Ned sheathed his bloody sword, then knelt beside the girl and pulled her dress down over her legs, covering her nakedness.
Only then did he look at her face and realize she was Aphrodite Beaulieu.
She was not even a Protestant. Ned wondered what she had been doing on the street at night. Her parents would not have allowed her to wander around alone even in the daytime. Ned thought she might have had an assignation, and remembered how happily she had smiled at Bernard Housse in the Louvre. And she would probably have got away with it, had this not been the night that someone decided to let slip the dogs of war.
She looked at him and said: ‘Ned Willard? Thank God! But how . . . ?’
He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. ‘No time for explanations,’ he said. The Beaulieu mansion was not far away in the rue St Denis. ‘Let me take you home.’ He picked up his lantern and took her arm.
She seemed too shocked to speak or even cry.
Ned looked about him warily as they walked. No one was safe.
They were almost at her house when four men with white armbands came out of a side street and accosted them. One said: ‘Are you running away, Protestants?’
Ned’s heart went cold. He thought of drawing his sword, but they had swords too, and there were four of them. He had taken the last lot by surprise, and scared them, but these four stood facing him with their hands on their hilts, ready for action. He did not stand a chance.
He would have to talk his way out of this. They would automatically suspect any foreigner, of course. His accent was good enough to fool people – Parisians thought he came from Calais – but sometimes he made childish mistakes of grammar, and he prayed that he would not give himself away now by sayingle maisoninstead ofla maison.
He summoned up a sneer. ‘This is Mademoiselle Beaulieu, you damn fool,’ he said. ‘She’s a good Catholic, and the count of Beaulieu’s mansion is right there. You lay a finger on her and I’ll rouse the entire household.’ It was not an empty threat: he was within shouting distance. But Aphrodite gripped his arm harder, and he guessed she did not want her parents to know that she had been out.
The leader of the group looked sly. ‘If she’s a Catholic noblewoman, what’s she doing on the street at this time of night?’
‘We’ll get her father to answer that question, shall we?’ Ned maintained his pose of confident arrogance, but it was a struggle. ‘And then he can ask you what the devil you think you’re doing pestering his daughter.’ He took a deep breath and raised his head, as if about to shout for help.
‘All right, all right,’ said the leader. ‘But the Huguenots have risen up against the king, and the militia has been ordered to seek them out and kill them all, so you’d both better get inside the house and stay there.’
Ned did not let his relief show. ‘And you’d better be more careful how you address Catholic noblemen,’ he said, and he escorted Aphrodite past the men. Their leader said no more.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Aphrodite said: ‘I have to go in the back way.’
He nodded. It was as he had guessed. ‘Is there a door unlocked?’
‘My maid is waiting.’
It was the oldest of stories. Aphrodite’s maid was helping her mistress have an unauthorized romance. Well, that was none of Ned’s business. He walked her to the back of the house where she tapped on a high wooden gate. It was opened immediately by a young girl.
Aphrodite took Ned’s hand in a fierce grip and kissed his fingers. ‘I owe you my life,’ she said. Then she slipped inside, and the gate closed behind her.
Ned headed for the Lagny home, even more wary than before. He was alone now, and therefore more suspect. He touched the hilt of his sword nervously.
Many houses were now showing lights. The inhabitants, alarmed by the bells, had presumably got up and lit candles. Pale faces appeared at windows, staring out anxiously.
Fortunately, the Lagny place was not far. As he walked up the steps to the front door the building was dark and silent. Perhaps Lagny and his servants were pretending the house was empty, as Ned had urged Isabelle to do.
When he knocked on the door it moved. Apparently it had not been fully closed and now it swung open, revealing a dark hall. Ned smelled a disgusting odour, like a butcher’s shop. He held his lantern aloft and gasped.
There were bodies everywhere, and blood all over the tiled floor and the panelled wall. He recognized the marquess, lying on his back with stab wounds in his belly and chest. Ned’s heart stopped. He held his lantern over the faces of the other corpses, dreading that one of them would be Sylvie. They were all strangers, and by their dress he guessed servants.
He went into the kitchen, where there were more. He saw an open window leading to a yard, and hoped that some of the household had escaped that way.
He searched the house, shining his light into every dead face. To his immense relief Sylvie was not there.
Now he had to find her secret place. If she was not there, he feared the worst.
Before leaving the building he ripped the lace collar off his shirt and tied it around his left arm, so that he would look like one of the militia. There was then a danger that he might be challenged and found out to be an impostor, but on balance he thought it was worth the risk.
He was beginning to feel desperate. In the few weeks he had known her she had come to mean everything to him. I lost Margery; I can’t lose Sylvie, too, he thought. What would I do?
