The steely clash of sword-blades broke the hush.

The two girls sauntered lithely round each other, their bare feet swishing through the dewy grass. Then Martine lunged forward with impulsive eagerness. Nell beat her sword aside and backed away.

Martine pulled a face at her. The English girl smirked back. Their rapiers caught the early morning light. Both were wearing knee-britches and precious little else. Nell’s leather waistcoat hugged her curves. Martine’s white shirt was tied beneath her breasts.

"Try again," invited Nell. "You French invented swordplay, after all."

Martine tossed back her chestnut mane and squinted down the blade. Her kohl-rimmed eyes stayed focused on her friend. Nell’s pale gaze was sly and full of mischief. The sunlight glinted in her golden hair.

Martine made another pass; Nell parried, and the French girl followed through. They fenced their way towards the river. "That’s it – yes!" Nell gasped. Then she struck through Martine’s guard and pressed the rapier point against her breast.

"Shit," said Martine, teetering. Her cheeks were flushed; her bosom nudged the blade. The prick of steel excited her unduly. She briefly wondered what it would feel like to be run through.

"You’re getting better," murmured Nell, withdrawing. She plucked at Martine’s navel with the point. The French girl’s nipples stiffened through the linen of her shirt. She sucked her tummy in and stretched. "So who taught you to use that thing?" she asked.

"An officer and a gentleman," said Nell. She slashed the air. "He realised I was bored with going to balls." She’d been a soldiers’ harlot, a posh plaything for the troops. Her trophy scarlet coat lay nearby.

Martine turned back towards the thicket where they’d left their ponies. "I’ll put the coffee on," she said – and then a distant pounding reached her ears. The sound of many booted feet, advancing at the double. Nell heard it too. The girls exchanged a glance.

The noise was coming down the road. They scampered to the thicket and crouched down. A troop of soldiers came in sight and jogged past, full of purpose. The sunlight tinged the dust they raised, and glinted on the steel of bayonets.

"Bluecoats," Martine muttered. "Hunting rebels, I’ll be bound." Unthinkingly she put her arm round Nell. The insurrection in the west had failed the previous winter. Now the word from Paris was to pacify the countryside completely. The girls had seen what that entailed: whole villages burned down. A reign of terror gripped the land. It made life difficult for honest thieves.

A carriage rumbled past behind the double file of troops. Martine’s eyes widened and she caught her breath. Two bare-chested men ran with it, clutching the team’s bridles. Their skin was deeply bronzed and daubed with paint. A stripe of dark hair crowned each head. They carried bows and arrows on their backs.

"Redskins," whispered Nell in awe. "The Yankees must have sent them over here."

"The Yanks must have a taste for revolutions," said Martine. She nudged her girlfriend playfully. "They’ve had a bit of practice, after all ..."

The carriage rolled on down the road. Inside, one of the passengers sat back. She was a wholesome-looking girl with blue eyes and a freckle-dusted nose. A mop of sandy hair spilled out from under her cocked hat. She wore an old blue army coat, and deerskin leggings laced up to her thighs.

"Nice day for a hunt, Ma’am," she murmured to the girl across from her.

"Citizen," corrected Claire. Her pale eyes blinked behind her spectacles. She wore a plain grey gown and cape, and her hair was tied back primly. She might have been a schoolmarm, not an agent of the security police.

The carriage jounced over a rut. Claire’s eyes flicked to the third girl in the coach. She had skin as dark as rosewood, and her tunic left a lot of it on show. The simple buckskin garment reached to just above her knees. It was belted round her slender waist, and the open hem revealed one shapely thigh. She was sitting with her legs crossed like a lady, but her unbound hair and inky gaze did not suggest a trace of modesty.

Claire shifted and looked back at the American again. "We value your assistance, Citizen."

"Call me Diane," the girl insisted dryly. She gazed out at the verdant countryside. "I’m pleased to come and fight for your Republic. And I’m bored with hunting deer: they don’t shoot back."

