‘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.
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
aristos
must 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
épée
on 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.
‘I can smell smoke,’ said Henri, his face creased with concern. ‘Something is burning.’
The pounding on the door grew louder. The armoire jumped, as though it was leaping out of the way.
‘Amelie, you go first, and be careful,’ Tilly whispered urgently. ‘Hide in the shadows when you get to the bottom.’
Amelie hugged her portmanteau and swung one leg over the windowsill.
Henri grabbed the bag. ‘I will throw it down when you get to the bottom.’
Amelie gasped as the weight of her body dragged on her arms, her legs kicking wildly. Mimi followed Amelie straight down the sheet rope, not waiting to be invited.
Henri took Amelie’s weight at the top of the sheet rope, while Tilly flew around the room, gathering some items of her own – a blanket, candles, the tinderbox and soap. She knotted these up in the blanket and threw them out the window after Amelie and her portmanteau.
‘Your turn now,’ ordered Henri.
‘They don’t want me, they want you,’ argued Tilly.
‘If the sheets tear with my weight, you will be stuck,’ Henri insisted. ‘I’m not going until I know you are safe at the bottom.’ His face was determined.
The door splintered. Tilly threw her leg over the windowsill and out into the cool night air. She swung arm under arm as fast as she could, half falling, half scrambling to the ground. She slipped towards the end and dropped the last two metres, falling in a crumpled heap on the ground. Amelie dropped the portmanteau and blanket bundle and rushed to see if she was hurt.
As soon as Tilly’s weight dropped from the sheet, Henri pulled it up. The next item to come down was Juju, slung in another blanket. Tilly untied the bundle with shaking hands, desperate for Henri to escape.
In a trice, Henri was out the window as well, dropping down the sheet at great speed. He, too, tumbled the last metre, gasping in pain as his injured leg hit the ground.
Both Tilly and Henri were on their feet in a moment, helping Amelie snatch up the bundles and blankets and run from the house, the animals at their heels. As they ran past the back of the chateau, they could see a bright, flickering light on the trees, illuminating the grounds all around.
Through the windows, a bonfire blazed in the library. Women and children fed the fire with armfuls of books from the shelves, papers from the desk and broken furniture. Other furniture and valuables had been dragged from the rooms out onto the grass.
A group of men sat in velvet armchairs on the lawn, drinking ruby wine from crystal goblets and eating game pie and roast goose from the kitchen. They cheered loudly as the flames surged up and licked the velvet curtains.
A woman ran across the grass dressed in one of Tante Beatrice’s crimson taffeta ball gowns, the back undone and swimming on her scrawny frame. She whooped with joy, her cheeks painted with rouge, fluttering a painted fan and curtseying to the wine-swilling men.
Two children sat on the terrace, by the light of the library fire, ripping a loaf of bread to pieces between them. Their filthy cheeks bulged with food, but still they crammed chunks in their mouths.
Henri stood entranced, horrified by the scene before them, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Two men ran out into the gardens, one was Jean-Pierre carrying his pitchfork.
‘The cursed
aristos
have locked themselves into a bedroom upstairs,’ Jean-Pierre shouted. ‘We need help breaking the door down.’
‘Let the
aristos
burn like pigs,’ retorted one of the seated men, settling deeper into his armchair and raising his glass. ‘Come and drink wine from the dead Comte’s cellars. We don’t want to miss the show.’
He gestured over to a pile of bottles beside him and knocked the top off one. ‘Tonight’s a night to celebrate.’
All the men raised their glasses and cheered, draining the ruby liquid in one swallow and pouring out another.
‘The chateau’s burning,’ added another peasant. ‘It won’t last long now.’
Jean-Pierre drained a glass of wine that was offered to him but refused to sit down. ‘Burning’s too good for that scum. I want to see him writhe on the end of my pitchfork,’ he insisted. ‘I’m going back after him and his arrogant cousin. You can stay here and swill wine, but I won’t rest until I see them all dead.’
Jean-Pierre threw the glass against a garden wall where it smashed into a thousand tiny fragments. Then he turned and strode back into the chateau.
Tilly drew Henri gently away by the arm.
‘We should get the horses from the stables,’ she murmured when they were a reasonable distance from the house. ‘We can hide in the forest until the morning.’
Amelie stumbled after Tilly, her eyes blinded by tears. She could not bear to watch the destruction of her family home.
