Mademoiselle at Arms Page 11

  Chapter Eleven

  Melusine’s limbs nearly gave way beneath her. Gosse! Dieu du ciel, but how did he get into the convent?

  She had perforce to obey his command, for speech was impossible. The arm about her was steel hard, and she felt the weapon that was placed at her heart, which thumped uncomfortably in her chest. So often as she had herself manipulated a dagger, she could not mistake the shape that pressured across her chest, or the sharp point that dug below her bosom.

  Her mind jumped with questions as fear raced through her and hardened into a bid for retaliation. Did he intend to kill her now, this instant? Or had she a moment or two to try to save herself? Recalling Leonardo’s dictum, she did not struggle, for that would only tighten the trap about her, and perhaps even spring it. Then she would be dead, and that was no use. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. But Gosse began to drag her towards the door.

  Hope reared. He meant to take her out of this room, perhaps even out of the house. He was a fool. Why not kill her here, and leave silently, the way he must have come? Could it be that he had not the intention to kill her? En tout cas, it gave her a chance.

  ‘You will keep yourself utterly quiet,’ he instructed, a growl in her ear as they headed for the door. ‘The sisters here will not save you. They are all at prayer at this hour.’

  Melusine knew it to be true. He had chosen his time well. Even were she to get an opportunity to scream, it would be some time before such a call, unprecedented though it might be, brought the nuns so much out of their absorption that they interrupted their prayer to investigate. Time enough for Gosse to shut her mouth forever, as he did not hesitate to point out to her.

  ‘Scream and you are dead,’ he snapped, and released her mouth so that he might open the door.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, assuming a fearful accent.

  ‘Think I’m fool enough to do my business in a convent?’ he said scornfully. ‘I don’t want a hue and cry after me, I thank you.’

  ‘Where, then?’ Melusine asked again.

  She was thinking fast now, all her senses on the alert. If he got her outside, surely the soldiers would see her and intervene. Only how had they missed him? Were they imbecile? Or perhaps the mists had concealed him from them. Then Gosse spoke again, answering the question in her mind.

  ‘Never mind where. But don’t think your heroic milice will save you. I came in by the vestry, and we will go out that way again.’

  Joy rose in Melusine’s bosom. Now she knew why the soldiers had not caught him. The vestry door opened to the mews behind, and not to Golden Square. It had been a part of the vast domain of the servants in the house’s earlier incarnation. The chapel was situated in the old ballroom, and from there, down a few stairs, the vestry had taken the place of the pantry next to the kitchens. And in the vestry was the sword of monsieur le major.

  Her mouth was once more covered as they left the second floor guest saloon and headed for the back stairs. Melusine did not try to fight her captor, for that would only make him angry. But she made a pretence of struggling a little, for it would be out of character for her not to do so and she did not want to arouse his suspicions.

  He had made himself master of the layout of the house, that was plain. He led her unerringly, pushing her down the narrow stairway that had been the servants’ access to the upper floors, and thence through a small door that led into the chapel.

  It was the largest room in the house, which was why it had been given over to the main business of the convent as a house of God. Pews had been brought in and set in two rows before the huge table, covered in white cloth, that formed the altar at the far end. All the precious paintings and statues of the divine family were here, as was the enormous wooden crucifix set above the altar. No one could take the place for anything but what it was, and even Gosse hesitated in the doorway.

  Go in, go in, Melusine prayed, hoping desperately that he would not change his mind and take another route. She must get to the vestry.

  The delay was only momentary. Emile Gosse must know his only chance was to be rid of Melusine. Had he not said as much at Remenham House?

  She allowed him to march her through the chapel without resistance. She knew that the stairs they had to negotiate to the vestry were extremely narrow, and she had made her plans. Gosse had to release his clamp on her mouth, for the awkwardness of the position made it impossible to negotiate the little stair.

  ‘Silence,’ he warned again, with a prod of the dagger at her heart.

  Melusine did not attempt to speak. She gulped for air merely, for it had been difficult to breathe with his hand almost cutting off the supply to her lungs.

  They negotiated several steps, and then the stair turned a corner. As Gosse pushed her around it, she felt his hold about her of necessity loosen slightly. Her elbows were ready. Jerking forward, she jabbed backwards. He grunted, and his grip gave. Melusine flung herself down the rest of the steps and through the doorway. Turning, she heaved at the bottom door and slammed it in his face just as he came leaping forward to grab her.

