The girl was barely listening as she wallowed in her bath. She’d lost count of the blade’s relentless thuds. The crowd beneath her window murmured distantly, like surf. A fire was burning in the hearth, and the windows of the room had misted up.

Her hands slid down into the water, and her shoulders hunched. The blade was being winched up again outside. The people bayed for blood, but she ignored them. Her nipples stiffened as her bosom heaved. She was panting through her mouth when someone hammered on the door. The water splashed abruptly. Claire looked round.

Her blue eyes squinted at the door. She blushed and cleared her throat. "Who’s there?" she challenged huskily.

"The People, Citizen," a man’s voice said.

A folded towel was on the stool beside her. Her glasses lay on top of it. She quickly put them on. "Come in," she called, and heard the nervous tremor in her voice. The man called Renard prowled into the room.

Outside the great blade fell again. She thought she heard the basket catch a head.

Claire sank back into the soapy water. Her visitor rubbed at the window pane. He had sandy hair and flinty eyes; a cruelly handsome face. She watched him as a hare might watch a fox.

"The Committee are impressed," he told her dryly, still peering down into the square below. "It’s thanks to agents like yourself that Madame Guillotine is so well fed."

Claire preened despite herself. "I do my duty. We have to root these traitors out like rats."

Renard turned his callous smile towards her. "I have a mission for you, Citizen. A certain Marquis de Coutances has come before the court. Today he asked to see me in his cell. He says he has much wealth from his plantations overseas, which he will give the People if they only spare his life."

Claire eyed him quizzically. "What kind of wealth?"

"He spoke of a chest still hidden in his chateau. A fortune in gold livres. The Revolution needs such wealth. The Committee have chosen you to ride to Coutances and secure it. Your carriage is already being prepared."

Claire blinked at him, then simpered. "I am honoured, Citizen. This Marquis – is he going to lead the way?"

"I think not," Renard murmured. "He has rather lost his head." He glanced into the square once more, then came towards the bath. "You should be careful, Citizen, in these unruly times. Remember Dr Marat, who was caught while unprotected in his bath ..."

Reaching down, he stroked her hair. Claire peered up at him with wide blue eyes. Then she pulled a pistol from beneath her folded towel – a sturdy St Etienne with a brass frame. She poked it against Renard’s ribs and smiled a little smugly. "I doubt I shall be caught in the same way."

Renard gave a vulpine grin and dipped his head to hers. She kissed him like a shy but eager girl. The St Etienne was laid aside as her firm breasts broke the surface and the tips began to harden at his touch.

* * *

The peasant passed the wineskin up and Martine drank from it. The vintage had an earthy taste, but she was country-born and didn’t care. The pony underneath her was still slurping at the trough. Martine smiled lazily and wiped her mouth.

"Have a taste," she said to Nell. "It’ll put some colour in those cheeks of yours …"

Nell led her mount across the yard in front of the thatched hut. Her pale face had a genteel look, despite the shabby riding clothes she wore. Her cocked hat was tipped back and her long hair was hanging loose. It was the colour of straw, but smooth as silk. There was a wry glint in her pale blue eyes.

She took the wineskin, drank from it and tried not to grimace. Martine grinned at the peasant. "My friend’s English," she explained. The man just shrugged expressively and took the wineskin back. He had a weather-beaten face, half-hidden by a drooping black moustache.

Martine reached beneath her heavy mantle. Like Nell, she wore a muffler and a pair of woollen mitts. The wind that blew across the farmland had an edge to it. The golden woods were shrivelling to brown.

The peasant saw the old blue frock-coat under Martine’s cloak. He glimpsed the girl’s bare midriff, where the tails of her white shirt were knotted up. A pistol butt was curved against her belly. Then her gloved hand re-emerged to put some silver coins into his palm.

"Our thanks for the supplies," she said. The peasant nodded gravely. Nell mounted up and heeled her pony round. Beneath her muddy cloak she wore the red coat of a soldier, and an English bayonet against her thigh.

