The Ruby Talisman

by Belinda Murrell

  Claudette looked ahead down the long, lonely forest track leading far to the north, then up at the three riders.

  ‘You can ride behind me first,’ offered Tilly with a smile.

  ‘Merci.’ Claudette clambered up behind Tilly.

  As the sun rose, the ride became more beautiful. Birds sang and flittered through the trees. Wildflowers bloomed along the track’s edge. Tilly felt her heart lift. It was hard to be frightened and miserable on such a heavenly day.

  They stopped at a small brook to drink the clear water and wash their faces and hands. Claudette then changed to ride behind Amelie. After another half hour, they came to a small village of stone cottages huddled around a fountain.

  ‘We can buy food here,’ suggested Henri, pulling Abelard up and dismounting. ‘I am starving. May I have some of your coins, Amelie?’

  Amelie handed over a pile of coins from the pocket hidden under her skirts. Henri strode up to a stick-like old woman knitting on her doorstep in the sun. She had filthy bare feet, a ragged shawl over her head and a mouth full of rotting teeth.

  ‘Bonjour, madame. Could we buy some bread and cheese, s’il vous plaît?’

  The old woman looked at him suspiciously, taking in his expensive but torn clothes and bloody wounds. She spat vehemently beside the step.

  ‘Bloodsucking aristos,’ she swore. ‘There’s no bread here. Hasn’t been bread for months. The blasted Austrian Queen has been hoarding flour, driving up prices and starving us so she can give blessed France to her Austrian brother.

  ‘There’s nothing to eat but boiled grass and a few husks. I watched three of my grandchildren die last winter, and buried my daughter. My sons were taken by the King to fight in the war for America. Before I die, I want to see the blood of every cursed aristosoaking into the soil of France, starting with yours. Jean! Jean – aristos!’

  A skinny blacksmith came shuffling around the back of the cottage, wielding a heavy scythe over his head. Two more farmers ran from next door, followed by a gaggle of women attracted by the shouts. Juju leapt to the defence, rushing forward, growling and barking furiously. The crowd paused and huddled together, frightened by Juju’s gnashing jaws.

  ‘Henri,’ screamed Tilly and Amelie together.

  The blacksmith took aim and stabbed at Juju. The wolfhound was huge and strong and fast, and looked as though she could snap the blacksmith in two. She darted back and forth, avoiding the man’s clumsy blows. Juju was bred for hunting ferocious wolves, so a half-starved blacksmith was no real threat, even wielding a razor-sharp scythe.

  Henri whistled sharply and Juju obediently withdrew to his side, licking Henri’s hand.

  With all his courtly grace and flourish, Henri bowed politely to the old woman. Juju copied Henri, crossing her paws and lowering her head. Henri carefully laid all his coins down on the step beside her.

  ‘Madame, I am so sorry for your losses,’ offered Henri. ‘Take these coins – I pray they may help you buy bread for your family. May God bless you.’

  The group of villagers stood thunderstruck, then surged forward to count the coins, laughing and chatting.

  Henri returned slowly to Abelard and mounted. Doffing his tricorne at the villagers, he urged the horse into a canter and the four rode on in silence.

  ‘That was terrible,’ commented Amelie finally. ‘Do you think she was telling the truth, that they had nothing to eat except boiled grass and husks?’

  ‘They all looked like skin and bone,’ replied Tilly. ‘It must be heartbreaking to have your children and grandchildren die of starvation. No wonder they hate the aristocrats so much.’

  Henri and Amelie glanced at one another. Amelie bit her lip and looked away.

  ‘It’s not just that,’ Claudette added in a low voice, her eyes cast down to the rocky track below. ‘Many aristocrats treat their tenants worse than animals. They beat them, throw them in prison without trial, gallop over their crops and destroy them, do whatever they like without consequences. It doesn’t seem right that a few rich nobles should have everything while millions of peasants have nothing.’

  ‘That’s the way it’s always been,’ Henri replied.

  ‘That doesn’t make it right,’ retorted Tilly.

  Shortly after the village, they came to a fork in the track. The left-hand track led to Rambouillet, and the road they had travelled from Versailles. The right-hand track led north-east to Paris.

  Henri turned to the right.

