A dreadful stillness followed the last volley. It lasted long enough for them to fear – or even hope – they’d been forgotten. The vault was dank and claustrophobic, lit by one weak candle. The soldiers might have locked the door and left them to their fate.

The place had been a convent once, before the Revolution, but now it was a desecrated shell. The sisters had been driven out, and mercy had gone with them. A platoon of bluecoat ruffians were using the old building as a base.

There was the sound of heavy boots descending the stone steps. The group of women waited anxiously. They shied away like deer from the loud rattle of the lock. A soldier filled the doorway. "Any ladies here?" he leered.

"The daughter of a marquis," said one girl defiantly. "And many honest women of the town."

The soldier looked her over. She was blonde and willowy. The sleeves of her gown were rolled up, and her skirt was stained with other people’s blood.

"Then you can speak for all of them." He gestured. "Come along!" The girl looked more uncertain now. Her maid clutched at her sleeve. Then the blonde pushed back her unpinned hair and ventured forward. The soldier grasped her slender arm and led her from the crypt.

They climbed the narrow flight of steps and came into the church. The girl’s eyes widened as she glanced around. The stained-glass windows had been smashed and plain light filtered through, but the place was still as gloomy as a barn. The nave was strewn with dirty straw. There was baggage everywhere. She caught a glimpse of horses stabled in a side chapel.

A writing desk had been set up in front of the bare altar. An earnest-looking woman sat at it. The soldier led the daughter of the marquis down the aisle. The woman didn’t raise her eyes. She scribbled in a ledger with her quill.

The blonde girl was left standing on the flagstones. She rubbed her hands together awkwardly. The woman looked as young as her, but soberly attired. She wore a plain grey travelling gown, and her dark hair was pulled back from her pale face.

She finished writing and looked up. Her spectacles gave her a studious air. The eyes behind them were pale blue. She smiled politely at the prisoner.

The blonde girl felt a spark of hope. The woman seemed a quiet, bookish type. Much more cultured than the soldiers lurking round the church. "Shall we be held much longer, Miss?" she asked.

"Citizen," the girl corrected primly. Her glasses magnified a steely glint. "My name is Claire, and I’m an agent of the state police." She let the quill pen tease her lip. "And who might you be … Miss?"

"Nicole Lagrange," the blonde girl said, her confidence receding. "The daughter of the marquis … Citizen."

Claire stared back, impassive now. She was attractive, in a pallid way. "The revolution’s enemies are active in this parish. You stand accused of helping them, so what have you to say?"

Nicole was nonplussed for a moment. Then she glanced down at her bloodstained dress. "There was a skirmish yesterday. We did no more than tend to wounded men ..."

"Traitors," Claire said evenly. She paused to make a note. "We captured them with arms in their possession." Nicole was going to ask her what had happened to the wounded, but the question seemed to catch in her dry throat. She could smell the bad-egg stink of powder through the horse manure. A sudden shudder racked her slender frame.

The candles flickered briefly then. Another girl had come into the church. She sauntered up to stand by Claire, her features set in a contemptuous smirk. She wore a sleeveless cotton dress that clung to her full figure, and a scarlet peasant cap on her dark hair.

Nicole’s unease began to bite. The minx was clearly one of the militia. She carried a short carbine, and a cartridge pouch was slung across her hip. Claire gave her a sidelong glance, then looked back at Nicole.

"Do you deny you’ve comforted our nation’s enemies?"

"I want no part in politics. My friends and I just want to live in peace."

Claire considered that, then shrugged. She wrote another line, and smiled once more. The friendliness was back again. Nicole felt her heart flutter. "That will be all, Citizen." Claire nodded to the soldier, who came forward and took hold of Nicole’s arm.

He marched her down the aisle again and out into the courtyard. The other ladies were all gathered there. The cobblestones were strewn with hay, and blood was soaking through it. Nicole stared down in horror, then looked up towards the pockmarks on the wall.

She swung round with a gasp and saw the soldiers facing them. The men stood in a line with rifles aimed. The other ladies sobbed and cowered back against the wall. Nicole reached out and grasped her maid’s cold hand.

As their fingers tightened, a young woman’s voice barked: "Fire!" The levelled rifles belched a thundercloud. Muzzle flashes stabbed through it like lightning, and a heavy squall of lead engulfed the yard.

The volley threw the ladies back against the pitted wall. They wriggled vainly and collapsed, still clutching riddled breasts and punctured guts. Two girls had embraced each other, squealing helplessly: they jerked and died in one another’s arms. Nicole threw back her head as she was pierced by several shots. Her maid convulsed, still clinging to her hand. In moments, every woman was a lifeless broken doll.