Martine glanced over at the hut. The peasant’s wife and child were at the door. They had a watchful, nervous look. "Have you heard news of the fighting?" Martine asked.

The peasant shrugged again. "They say the Whites are falling back – and the Bluecoats will be sure to take revenge. The man who used to be my lord – the Marquis of Coutances – was lately carried off to Paris, where they tried him and cut off his head."

Martine looked round sombrely. The ploughland rolled away beneath the sky. Its copses, dips and sunken lanes could well conceal an army. She picked up her reins. "I guess we should move on."

"His chateau is two miles from here," the man said musingly. "They say he kept a case of coins in it. The place is empty now: the townsfolk loot it. But nobody has found the coins, though the Blues and Whites would kill for such a sum."

Martine’s dark eyes narrowed. She glanced thoughtfully at Nell. Then turned to scan the miserable plot. "I guess that you could use it more than anyone," she said. "Have you gone there to search for it yourself?"

The peasant shook his head. "It wouldn’t bring me fortune, Miss. There’s a curse that follows other men’s gold."

Martine touched her hat to him and rode into the lane. Nell followed with a shrewd look on her face. "What kind of curse?" she asked after a minute.

"The likes of us, of course," the French girl purred.

* * *

The house was in a hollow on the far side of the woods, beneath a withered canopy of leaves. The red and gold of autumn was being stripped back to the bone. Its brittle debris crunched with every step.

Martine reined her pony in and scanned the bleak façade. The building had a gutted look, its broken windows staring like blind eyes. A window shutter had come loose: it creaked erratically. Rooks were croaking in the trees, but otherwise the chateau lay in silence.

"History just leaves the husks," Nell muttered. Martine dismounted with a crooked smile. "You’ve been reading books again," she teased her girlfriend, and pulled the shotgun from her saddle boot.

The weapon was a silver-mounted Thonon. Its craftsmanship contrasted with the way the barrels had been sawn in half. Martine cocked it casually and studied the blank windows. "So where do you think he left it, then?" she asked.

"Maybe in a stocking underneath his bed," said Nell. She swung down with a wry smile of her own. They led their ponies round the house and left them in the stable. The building looked more dingy on this side.

"You start upstairs," Nell proposed. "I’ll work up from the cellar."

Martine gave her a sly look. "Remember that we’re after gold, not wine."

"Don’t worry, love: I’m English," murmured Nell sardonically. Martine grinned and raised her gun. They went in through the broken rear door.

The interior of the house was dim and draughty. It looked as if a mob had plundered it. Furniture was overturned and paintings hung askew. The tiled floor was strewn with blown-in leaves.

Martine began to climb the muddy staircase, while Nell went looking for the cellar door. She found it by the scullery. A flight of steps descended into gloom. She rooted round for flint and steel and got a lantern lit, then ventured down into the musty dark.

The lamplight showed a vaulted ceiling, grey with spiders’ webs. Barrels loomed out of the murk. The floor beneath each tap was stained with wine. The bottle racks were empty, save for cobwebs. A vinegary reek hung in the air.

Nell pulled out her English-made Twigg pistol and tapped the nearest barrel with its butt. The vessel made a hollow sound. She moved on to the next. Tap, tap, tap: like someone knocking on a coffin lid. The house above was silent as a tomb.

Martine was prowling round the upper level. The chateau had a desecrated feel. Everything of value had been looted, and much of what remained had just been smashed. Tattered drapes stirred limply in the draught from broken windows. A battered suit of armour was still brooding in the corner of one room.

She set her shotgun at half-cock and thumped the butt against the panelled wall. The partition sounded solid: there were bricks behind the wood. But perhaps there was a secret passage somewhere. She moved along the wall and knocked again.

Down in the cellar, Nell struck another barrel. The cask was empty, just like all the rest. Something skittered through the gloom. She stiffened, listening. And heard the distant whinny of a horse.

It had to be a pony in the stable. She hesitated, frowning, then went up the steps again. A glance out through the window showed the yard was still deserted. Cautiously she cocked her gun and slipped outside to check.

