The Ruby Talisman

by Belinda Murrell

  ‘Then Tilly drew her sword – well, your sword – and threatened him with death if he did not let go of Angelique.’ Amelie held her cheese knife in the en gardeposition.

  ‘You can use a sword?’ asked Henri. ‘I did not know that they taught young ladies to fence in these convent schools?’

  ‘No,’ replied Tilly with a blush. ‘I learnt at home from my fencing teacher.’

  Henri was intrigued and leapt up from the table. ‘This I must see,’ he called, reaching above the fireplace to where a pair of duelling épéeswas hung. ‘Would you grace me with a demonstration, Mademoiselle Tilly, s’il vous plaît?’

  Tilly blushed still more, but reluctantly rose to the challenge, Amelie cheering her on. She took the épéeand gauged the weight in her hand. It felt all wrong. She was wearing heavy, full skirts and high heels instead of her fencing uniform.

  She had no helmet, no padded gloves, no body protection, and the épéefelt too heavy and too lethal compared to the lightweight, safety-tipped weapon she fought with at home. Even worse, she did not have the fear and adrenalin that had driven her to challenge the horse thief in the stall.

  Henri took his own épéeand tested the weight, then stripped off his black coat and waistcoat to give him easier movement. Amelie moved excitedly from the table with the candelabra to give them better light.

  ‘Salut,’ said Tilly, lifting the épéein front of her face in the time-honoured reverence. Henri repeated her action with a warm smile.

  ‘En garde,’ she warned, moving her sword into the defensive position, right leg forward, skirts rippling in silken waves. Henri copied her movement.

  ‘Allez!’ she announced, her mouth dry with nerves, and leapt forward onto the attack. Henri responded but did not force the counterattack. Tilly felt the familiar routine return. Her eyes narrowed, her blood surged and her breath quickened. But this time there was no anger.

  Tilly and Henri danced back and forth, swords flashing before them. Neither was trying to hurt the other, they were merely testing strength, agility and determination. Tilly watched her opponent like a cat, searching for openings.

  Tilly’s fencing coach, Jack, described fencing as being like a strategic game of chess. The sport was as much about mental planning and thinking as the physical prowess.

  Henri was a good fencer, but he was sad and distracted and fighting a much younger girl. So it was with a yell of surprise that Henri held up his épéein surrender when Tilly saw her chance and lunged, her sharp point resting just above Henri’s heart.

  ‘Fantastique,’ shouted Henri. ‘I can hardly believe my eyes. You are a good fencer. Let’s have another round – I vow you will not win so easily, my pretty warrior.’

  Tilly flushed. She had never been called pretty by a boy before. She faltered.

  Henri was more alert for the second round and bested Tilly, his sword coming to rest on her silk-swathed sword arm.

  ‘Bon. Let us call it a draw,’ called Henri with a laugh. ‘I could not bear to be completely humiliated.’

  Tilly smiled and nodded in acquiescence, her heart pounding from the exertion.

  ‘Do you know this move?’ asked Henri, demonstrating a particularly neat piece of footwork that ended in a lunge to the heart.

  ‘No,’ replied Tilly, watching him closely. Henri repeated the move slowly so Tilly could copy him. She practised several times, gradually gaining in speed.

  ‘Bon,’ Henri said with approval. ‘Très bon.’

  Amelie clapped as Tilly ‘attacked’ her cousin with alacrity.

  The servants came in to clear the cheese course and bring in the dessert without raising even an eyebrow at the sight of the young master fencing with a young girl beside the dinner table. Mimi was the first to the dining table, scooting onto the tabletop to check the desserts on offer.

  Henri dropped his épéeto the floor with a clatter.

  Again there was an astonishing selection: hot-pink iced cupcakes, chocolate mousses and lemon and pear tarts. Mimi had helped herself to a cupcake and licked the icing off with her flickering tongue.

  ‘Bon,’ Henri cried. ‘It is my favourite – pear tarte tatin. You must try it, Mademoiselle Tilly.’

  The tart glowed in the candlelight, golden glazed pears baked on crumbly pale pastry with thick clotted cream and a sauce of rich caramel.

  Even Tilly was hungry again after her fencing bouts and enjoyed the tart with gusto. She laid aside her épée and sat at the table to ladle a dollop of cream and a spoonful of caramel over her tart. At last she was finished and pushed aside her plate with a sigh.

