steal a horse from two defenceless ladies?’ retorted Tilly angrily. ‘Now step back.’

  The man sized Tilly up. She was only a girl, dressed in cumbersome skirts and petticoats. However, she had in her hands a glittering sword – and she held it expertly.

  ‘En garde!’ warned Tilly one last time, her body tensing into its familiar fencing posture. She leapt forward, the sword leading her thrust.

  The gentleman dropped Angelique’s reins and scuttled back into the stall, away from the wicked point. Angelique shied and pranced at the altercation.

  ‘Amelie, lead Angelique out of the stall,’ ordered Tilly, still threatening the man with her sword. ‘Monsieur, don’t do anything foolish. I promise you, I know how to use a sword – and I will.’

  The man’s eyes darted around, looking either for a way to escape or a weapon. Tilly backed out after Angelique, keeping the sword pointed towards the enemy and closing the stall door behind her.

  ‘Get up on Angelique,’ ordered Tilly. ‘I’ll pass you your bag.’

  ‘It is not a side-saddle,’ complained Amelie. ‘It is a gentleman’s saddle.’

  ‘Just ride astride,’ ordered Tilly. ‘Marie-Antoinette used to when she was younger – and for goodness sake hurry!’

  Amelie hauled herself into the saddle, Mimi scrambling behind her. Tilly passed up one of the bulging portmanteaus.

  ‘Go,’ ordered Tilly, slapping Angelique on the rump. ‘Wait for me out in the courtyard.’

  Tilly untied the reins of the second horse, sheathed her sword and hurriedly swung herself into the saddle, struggling to heft up the heavy portmanteau. The gentleman burst from the stall after her, lunging for the reins. Tilly kicked her heels into the horse’s sides.

  ‘Ya! Ya!’ she urged.

  The heavy bag cut into Tilly’s palm, the uneven weight causing the grey to skitter.

  The would-be horse thief caught hold of Tilly’s skirts and yanked, nearly unseating her. Tilly used the portmanteau as a weapon, lifting it high, then swinging it down on her assailant.

  Dodging and slipping in the stable muck, the horse thief fell, the portmanteau on top of him. The bag fell open, spilling petticoats, chemises and pale-green silk all over the hapless man.

  Tilly urged her horse into a canter down the long cobbled corridor, swung around the corner and out into the sunshine.

  Amelie was waiting impatiently in the courtyard, strapping her leather portmanteau to the front of her saddle.

  ‘Let’s go,’ cried Tilly as she galloped past Amelie. Tilly’s heart surged with joy at outwitting the horse thief. She felt wonderful, galloping a horse off into the French countryside on a sunny, summer day. They were finally escaping.

  The two horses slowed to a trot to negotiate the busy streets of the township of Versailles. The streets were crowded with people, waiting in anticipation for the King to attend a meeting of the National Assembly.

  There were artisans in wooden sabots, tradesmen carrying tools, market women with their cheeks stained with red wine to replicate the fine ladies’ rouge and barefooted children in rags, their faces grey and hungry.

  A thin boy with sunken eyes watched Amelie and Tilly trot past on their expensive horses, dressed in fine velvet and lace. His stomach ached with perpetual hunger, and a rage roared through his blood. He stooped, found a broken stone and threw it with all his strength after Amelie.

  The jagged stone struck Angelique on the rump and made her rear with panic. Amelie clung on tightly, Mimi shrieking with rage and fright.

  ‘Down with the aristos.’ He shook his fist at Amelie, speaking with a heavily accented, rough patois that was difficult for Tilly to understand. ‘Long live the Third Estate!’ he shouted, referring to the common people– anyone who was not of the nobility or the clergy.

  ‘Long live the Third Estate,’ echoed a mob of tradesmen, punching their fists in the air. ‘Down with the aristos!’

  A carpenter grabbed an orange from a nearby stall and hurled it. Tilly decided not to waste time watching to see what might happen. She kicked her heels into the sides of the pale-grey mare and cantered on, dodging the orange and passers-by. Behind her she could hear the angry cries of the fruit seller and the insults of the mob.

  In a few minutes the girls were away from the town of Versailles and riding down a country lane, heading roughly south. Amelie stopped to check if Angelique was wounded, but she seemed more frightened than seriously hurt.

  ‘Sorry, I had to use your bag as a weapon to fight off your horse thief,’ apologised Tilly. ‘I dropped it on his head.’

  Amelie looked stricken, realising Tilly no longer had the other portmanteau. She glanced back towards Versailles, as though she was prepared to gallop back and fetch it.

  ‘We can’t go back,’ warned Tilly firmly. ‘We might not make it away a second time. Besides, last time I saw your bag the horse thief was lolling in horse manure with your clothes draped all over him.’

  Amelie sighed and nodded.

  ‘Oui,’ she agreed. ‘I suppose you are right. We should ride on if we want to reach the chateau by nightfall.’

  ‘Do you know how to get there?’ asked Tilly curiously.