The horse whickered again. It sounded nervous. Nell crossed the yard and went into the stable. She sensed a lurking figure as she stepped across the threshold, but before she could react, a wooden baton struck her wrist, disarming her.

Even as she gasped and swore, the shadow struck again. The blow was aimed towards her head. Nell twisted clear and caught it on her shoulder. She stumbled with a grunt of pain and slumped onto her knees. A group of figures moved out of the gloom.

"Caught in the act, you thieving cow," a woman’s crisp voice said.

Nell looked up. The speaker was a smartly-dressed young lady whose sweet face had grown bitter with contempt. She wore a fitted riding coat and breeches. Her honey-coloured hair was pinned up under a cocked hat.

Nell’s eyes flicked towards her fallen pistol. She sensed the aim of half a dozen guns. The honey-blonde’s companions were a bunch of peasant girls. Some wore headscarves, some wore hats. She saw a mix of breeches and long skirts. But all were armed with muskets or horse-pistols, and clearly shared their mistress’s disdain.

One girl grasped Nell by the cloak and hauled her to her feet. The haughty lady glimpsed the scarlet coat. She gestured, and her minion pulled the cloak off. Nell let it go, her face expressionless.

"She’s one of them redcoats, Miss Lucille," a wide-eyed peasant said. The lady curled her lip at Nell. "A redcoat’s whore, more like." She raised her gun and paced around the prisoner. "The English are supposed to be our allies, not lining their own pockets while we fight!"

Nell realised they were royalist insurgents. The peasants in this region were still loyal to the nobles and the church. This snooty little madam had her own guerrilla band.

"I was only passing by," she said. "I didn’t know this house belonged to you."

"My uncle lived here," Lucille sneered. She produced a many-folded sheet of paper. Nell glimpsed a mass of writing, scrawled in haste and poor light, and a crude seal stamped in yellow candle wax.

"The testament of my late uncle, Marquis of Coutances. He had it smuggled out of prison, hours before he died. Item, fifty thousand crowns to help the royal cause. It’s hidden somewhere in this house. You thought that you could put your paws on it."

Nell made her blue eyes very wide. "My lady, I had no idea," she said.

"Hang her," was Lucille’s response. The girl behind Nell seized hold of her arms. Another peasant knocked her hat off, spilling her blonde hair. A third girl started fashioning a noose.

"Go on and kill the other one," Lucille told someone else. Three peasants sauntered out into the yard. Nell felt her throat dry out. Her heart was thumping. They hadn’t found her bayonet, but there was no way she could reach it now. The noose was thrown over a beam. The rebel wrapped the free end round her waist. A wooden mounting-step was pushed beneath the dangling rope. "Up you get," said Lucille, "or I’ll shoot you in the gut."

The peasant holding Nell’s arms shoved her forward. A grim smile stirred Lucille’s disdainful mouth. The two remaining girls looked on and kept their muskets aimed. Nell glowered at Lucille. "I’m not afraid."

Her breasts heaved as she braced herself. Lucille stepped back and gestured with her gun. "Won’t you give me time to pray?" Nell asked. Her ears strained at the silence. Despite her situation, she was thinking of Martine more than herself.

In the house, one of the peasant girls had climbed the stairs. Her dark eyes shifted nervously. Her rifle stock was tucked against her cheek. She wore a shawl around her flimsy bodice. Her long skirts rustled faintly with each step.

A board creaked under one bare foot. She stiffened like a hare. Her friends were moving round downstairs, but the house’s upper floor was hushed and still. Then she heard a movement from a room along the passage. Her heart began to quicken as she crept towards the door.

She drew a breath and swung into the doorway. The room was dim, its heavy curtains drawn. But then she glimpsed the outline of a figure through the drapes. She fired at it and filled the room with smoke.

The rifle’s thump was following by a loud metallic crash, as if she’d dropped a pile of cooking pots. The girl recoiled in fright and saw her target come apart. A rusty suit of armour hit the floor.

Martine fired her shotgun from behind a high-backed chaise. The blast of buckshot ripped into the girl. She squealed in pain and arched back through the doorway, her punctured cleavage spurting prettily.

