I looked at him, wondering what went on his head. How did Bernard and people like him get to be so medieval?

"Did you want to save Monsieur Mowles, mademoiselle?" he asked me.

"Indeed I do."

"Well, you better hurry then. They've started."

What? I swiveled in the saddle in time to see one of the leather jerkins haul the stool away, and Ruddock's body fall and be snapped tight by the noose.

"Mon dieu," I cursed, and set off across the hillside, low in the saddle, hair out straight behind me.

Ruddock jerked and writhed on the rope.

"Gah!" I urged my horse-"Come on, Scratch!"-thundering toward the gallows as Ruddock's dangling legs pumped. I drew my sword.

I dropped the reins and sat upright in the saddle, a matter of yards from the gallows now. I tossed my sword from my right to my left hand, brought the weapon across my body then flung out my right arm. I leaned to the right, dangerously low in the saddle.

His legs gave one last convulsion.

I swept the sword, sliced the rope and at the same time grabbed Ruddock's spasming body with my right arm, heaving it onto the neck of Scratch and hoping to G.o.d he could bear the sudden extra weight and that with G.o.d's grace and maybe just a little bit of luck, we'd somehow stay on all four legs.

Come on, Scratch.

But the sudden weight was too much for Scratch, whose legs buckled, and we all came crashing to the ground.

In a trice I was on my feet, sword drawn. An enraged villager, deprived of his day's hanging, lumbered out of the small crowd toward me, but I stood, pivoted and kicked, choosing to stun rather than hurt him, and sent him reeling back into the knot of villagers. Collectively they thought twice about trying to stop me, deciding instead to stand and mutter darkly, the women pointing at me-"Oi, you can't do this"-and prodding their men into doing something-and all of them looking pointedly at the priest, who merely looked worried.

Beside me, Scratch had scrambled to his feet. As had Ruddock, who'd immediately set off in a run. Still hooded, panicking, he dashed in the wrong direction, back toward the gallows, his hands tied, the severed noose dancing on his back.

"Watch out," I tried to shout. But with a solid thump he ran into the platform, spinning off with a yell of pain, then falling to the ground, where he lay, coughing and obviously hurt.

I flipped back my robes and sheathed my sword, turned to gather Scratch. Next I caught the eye of a young peasant at the front of the crowd.

"You," I said, "you look like a big strong lad. You can help me with a bit of lifting. That barely conscious man on this horse, please."

"Oi, you can't . . ." began an older woman nearby, but in a second my sword was at her throat. She looked disdainfully down the blade at me. "You lot think you can do what you want, don't you?" she sneered.

"Really? Then tell me, on whose authority is this man condemned to death? You can all count yourselves lucky I don't report your actions to the gendarmes."

They looked bashful, there was some clearing of throats and the woman at the end of my blade shifted her gaze.

"Now," I said, "I just want some help with some lifting."

My helper did as he was told.

Next, making sure Ruddock was secure, I mounted Scratch. As I pulled him round to leave I caught the eye of the lad who had helped me, gave him a wink-and then was off.

I rode for miles. There were plenty of people abroad, most hurrying home before darkness fell, but they paid me no mind. Perhaps they came to the conclusion that I was a long-suffering wife carrying her drunken husband home from the pub. And if they did come to that conclusion, well, I was certainly long-suffering where Ruddock was concerned.

From the draped body in front of me came the sound of a gurgle so I dismounted, laid my prisoner on the ground, reached for a water bottle and squatted by his side. The stench of him a.s.saulted my nostrils.

"h.e.l.lo again," I said, when his eyes opened and he gazed gla.s.sily at me. "It's Elise de la Serre."

He groaned.

ii Ruddock tried to pull himself up on his elbows, but he was as weak as a kitten and from my squatting position I easily held him down with the fingertips of one hand, placing the other to the hilt of my sword.

For a moment or so he writhed pathetically; more as though he was having a grown-up-baby tantrum than any concerted effort to escape.

Once he settled, he stared up at me balefully.

"Look, what do you want?" he said with a hurt tone. "I mean, you obviously don't want to kill me; otherwise, you would have done it by now . . ."