  Amelie described the stone-throwing incident leaving Versailles and narrated the story of their long ride south through the French countryside.

  ‘Mon Dieu, these are very troubled times,’ pronounced Henri with a frown, patting Juju’s head. ‘To think brigands are roaming the country unchecked and peasant boys are throwing stones at unprotected ladies. Where will it end?’

  ‘It will only get worse,’ insisted Tilly with uncharacteristic forcefulness. ‘This is only the beginning. Thousands will die before it is done.’

  Amelie shivered with apprehension. Henri stared at Tilly in surprise but did not challenge her statement.

  In the sudden silence, they heard a distant noise. Servants quickly and quietly left the room. Juju barked furiously, jumping to her paws and galloping to the window. Henri listened.

  There were snatches of music, of singing, of chanting. The banging of a drum. Amelie glanced out the windows. In the distance she saw a flare of flames, vivid against the darkness.

  Tilly felt a knot of dread in the pit of her stomach. The chanting and noise and flames drew inexorably closer.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Amelie. ‘It sounds as though the villagers are celebrating some festival or other.’

  ‘I do not think it is a feast day today?’ asked Henri. ‘They sound as though they are coming to the chateau.’

  Henri rang the bell to call the servants back to ask if they knew what was happening. The torches now reflected in the waters of the lake.

  ‘The villagers are coming here,’ observed Tilly. ‘I don’t think they’re coming to the chateau on a social visit.’

  ‘Where are the servants?’ asked Henri impatiently after no-one answered his summons. He rang the bell again more urgently. Still no-one came.

  Amelie stood up and hurried to the window. The villagers were closer now. In the light of the torches, it was now possible to see details of the crowd.

  Most of the villagers – men, women and children– carried tools over their shoulders: pitchforks, scythes, rakes, shovels. Some waved knives in the air. The calls and chants became clearer. Mimi followed Amelie and chattered angrily through the window, waving her tiny fists.

  ‘Down with the aristos. Long live the Third Estate. Seize the manor papers. Burn the rental contracts,’ echoed the chant.

  ‘This is not good,’ warned Tilly, standing up and fumbling for the épéeshe had discarded under the table.

  After escaping the terrible events of Versailles, she had felt so safe at Chateau de Montjoyeuse. The relief at arriving, the hot bath, the sumptuous dinner – now her sense of security was crumbling fast.

  The first of the villagers was almost at the chateau, running up the steps to the terrace, their wooden sabots clattering on the stone paving. Henri picked up the sword he had been fencing with and stowed it in his belt. Juju left the window to stand guard at his feet.

  ‘Amelie, take Mademoiselle Tilly upstairs,’ Henri ordered. ‘I will deal with the villagers. They are lambs, really, and will not hurt me.’

  ‘They don’t look like lambs,’ contradicted Tilly. ‘They look bloodthirsty.’

  ‘Non,’ remonstrated Henri. ‘These people have lived on our lands for generations. They love our family like their own. They will not harm me. I lived in the village among them for the first three years of my life. Look, see – there is Jean-Pierre, my milk brother, the son of my wet nurse.�
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  The crowd of villagers looked ugly and fearsome. Dressed in torn and ragged clothing, with sabots or bare feet, their faces were filthy and twisted with rage. Drawn like moths to the bright lights of the dining room, they pressed their faces to the glass doors, banging their fists against the windows. Amelie drew instinctively towards Tilly, Henri and Juju.

  ‘Look at them, stuffing their faces while we starve,’ jeered one man, shaking his scythe. ‘What have they eaten – four courses or five? I bet that dog eats better than us.’

  ‘Look at the pretty mesdemoiselles in their silks and their lace,’ sneered the one Henri had called Jean-Pierre. ‘Will they look quite so pretty when we’ve finished with them? And how about the new Comte? We’ve come to pay our respects, monseigneur.’

  With this he lifted his pitchfork and mimed stabbing it into Henri’s heart. The crowd laughed and cheered, waving their smoking torches and flaming brands. Juju growled deep in her throat.

  Tilly swallowed a mouthful of bitter bile – or was it fear?