Nell was standing on the step, the noose around her neck. She smiled tightly as she heard the shot. Lucille exchanged a glance with her companions. The pair of peasants in the house went prowling up the stairs.

Pungent gunsmoke lingered on the landing. The bloody-breasted girl lay where she’d dropped. One of the rebels hung back, giving cover with her musket, while her friend went stalking forward, pistol aimed. The smoke-filled room was empty now, a spar of daylight piercing its holed curtain. The pistoleer drew back again, and sensed a presence in the passageway.

Martine was waiting calmly at the far end of the landing, still muffled in her heavy travelling cloak. The nearer peasant swung around and let fly with her pistol. The ball struck Martine squarely in the chest.

The musket blasted too and scored a hit between her breasts. Martine reared back as smoke puffed from the cloak. But instead of thuds, the pair of impacts made a clanging noise. The breastplate from the battered suit of armour stopped both shots.

Before the rebels could react, two guns poked out from under Martine’s cloak. Plump breasts in a peasant bodice made the perfect target, and her shotgun belched towards the pistoleer. The girl screamed as her friend had done and clutched her riddled chest. Martine’s pistol thudded, and the other rebel’s head went snapping back. Her body fell against a broken window and splintered through to plunge into the yard.

The muffled thump distracted Lucille and her entourage. As they looked towards the doorway, Nell reached up to grasp the rope. Holding it above the knot so that the noose stayed slack, she launched herself into a scything kick. Her boot clipped Lucille’s jaw and struck the peasant girl beside her. The impact spun both rebels off their feet. The girl holding the rope was hauled off balance. She lurched into her friend and spoiled her aim. Nell swung back the other way and kicked the gun aside. The first girl fought to free herself. The rope went slack and Nell dropped to the ground.

She powered up out of her crouch and drew her bayonet. The rebel with the gun was trying to aim. Nell jabbed the slender blade beneath the bulge of the girl’s breast. The peasant humped around the upward thrust. Leaving her to grunt and die, Nell pounced on her Twigg pistol. The other rebel snatched at her own gun. Nell rolled over in the straw and shot her through the heart. The girl grimaced in misery, blood welling from her cleavage as she slumped.

Nell began to clamber up, then rolled and fired again. Lucille’s companion flopped back down, with a hole in her brow to match her staring eyes. Lucille herself lay belly-up, knocked senseless by Nell’s kick. The air was dense with powder smoke. The ponies stamped and whickered in their stalls.

Nell pulled the noose over her head and went to quieten them. She looked round as a shadow crossed the floor. Martine stood in the doorway, smiling thinly. "There are soldiers coming down the road. I saw them from upstairs."

"I guess that puts an end to it," said Nell resignedly. She glanced down at Lucille’s pale face. "Let’s leave her to explain." Untethering their horses, they made off into the woods. The Bluecoats reached the house ten minutes later.

The pungent reek of powder was still hanging in the air. The soldiers cocked their muskets warily. Gravel crunched beneath their boots as they ranged around the building. A carriage creaked and rumbled up the drive.

The waiting troop made way for it. The coachman reined his team in by the steps. One of the doors was opened and a slender girl climbed down. Her bonnet, cape and gown were grey. The eyes behind her glasses were pale blue.

Claire sniffed, and wrinkled her pert nose. "Search everywhere," she said. "I’ll want to speak with any cornered rats."

The soldiers met each other’s eyes. They glanced towards the girl, but didn’t stare. Her gown was plain, but nipped in like an hourglass at the waist. Her breasts had strained at it as she got out. But nobody was leering at the prissy little miss. They knew about the Terror which she served.

Another girl descended from the coach and peered around. Like Claire, she wore grey travelling clothes, but with a low-cut bodice underneath her cape. She was tanned where Claire was pale: a girl of peasant stock. Her eyes were darker, sapphire blue. She had a surly look.

"Glad of a chance to stretch your legs, Louise?" Claire asked her, smiling. The other girl just grunted. She was Claire’s new protégé: a moody cow. Both of them were agents of the security police. They had the power of life and death over any citizen who crossed their path.