‘We can hitch up the travelling carriage,’ suggested Henri quietly. ‘We can drive to Paris to the family townhouse. We will be safe there.’
‘Paris is dangerous now,’ Tilly whispered. ‘The Parisians are rioting in the streets and killing people. Besides, the carriage is too conspicuous. Only aristocrats drive in them.’
Henri did not reply, limping along towards the stables with Amelie’s portmanteau. Tilly lugged the blanket bundle and Amelie trailed behind, her long skirts dragging on the damp grass.
The argument of whether to take the carriage or not was a wasted point. The carriage was gone, along with the Comte’s finest matched bays. The other horses whinnied in their stalls, unsettled by the unfamiliar noises and smell of smoke.
Tilly lit a candle, shading it with her hand.
‘Can you ride?’ asked Tilly, looking at Henri’s leg. Exacerbated by his fall and the exercise, the blood had seeped through his bandage, soaking the white cloth. Henri gritted his teeth, smiling grimly.
‘I am perfectly fine,’ he lied. ‘We do not have much time. They may have discovered our escape by now. The stables will be the first place they look.’
Amelie had collapsed on a hay bale, her bag at her feet and Mimi snuggling into her side. She sagged further at this prediction.
‘Where’s the tack room?’ Tilly asked Henri, who pointed at a closed door. Tilly opened it, bewildered by racks of saddles, pegs of bridles and piles of harnesses.
Henri hobbled into the tack room. The names of the horses were written above the pegs. He prowled along, selecting tack and blankets for three horses – Angelique, Mystique and Abelard.
In a few minutes, the horses were bridled and saddled. Amelie’s portmanteau was lashed to the back of her saddle, the blanket rolled behind Tilly’s saddle. Henri gave each of the girls a riding crop, which could be used as a weapon if required.
‘I think we should let all the horses go,’ insisted Tilly, looking at the noble steeds peering anxiously over their stall doors. ‘The fire could spread to the stables, or the villagers could set fire to the outbuildings.’
‘If we let the horses go, they will be stolen,’ argued Henri. ‘They are very valuable.’
‘Better stolen than incinerated,’ said Tilly. ‘Besides, they’ll be easier to steal locked up in the stables than wandering in the fields.’
Henri did not answer. His mouth set with pain and determination, he hobbled to the nearest stalls and unlatched the door. Amelie and Tilly followed suit.
When all the stall doors were opened, the three mounted, their stomachs tense with nerves. Mimi swung up by the stirrup onto Amelie’s lap. Everything seemed to be taking so long. Tilly could imagine the villagers creeping through the darkness to surround the stables and burn it down. She hoped Juju would give them adequate warning.
Henri blew out their candle, then leant down and opened the stable door. Outside, the stableyard was empty and dark and swirling with thick, choking smoke from the burning chateau. Tilly expelled the breath she had been unconsciously holding. The next breath she took was acrid.
They rode cautiously out into the night, Tilly in the lead. The riders melted into the dark shadows of the shrubbery, with Juju at their heels. The gardens and park around the chateau were ablaze with flickering light.
The fire in the library had taken hold and rushed through the chateau’s three storeys, flames soaring high in the air. Around the building, crowds of villagers laughed, sang, danced reels, drank wine and feasted on the spoils of the kitchen. Children played hide-and-seek and chasings around the piles of furniture stacked on the terrace.
Farmers’ wives roasted the Comte’s chickens over glowing coals scraped from the very body of the building. There was a loud roar of approval as one of the walls collapsed, sending showers of sparks high into the air like fireworks. Glowing coals fell on one of the plundered piles of treasure, and the villagers raced to stomp out the new fire with a shout of delight.
Tilly glanced behind her. She could see Amelie’s dark shape slumped in the saddle, cuddling Mimi in front of her, and Henri sitting ramrod straight. She could feel the cousins’ despair envelop her like a cloak, pulling her down.
Tilly’s eyes were drawn to the surreal beauty of the leaping flames, the dancing villagers, the merry sounds of singing and laughter. She felt an odd desire to join in the festivities and celebrate the toppling of a throne, the destruction of an antiquated way of life and the birth of a new nation.
Her eyes flickered back to Henri and Amelie’s silhouettes in the shadows. Tilly realised they were helpless, wallowing in loss and grief. The cousins had no idea what to do as their home burnt and they lost everything they owned, everything they believed in.