no-one was to be trusted and he didn’t look like he was struggling for food. No, she shook her head, the only way to keep your freedom, keep your fine clothes and full larder was to buy your freedom with blood and betrayal.
Looking both ways down the alleyway, Genevieve soon realised she was lost. She didn’t recognise this part of town. She would have to go back, yet already her vision was blurring, her head spinning from fatigue. She inspected the bread in her hands. One was less burnt than the other - she would save that for her mother. She hunched down against the wall and scraped as much of the black from the remaining loaf as possible. Underneath it was still dark brown and as dry as the sawdust that had lined her pony’s stable, but it was food, so she bit into it hungrily. Once she had finished her crumbling loaf she had gone directly back to the riverside to ease the effect of the ash coating her throat, gulping down the murky water without pause. Feeling a little better she set off with the remaining loaf for her mother.
Dawn was breaking by the time Genevieve made it back to where their hideout stood and what she saw as she turned the corner into the lane froze her blood and made bile flood her throat. A group of three men and a couple of local women were standing in the doorway to the cottage. Judging from the sounds, there were more men inside the cottage. The women were standing together, heckling and shrieking in high-pitched voices, their weathered skin showing the years of hardship under the king’s rule.
‘Drag ’er out by ‘er ’air if she can’t walk!’ one cried.
‘I bet we could sell it for a pretty amount. Git ’er out ‘ere. Let’s see ‘er finery,’ another yelled.
The loaf fell from Genevieve’s hand and rolled into the gutter as she watched her mother dragged by her hair into the street by three burly men. The peasants crowded round the woman, not noticing the girl creeping silently along the lane, drawn like a magnet yet helpless against the mob. It was when she was a couple of doors away that Genevieve caught her mother’s attention. The peasants took no heed of the sudden panic that flashed in the older woman’s eyes. They expected nothing less. It urged them on; excited them.
Genevieve hesitated and pressed herself back into the shadows, uncertain what to do. How could she help? She had nothing to fight with, and her noble upbringing had left her powerless in such a situation anyway. Her mother stared at her and, smiling very briefly, shook her head at her daughter. A woman grabbed at her hair, stroking it, then another pulled a rusty knife from her pocket and began hacking away at her mother’s once luscious locks.
‘Never mind the ’air, look at the dress… ’ow many crowns we’ll get for that.’
‘I wan’ it. You ain’t bought me a fine dress since we married.’
‘Why’d you get it. Let me have it…’
‘Oi! Geroff! I ’eard ’er first. You can ’ave the blanket. Give it a good scrub an’ it’ll come up fine.’
‘I wanna see what’s under those petticoats,’ the tall man said, leering and pushing his way between the women.
‘Yeah! Give the women their fineries and we’ll ’ave our own fun,’ another shouted.
‘Pull ’er into town. Let’s ‘ave ’er. The guard won’t arrive till noon to take ‘er away.
A tear slid down Genevieve’s cheek. She couldn’t watch her mother go through this cruelty and do nothing. Without another thought, she stepped out of the shadows and began to sprint towards the only person she had left. Her father was dead. Alfred was dead. Her best friend Marie was dead. If they took her mother, Genevieve would have no-one, so she might as well be dead too.
‘No!’ Her mother screamed out and suddenly fought with every last ounce of energy, thrashing her arms and punching the peasants who screamed and pulled at her. She would do anything to distract attention from her beautiful daughter running towards them all; running to her death. ‘No!’ she pleaded.
What happened next was so fast Genevieve didn’t have a chance to draw breath. Before she could reach her mother, she ran into something hard and immovable, knocking the air from her lungs; an arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her into a hard chest then swinging her away. In the stranger’s vice-like grip they moved together so fast, the only sound the peasants heard was a brief whoosh of air; all her mother saw was a dark shape blur briefly in front of her daughter’s running form and spirit her away; away from her; away from the peasants; away from certain death. The mother sighed, and fell silent as relief flooded in and washed away the last drops of adrenalin. She closed her eyes and fell limp in the peasant’s arms.
‘You?!’ Genevieve said, when seconds later she was carefully put back on her feet, the man’s hand lingering, steadying her as she caught her breath. ‘I don’t care who the hell you are but take me back to my mother now. She needs our help!’ she said.