"This redskin scouts for you?" Claire asked. The dark-eyed girl made her uncomfortable.

"She hunts with me," Diane replied. "Her name means Raven Hair. And she’s a princess of her tribe, Miss Claire."

Claire gave the girl an awkward glance, and Raven Hair stared back impassively. She had a British army rifle sloped across her thigh: a Ferguson with bloodstains on the stock. Diane had a Kentucky rifle propped up next to her. There were eagle feathers tied to the long gun.

"So this is loyalist country, huh?" she asked, still peering out.

"Indeed," said Claire, "and Paris wants it cleared. No quarter to be given to the traitors." Her pale eyes narrowed meanly. "And I want their spies – the Blonde and the Brunette."

The sergeant called from up ahead. She leaned out of the window. There were houses at the roadside and a rundown watermill beside the stream. The soldiers were advancing on the hamlet. A group of women in the field stood looking at them apprehensively.

The nearest troops went after them with levelled bayonets. The peasants scattered like a flock of hens. The coach came creaking to a halt and the passengers dismounted. Diane nodded to the braves, who whooped ferociously and joined the hunt.

One bent his bow and loosed a whirring arrow. It struck a peasant girl between the breasts. "Hgh!" the wench grimaced and crumpled limply in her tracks. The others squealed in panic as the Blues began to catch and skewer them.

Some were chased in circles till they veered towards the road. Raven Hair fired from the hip, and one girl squawked and clutched her punctured gut. Another fled around the coach, where Diane felled her with her rifle butt. As the peasant tried to rise, the American pulled a hatchet from her belt. She struck a backhand blow into the peasant’s slender neck. It made a meaty crunching sound. Blood spattered the girl’s cleavage as she slumped.

A third girl saw, and skittered back. She wailed and turned to run. Diane hurled the tomahawk, which struck the wench between the shoulder blades. The blade split the girl’s backbone and she gave a stricken grunt, then flopped face-down into the roadside ditch.

The Indian girl was recharging her rifle, The trigger-guard turned like a screw to open the gun’s breech. Another streaking arrow pierced a shapely peasant breast. A wench went down beneath the bayonets. One of the Indians seized his prey and drew a hunting knife across her throat. The girl convulsed and gargled blood. He squeezed her tits and let her body drop.

The crack of muskets sounded from the hamlet. The fog of gunfire mingled with the smoke of burning thatch. Diane moved up to the verge and scanned the bloody field. A fleeing girl had almost reached the trees. The American brought up her gun. The maple stock felt smooth against her cheek. The flutter of the eagle feathers helped her gauge the breeze. She breathed in slowly and squeezed off a shot.

The bullet’s impact threw the peasant forward. Even at this distance, Diane heard her winded whoop. The girl went down onto her face, a yard short of the tree line. Diane lowered her rifle, satisfied.

She prised her tomahawk out of its lifeless victim’s back, and smiled at the sight of Claire’s wan face. "There’s nothing like a turkey shoot to keep a girl in practice. But I’ve got my sights set on bigger game."

Claire dabbed her lip fastidiously with a lace handkerchief. "Your skills will be required soon enough. These Royalists shoot from ambush, then escape into the woods. We need your help to fight this kind of war."

"My Pa was a militia man," said Diane evenly. "The Redcoats killed him, and I took his place. Tracking down your pair of spies is just my kind of challenge. And one of them’s a Brit, you say? That ought to make it fun."

* * *

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, girls," the innkeeper said hoarsely. "The Blues are on their way. You can’t stay here."

Martine tore a piece of bread and dunked it in her soup. "I never like to rush my food," she said. Her gaze flicked round the dingy room with studied nonchalance. The villagers stared back at her like prisoners waiting numbly for their fate.

Across the table from her, Nell sat back and wiped her mouth. There was a reckless gleam in her blue eyes. She rose and took her empty tankard over to the bar. Her swagger made the landlord quail. He eyed the cleavage bulging from her vest.