  Tilly pulled Mystique to a halt and turned to the left. ‘Henri, we should avoid Paris,’ she insisted. ‘We should skirt the city and head to the north coast as unobtrusively as possible, where we can find a boat to sail to England.’

  Henri’s mouth set in a stubborn line. Amelie, with Claudette behind her, pulled Angelique up and glanced from Henri to Tilly in consternation.

  ‘Mademoiselle Tilly, we’ve talked about this,’ argued Henri. ‘In Paris, I have a house where we can get food and clean clothes and money and sleep in a bed. It is madness to go to England where we have nothing and know nobody.’

  Henri paused before continuing. ‘Très bien, seeing we live in a world of egaliténow, let’s take a vote. Who votes for Paris and a warm bed and food, and who votes for rainy England?’

  Amelie hesitated for a moment, then urged Angelique into a walk. She turned right.

  ‘Pardon, Tilly, but I think we should go to Paris,’ Amelie explained, offering her an apologetic glance.

  ‘I vote for Paris, too,’ added Claudette firmly.

  Tilly looked longingly at the left-hand track, but there was no point taking it on her own. Reluctantly, she turned Mystique’s head and joined the others.

  ‘Merci, Tilly,’ said Henri. ‘Let us go.’

  Despite her misgivings, Tilly felt a thrill. It was the first time Henri had used just her first name, and he said Tilly with such a gorgeous French accent that it sounded like the most beautiful name in the world. They were young and on an adventure, and riding towards one of the most romantic cities in the world. She would see Paris!

  ‘Are you very angry?’ asked Henri quietly as they rode side by side.

  ‘No,’ she replied with some surprise. ‘We’re all in this together.’

  They rode through open meadowland. There were no labourers toiling in the fields – there was no-one to be seen at all. As the day grew longer, the sun grew hotter and the hunger pains deepened. Tilly tried to ignore the growling in her belly. Juju padded along tirelessly.

  They rode past a small cottage. In the garden, a number of freshly washed clothes were drying on a clothesline. The brown homespun working clothes were a stark contrast to the fine silks and laces that Henri, Amelie and Tilly wore. This sparked an idea.

  ‘Henri and Amelie,’ called Tilly, reining her horse in. ‘You look like aristocrats, which is far too dangerous. We should disguise you both to give us a better chance of making it safely to Paris. We need to find you some new clothes.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Amelie. She followed Tilly’s glance and saw the rough peasant clothes flapping in the late-afternoon sun.

  ‘Oh, non, Tilly, we couldn’t possibly,’ argued Amelie. ‘Besides, that would be stealing.’

  ‘Not if we left them a diamond shoe buckle in payment,’ replied Tilly, slithering down from Mystique’s saddle and holding out her palm. Amelie reluctantly took off one of the diamond buckles still fastened to her rose-pink shoes.

  Henri laughed. ‘You are ruthless, Mademoiselle Tilly,’ he teased. ‘And what about you? Do you propose to wear peasant clothes, too?’

  ‘As you so kindly told me, Henri, I don’t look anything like an aristocrat,’ she replied sweetly.

  Henri opened his mouth to protest, but laughed instead. ‘Incorrigible girl.’

  Amelie and Henri changed behind a hedge. Tilly left the diamond shoe buckle in the pocket of a brown apron hanging on the line.

  Henri wore a pair of long, black trousers, a brown jacket, yellow waistcoat and a brown m
uffler around his throat. A black cap sat on his head. Amelie wore full, brown skirts over a shapeless petticoat, with a bodice of rough, brown cotton and a knotted scarf over her head that covered her throat and the ruby necklace.

  Tilly took some dirt and rubbed it on Amelie and Henri’s faces and hands to disguise the pale skin. Another handful was rubbed into the necks and heads of the three horses. She tangled some leaves and twigs in their manes and tails for good measure.

  ‘That looks better,’ Tilly said with satisfaction. ‘You don’t look quite so precious now ... except for your shoes, Amelie.’

  Everyone looked at Amelie’s feet, which were still shod in rose-pink satin.

  ‘Well, I am notriding into Paris barefoot,’ objected Amelie. ‘Hopefully everyone will just think I stole them from some poor, unfortunate aristocrat!’

  Tilly thought for a moment. ‘Well, all right,’ she agreed. ‘Hopefully no-one will notice your feet.’