Watching from the doorway, the militia girl just smiled and licked her lips.

* * *

Martine sank deeper in the bath, her rounded breasts subsiding. She gave the women an arch look. "Forgive me, but you don’t look much like nuns."

Her visitors regarded her with thinly veiled distaste. They were plainly-dressed, like seamstresses, but had the poise of privileged young ladies. One was a petite brunette whose dark eyes flashed with spirit: it seemed the convent hadn’t tamed her yet. The other was more timid, with wide eyes and mousy hair. She looked to her companion for a lead.

"We have to make our living in the world," the dark girl said. "Those godless peasants drove us from our house!"

Martine sat back and let Nell rub her shoulders. The English girl was kneeling by the tub. She wore a calfskin waistcoat and a pair of linen drawers, but otherwise her glossy skin was bare. Her fingers moved to Martine’s neck. A lace cravat concealed the rope scar there. Martine closed her kohl-rimmed eyes, but Nell’s pale gaze stayed focused on the girls.

The little room was humid with the steam from the tin bath. The former sisters stirred uncomfortably. The feisty girl was called Rebecca, and her quiet friend was Catherine. They listened to the bustle of the inn-yard down below. Rebecca bristled with impatience. "May we have your answer, then?" she asked.

Martine raised her eyelids languidly. "I have to wonder why you’ve come to us."

Rebecca sniffed. "The convent has been turned into a barracks. They’ve billeted their harlots in our cells. I hear that you’re experienced in such quarters. They wouldn’t give your type a second glance."

Martine didn’t rise to that, but Nell’s eyes glinted coldly. She went on preening Martine’s chestnut hair. The French girl licked her lips in provocation. "I don’t suppose that’s all you’ve heard," she said.

Rebecca flicked her gaze towards the coat stand in the corner. An English soldier’s coat was hung on it. But Catherine’s eyes were drawn towards the stool at Martine’s elbow. A duelling pistol at half-cock lay ready to be grasped.

"You’ve got a reputation, yes – as honourable thieves. We’ll pay you to steal something back for us." Rebecca looked from one girl to the other. "A purse of gold for each of you if you bring Saint Christine’s relics from the church."

"Gold for bones," Nell murmured. "That’s a decent sort of trade." She smiled at Catherine’s offended look.

"We’ll dedicate another church to them," Rebecca said. "The heathen rabble can’t suppress a saint!" She studied Martine shrewdly. "Will you help us? The reward is more than gold."

"A place in Paradise for us?" said Martine with a snort. "A few days less in Purgatory, more likely. But the gold will be reward enough." She tipped her head back. "Nell?"

The English girl touched cheeks with her. "Why not?" she murmured back. But her cool eyes didn’t leave the pair of nuns.

* * *

The convent gate stood open and two soldiers were on guard. They eyed Martine and Nell lasciviously. "Another pair of comforters for us," grinned one of them. "Or maybe I should say, a pair of pairs!"

The girls just giggled coyly as they sauntered to the gate. They’d made no secret of their business here. Martine’s coat hung open on a thigh-length cotton shift, while Nell’s revealed her corset and her drawers. Both were wearing ankle boots and stockings. Their rouged cheeks made them look like lustful dolls.

The soldier who had spoken walked around them, like an officer inspecting a parade. Satisfied with what he saw, he waved them through the gate. Martine blew a painted kiss. "Perhaps I’ll see you later, soldier-boy."

They crossed the courtyard, arm in arm. A dozen lounging troopers watched them pass. The men wore battle-stained blue coats and tricolour cockades. The convent smelled of sweat, tobacco, horses, powder-smoke.

A corporal intercepted them. "You can find some space upstairs. The church buildings are out of bounds. The other girls will let you know the rules."

He led them through a door and up a narrow flight of steps. They came into a passage that had been converted to a dormitory. A man lay on the nearest cot with a naked girl astride him. She wore a scarlet peasant cap, in contrast to her sweaty nudity.

Her pelvis ground against the man’s. She fondled her own breasts. The corporal wavered, dumbstruck by the sight. Then he cleared his throat. "Your pardon, Emma. I’ve two more sluts who want to serve the troops."

The girl called Emma looked around, still grimacing with passion. She eyed Martine and Nell, then jerked her head. "You can put them with the others, Citizen. Though why you men will pay for it, when you’ve got a girl like me …"

The soldier gasped beneath her as she bucked against his hips. The corporal led the newcomers on through. They heard the girl begin to pant behind them. Martine and Nell exchanged a knowing look.