Ignoring them – or trying to – the troops began their search. Claire waited with her lips pursed tight, as if she had a lemon in her mouth. There was an exclamation from the yard behind the house, and a pair of soldiers came round to the front. A girl in a green coat was slumped between them. Each man held one of her limp arms and dragged her drooping body like a sack.

They dumped Lucille in front of Claire. The blonde girl stirred and gave a muffled groan. "There’s one dead harlot in the yard and three more in the barn," a trooper said. Claire nodded, looking thoughtful, and stepped forward. Lucille looked up, still dazed, and blinked at her.

"I know what you’re here for, Citizen," said Claire in a flat voice. "I guess you criminals fell out; but I promise you a fair trial if you talk."

Lucille looked much less haughty with her honeyed hair awry. She wiped her mouth and spat a glob of blood. Despite her situation, she glared scornfully at Claire. "You’ll leave here with your pockets empty, bitch."

Then her gaze was drawn towards the carriage as a third girl clambered down onto the drive. This one was about eighteen. Her clothes were modest, but her eyes were sly. She looked like a maid with ideas above her station. Lucille’s face grew paler as she stared.

"Nicolette – you lived under my uncle’s roof," she whispered. "You can’t betray our family like this."

The dark-haired girl looked unperturbed. Claire drew her brass-framed pistol. "His maid serves the Republic now," she said. "She knows about his legacy, so you’re required no longer." She aimed the pistol casually and fired. Blood spurted from a hole in Lucille’s temple. The lady’s face went blank, then smacked down hard. A crimson pool spread out across the gravel. Claire stowed the gun away beneath her cape.

"Lead on, Citizen," she said. The young maid wet her lips and went inside. She seemed excited by her new-found status. The pair of agents followed at her heels.

Nicolette led the way up the main staircase, ignoring the rough soldiers rooting round. There were two more bodies strewn across the landing. Louise pulled out a snub-nosed pocket gun. The grizzled sergeant waved them past. "The house is clear," he said. His troopers clumped downstairs again. The girls went on towards the master’s room.

The chamber had been ransacked but the bed was still in place. Its tattered curtains rustled in the draught. The open window framed a sweep of farmland. The maid went over to the massive hearth.

"He took me to his bed sometimes," she said disdainfully. "Which is how I know about this hiding place." She ducked beneath the mantelpiece and poked around inside, then drew back with a frown of puzzlement.

"The nook’s still there," she muttered, "but the money chest’s been moved." She bit her lip. Claire caught Louise’s eye. The sun-browned girl looked petulant. Her cleavage rose and fell beneath her cape.

Nicolette was studying the empty fireplace. A piece of rag was tied above the grate. She bent her head to study it, then glanced round at the others. "That tells me where he’s hidden it!" she said.

Claire’s eyes squinted quizzically. The maid was smiling now. "Look, there’s a crow’s feather in the knot. There are many scarecrows on his land. I’ll bet the gold is under one of them."

"Which one, though?" Louise asked grumpily.

Nicolette just shrugged. "There’ll be some kind of sign," she said.

Claire took off her glasses and began to polish them. "Citizen, you’ll understand that things like this must not be spoken of."

"Don’t worry." Nicolette looked smug. "A fair price seals my lips."

"The Revolution pays what’s due," Claire murmured. "A pound of silver, or an ounce of lead."

Louise brought up her stubby pocket pistol and fired at one of Nicolette’s firm breasts. The soft ball mashed through softer flesh; the maid arched backwards with a startled grunt. She flopped onto the bed which she had shared with the Marquis. The curtains rustled like a wrecked ship’s sails.

Claire put her glasses on again and simpered at Louise. "Let’s find ourselves a man of straw," she said.

The pair of them went back outside. No-one enquired about the missing maid. Claire beckoned to the sergeant. "Some of them may have escaped. We’re going to take the coach and scout around."

The NCO looked unenthusiastic. "But Citizen, they may be lying in wait." Waving his concern aside, she walked towards the carriage. None of the soldiers had been told what they were looking for.