Something occurred to him. "Oh no. You haven't been saving my life in order to have the pleasure of killing me yourself, have you? I mean, that would be cruel and unusual. You're not doing that, are you?"

"No," I said, "I'm not doing that. Not yet."

"So what is it you want?"

"I want to know who hired you to kill me and my mother in Paris in '75."

He snorted disbelievingly. "And if I tell you, then you'll kill me."

"Try this: if you don't tell me, I'll kill you."

He turned his head to one side. "And what if I don't know?"

"Well, then I'll torture you until you tell me."

"Well, then I'll just say any name until you let me go."

"And then when I find out you lied I'll come after you again, and I've found you twice, Monsieur Ruddock. I'll find you again, then again, if necessary, and again. And you'll never be rid of me, not until I have satisfaction."

"Oh, for crying out loud," he said, "what have I done to deserve this?"

"You tried to kill my mother and me."

"Well, yes," he admitted, "but I didn't succeed, did I?"

"Who hired you?"

"I don't know."

I went up to one knee, drew my sword, held it to his face, the tip of it just under his eyeball.

"Unless you were hired by a ghost, you know who hired you. Now who hired you?"

His eyeb.a.l.l.s darted furiously as though trying to get a fix on the point of the blade. "I promise you," he wheedled, "I promise you I don't know."

I jogged the blade slightly. "A man!" he squealed. "A man in a coffeehouse in Paris."

"Which coffeehouse?"

"The Cafe de Procope."

"And what was his name?"

"He didn't tell me."

I flashed the blade across his right cheek, giving him a cut. He screamed and though inside I flinched, I kept my face blank-cruel, even-the face of someone determined to get what she wants even though I was fighting a sinking feeling inside, a sense that I'd come to the end of a decade-long wild-goose chase.

"I promise. I promise. He was a stranger to me. He didn't tell me, I didn't ask. I took half the money then and was to return for it when the job was done. But, of course, I never went back."

"I think you're telling me the truth," I said. And he was. With a sinking heart I realized he was telling the truth: that thirteen years ago an anonymous man had hired another anonymous man to do a job. And there the story ended.

I had one last bluff up my sleeve, and I stood, keeping the blade where it was.

"Then all that remains is to exact revenge for what you did in '75."

His eyes widened. "Oh for G.o.d's sake, you are going to kill me."

"Yes," I said.

"I can find out," he said quickly. "I can find out who the man was. Let me find out for you."

I regarded him carefully as though mulling it over, even though the truth was I had no intention of killing him. Not like this. Not in cold blood.

At last I said, "I'll spare your life so that you can do as you say. Know this, though, Ruddock, I want to hear from you within six months-six months. You can find me at the de la Serres' le Saint-Louis estate in Paris. Whether you have learned anything or not, you come to find me or you can spend the rest of your days expecting me to appear from the shadows and slit your throat. Do I make myself clear?"

I sheathed my sword and mounted Scratch. "There's a town two miles in that direction." I pointed. "See you in six months, Ruddock."

I rode away. And I waited until I was out of sight of Ruddock to let my shoulders slump.

Wild-goose chase indeed. All I'd learned was that there was nothing to learn.

Would I ever see Ruddock again? I doubted it. I wasn't sure if my promise to hunt him down was an empty threat or not, but I knew this: like most else in life it was a lot easier said than done.

4 MAY 1789.

This morning I woke early, dressed and went to where my trunk was waiting for me by the front door of the lodge. I'd hoped to slip out quietly, but when I crept through to the entrance hall they were all there: Madame Levene and Jacques; Helene and Mr. Weatherall.

Mr. Weatherall held out his hand. I looked at him.

"Your short sword," he prompted. "You can leave it here. I'll take good care of it."

"But then I won't have a . . ."

He'd reached for another sword. He tucked his crutches into his armpits and held it out to me.

"A cutla.s.s," I said, turning it over in my hands.

"Indeed, it is," said Mr. Weatherall. "Lovely fighting weapon. Light and easy to handle, great for close combat."

"It's beautiful," I said.

"Too blinkin' right it's beautiful. It'll stay beautiful if you take good care of it. And no naming it now, you hear?"

