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 left 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.