  ‘Chateau de Montjoyeuse is about fifty kilometres south-west of here,’ replied Amelie. ‘It is very beautiful, set in a little open valley near the royal hunting forest of St Arnoult. We need to ride south towards Rambouillet, then on the back road towards St Arnoult.’

  ‘Fifty kilometres?’ asked Tilly. ‘How long will that take us?’

/>   ‘It is a long ride, but we could do it in one day if we tried. Angelique and Mystique, your horse, are both Arabs, so they are fast and strong. They could do twice that distance in a day if we really had to.’

  The day was hot, the sky a vast blue. Late flowers– white feverfew, deep-blue lupins, pink thyme and fragrant honeysuckle bloomed in the hedgerows. The girls rode on, clopping through shady forest paths, wide-open fields golden with nearly ripe wheat and corn, and small villages.

  At midday, they stopped for a short rest in the shade of an old oak tree to drink chilly, clear water from a brook and to eat bread and creamy, tangy goat’s cheese before riding on. Mimi curled up and slept in Amelie’s lap, ignoring the bumps and jolts.

  By mid-afternoon Tilly’s legs and back were aching. They paced the horses – periodically cantering, trotting and walking. As the day drew on, Tilly felt too sore to canter or trot and she longed to reach their destination.

  The dirt track wound along on a plateau of wild moor before descending through a thick forest of birch and oak. They startled a deer and her spotted fawn, grazing in a clearing, and the two animals bounded off into the undergrowth.

  The forest was dark and gloomy. The hot July sunshine did not penetrate into its dank shadows. Amelie and Tilly drew their horses together unconsciously, feeling less secure than in the open countryside.

  The two horses arched their necks and pranced nervously. Tilly heard a branch crack. Amelie clutched her riding crop and reins.

  Suddenly, two men galloped their horses out from behind a thicket of trees and wheeled sharply to face the girls, blocking the track. They wore grey mufflers around their necks, covering the bottom half of their faces, and were dressed in the rough clothes of peasant farmers. Each one pointed a deadly black pistol at the girls.

  ‘Bonjour, my fine ladies,’ growled one of the men. ‘You’re very brave riding alone in this forest. Don’t you know there are brigands and outlaws roaming about, robbing and murdering innocent travellers?’

  Amelie and Tilly reined in their horses sharply. There seemed nothing else they could do without being shot.

  Amelie glanced at Tilly and gave her a warning stare. She turned to face their attackers, her eyes wide and her face pale. ‘Ooooh,’ she shrieked, her voice trembling in fear. She collapsed in the saddle as though she was swooning. ‘Do not hurt us, s’il vous plaît. We have nothing to steal.’

  Tilly’s heart thumped, adrenalin surging through her blood. She could feel the sword in its scabbard against her thigh; her hand itched to draw it. She hoped Amelie would not faint and fall off her horse.

  One of the men rode forward, his eyes mesmerised by the flashing fire of the huge ruby around Amelie’s neck.

  ‘I think I can see something I like already, mademoiselle,’ mocked the bandit, riding up to Amelie and putting the pistol in his rein hand so he could take the dazzling necklace.

  Amelie shrank back in the saddle, her lips trembling and eyes blinking away tears. When the bandit was close enough to reach out and touch the necklace, Amelie raised her riding crop and slashed it across his face.

  ‘Go,’ she screamed to Tilly as she thumped her heels into Angelique’s side.

  The brigand screamed in pain, a bright red welt exploding across his cheek. His horse plunged in fright at the slashing crop and the sudden noise.

  Tilly drew her rapier and charged straight towards the other horseman, the sword aimed at his heart. She saw the man’s eyes widen in shock. Amelie slashed him across the back with her crop as she galloped past. The man skittered out of the way, fumbling with his pistol. His horse reared and bucked, neighing with fright.

  The two girls lay low upon their horses’ necks, instinctively making themselves as small as possible. Tilly’s nostrils filled with the salty, tangy smell of horse sweat and fear. Her own heart thundered.

  A pistol-shot exploded behind them, closely followed by another. Tilly did not turn or pause, but clung fiercely to Mystique as she galloped for their lives. Tilly thought she could hear the thunder of horses’ hooves behind them, but the peasant farm horses were no match for the finely bred and well-fed Arabian horses.

  Tilly saw the hard, rutted track below her and prayed she wouldn’t fall off.

  The horses galloped flat out for many minutes, then gradually slowed to a canter, then a walk, their sides heaving.

  Amelie risked glancing behind them. The track was empty. ‘Très bon.I think we have lost them.’

  Tilly smiled shakily at Amelie, sheathing her rapier and adjusting the reins. ‘Wow, that was scary,’ she exclaimed. ‘For a moment there I thought you really were having hysterics. Good thinking. Thank you.’

  ‘I knew we could outrun them if we got a chance,’ replied Amelie. ‘I hoped I could get them off guard if I pretended to be a swooning, helpless female. I am glad you had the sense to stay on when we fled.’