"I promise," I said, and stood on tiptoes to kiss him. "Thank you, Mr. Weatherall."

He blushed. "You know, you're a grown woman now, Elise. A grown woman who's saved my life. You can stop calling me Mr. Weatherall. You can call me Freddie."

"You'll always be Mr. Weatherall to me."

"Oh, suit your b.l.o.o.d.y self," he said, pretending to be exasperated, and used the opportunity to turn and wipe a tear from his eye.

I kissed Madame Levene and thanked her for everything. With gleaming eyes she held me at arm's length, as though wanting to study me. "I asked you to come back from London a changed person, and you did me proud. You went an angry girl, came back a young woman. You are a credit to the Maison Royale."

I brushed aside the proffered hand of Jacques, and instead took him in a hug and gave him a kiss that made him blush and cast a sideways glance at Helene, and in an instant I realized that they had formed a bond.

"He's a lovely lad," I whispered into Helene's ear as I gave her a good-bye kiss, and I'd eat my hat if they weren't together by the time of my next visit.

Talking of which, I put on my hat and took hold of my trunk. Jacques bounded forward to take it from me but I stopped him.

"That's very kind of you, Jacques, but I wish to meet the carriage alone."

And so I did. I took my trunk to the service highway close to the gates of the Maison Royale. The school building stood on the hillside watching me, and where once upon a time I would have seen malevolence in that stare, now I saw comfort and protection-that I was leaving behind.

It felt as though I'd barely settled into the carriage when we came to the tree-bordered drive of our chteau, which ahead of me looked like a castle with its turrets and towers, presiding over the gardens that swept away in all directions.

There I was met by Olivier, and once inside greeted by staff, some of whom I knew well-Justine, the sight of her bringing the memories of Mother flooding back-some who were unfamiliar faces to me. When my trunk was installed in my room, I took a tour of the house. I'd returned in the school holidays, of course. It wasn't like this was some great homecoming. But even so, it felt like one. And for the first time in years I climbed the stairs to Mother's rooms and went to her bedchamber.

The fact that it was serviced but otherwise left as it was created a strong, almost overwhelming sense of her presence, as though she might walk in at any moment, find me sitting on the end of her bed and sit down next to me, put an arm around my shoulders. "I'm very proud of you, Elise. We both are."

I stayed like that for a while, with her phantom arm around my shoulders. It wasn't until I felt the tickle of tears on my cheeks that I realized I was crying.

5 MAY 1789.

i In a courtyard of the Htel des Menus-Plaisirs in Versailles, the king addressed the 1,614-strong meeting of the Estates General. It was the first time that the representatives of the three Estates-the clergy, the n.o.bility and the common man-had officially met since 1614, and the huge vaulted chamber was full, row upon row of expectant Frenchmen hoping that the king would say something-anything-that would help pull his country from the swamp in which it was apparently mired. Something to point the way forward.

I sat beside my father during the speech and the two of us were positively vibrating with hope before it began, a feeling that soon dissipated as our beloved leader began to drone on-and on, and on-saying nothing of any significance, offering no comfort to the downtrodden third estate, the common man.

Across the way, seated together, were the Crows. Messieurs Lafreniere, Le Peletier, Sivert, and Madame Levesque, wearing scowls that went with the black of their clothes. As I took my seat I caught their eye and gave a short, deferential bow, hiding my true feelings behind a false smile. In return they nodded back with false smiles of their own and I felt their eyes on me, a.s.sessing me as I took my seat.

When I pretended to inspect something at my feet I looked at them surrept.i.tiously from beneath my curls. Madame Levesque was whispering something to Sivert and receiving a nod in return.

When the boring speech was over the Estates began shouting at one another. Father and I departed the Salle des Etats, dismissed our carriage and walked along the Avenue de Paris before taking a footpath that led across to the rear lawns of our chteau in the village.

We chatted idly as we walked. He asked me about my final year at the Maison Royale but I steered the conversation to less dangerous and lie-filled waters, and so for a while we reminisced about when Mother was alive, and when Arno had joined the household. And then, when we had left the crowds behind and had open fields to one side, the palace watching over us always on the other, he broached the subject-the subject being my failure to bring Arno into the fold.