  Their old clothes were packed into Amelie’s portmanteau.

  Henri and Amelie exchanged long-suffering glances as they remounted their scruffy-looking nags. Claudette stifled a giggle.

  ‘I suppose I should be grateful that Tilly did not insist on disguising me as a milkmaid,’ joked Henri, straightening his cap.

  Tilly laughed aloud at the ludicrous idea of Henri in a dress and mobcap.

  Mimi sniffed at Amelie’s new dress and refused to sit in her lap, preferring to cuddle up with familiar-smelling Claudette.

  ‘Even Mimi does not know me,’ moaned Amelie, trying to smooth her coarse, brown skirt.

  ‘Do you think the Chevalier would be quite so keen to marry you now, Aimée?’ teased Henri.

  ‘That is the only advantage to this ridiculous situation,’ she huffed, digging her satin heels into Angelique’s side.

  ‘Oh, stop complaining, Amelie,’ called Tilly with a giggle. ‘I think brown suits you.’

  Amelie snorted in a very unladylike way.

  At last, in the early evening, they came to the Barriére d’Enfer, one of the gateways through the city wall into Paris, built not for protection but to collect royal taxes on the food brought into the starving city.

  Groups of farmers and tradespeople were queuing to leave the city for their homes in the countryside, wheeling empty barrows and carrying tools. Many of them wore a cockade of blue, white and red ribbon attached to their hats or clothes to symbolise their loyalty to the Revolution.

  A squad of guards carrying muskets questioned the people coming and going. The guards looked nervous as many of the tollhouses and city barriers had been attacked and destroyed during the preceding days by workers infuriated by the high taxes on food that made it even more difficult to feed their hungry families.

  The incoming travellers had to wait as the outgoing groups were checked. Tilly saw an old woman with blackened teeth selling a basket of tricolour cockades. Tilly begged a coin from Amelie and bought four of the ribbons, which she gave to each of them to wear on their hats.

  Amelie looked pale and frightened as they waited their turn to be questioned by the guards. Tilly’s heart began to thump furiously. Mimi was swaddled in a blanket to hide her monkey identity, and Amelie carried her on her lap like a baby. Tilly just hoped Mimi wouldn’t chitter or scream and give herself away. Would they make it into the city? Would they be revealed as aristocrats?

  The wait seemed interminable. At last they were ushered forward. The guard glanced over the four travel-stained passengers in their simple clothes, the swaddled ‘baby’, the large wolfhound and the three bedraggled horses.

  ‘What’s your business in the city?’ asked the guard, his eyes flittering suspiciously over the group, checking their rough clothes and tricolour cockades.

  ‘Monseigneur le Comte missed his favourite dog,’ replied Henri gruffly, shrugging his shoulders and jerking his eyebrows towards Juju. Henri’s voice was almost unrecognisable with its rougher accent. ‘Apparently the Parisian servants can’t wash either, so I had to bring three laundresses from his country estate.’

  The guard guffawed. ‘The maids don’t look strong enough to be laundresses, especially the one with the baby.’

  Amelie smiled weakly, clutching Mimi tightly.

  ‘You’re right,’ agreed Henri with a wink. ‘She’s been sick with a fever, but who’d argue with the idiotic fool of a Comte?’

  The guard spat in the dust, showing his contempt for an extravagant aristocrat who wasn’t happy with the local laundry and who would send a manservant on a long ride to fetch a dog.

  Henri copied the guard, spitting in the dust.

  ‘Cursed aristos,’ swore Henri, pulling a contemptuous face.

  ‘I’ll have you know we’re the best laundresses in the south-west,’ boasted Claudette indignantly in a rough country patois. ‘It’s all in the soap. We ’ave an old recipe taught to me by my grand-mère. The Comte likes the lavender perfume in my soap, ’e does.’

  Henri rolled his eyes at the guard, who waved them on impatiently.

  ‘Oui, oui, I don’t have all day, you know,’ the guard insisted. ‘Move on, hurry up.’

  Tilly heaved a sigh of relief. She realised she must have been holding her breath for many long, slow minutes. She flashed a smile of relief at the others as they clattered through the gate into the sultry, smelly city of Paris.

  Tilly glanced around her in excitement. It was nothing like what she had expected. The streets were filthy. Channels of sewage flowed down the centre of the cobbled streets. Children picked through the garbage, searching for food scraps or items that could be sold.

