P
etra thrust her fist into her mouth, shaking now. But surely these peasants wouldn’t have strong poison on hand, a poison that could overwhelm without chance of struggle or screams of pain?
A sleeping draft was a different matter. Gall, poppy seed, henbane, even hemlock in small amounts, would put anyone into a deep sleep for hours, and the men might have thought sleepiness natural after the hard journey.
Petra heard a noise and quickly lay back on her bed. She was only just in place when the curtain rustled and candlelight shone through her closed lids for what felt like an excruciating eon.
Then it went. After a moment, Petra risked opening her lids the merest crack. She was alone. She slipped to the curtain and saw the solid back of Madame Goulart returning to the kitchen. Petra just stood there, all doubt gone. The woman had come to see if she’d been awakened by the noise, but why hadn’t she killed Petra then and there?
Perhaps she was waiting to see if the rest of the plan worked. If one of the men woke, the women could probably think up an excuse. Nothing could excuse a corpse. Petra was sure now that the women were intent on evil, and she might be the only one able to stop it. She had to get out and wake the men.
If they couldn’t be woken?
She’d have to deal with the women alone.
If only she had a better weapon. Robin must travel with pistols. She didn’t know much about guns, but if one were primed and loaded, she knew how to cock it and fire.
Wouldn’t he also have a sword? Thanks to Ludo, damn his black soul, she could use a sword. Not brilliantly, but well enough—
The distant door squeaked open again, banged shut again. Petra risked creeping out to the curtain.
“All snoring,” Solette reported sulkily.
Not dead, not dead. Thank you, God!
Madame Goulart asked something.
“Three near the horses. Milord must be in the carriage.”
“Too good to sleep on the ground,” the old woman sneered at a deaf woman’s volume. “A rich milord for sure.”
“And we’ll have that pretty dog collar, and his other treasures,” Madame Goulart said. “Get ready, girls.”
Whatever Petra did, it had to be now, and the only way out was through her window. She slid back into her cell and heaved herself up onto the windowsill again, praying that she not be heard. Her blood was pounding so fiercely in her ears, she was all but deaf to other sounds.
Balanced, shaking, and sucking in breaths, she realized that getting out wouldn’t be as easy as she’d imagined. She could fit through the opening, but it was too small for her to turn. The only way was to keep going as she was, headfirst.
Into the mud.
Silently.
Praying fervently, she tipped forward and attempted to slither down the outside wall. Not being a snake, she got only so far, then tumbled to the ground. This close to the house, the ground was damp rather than muddy, but that meant it didn’t break her fall well. She’d be bruised tomorrow.
If she lived.
She pushed to her feet, looking for Robin’s fire. It must have died, but there was one faint light—a candle in one coach lamp, she thought. She tried to sprint across the dark yard, but within feet, her sandals sank in mud. The best she could do was slip and slog as Robin had done when carrying her.
Sweet, wicked Cock Robin. He was doubtless destined to rake coals in hell, but please God, not yet.
At least the darkness hid her. The kitchen shutters must still be closed, and the moon was mostly behind clouds. She remembered she’d taken off her veil and pulled her hood over her white cap, then labored forward, focused on the coach lamp like a ship on a harbor light, ears stretched for sounds from the house.
Finally, her feet found firmer ground. She was under the overhang and took a moment to catch her breath. No movement from the house. She shuffled toward the lamp, trying not to trip over anything.
Then behind her, the farmhouse door opened.
Petra froze, praying she was beyond the range of any light. She turned slowly to look behind.
Madame Goulart stood in the doorway. She made no move forward, but the women were coming, coming, and Petra hadn’t woken anyone or found a weapon. Trusting to her gray cloak, she edged toward the coach, watching the woman.
Her back hit a wheel, almost making her gasp.
She looked left and right, able to make out some details in the darkness. They’d propped the coach pole on the side of the horse’s stall so it was level. Because Robin was sleeping in it, she remembered. She couldn’t see any of the other men, so she’d try him first.
With her back to the wheel, the door was to her right, but high. Still watching the silent woman, she stretched for the handle. Got it. Did the door creak when opened? Nothing must steal her element of surprise.
Someone in the house spoke, and Madame Goulart went back inside. She left the door open, but was no longer watching and listening.
