‘Again?’ Another simple parry. Gosse sneered. ‘You do not try.’
‘Ah, no?’ She saw his guard relax and lunged again.
This time she feinted as his point came up to deflect her own, and disengaging, passed under and cut at his cheek. Panic leapt into his eyes as he brought his wrist up just in time to parry the blade.
‘Sapristi,’ he gasped.
Melusine made no reply. She ought to have leapt back on guard. Instead her point disengaged, dropped, and then the sword came up again and banged, flat-bladed, onto Gosse’s wrist with such force that his own blade dropped from his grasp. In a flash, Melusine had jumped forward and clamped it to the floor with one booted foot.
Panting with effort, she held her point menacingly at Gosse’s chest. ‘That is better, no?’
‘Dieu.’ He stared at the point, glanced at the fallen sword imprisoned by her foot, and only just looked back at her weapon in time to see it thrust at him again.
He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. Melusine did not pause, but reached down to grasp the hilt of his sword and lift it. Swinging her arm in an arc, she let go of the foil and it flew across the chapel towards the main door, crashing down between the pews, and clattering onto the floor.
‘Eh bien, pig. And son of a pig,’ she grunted, baring her teeth.
‘You are mad,’ Gosse uttered, and only just had time to get himself up from the floor.
For Melusine was on him again, the point of her sword lunging so that he backed up onto the dais. She thrust at him, following, almost spitting him as he crashed against the altar, rocking the huge candlesticks and the vessels that stood on it. Gosse twisted his body to avoid another thrust, and the heavy candlesticks fell, rolling with a noise like thunder, and falling with a thud to the floor.
‘How is your plan now, mon brave?’ Melusine taunted. ‘Who kills who?’
‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall.
Melusine flew after him, the sword held out before her and pointing directly at his retreating back.
‘Pig! Pig, a thousand times!’
Running footsteps could be heard now, and she knew that the commotion was bringing the nuns, just as she had hoped. But she must stop him getting away.
Too late she realised that Emile was not trying to escape. He was shifting to reach his own weapon, which had fallen in between the pews at the back. Before she knew what had happened, Gosse turned suddenly, and vaulted one of the pews into the gap behind.
Balked, Melusine halted.
‘Coward,’ she threw at him, brandishing the sword.
‘Madwoman,’ he screamed back, as he climbed over the next pew, eyes darting down briefly to check for his sword.
Melusine shrieked an imprecation, and ran the length of the aisle, searching for the weapon she had thrown. She saw it, and checked without thinking.
Emile looked at her, then down, and clearly caught the bright gleam on the floor.
‘Alors, I see it.’
Baring his teeth in a smile of triumph that was every bit an animal snarl, and leaping up onto the seat of the pew he was in, he jumped hazardously to the next.
In the distance a bell clanged, and chattering broke out in the doorway as several nuns came crowding in. Melusine, intent upon preventing Gosse from securing the fallen weapon, paid no attention. Vaguely she heard the distinctive sound of male voices as she saw Gosse dive towards the fateful pew.
‘You will not, pig,’ cried Melusine.
She pushed between the pews, hoping to reach the sword first, while desperately holding on to her petticoats to keep them up, as her sword arm wavered.
‘You are dead, you,’ he yelled back, leaping into the seat of the final pew.
Melusine tried to squash down, still trying to maintain her guard. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. She could not move.
‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down.
With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her.
A male voice, vibrant with terror, yelled out hoarsely.
‘Melusine!’
Distracted, Gosse blinked and his eyes flicked away from Melusine’s just as she flung the fullness of her gathered petticoats in the way of his blade. There was a tearing sound and the cloth of her habit ripped apart as the smothered point drove through it, missing its intended target.
Next instant, Melusine’s blade sank into Gosse’s flesh. His sword-arm fell useless at his side and she knew herself safe. He glanced at it, and saw the bloodied blade. Clearly dazed, he stared, whispering an oath.
Melusine, her breath coming in short bursts, heard a sudden flurry of several heavy footsteps and harsh commands exchanged.
‘Get the swords!’
‘I’ll see to him. You deal with her.’
She saw the weapon wrenched from Emile’s hand and he dropped to the bench of the pew and sat there, grasping helplessly at the welling blood on his arm. Then he was surrounded by black-clad nuns, and Melusine felt an unknown hand grab away her own sword.
She released her clutch on it as, dizzy with exhaustion, she leaned against the back of the pew and closed her eyes, her fingers grasping out automatically for support. Her shoulders were gripped hard and a familiar voice spoke.