  Tradesmen roamed the streets with pinched, hungry faces and eyes filled with rage. A group of ragged women surged towards the three on horseback, begging and demanding insistently. Juju growled and lunged, snapping at the market women – but never biting.

  ‘Bread. Bread,’ the women begged, holding out their hands piteously.

  A loud clattering sounded as carriage wheels rolled over the cobblestones, heading south with the jingling of harnesses. A fine carriage rounded the corner. A postillion rode on the front-left horse, dressed in smart crimson livery. The driver cracked his whip, urging the horses on. Chests and portmanteaus were strapped to the roof. Two grooms stood on the back, clinging onto the carriage for dear life.

  The driver urged the carriage straight towards the four riders and the jostling women. Henri, Tilly, Claudette and Amelie had to scatter before they were mown down. The children in the gutter jumped to the side of the road, one very nearly run over by the high wheels of the carriage.

  Tilly had a glimpse of a gold coat of arms on the door, blue velvet hangings inside and a lady with a huge feathered hat.

  ‘Watch out, you imbeciles!’ shouted Henri angrily. ‘You nearly killed us!’

  The only answer from the carriage was a casual flick from the driver’s whip, cutting Henri’s shoulder and causing him to yelp with pain. The carriage continued careering on its way.

  ‘Bloodsucking aristos,’ cursed the group of tradesmen, punching their fists after the coach. ‘Down with the aristos. Long live France.’

  What happened next was a complete shock. A market stallholder knocked his pile of boxes and wares into the street in front of the racing carriage. The horses shied, rearing and prancing, nearly overturning the heavy vehicle. The boxes formed a barricade, completely blocking the narrow laneway.

  A mob of Parisians sprung, as though from the very cobblestones, waving pikes and clubs. The begging women and gutter children swelled the crowd. They surrounded the carriage, dragging at the liveried staff and feather-crested horses.

  Several scrambled onto the roof and began unknotting the boxes and chests, throwing them down to the clamouring mob below. The chests were torn open and the contents shared around: silk skirts, feathered hats, jewelled fans, lace fichus, ruffled petticoats, satin shoes. Men and women danced around the carriage like savages draped in the spoils of war.

  The occupants of the carriage protes
ted haughtily, demanding the return of their staff and belongings.

  ‘Unhand me at once, you scoundrels,’ insisted the arrogant voice of the gentleman. He drew his sword and cane, and attacked those closest to him, drawing howls and blood. The mob retaliated by hauling the gentleman and his companion out into the road. A sharp-edged knife, two sudden slices, a gurgling gasp, and it was all over. Two blood-soaked bodies slumped lifeless on the roadway.

  The feathered hat tumbled into the mud and was picked up by a delighted child, who cavorted about, proudly wearing her new possession.

  ‘Down with the aristos,’ roared the crowd. ‘Long live the Revolution.’

  Henri started forward in horror. Amelie gasped. Claudette screamed.

  ‘It’s too late, Henri,’ urged Tilly, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘They’re dead. Let’s go before they realise you two are aristocrats as well.’

  Claudette’s scream alerted some of the mob to the three horses and their riders. They surged forward in a mass, waving fists and knives and homemade clubs. Henri kicked Abelard into a canter.

  ‘Come on,’ he shouted. Tilly and Amelie used their crops and heels to leap into a life-saving gallop over the slippery cobbles. They cantered on through the darkness, down narrow, twisting streets, hemmed in above by the overhanging buildings.

  13

  Paris

  The stench of the Parisian streets was overpowering– wafts of rotten vegetation, sewage, manure, putrid garbage, decaying flesh.

  They turned into a larger square, flanked by tall buildings. The horses shied as they cantered into the deserted plaza. Juju whined and sniffed the air. There was a sudden movement from the shadows and two men scuttled away out of sight, carrying mysterious bundles.

  A smashed pearl-grey carriage lay on its side, the leather traces cut. There was no sign of the horses that had pulled it. Detritus lay on the ground: broken glass, a smashed lantern, feathers from a torn cushion, a white wig, horse manure, splinters of pearly paintwork.

  Beside the wreck, a man’s body lay crumpled in a pool of blood, his purple livery torn and stained. Both shoes were missing.