Petra turned and eased the handle down. It made only the dullest click. She pulled the door open. No noise.
Thank you, God!
The floor of the coach was at the level of her waist, but Petra didn’t want to risk noise by climbing the steps.
“Are you awake?” she breathed.
No answer. Her voice was too quiet to wake someone in a normal sleep, never mind a drugged one. She needed to poke or shake. She climbed up one step. The coach dipped a bit and let out a squeak. She froze, but a glance behind showed no one.
Her cloak was getting in the way, so she unfastened the clasp and let it drop, trying to visualize the interior of the chaise. The seat was to her right, but it was far too short for Robin to lie along it, so he’d be slouched in one corner or another, his long legs crossing the space in front of her. Had he taken off his boots? She couldn’t wake him with a poke through boots.
Where was Coquette? She must be drugged, too, or she’d be yapping welcome or alarm.
Petra was reaching out carefully when she heard low voices behind her. She thrust her hand out—and hissed when she jarred her fingers on something hard only inches away. What? Quick hands found a solid barrier. He’d barricaded himself in already?
Muttering under her breath, she climbed higher and tried to reach over—but it was a solid surface. A box? Covered with some thick cloth? An improvised bed! The clever man, but he’d be a clever corpse if she didn’t wake him. She scrabbled over the surface, seeking a man’s body, trying to see through her fingers.
Cold metal.
A cylinder.
A pistol! She curled her hand around the butt and lifted it against her breasts, thanking the universe. Armed, she turned to face danger.
There they were, Madame Goulart and her daughters, coming, but making slow progress in the mud. Perhaps they were also cautious, even afraid, and so they should be. Of damnation, if nothing else.
Madame Goulart carried a lantern. No light reached the coach yet, but it soon would. Petra arranged herself right hand outward, ready to raise the pistol. With her left hand, she groped for any bit of Robin Bonchurch she could hurt.
Ah, warmth. Still watching the women, she poked, but he was at the limit of her reach. She weighed options, turned, put down the pistol, and stretched out both hands. A hard bit—hip?
Oh!
Well, men were supposed to be sensitive there, so she gripped the shape beneath his breeches. His breath caught, but he stayed dead to the world.
Don’t think dead.
“Wake up!” Petra whispered, getting a knee on the top of the box and pounding what she hoped was his chest.
She was grabbed and dragged in and under him. “Desperate, are you, my lovely?” he asked, laughing.
“It’s me!” she hissed. “Sister—”
He kissed her.
Petra froze, but only for a moment. Then she fought. He was all over her, however, his mouth silencing her, his strength conquering her—while irrational bits of her were trying to forget their danger and succumb.
She felt skin and raked her nails.
He jerked back, hissing.
“Idiot man!” she spat. “The women. They’re coming to kill you.”
“What?”
Petra heaved him away. The women had to have heard. They might even be able to see the coach rock. She grabbed the pistol and scrambled out of the coach to swing the gun two handed toward the three. She cocked it, the click startlingly loud.
The women stopped, but only yards away. Jizzy seemed to carry some sort of club, and Solette had that sharp kitchen knife.
“Well, well,” said Madame Goulart, face positively evil in lamplight. “Perhaps she’s not worth as much as I thought.”
Petra frowned at her. “Me? I’m a nun.”
“Who holds a gun like that? And sneaks out to join her brother in his coach?”
Petra almost argued, but could she pretend to be unaware of the danger?
“What are
you
doing out here?” she demanded.
“We heard intruders,” the woman said. “Someone stealing the chickens, perhaps.”
“We’re not stealing your chickens, so all’s well.”
“All’s well, except for your wicked sin, Sister. Shameful, that is.”
“With your brother, too!” exclaimed Solette.
“That’ll send you right to hell, that will.”
They were conversing as if no one held weapons, but Petra was willing to play that game if it would send them back to the house.
“Not a virgin, though, Mère,” Solette said. “Pity.”
“I can stitch her.”
“And she does the nun thing well.”
Petra suddenly understood. They were talking about making her a whore! A whore slave, sold off as a virgin nun. They were all whores. This was some low kind of brothel. Those sleeping cells. Perhaps there were sometimes more women here.