The other girls had been installed in cells on the next level. They were gossiping in their underwear, but broke off as the newcomers appeared. "The two of us can share a room," said Martine airily. The corporal shuddered as he walked away.

The cell was barely furnished. There was just a nightstand and a narrow bed. The walls were bare, apart from a small wooden crucifix. Nell pushed the shutters open and leaned out.

There was a farm cart in the yard below her. A dozen female bodies lay in it. Some still wore the rags of dresses; others had been stripped. Their pale flesh had been gouged with shot. Nicole stared blankly up towards the sky.

"Shit," Nell murmured, then looked round as someone crossed the threshold of the cell.

It was a blonde girl with brown eyes and a shawl around her shoulders. Her firm breasts pushed against her petticoat. "Hello, I’m Jacqueline," she said. "I guess you saw the view. We’re supping with the Devil, girls. I hope you’ve brought long spoons!"

Nell had hooked one hand around her coattail. Her bayonet was sheathed behind her hip. She flicked her fingers clear before the other woman noticed. The coat concealed a gun as well – a pocket pistol tucked into her stays.

Martine held the small valise she’d brought into the convent. It held her duelling pistols and her friend’s four-barrelled gun. She put the bag down on the bed and smiled at the blonde harlot. "Never mind the spoons, Jacqueline. I reckon it’s long tongues that we might need ..."

* * *

Martine wrapped her stockinged legs around the soldier’s ribcage and drummed her ankle boots against his back. "Deeper, darling … yes," she gasped as he worked against her body. She was naked from the garters up and glistening with sweat.

The young man was more fortunate than he realised. None of the other working girls had learned their skills in a Moroccan harem. Martine milked him lovingly, until he all but burst. Panting, he rolled off her, and she reached between her thighs to stroke herself.

Somewhere in the airless night, a peal of thunder rumbled round the hills.

The soldier paid her with a sou and lurched into the passage. Martine stayed sprawling on the mattress, finishing what he had barely started. She raised her eyes as Nell came in. The English girl’s pale cheeks were flushed like roses. "Was it good for you too?" Martine teased. Her nipples bulged and darkened as she came.

"I reckon he’s the last," said Nell. She padded to the window. The yard below was dimly lit. The laughter of the troops had petered out. She picked up her discarded drawers and pulled them on again. They were a man’s pair, closely-fitting, reaching to mid-thigh,

Martine stroked her aching breasts, then sat up ruefully. Their tenderness was exquisite – but what if someone punctured them tonight? Putting on her shift, she tied a sash around her waist and tucked her pair of pistols into it. Nell strapped on the leather sheath that held her bayonet, and pushed her own gun down into her drawers. The two girls pulled their coats on and stood listening for a moment. The barracks lay in sated silence, and the night was quiet.

They slipped into the corridor and crept towards the staircase. The floorboards creaked beneath their high-heeled boots. As they reached the stairs, the distant thunder rolled again. Then a huge blast made them jump, as if a lightning bolt had struck the roof.

Nell darted over to the nearest window. The courtyard was engulfed in murky smoke. The convent’s gate had been blown in. She heard the scream of horses. Men were shouting in confusion, and her sweat ran cold. Then a flaming object fell and shattered on the cobbles. A pool of liquid fire splashed everywhere.

Others followed it like falling comets. Bottles filled with lamp-oil were being lobbed over the wall. Martine peered over her shoulder. "Jesus, it’s the Whites!" The local insurrectionists had chosen this of all nights to hit back.

A crackling volley lit the yard as soldiers blundered out into the smoke. Men were slaughtered half-asleep. The garrison was jolted from its dreams. Emma, the militia girl, awoke in the embrace of an old sergeant. She pushed herself up off his chest, her plump breasts dangling. She still wore her red peasant cap. A lick of dark hair hung across her brow.

Wrapping a sheet around her naked body, she snatched her carbine from beside the bed. The sergeant was still mumbling, so she heeled him in the ribs. "Come on, you drunken sot. We’re being attacked!"

Claire, meanwhile, had woken in a corner of the church. A candle guttered next to her camp bed. She’d had the alcove curtained off to guard her modesty, but she wore a long white nightgown nonetheless. The starchy garment couldn’t hide the curves of her firm breasts. Her unpinned hair spilled loosely round her face.

The book which she’d been reading lay beside her: a French translation of The Rights of Man. A horse-pistol was resting on it, ready to be grasped. She seized the gun and clambered to her feet.

The body of the church was dark. The horses whickered in their makeshift stable. Claire rubbed sleep from her blue eyes, but everything remained a grainy blur. She realised she’d forgotten her glasses, and darted back to put them on her nose. Then she sallied forth again, and Martine’s gun butt slammed into her jaw.