The coachman gathered up his reins and steered into the lane. The troopers settled down to smoke and talk. Claire peered through the window as the ploughland rumbled past. A scarecrow on the skyline caught her eye.

They drove up for a closer look. She took a spade and hiked across the field. But the thing was just a straw-stuffed coat, with nothing to distinguish it at all. They moved on to the scarecrow in the next field, and the next. Claire’s boots and skirt grew muddy, but she kept on searching with relentless zeal.

Louise was more reluctant to get dirty. She waited by the carriage as Claire waded off across another field. They’d halted by a little wood. The house was out of sight. The autumn afternoon was fading fast.

The coachman rubbed his mittened hands. "She’s keen," he murmured dryly.

"She’s screwing Renard," smirked Louise. "You mean you didn’t know?" Adjusting her cape, she let him glimpse her cleavage. "I’ll catch my death, just standing round out here …"

The coachman glanced towards the hedge, then moved across to join her. A sly smile had replaced her sullen look. Pushing her back against the coach, he kissed her hungrily. She wriggled free and opened the coach door.

A slender bayonet flashed out to meet her. She chirruped as it sank into her chest. Nell came lunging from the coach and drove the agent backwards. Louise grimaced and clutched herself as lifeblood trickled down between her breasts.

Shoving her aside, Nell drew her pistol. The startled coachman froze and raised his hands. Louise’s body hit the road. The English girl stalked forward. "You’ve led us quite a dance," she said. "I do hope it ends here."

The coachman stared at her, wide-eyed, then looked past her left shoulder. "I won’t be caught so easily," said Nell. But even as she spoke, she sensed a presence loom behind her. Before she could begin to turn, a rifle butt was slammed against her skull.

The redcoat crumpled like an unstrung puppet. The coachman let his breath out in a sigh. "Citizen Inspector," he said hoarsely. "We weren’t expecting you to join us here."

The newcomer stared down at Nell, then picked up her dropped pistol. "An English ally of the royalists. She’ll pay for what she’s done today." The coachman quailed before his cruel smile.

Out in the field, Claire was studying the scarecrow. Its head was just a burlap hood with empty eyeholes staring back at her. But a silk cravat was knotted just beneath it. The stained material fluttered in the breeze.

She felt her heartbeat quickening. It stumbled as a pistol shot rang out. She swung around, towards the lane. A puff of gunsmoke rose above the hedge. She fumbled for her St Etienne as a shape pushed through the branches. Then she recognised the face and felt the blood go rushing to her cheeks.

Renard crossed the muddy field towards her. He wore a greatcoat but no hat; his sandy hair was stirring in the breeze. He held a carbine in one hand. She smiled uncertainly. Her shovel was still braced against the soil.

"Jean …" she said, and swallowed. "I mean, Citizen Inspector. The Committee have entrusted me with this."

"So they have," said Renard, "but I thought I’d come to meet you. You know that these are troubled times for France. You heard that shot? An English spy has just killed both your colleagues. I’m taking the gold into my custody."

He raised the gun and cocked it with a smile as bleak as flint. "Just make believe you’re gardening, my girl."

Claire just gaped at him in shock, and then her eyes grew narrow. "Traitor!" she accused. "You mean to have it for yourself."

"Clever girl," he mocked her. "Now start digging. Make sure the hole is comfortable ..."

"… And big enough for two," a third voice said.

The pair of them swung round. Martine was standing in the field, her levelled pistol covering them both. Her dark eyes burned like charcoal as she gestured with the gun. Renard curled his lip at her, and eased the carbine’s cock back down again.

Claire began to reach for her own pistol. Martine gave her a pointed glance; she froze. The three of them stood ranged around the scarecrow. They heard the distant chiming of a clock.

It came from a hamlet nestling in the farmland. "It’s five o’clock already," Martine said. She looked from Claire to Renard, and a grim smile quirked her lips. "So why not settle this on the fifth stroke?"