She clutched the pistol more tightly. “Return to the house. We’ll leave in the morning and say nothing about this.”
The evil mother laughed. “You could kill one of us, maybe, but then you’re ours.”
“I’m an excellent shot,” Petra lied, “so one of you will certainly die.” She moved the gun to point at each in turn. “Which shall it be?”
The two younger women shifted uneasily, but Mère Goulart said, “Kill one of us, and I’ll cut out your tongue. A mute whore can have special value in some quarters.”
Petra shuddered, but steadied the heavy pistol on her. “Then I’ll kill you.”
“Then Solly’ll do it. Won’t you, girl?”
Solette giggled. “With pleasure.”
“Spread out, girls,” Mère Goulart ordered. “Make it a harder shot.”
The two girls obeyed, but they both looked nervous.
“Uno, due, tre. Uno, due, tre…”
Petra counted as she moved the pistol to track the growing arc, but her hands were shaking now, both with the weight of the gun and fear. She didn’t doubt their horrible threat, and it seemed that Robin had sunk back into a drugged sleep. Perhaps he’d never truly woken up. She’d end up a mute slave in a brothel, and the men would all die.
And she was counting in Italian.
“Un, deux, trois,”
she muttered.
“Un, deux, trois.”
Saint Peter, Saint Veronica, all the angels and saints, come to my aid!
She realized silence was useless now. “Robin!” she screamed. “Someone. Help!”
They all waited. Petra realized the women couldn’t be sure Robin was drugged. When nothing happened, however, Mère Goulart said, “No one’s coming to help you. Put the pistol down, and you can keep your tongue.”
“Put your weapons down and you can all keep yours,” said a cold voice from behind them.
Mère Goulart whirled, her lantern swinging wild light over her two alarmed daughters, and over wonderful Cock Robin, ghostly in white shirt and pale breeches and stockings, pistol steady in his right hand, sword in his left.
Jizzy and Solette dropped their weapons. but Mère Goulart whined, “Sir, sir, you mistake everything. We meant no harm! The chickens—”
“Shut up. Are you hurt, Sister?”
Petra’s heart was knocking in her chest and she felt dizzy, but she managed “No.”
He considered the women. “You,” he said to Jizzy, “take off your skirt and cut it into strips.”
“What?” Jizzy’s startled query quavered with fear.
“Cut your overskirt into strips and tie up the other two, starting with madame. Get on with it.”
At his tone, Jizzy squeaked in panic and fumbled with the ties of her skirt. It tumbled down, revealing her dingy, knee-length shift. Then she fell to her knees and crawled to the knife to hack into the cloth.
Robin Bonchurch watched all three, apparently relaxed, but in command of both sword and pistol. Petra felt as if she’d whirled from unimaginable horror into some sort of dream featuring a pale angel with rippling, burnished hair….
She remembered other dangers and studied the farmhouse.
The door was shut and there was no sign of life other than a little light around closed shutters. The crippled woman wouldn’t be able to attack them, but she’d be watching through one of the chinks and know the plan had failed. Would she try something?
“Put down the lantern.”
At Robin’s command, Petra twitched back and watched Mère Goulart obey, dark with sullen malevolence. He told the woman to hold out her wrists while Jizzy bound them. Jizzy quaked but she obeyed, clearly fearing Robin more than her mother. No, not mother. She and Solette were probably no relation at all.
Petra realized she should try to get help. None of the other men had stirred to her screams, so they must be drugged deeply, but she sidestepped toward the bundles near the horses, keeping an eye on the women and the house.
Her feet found something. She looked down. Powick. He’d be the most useful anyway. She kicked him. The only result was a grunt, so she put her foot on his chest and pressed down. He coughed but didn’t wake.
“Any luck?” Robin called.
“They’re drugged deep.” She spoke in English so the women wouldn’t understand. “How is it you aren’t?”
“I ate little of the stew,” he replied in the same tongue. “I assume that was it.”
“Has to be. I only ate a mouthful.”
“Why?”
“Too much sage.”
“Too much everything, but unfortunately the others found it edible. Sit back against that pole,” he told Mère Goulart in French. When she obeyed, he ordered Jizzy to tie her to it. The woman spat a curse, but there was still no action from the house.