The impact spun Claire’s head aside and knocked her glasses off. She twisted and collapsed without a sound. Martine wavered, peering down. "Nice tits," she murmured dryly.

"Shh," Nell whispered back. "This is a church."

She went towards the pulpit, where a lantern still burned weakly. The French girl smirked and scampered after her. Outside, the sounds of fighting grew more desperate, but the church remained a sink of eerie calm.

"Under the pulpit steps, they said," Nell muttered, crouching down. She fumbled with the boards, and found one loose. Martine watched, still smiling at the English girl’s rebuke. "I guess you’re still a parson’s daughter, Nell."

The loose board creaked and shifted to reveal a cavity. Nell pulled a tarnished box into the light. It was the golden reliquary the sisters had described. Martine’s smile faded and she quickly crossed herself.

The hurricane of battle swirled around them. The Whites were in the barracks now and fighting room to room. The cornered prostitutes were shown no mercy. Some were shot at point blank range, while others felt the thrust of bayonets. Jacqueline, the brown-eyed blonde, was caught while still in bed. The grubby sheet slid off her perky breasts. She sat up blearily, then screamed as she glimpsed the blade above her. A rebel skewered her soft flesh and pinned her squirming body to the bed.

In the church, Nell brushed the cobwebs off the reliquary. The dusty box was studded with dull gems. She picked it up. "It’s heavy, too. It must be worth a bit." But Martine shrugged. "We’ve named our price," she said.

"Enough to pay the grave-digger?" a cold voice said behind her.

The two girls swung around to find a carbine aimed at them. Its owner wore a sheet wrapped round herself. Her dark eyes glinted in the dusky lamplight. "You thieving little bitches," Emma said.

Nell was on her knees. She had her hands full. Her gun butt nudged her belly as if taunting her with its proximity. Martine’s hands were at her sides, but she couldn’t reach her pistols. Emma squinted down the sights, inviting one of them to make a move.

"You’ve one shot, but there’s two of us," said Martine quietly. She raised her hands and nodded to the box. "That thing’s made of solid gold, so why don’t you just take it? Nobody need know that we were here."

Emma scowled at that. Her cleavage swelled against the sheet. "You think I can be bought, you little tramp?"

Nell caught Martine’s eye, then gave a tantalising smile. "Forget the gold. You can have us both instead!"

Emma swung the carbine round. "You dirty slut," she hissed. Martine’s hand lashed out towards the holy water stoup in front of her. The spray hit Emma’s face as she began to turn again, and dribbled down onto the carbine’s lock. The flint sparked as she squeezed the trigger, but the pan just hissed. Before she could react, Nell sprang at her.

Emma tried to fend her off, but the onslaught knocked her backwards. She gasped as Nell’s nails raked her breast. The knotted sheet came loose. The two girls fell into the aisle and wrestled there like cats, with Emma only wearing her red cap.

But there was a wiry strength in the militia girl’s young body. She gripped the carbine with both hands and forced it slowly up against Nell’s jaw. Then she rolled convulsively and ended up astride her. She aimed the butt at her opponent’s face.

Then she made a squeaking sound of pain and disbelief, as a bayonet slid up into her belly.

Nell put all her strength behind the eighteen-inch steel blade. Her body bucked beneath the stricken girl’s. Emma gurgled and grimaced, until her heart was punctured. Then she shuddered and collapsed. The gun butt struck the floorboards by Nell’s head.

The English girl lay savouring the weight of the warm body, then rolled the dead girl off and clambered up. Martine lowered her own gun and gave a crooked smile. "My mother used to say that you can always put your trust in holy water ..."

Nell sheathed her bloody bayonet and picked the gold box up. They hurried to the side door of the church. It gave onto the convent’s murky graveyard. The night above the walls was full of flame.

They fled across the lumpy ground with cries and gunshots ringing in their ears. There was a stout gate in the wall. Martine shot out the lock. The discharge went unnoticed in the tumult. Martine and Nell slipped out into the dark.

Behind them, in the empty church, Claire sat up with a groan. She groped around and put her glasses on. The first thing that she saw through the cracked lens was Emma’s body. She gave a little wail and clutched her mouth.

The movement of her bruised jaw made her wince. Her pale eyes narrowed. She grasped her gun and clambered to her feet. When the front door opened and three soldiers blundered through, she glared at them and didn’t even blush.

"A pair of rebel spies," she said. "A blonde and a brunette. They’ve killed a heroine of France. I won’t rest till I see the bitches hanged."