  She heard him crash against it, and turned the key in the lock. She was breathing hard, dragging for air, half in fright and half because the sudden effort had used up what little air she had managed to draw so briefly.

  Then she was turning, ignoring the muttered cursing and the rattling that immediately ensued at the door. Darting quickly to the chest that contained the priest’s vestments, she leapt onto it and reached her arm down to scrabble behind it on the floor. Her fingers found the lump she sought and, with a little effort, she dragged out the black-wrapped foil.

  Grace à Leonardo, she could defend herself now!

  Gosse was still attempting to manhandle the door, when she turned the key and wrenched it open. Then Melusine jumped back into the fencer’s pose, on guard, the point of the wicked blade directed towards her enemy. Washed in light from the vestry window, she held her ground, all thought at bay, bar the steel determination long ago instilled in her by her unconventional tutor.

  For a stunned moment, Emile did not speak. He looked from the sword to the dagger with which he had brought her down here, and grimaced. Then he relaxed back a little, and let the weapon dangle from his fingers.

  ‘Very clever, Mademoiselle Melusine.’

  ‘The tables, they are turned, I think,’ she returned.

  ‘Do you think I am afraid of a sword in the hand of a slip of a girl?’

  For answer, Melusine lunged at him. He jumped back, cursing. She resumed her on guard position, and glaring steadily at him, waited again.

  ‘C’est ridicule. That I should be challenged by you of all people.’

  ‘Hélas, poor you,’ Melusine rejoined sarcastically.

  He growled in his throat and, thrusting his coat open, revealed his own buckled sword-belt. No surprise, for Melusine was aware no Frenchman in his situation would dream of walking abroad unarmed. He thrust the smaller weapon into a scabbard that hung from his belt. Taking hold of the hilt of his own foil, he drew it forth.

  ‘Very well, mademoiselle, so be it,’ he snapped. ‘The outcome, I think, is in very little doubt.’

  Again, Melusine did not waste words. She lunged without warning again, and Gosse, just catching her blade on his own, was obliged to retreat backwards up the little stair. She advanced, stabbing at him. He could not possibly lunge in the confined space, and so had nothing to do but back himself into the chapel as fast as he could.

  Melusine ran up the stairway after him, her point flailing to frighten him into allowing her access to the chapel.

  Gosse backed, not even attempting to parry so unorthodox a use of the foil. In seconds, they faced each other before the altar. If he had imagined Melusine would be hampered by her petticoats, he was disappointed. She had learned this art in skirts, and knew well how not to be disadvantaged. The slack of her riding-habit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her lef
t hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way.

  Nevertheless, she was no fool, and she knew that they could easily break loose and cause her to fall. She had no intention of fighting fair. Leonardo had not taught her to do so. She was naturally weaker, she would tire quicker, and she need not concern herself with the peculiar obligations of honour obtaining amongst gentlemen. Play foul, and win. That was Leonardo’s motto.

  Melusine circled her adversary only far enough to give herself the aisle between the pews behind. Gosse must now fight with his back to the altar, and a dais at his heels.

  ‘Alors, pig!’ she cried and lunged in quarte.

  He parried without apparent effort. ‘Eh bien?’

  She thrust again, from the same place. ‘Take this.’

  ‘With ease, mademoiselle,’ he countered, catching her blade.

  Bon. Now he thought she was so foolish that she knew only one stroke. Melusine feigned a displeased frown. And lunged once more.

  ‘Again?’ Another simple parry. Gosse sneered. ‘You do not try.’

  ‘Ah, no?’ She saw his guard relax and lunged again.

  This time she feinted as his point came up to deflect her own, and disengaging, passed under and cut at his cheek. Panic leapt into his eyes as he brought his wrist up just in time to parry the blade.

  ‘Sapristi,’ he gasped.

  Melusine made no reply. She ought to have leapt back on guard. Instead her point disengaged, dropped, and then the sword came up again and banged, flat-bladed, onto Gosse’s wrist with such force that his own blade dropped from his grasp. In a flash, Melusine had jumped forward and clamped it to the floor with one booted foot.

  Panting with effort, she held her point menacingly at Gosse’s chest. ‘That is better, no?’

  ‘Dieu.’ He stared at the point, glanced at the fallen sword imprisoned by her foot, and only just looked back at her weapon in time to see it thrust at him again.

  He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. Melusine did not pause, but reached down to grasp the hilt of his sword and lift it. Swinging her arm in an arc, she let go of the foil and it flew across the chapel towards the main door, crashing down between the pews, and clattering onto the floor.

