I will shoot him. Now, fetch the provisions, Guillaume, and be as quick as you can. We will have precious little time to stop on the road, and even you cannot manage without food.’
He nodded and hurried across the Place du Cul de Boeuf to the baker’s on the corner of the Canebière, the long, wide street leading up from the port to the main part of the city.
Marguerite sighed and buried the pistol more deeply among her skirts. She refused to be afraid, even though they were still all too close to the port and the ruffians who frequented it. Last night had been dangerous, terrifying even, but it had been her own fault for sleeping without a guard. She would not make such a mistake again. On another occasion, she might not be lucky enough to have a gentleman come to her aid. He had been most courageous, launching himself into the fray with no thought for his own safety. And covered by only a thin bed sheet, to boot! She should have been embarrassed, of course, but she had been too intent on dealing with the attackers.
Now she remembered that her rescuer’s naked torso had seemed shapely and well muscled, like a classical statue. She fancied his hair had been dark. And he was tall, too. But what she remembered most clearly was his voice, its strong, rich tone inspiring confidence and helping her to overcome her terror. She would treasure the memory of that voice.
It was a pity she had not had a chance to thank him properly, or even to ask his name. Everything had happened so quickly. As soon as both men were securely bound, he had disappeared to arrange for them to be taken to gaol. Marguerite had been left alone to sleep, if she could. And she had, soothed by the memory of that remarkable voice.
This morning she had rid herself of such missish fancies. As a matter of courtesy, she would have liked to seek him out, but it had been much too early. She had not left a note. How could she, for a man with no name? But she now felt more than a little guilty. It was a breach of good manners to have failed to thank him. If she ever saw him again, she would remedy that, but the chances were extremely slim. She walked thoughtfully to the leader’s head and raised her free hand to stroke his neck.
And then she heard the sound of running feet.
She tightened her hold on the butt of the pistol, and turned. Two men had rounded the corner from the Quai du Port. One, a fair-haired stranger,was leaning heavily on his darker fellow. Why, it was the gentleman who had come to her rescue just hours before! She stepped quickly away from the horses. What was happening? What should she do? The men looked to be in some distress. The fair-haired one seemed to be struggling to stay upright. Without the support of his friend, he would probably have fallen to the ground.
Marguerite knew she had to help her rescuer as he had helped her. It was a matter of honour. She owed him. She hurried forward, still gripping the pistol. ‘Sir, what is the matter?’
‘My friend has been shot,’ the darker man gasped, ‘by a gang of villains. They are just behind us.’
Marguerite did not hesitate. ‘Quickly. Inside my coach.’ She ran forward to fling open the door, scrambled inside and began throwing most of the parcels of silk to one side. ‘Lay him here.’ She pointed to the floor where the seat had been removed to make room for her stores.
The two men did not speak. They simply acted. The dark man threw his valise into the corner of the coach, then half-pushed, half-lifted his injured fellow into the space Marguerite had cleared. In seconds, he was lying on a bed of packaged silk.
‘You, too.’ She gestured urgently. There was room for both of them.
The dark man nodded and lay alongside his fellow.
Marguerite quickly heaped all the remaining packages on top of them. It was a ramshackle pile, but there was nothing to betray what was hidden underneath it. She jumped quickly to the ground and closed the door at her back. She took a deep breath, looking round. There was no one, yet, but she could hear running feet again. And this time, there were more of them. She swallowed hard, pushed the pistol more deeply within her skirts and straightened her shoulders.
She was about to move back to the horses’ heads when she noticed a bloodstain on the ground by her foot. Dear God, that would give them away! She moved to cover as much of the stain as possible with her boot, hoping the shadow of her long skirt would hide the rest. Provided she did not move—and she had no intention of doing so—the blood would not be seen. Guillaume would return soon, and then there would be two of them to outface whatever scoundrel was prepared to shoot an unarmed man in broad daylight.
She did not have long to wait. Barely seconds after she had hidden the bloodstain, five dirty and sinister-looking Frenchmen rounded the corner at a run and skittered to a stop, one of them slipping on the gravelly surface of the square. They were all looking about them suspiciously, clearly wondering where their quarry had gone. She heard disjointed words in the local thieves’ cant. She did not understand them all, but enough to make clear that the two fugitives were in real danger. As was she, for hiding them!
She pulled herself up to her full height and stared proudly at them. But if she had hoped to frighten them off, she was mistaken. Two of them muttered in low voices and then came towards her. One was openly carrying a knife.
Marguerite continued to stare loftily at them. She did not dare to move from the bloodstained spot. And she would not show fear. She had learnt that only a few hours ago. ‘Put that thing away,’ she snapped.
The knifes stopped dead and stared at her. Then, looking suddenly a little sheepish, he tucked the knife into his boot.
Marguerite waited. She had had one small victory, but there were still five of them, five men against one woman. The pistol, hard against her leg, provided some reassurance. If either of these two tried to assault her, she would shoot him.
‘We be looking for two men. Fugitives,’ the knifes said, forcing a false smile. ‘They came this way, mistress. Did you see where they went?’
‘Two men?’ Marguerite raised her eyebrows.
‘Aye,’ said the second man. ‘One dark, one fair. The fair one would be limping, and bleeding. He was shot.’
‘Shot?’ Marguerite put as much horror as she could into her voice.
‘By the constable, mistress. They be wanted, by the law.’
‘Aye,’ agreed the knifes. ‘We be deputised, by the constable. He’s too fat to run.’ The second man laughed shortly.
‘Ah. Yes, I did see two men, one helping the other. They went into the old town.’ She pointed to the maze of squalid streets that opened off the tiny square and ran the entire length of the harbour. ‘Over there.’
‘Thank ye, mistress.’
‘I doubt you’ll be able to catch them,’ Marguerite said earnestly. ‘They were some way ahead of you, and running. And in that labyrinth…’ She shrugged her shoulders.
‘True, mistress, but we be able to follow the blood trail. The fair one, he was bleeding.’He began to scan the ground for signs.
Marguerite took half a step forward. The bloodstain was completely hidden by her shadow. ‘Well, I hope you do, if they are fugitives. But I must tell you that they stopped at the corner, over there, and I think the dark man put a pad on the fair man’swum. So there may be no trail for you to follow.’ She raised her hands in the universal gesture of helplessness. ‘But if you’re quick, you may succeed.’
‘Aye,’ said the knifes. ‘Come, Jean. We must go.’ They both looked across to the narrow street Marguerite had indicated. Then, waving to their accomplices to join them, they trotted off.
Marguerite stood motionless until all five of them had disappeared into the dark and malodorous streets of the oldest quarter of Marseilles.
Ben was barely half-conscious now. Jack rather wished he would swoon completely, for he was starting to mutter and groan with the pain of his wound. Jack laid a hand gently over Ben’s mouth, trying to muffle the sound. If that did not work, he was going to have to hit him, to knock him out. It would be a terrible thing to do to a friend who already