A fire was burning in the hearth, but the dimness clung like cobwebs. The dirty windows kept the daylight out. Nell put down her tankard on the counter. "I believe I’ve time for one more ale," she said.

Reluctantly the innkeeper refilled the pewter mug. His daughter looked on from behind the bar. She was a girl of eight or nine, pale-faced, with solemn eyes. Nell met her gaze and winked at her, then laid a half-cocked pistol on the bar.

It was one half of a matching pair. The other rested next to Martine’s elbow. The French girl dipped her head and spooned more soup into her mouth. There was the sound of footfalls on the road.

The people in the taproom tensed, but their faces seemed resigned. The insurrection had been crushed, and retribution was inevitable. The clinking of equipment joined the measured crunch of boots. Nell raised the tankard to her lips and took a draught of bitter country beer.

The tavern door banged open and the Bluecoats sauntered through. Some villagers shrank back against the walls. Martine paused and swallowed, then picked up her cup of wine. Nell leaned against the bar, ignoring them.

Three soldiers pointed rifles at the nervous gathering. One was a grubby-featured girl, in a coat that was a size too large for her. She looked like an urchin from the streets of Paris. Her dark eyes were as beady as a shrew’s.

"Any Whites in here?" sneered one of her companions.

"Sure there are," a woman drawled. "They’re all as white as ghosts."

Martine’s gaze slid over to the doorway as two more soldiers came into the room. The woman had spoken French with a strange accent. Her uniform was scruffy, but she had a healthy, corn-fed look to her. The fifth of the troopers wore the same blue tailcoat, but he sported buckskin breeches underneath. His muscled chest was bare: it gleamed like copper. A stripe of white paint bridged his nose. The villagers stared back at him, appalled.

Diane’s cool eyes scanned the room and settled on Nell’s back. She started forward with a mirthless smile. Martine put her cup back down, and a rifle swung towards her. She met the soldier’s gaze, then shrugged and picked up her spoon again.

Diane came to stand by Nell. She leaned against the counter. The English girl kept staring at the wall. The tankard was in her left hand now. She sipped, and set it down. In front of her, the half-cocked gun lay ready to be grasped.

The soldier covering Martine moved closer to her table. The waif stood watching by the door, a mischievous expression on her face. The other Frenchman helped himself to an abandoned mug and aimed one-handed while he drank from it. Diane caught the Indian’s eye and nodded carelessly. The hawk-faced man stalked round behind Martine.

The French girl didn’t raise her eyes. She took another mouthful. The villagers looked on like chickens cornered in their coop. Diane turned back to Nell and eyed her shabby scarlet coat. At last she spoke in English. "Redcoat, huh?"

Nell looked round, then looked away. She wiped beer off her lip with her left sleeve.

"I shot my first Redcoat when I was eighteen," Diane went on.

Nell turned again and studied her. "A while ago, then."

Something sparked in Diane’s eyes, but her thin smile didn’t falter. She nodded to the brave again. The man reached out and stroked Martine’s thick hair. The French girl stiffened, then sat back, as if in resignation. Her eyes went to her pistol, and the soldier facing her renewed his aim.

"Go on, bitch," he taunted her. "I’d like to see you try."

Martine looked him in the eye, then swung her right leg up to kick the table. The jolt set off the pistol which she’d strapped against her boot. The blast ripped through the soldier’s gut, and he jack-knifed with a squawk, collapsing as Nell swung round from the bar. She left the handgun where it lay; her own Twigg pistol was already drawn. She shot the wide-eyed soldier-girl, then put a bullet through the drinking man. As his tankard bounced and splashed, Martine scooped up her pistol. She fired over her shoulder and the Indian brave was lifted off his feet.

The taproom filled with pungent smoke. The bodies hit the floor like pole-axed cows. Diane wavered, stupefied, then grasped the pistol tucked into her belt. The Redcoat swung her own gun round. There were still two barrels left. Diane froze, her well-filled waistcoat heaving. It took her just a moment more to realise that the Twigg must be re-cocked. But that was all the breathing space Nell needed. She drew a slender bayonet and brought the point up under Diane’s jaw.