Renard stared at her, then nodded tightly. Claire glared at him and let the shovel drop. Martine de-cocked her gun and pushed it back into her waistband. Unfastening her cloak, she shrugged it off.

The chimes of the church clock had fallen silent. The scarecrow rustled in the evening breeze. Then the first stroke of the bell came drifting from the hamlet. Martine brushed back the tails of her blue coat. The gun butt curved against her muscled belly. Her bosom swelled beneath the knotted shirt.

The second stroke rang out, and Renard threw a glance at Claire. Her pale eyes glowered through her spectacles. He braced the carbine on his thigh, thumb hooked around the hammer. The third stroke echoed on the breeze. Claire’s hand began to creep under her cape.

The fourth stroke hung above the empty landscape. The sky behind Renard was turning pink. The scarecrow’s gaping eyeholes seemed to mock them. Then the bell was struck once more, and galvanised the tableau into life.

Martine cocked and triggered first, but Claire was close behind her. The scarecrow was engulfed in dirty smoke. Renard’s carbine belched, but shot its ball into the earth. Martine’s round smashed through his ribs. His former lover shot him in the guts.

Renard’s cruel face grimaced. His body folded up like a rag doll. Claire watched him fall, her pistol still extended. The cloud of powder smoke blew clear as Martine drew and cocked her second gun.

"It’s getting chilly, Citizen," she said to Claire. "So dig." The agent dropped her pistol, ashen-faced. Picking up the shovel like a woman in a daze, she started to attack the heavy soil. Martine glanced towards the hedge and saw that Nell had joined them. The English girl was rubbing at her head. Her probing fingers came away as scarlet as her coat, in contrast to the pallor of her cheeks.

"All right?" Martine asked her. Nell nodded muzzily and raised her gun. It wavered as she tried to keep Claire covered. The agent’s eyes had widened with dismay.

"I know you two," she almost squeaked. "The Blonde and the Brunette! The guillotine will have you yet …"

"Shut up and dig," said Martine irritably.

The shovel scraped on something hard. Martine moved round the scarecrow for a look. Claire glanced up at her, her blue eyes bright with angry tears. She set about uncovering the chest.

A blow from the shovel broke the lock. Claire dropped the tool and slumped onto her knees. Resignedly she raised the lid – and then recoiled, aghast. Martine just swore in a disgusted voice.

The chest was full of yellowed bones. A sheep’s skull lay on top. The empty sockets seemed to gloat, like the eyeholes of the scarecrow over it. As Martine stared in disbelief, Claire lunged across the clay. She was trying for the gun in Renard’s belt.

Martine wheeled and kicked her in the ribs. Claire sobbed and crumpled. Her spectacles flew off her nose. She grovelled in the mud. Martine took aim towards her head. The bitch looked very young. Martine gave a mirthless smile, then switched her aim and fired.

The shot destroyed Claire’s spectacles. The girl gave a frustrated little squeal. Martine turned and walked away. "You cow!" Claire yelled at her. She groped around short-sightedly and clutched at Renard’s gun. But the field was just an empty blur. "I’ll kill you both!" she shouted at thin air.

Martine and Nell were in the lane already. The redcoat was unsteady on her feet. The French girl put an arm around her shoulders. "Come on then, love," she said. "Let’s go to ground."

* * *

"She’ll sleep now," said the peasant’s wife, and stroked Nell’s golden hair. The English girl was breathing evenly. "She’ll wake up with a headache but no lasting damage done." She pulled the threadbare blanket up again.

"We’re in your debt," said Martine. She went over to the hearth. The firelight tinged her tumbling chestnut hair. The peasant sat there with his pipe. He eyed her naked stomach, then looked up past her bosom to her face.

"It was you who dug the money up, I take it?"

The peasant stayed impassive. "It was poisoning the land. Remember what I said to you before? I’ve spent the last month spreading it among the country folk. In secret, like – so they’d escape the curse."

Martine could just imagine it. A few coins in the henhouse. A golden windfall underneath the hedge. She thought of all the deaths today and smiled a little wryly. Maybe he was right about a curse that followed other men’s gold.