  Tilly didn’t confess that she had nearly come unbalanced during that wild gallop.

  Amelie shivered with fear and shock. ‘More brigands...’

  Both girls thought of the Comte and Comtesse who had not been so lucky to escape. Tilly had visions of the blood-spattered coachmen and the ominous words – Liberté. Égalité. Fraternité.– scrawled on the coach door in dried blood.

  ‘Come on,’ urged Amelie. ‘’Tis not very far now.’

  After another twenty minutes the forest cleared into an open valley, green and fertile. The heat of the valley hit them in the face as they left the shelter of the trees.

  ‘We are nearly home,’ encouraged Amelie. ‘We are nearly safe.’

  The girls had hardly spoken for the last part of the ride, concentrating on the track ahead and searching the shadows for potential danger.

  At last, the track rounded a corner and crested a small rise, and there, a kilometre away on the opposite rise, was revealed a gorgeous building of golden, sun-warmed stone.

  9

  The Chateau de Montjoyeuse

  The Chateau de Montjoyeuse,’ proclaimed Amelie with a strong note of pride. ‘The Montjoyeuses have lived here for generations, although this house is only about one hundred years old.’

  The chateau was built in a U shape. The front of the house was three storeys high with pepperpot towers built on the two corners. A wide terrace overlooked the formal gardens and the lake. In the foreground was a small village of stone cottages, thatched with straw. A carriageway wound around the lake towards the chateau.

  Amelie beamed with excitement and urged Angelique into a canter down the track, taking a short cut through the fields to avoid the village. They galloped past the lake, skirting the formal gardens and around the back of the chateau to the stables and outbuildings.

  A groom came running as the horses clattered into the cobbled stableyard. He looked shocked to see Amelie and Tilly, his mouth hanging open.

  ‘Bonsoir, Jean,’ greeted Amelie. ‘Is mon cousin, Monsieur le Comte, at home?’

  ‘Oui, mademoiselle,’ replied Jean, nodding his head towards the chateau.

  With the help of the groom, the two girls dismounted, Tilly’s legs nearly giving out underneath her.

  ‘Bring my portmanteau to my room when you have finished with the horses, Jean,’ ordered Amelie. ‘And give them a good bran mash. They have had a long, hard ride today.’

  Jean nodded and began to lead the two horses into the stables. The girls would have run but their legs were stiff with weariness, so they hobbled towards the house. Ahead on either side were the two arms of the U. The formal courtyard in the centre was paved with stone, intricate little gardens of clipped box hedges forming leafy love knots, perfect green balls and pointed cones.

  Flowering roses and lavender scented the air, while cooling water splashed from a central fountain. A number of rooms faced onto the courtyard with wide, glass double doors.

  One of these doors opened and out stepped Jacques, the Comte’s valet. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, which quickly disappeared. He greeted them forma
lly with a bow and ushered them into the drawing room hung with pale-green silk damask.

  ‘Bonsoir, Jacques,’ greeted Amelie. ‘This is Mademoiselle Mathilde Le ... Lebrun, a ... a schoolfriend from the convent. She will be staying with me for a few days.’

  Jacques bowed to Tilly and then held out his hand to take her cloak. He glanced at the sheathed sword hanging at Tilly’s waist, but his face remained impassive as usual.

  ‘You must be tired, mesdemoiselles?’ asked Jacques solicitously, folding both cloaks over his arm while careful to hold the mud away from his own clean and pressed livery. ‘Have you ridden all the way from Versailles today?’

  ‘Oui,’ agreed Amelie, drawing off her gloves and hat before sitting down gingerly in a deep velvet armchair.

  ‘You left so suddenly yesterday, Jacques. Why did you not take me with you?’ Amelie asked.

  Jacques looked disconcerted. ‘Pardon,mesdemoiselles. I decided it was best to bring the servants back here to seek the new Comte’s orders. I thought you would prefer to stay in Versailles with your friends and fiancé. I apologise if I inconvenienced you.’

  Amelie smiled. ‘Well, I decided it was best to come home to Chateau de Montjoyeuse, too.’

  ‘I will order your chambers to be made ready at once,’ Jacques said. ‘Would you like me to order a hot bath to be prepared, mesdemoiselles? And while you wait – would you prefer tea or coffee?’

  ‘Oui, merci,’ agreed Amelie with a sigh. ‘Tea would be lovely.’

  ‘Tea for me as well, please,’ added Tilly, sinking into another armchair with relief.

  In a few minutes a maidservant returned carrying a tray with a silver pot of steaming tea, teacups, milk and a platter of delicious, crumbly lemon tarts. The girls were starving and fell upon the lemon tarts with delight. The tea was hot and fragrant, and its warmth instantly revived the exhausted girls.

  Mimi sat upon a footstool, delicately eating a tart. When she had finished she gently patted her lips with a crisp linen serviette. Mimi’s beautiful manners were soon spoiled when she decided to bound around the room, over the tabletops and the back of the sofa, checking to see if anything had changed since her last visit.