  ‘Eh bien, pig. And son of a pig,’ she grunted, baring her teeth.

  ‘You are mad,’ Gosse uttered, and only just had time to get himself up from the floor.

  For Melusine was on him again, the point of her sword lunging so that he backed up onto the dais. She thrust at him, following, almost spitting him as he crashed against the altar, rocking the huge candlesticks and the vessels that stood on it. Gosse twisted his body to avoid another thrust, and the heavy candlesticks fell, rolling with a noise like thunder, and falling with a thud to the floor.

  ‘How is your plan now, mon brave?’ Melusine taunted. ‘Who kills who?’

  ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall.

  Melusine flew after him, the sword held out before her and pointing directly at his retreating back.

  ‘Pig! Pig, a thousand times!’

  Running footsteps could be heard now, and she knew that the commotion was bringing the nuns, just as she had hoped. But she must stop him getting away.

  Too late she realised that Emile was not trying to escape. He was shifting to reach his own weapon, which had fallen in between the pews at the back. Before she knew what had happened, Gosse turned suddenly, and vaulted one of the pews into the gap behind.

  Balked, Melusine halted.

  ‘Coward,’ she threw at him, brandishing the sword.

  ‘Madwoman,’ he screamed back, as he climbed over the next pew, eyes darting down briefly to check for his sword.

  Melusine shrieked an imprecation, and ran the length of the aisle, searching for the weapon she had thrown. She saw it, and checked without thinking.

  Emile looked at her, then down, and clearly caught the bright gleam on the floor.

  ‘Alors, I see it.’

  Baring his teeth in a smile of triumph that was every bit an animal snarl, and leaping up onto the seat of the pew he was in, he jumped hazardously to the next.

  In the distance a bell clanged, and chattering broke out in the doorway as several nuns came crowding in. Melusine, intent upon preventing Gosse from securing the fallen weapon, paid no attention. Vaguely she heard the distinctive sound of male voices as she saw Gosse dive towards the fateful pew.

  ‘You will not, pig,’ cried Melusine.

  She pushed between the pews, hoping to reach the sword first, while desperately holding on to her petticoats to keep them up, as her sword arm wavered.

  ‘You are dead, you,’ he yelled back, leaping into the seat of the final pew.

  Melusine tried to squash down, still trying to maintain her guard. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. She could not move.

  ‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down.

  With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her.

  A male voice, vibrant with terror, yelled out hoarsely.

  ‘Melusine!’

  Distracted, Gosse blinked and his eyes flicked away from Melusine’s just as she flung the fullness of her gathered petticoats in the way of his blade. There was a tearing sound and the cloth of her habit ripped apart as the smothered point drove through it, missing its intended target.

  Next instant, Melusine’s blade sank into Gosse’s flesh. His sword-arm fell useless at his side and she knew herself safe. He glanced at it, and saw the bloodied blade. Clearly dazed, he stared, whispering an oath.

  Melusine, her breath coming in short bursts, heard a sudden flurry of several heavy footsteps and harsh commands exchanged.

  ‘Get the swords!’

  ‘I’ll see to him. You deal with her.’

  She saw the weapon wrenched from Emile’s hand and he dropped to the bench of the pew and sat there, grasping helplessly at the welling blood on his arm. Then he was surrounded by black-clad nuns, and Melusine felt an unknown hand grab away her own sword.

  She released her clutch on it as, dizzy with exhaustion, she leaned against the back of the pew and closed her eyes, her fingers grasping out automatically for support. Her shoulders were gripped hard and a familiar voice spoke.

  ‘You damned little fool! How dared you steal my sword?’

  Her eyes flew open. ‘Gérard!’

  ‘Yes, it’s I,’ he said, and grinned. ‘Can I not leave you for a day without you getting yourself into trouble?’

  ‘Imbecile,’ she uttered faintly. ‘Grace à vous, I am compelled to rescue myself.’

  ‘Yes, it’s all my fault,’ he agreed soothingly, ‘and you may rail at me presently as much as you please.’

  Melusine began to sag, and felt his strong arms catch her up and lift her bodily into a comforting embrace.

  ‘But for now, I’m taking you home.’

  Melusine’s arm crept up around his neck. ‘Home?’

  ‘To your family.’

  ‘Merci,’ she sighed and, surrendering at last to his oft-proffered aid, allowed her head to droop onto his chest. ‘I am done, Gérard. Me, you may have.’

  There was a chuckle in his voice. ‘May I, indeed? I’ll take you up on that.’