* * *

The eastern sky was flushed with pink above the darkened landscape. Martine and Nell stood waiting by the shrine. The wayside statue bore the scars of soldiers’ mockery, but someone had left flowers at its foot.

Nell weighed the reliquary in her gloved fingers. "I’m wondering how much of her is left." There were coin-sized blots of Emma’s blood still drying on her corset. Her coat was slung around her shoulders now.

The French girl didn’t answer. She was picking foxgloves in the roadside hedge. She found some poppies too, and laid the bunch before the statue. Nell gave an indulgent smile. "You Catholics," she sighed, and shook her head.

Martine shrugged, then looked up as they heard a breaking twig. Two women had appeared above the road. It was Rebecca and her friend, their faces framed by bonnets. They both wore sombre mantles and lace gloves.

The pair of former nuns came down to join them. Catherine looked nervous, but Rebecca’s dark eyes gleamed like polished stones. Nell held up the reliquary, while Martine glanced around. The birds had started singing, but apart from them the land was still asleep.

"You found it, then," Rebecca said. "I guess we’d better give you your reward."

She smiled and drew a pistol from beneath her heavy cloak. Martine and Nell recoiled a step, and Catherine drew a pistol of her own. She aimed the weapon shakily, as if afraid of it. Her voice was shaky too. "Put down the box."

Nell stared at her, then did so, very slowly. The coat slid off her shoulders as she rose. Her pistol was still tucked into the waistband of her drawers. Her bosom heaved against her corset. Catherine curled her lip disdainfully.

"I always knew you weren’t nuns," said Martine.

Rebecca’s cloak had parted to reveal a low-cut gown. She smirked and gestured with her levelled gun. "Just back away, you mangy whore. You don’t know anything. I was a novice in that place, until they threw me out."

Martine and Nell eased back again and kept their hands half-raised. They knew they’d have no chance to draw their pistols.

"And Catherine’s still a sister," said Rebecca. "Although the Abbess found me in her bed. They said that she’d been led astray and let her keep the veil. But when the bluecoats came, she saw her chance."

Catherine wet her lips and blushed. Rebecca gave her an indulgent glance. "That reliquary can pay our way across to the New World. But your reward’s in Heaven … or in Hell."

"And I thought I was a brazen bitch," said Martine evenly.

Rebecca aimed between her breasts. "I’d get down on my knees if I were you." Then Nell moved to block her way. "You’re going to have to shoot me first," she hissed.

Martine squeezed her friend’s bare shoulders, glaring at the gun. Rebecca gave a scornful little snort. She stepped forward to get the box, her gun still pointed at the watching girls. Martine stroked Nell’s skin, as if to calm her. She slid her fingers down the blonde girl’s back.

Rebecca crouched, still aiming as she reached out for the box. For an instant her attention was divided. Nell still had a pocket pistol tucked into her corset. Martine snatched it, thumbed the cock and ducked to fire a shot between Nell’s knees.

Rebecca’s head snapped backwards with a red rose on her brow. The ball erupted through her bonnet: Catherine whimpered as her gown was splashed. Blood spilled down Rebecca’s cheek and dripped onto her cleavage. Her crouching body twisted and fell back.

Catherine stared in disbelief, then tried to open fire, but her snub-nosed pistol wasn’t even cocked. The other two had noticed this as soon as it appeared. Nell drew her gun, deliberately slow.

The young nun sobbed and cowered back. Her eyes were bright with tears. Nell aimed at her, then dropped her gun and fired down at the box. The .32 ball struck the lid and ricocheted away. The reliquary flipped open and the breeze sucked out a ghostly plume of dust.

"Sister Catherine," said Martine, "I’d take that as a sign. Poverty and chastity are what you need right now."

The girl dropped her unfired pistol and fled off along the lane. Nell sighed and pushed her gun back down her drawers. The reliquary was empty now: its contents long since crumbled. Martine eyed it thoughtfully. "`Enough to pay our way to the New World …’"

Nell picked up the box again. She gave her head a shake. "We won’t get very far with this. I’m not surprised the damned thing was so heavy ..."

Where the pistol ball had struck, the gold had been scoured off. The gemstones had been crushed like coloured glass. Another, duller metal showed beneath the bright veneer. The reliquary was clearly made of lead.

Nell grunted with disgust and threw the box onto the road. "I guess that was a waste of time," she said.

Martine shrugged. "Not quite. At least we earned a sou or two. Enough to pay for breakfast at the inn."

She grinned and set off down the road. Nell smiled sardonically and followed her. They left Rebecca prostrate by the lonely wayside shrine, with flowers of scarlet on her breast and brow.