  ‘Bonsoir, Jean-Pierre,’ Henri said with a stiff smile, although he didn’t sound quite so confident now that he was dealing with ‘lambs’. ‘How is your maman?’

  ‘Oh, Monseigneur le Comte remembers me now, does he?’ sneered Jean-Pierre. ‘We were raised in the same house, and he was fed from my mother’s breast, yet he doesn’t know my mother died last winter while he was feasting at Versailles?’

  Jean-Pierre turned to the villagers, gesticulating wildly with his pitchfork. The villagers shouted and booed, shaking their own weapons.

  ‘It was always the way, though,’ continued Jean-Pierre. ‘When the monseigneur lived in our house, there was always plenty of food for him, while we were lucky to eat his leftovers and go to bed with an empty belly.’

  ‘Jean-Pierre, I am truly sorry about your maman,’ replied Henri. ‘She was a kind woman.’

  ‘My mother died of a broken heart and broken promises. I have sworn to revenge your father’s neglect.’

  The crowd of villagers roared with approval, surging forward, rattling the windowpanes.

  ‘Amelie, go upstairs – now,’ Henri ordered.

  Amelie clutched at Tilly’s arm.

  ‘We can’t leave you, Henri,’ argued Tilly. ‘I think they really mean to hurt you.’

  Jean-Pierre lifted his pitchfork and slammed it through the window.

  Shards of glass hit Tilly, scratching her arms and hands where she had raised them to protect her face. The crowd cheered again. Juju leapt for the window, barking furiously. Mimi scuttled under the dining table, her paws over her ears.

  ‘Down with the aristos! Long live the commoners!’ The crowd pushed against the door, testing it with their strength. A strong stench of unwashed bodies wafted into the chateau.

  ‘My dear people,’ began Henri with brazen politeness, speaking through the hole in the window. ‘Is there anything I can do to help you? I’m sorry but I was not prepared for your visit, as you can see. My parents were killed yesterday and I am reluctant to talk business tonight. Perhaps you could come back in the morning?’

  The villagers howled and groaned, shaking their scythes and rakes. Juju ran back and forth, barking in retaliation.

  ‘We’ve come for the papers,’ screeched an old woman with hardly any teeth, shaking the doorframe. ‘The manorial papers. We won’t pay those blasted feudal taxes no more.’

  ‘I see, madame,’ Henri replied calmly, holding Juju firmly by her silver collar. ‘Well, perhaps I can find them for you in the morning. In the meantime, we can fetch you something to eat. I will order the cook to give you some bread.’

  ‘You offer us bread while you dine on beef and fowl?’ screeched the toothless crone. ‘We can’t even eat the rabbits or the pigeons in the field because they’re reserved for you. The time for bread is over. We want blood.’

  A howl of rage echoed through the mob. A number of workers pounded the handles of their tools upon the ground, shouting, ‘Blood. Blood. We want blood.’

  Amelie and Tilly involuntarily took a few steps backwards, terrified by the hostility. Juju leapt against Henri’s hold, enraged by the threat of danger to her master. Henri stood his ground, his brain whirring. How could he diffuse this situation? His sword would be useless against so many attackers and, if he drew a weapon, it might spur the mob to greater violence.

  While he was desperately thinking of something to offer, one of the villagers took careful aim and hurled an iron-tipped pikestaff through the window at Henri.

  The aim was deflected by the smashing glass, shards flying through the air and slicing Henri’s cheek. The pikestaff grazed past Henri’s leg, tearing the flesh and ripping his breeches. Blood flowed from Henri’s face and thigh.

  The mob went berserk, smashing more windows and tearing down the door. Tilly ran forward and grabbed Henri by the arm.

  ‘Run, Amelie, run,’ Tilly screamed. She pulled Henri backwards, forcing him to flee. Henri dragged Juju back with him. Mimi left the safety of the dining table and scuttled after them.

  The villagers poured through the broken terrace door, heedless of the jagged glass. Tilly pushed Henri and Juju out through the main door into the hall, slammed it shut behind her and turned a large key in the lock.

  11

  Bonfire

  Which way?’ yelled Amelie. Tilly started running down the corridor towards the kitchens, but the sound of smashing glass and splintering wood from the other side of the house stopped her.

  ‘They’ve broken in through another way,’ warned Tilly. ‘Go back.’