‘I cannot take you back. I have waited too long and your mother wanted you to live, not die at the guillotine. Evie, you do not recognise me without the fineries of court, no?’ the man said, turning to face her.
Genevieve looked at the man carefully. It was the same man she had run into earlier that morning. He seemed familiar then, and now as she looked at the smooth planes of his face she remembered who he was.
‘You used to wear that ridiculous wig,’ she said. ‘And only Alfred called me Evie. But you weren’t Alfred’s friend. You were Phillipe’s friend… Caspian?’
‘Sebastian,’ the man corrected. ‘Unfortunately, the friendship with Phillipe was necessary and that ridiculous wig, as you so rightly describe it, was a necessary evil I no longer have to burden myself with.’
‘My mother… I don’t know how you got me away so easily. I don’t understand nor do I want to think about it, but you have to help her,’ Genevieve pleaded, her eyes filling with tears.
‘Evie, I can’t. It’s too late now. It would have caused too much disturbance to save her and for very little gain.’
‘What do you mean, little gain? How can you say that? She’s my mother!’
‘And she used her last ounce of life fighting those peasants to protect you. Her heart stopped beating as I saved you. She had no strength left and will feel no more pain.’
‘How do you know that? Is your hearing so good you can hear a beating heart? We have to go back. I need to know,’ Genevieve said.
‘No.’
Ignoring him, Genevieve was already pushing Sebastian away from her and looking back down the alleyway, her mind set.
‘As you please then,’ he said, his face grim. ‘This way… and stick to the shadows.’
Genevieve followed Sebastian to the end of the alleyway and paused when he turned back to speak to her.
‘Evie, this will not be pleasant. I can assure you she is no longer alive and she wouldn’t want you to put yourself in further danger... nor would she want you to see her like this.’
‘I need to know,’ Genevieve murmured, already hearing the shouts and calls coming from the peasants in the square.
With a brief nod Sebastian took her hand, he led her round the corner and into a shadowed doorway, where they had a clear view of the village square.
Genevieve gasped and clamped her eyes shut against the horrific vision in front of her. A sob rose and escaped as a strangled howl of pain. Sebastian’s arms encircled her, picking her up as effortlessly as a father picking up a toddler and carried her away; the images of her naked, dead mother fixed behind her eyelids.
Ͼ
‘I have nothing left,’ Genevieve said some hours later, once her helpless sobbing had finally abated. She lay, exhausted, on a beautiful mahogany bed, somewhat like her childhood bed in Versailles.
‘You still have me,’ Sebastian said, sitting in a chair beside her, stroking her hair softly.
‘I don’t even know you,’ she said quietly. ‘You were Phillipe’s friend and he betrayed us all.’
‘I only befriended him to get close to you. It was my suggestion that your marriage be postponed until after the troubles. I warned Alfred about Phillipe. I found him the peasa
nt clothes for you. I told him where to lead you to. I am sorry he did not fully succeed,’ he said.
‘Then why did you pretend to be Philippe’s friend, if you were Alfred’s? How do you manage to keep this house and wear those clothes? Why would you be bothered about my marriage to the Marquis?’ Genevieve asked, looking accusingly at the luxury surrounding her.
‘It is complicated, but Phillipe was necessary. He was vain, easily flattered and had the power I needed to gain influence in the court.’
‘How do I know you aren’t still working with him? That you won’t hand me in?’
‘Then why would I have saved you? You know you can trust me, Evie. That’s the whole point.’
‘The only thing I know is that I can’t trust anyone,’ she answered quietly, turning her head away. ‘How can I trust you, when you have all this?’
‘The villagers don’t come here. We are far enough out of town to avoid them, but we will have to move on soon enough,’ he said, a frown flashing across his features.
‘But I don’t understand how you stopped my marriage… why? You can’t have known this was going to happen four years ago, at the engagement ball,’ Genevieve said, turning her face back, her eyes meeting his dark, brooding ones.
‘I didn’t,’ he shrugged defiantly. ‘I was selfish. I didn’t want you to be married and I knew you didn’t want to marry that pompous oaf. The revolution was gaining momentum and