  ‘No, we’ll be trapped,’ argued Henri, blood streaming down his face.

  Loud yells sent them running again.

  ‘Find the Comte,’ shouted Jean-Pierre. ‘Guard all the doors. A reward to the man who brings him down.’

  Amelie raced to the stairs, holding up her skirts, Mimi racing after her. Henri was limping, his breeches soaked with crimson, his sword banging against his leg. Juju whined beside him. Tilly floundered along at the rear, hindered by her long skirts, petticoats and high heels.

  Henri took her arm and helped her climb the stairs faster. A loud gunshot sounded from below.

  ‘They’ve found my father’s pistols,’ murmured Henri. ‘They’ll be even more dangerous now.’

  Amelie ran instinctively to her bedroom, the others following. Tilly slammed the door behind them, turning the key in the lock.

  Amelie found a tinderbox and, with trembling hands, lit the candles by her bed.

  ‘We’re safe for a moment,’ said Henri. ‘Can you help me move this armoire against the door? That will make it harder for them to break it down.’

  Henri, Tilly and Amelie struggled to move the heavy armoire. When it was in place, they all leant against it, panting.

  ‘Henri, let me take a look at your leg,’ ordered Tilly when she had regained her breath. ‘I should clean that wound for you.’ Henri tried to remonstrate but Tilly would not be dissuaded. She knew from her history books that people used to die in the days before antibiotics from simple wounds that became infected.

  On the dresser were a jug of water and basin for washing, along with a bar of soap and some linen. Tilly used these to thoroughly clean the blood from Henri’s face and leg, ignoring his muffled groans. Juju sat beside him, pressing her body against his good leg.

  There was not enough linen to bind the leg wound, so she tore strips off her clean petticoats to make a pad to staunch the bleeding and bandage it in place.

  Amelie looked horrified but said nothing as Tilly ripped her lace-edged petticoats.

  They could now hear sounds from the corridor outside Amelie’s bedroom. Doors banging open. Furniture dragged out of rooms. Wild cries and shouts. Glass and crockery smashing. Someone tried the handle on Amelie’s door. Henri held his hand on Juju’s muzzle to keep her quiet.

  ‘Aye, this one’s locked,’ called a muffled voice on the other side in a heavy patois. ‘The aristosmust be hiding in there
. Let’s knock the door down.’

  A loud crash sounded as though a battering ram were being slammed into the door. Mimi jumped up and down, shrieking with rage.

  Tilly raced to the bed, pulling at the sheets. ‘Help me,’ she whispered. ‘We’ll have to go out the window. That door won’t hold very long against such a battering.’

  ‘Non, we’re two floors up,’ argued Amelie, her face pale.

  ‘We’ll make a rope out of the sheets,’ ordered Tilly. ‘We’ll tie one end to the bedpost and let the other hang out the window.’

  Henri and Amelie helped Tilly heave the extremely heavy four-poster bed closer to the window. Henri knotted the top corner of the sheet around the bedpost, while Tilly knotted the second sheet to the bottom corners.

  Amelie was flying around the room, gathering up her belongings and jamming them into her leather portmanteau. In went chemises, fans, petticoats, books, gloves, riding habit, boots, nightgowns, shawls and a hairbrush.

  Henri tested the knots carefully, ensuring they were as strong as possible.

  ‘Leave it, Amelie,’ ordered Tilly, buckling her épéeon a belt around her waist. ‘We don’t have time. You should go down the sheet first, as you’re the lightest.’

  Amelie found her green silk high-heeled shoes, which she nestled carefully in the bag.

  ‘Amelie!’ berated Tilly again.

  ‘Send Henri,’ argued Amelie as she grabbed up her cloak. ‘’Tis him they want, so we should get him to safety first.’

  ‘Amelie, they’re only things,’ insisted Tilly. ‘Our very lives are at stake. Will you go?’

  Amelie found the pouch of Tante Beatrice’s borrowed jewels and stuffed them in the pocket of her dress. ‘Oui, oui,’ she answered impatiently, buckling the portmanteau closed. ‘I am ready.’

  Henri opened the window and peered outside cautiously. This window faced the back of the chateau, towards the stables. All the action seemed to be at the front and inside the house. The back of the house was in darkness and seemed deserted.