The American peered down at it. A drop of sweat went trickling down her face. Martine got to her feet and put another piece of bread into her mouth. The villagers were cowering in the corners of the room. The landlord hugged his daughter, who was coughing in the smoke.

"As white as ghosts, you said," Nell murmured wryly. Diane stared back at her with hateful eyes. Martine retrieved the pistol from the bartop. She helped herself to Diane’s gun, and covered her while she and Nell backed off.

They ducked out through the rear door. Their mounts were tethered in the stable yard. Martine grinned. "I hope you haven’t started a new War of Independence!" Her friend gave her a mock-disdainful look.

As they moved onto the road, they glimpsed more soldiers in the village. A musket blasted smoke at them. The two girls kicked their ponies to a run. They veered around the church and reached the sunken lane behind it before the Blue patrol could cut them off. Martine crouched forward in her saddle as she surged away. Nell followed with her scarlet coattails flying. But Raven Hair was waiting in the shadow of the trees. She tracked the riders in her sights, then squeezed the trigger of her Ferguson.

Nell’s pony whinnied sharply as the bullet pierced its neck. It plunged and ploughed into the dirt, and Nell was flipped against the grassy verge. She slithered, winded to the road as the animal rolled over. Martine glanced back, then hauled on her own reins.

The Blues were running for the lane. Nell glimpsed them in the field beyond the hedge. A musket ball hummed overhead. She flopped around and gestured to Martine. "It’s too late, love … Get clear!" she wheezed. Martine’s face had gone white. She was all set to gallop back. The soldiers had begun to shoot at her.

"Run!" Nell gasped imploringly. Martine locked eyes with her, then turned away. She galloped off along the lane. Nell struggled over to her fallen mount. Her English coaching blunderbuss was sheathed against the saddle. But even as she touched the stock, a ring of bayonets surrounded her.

* * *

"I guess your friend doesn’t know much about Indians," said Diane. "Or else she would have shot you, quick and clean."

She smiled engagingly at Nell. The English girl gave her a sullen look. She was standing with her arms pulled wide, her wrists lashed to a frame of wooden poles. The structure was for stretching hides behind the tanner’s workshop. They’d stripped Nell to her vest and breeches. Raven Hair now sported her red coat.

"My blood-sister could have killed you, too," the American went on. "But she knew you’d be more use to us alive. Now your friend will have to come and get you. Especially when she hears you start to scream."

"She’ll come for me, all right," Nell said. "Though Hell should bar the way." She met the Indian girl’s obsidian stare. The scarlet coat was slung around her shoulders, like the raw pelt of an animal she’d shot.

Diane drew her tomahawk and swung it carelessly. "I still recall the day we kicked you out. I was in South Carolina, with the Swamp Fox." She smiled again. "I guess you’ve heard of him."

"Where I come from," murmured Nell, "the foxes run when they see men in red coats."

Diane reversed the tomahawk and whacked her in the belly. "Oughh!" Nell gasped and tried to double up. But the bonds around her wrists kept her suspended. The watching soldiers chuckled as she squirmed.

Opening her teary eyes, Nell saw the other Indian. He was kindling a fire beside the hut. Diane followed her gaze. "There’s lots of things that fire is good for. Like broiling meat, or sealing up a wound …"

The gaunt-faced man looked round, his gaze as bleak as Raven Hair’s. A butcher-knife lay ready by the fire. Eyeing it, Nell bit her lip, her naked biceps tensing. Diane whispered in her ear. "She killed our brother. Someone’s got to pay."

She straightened up and gestured to the soldiers. "I want this whole place sewn up like a shroud. My guess is, she’ll make her play come nightfall …" She gave the Indian a wry smile. "… so make sure blondie stays alive till then."

Turning, she went back towards the tavern. Raven Hair followed at her heels. The watching men dispersed reluctantly. One of them remained on guard. The Indian fanned his fire. The afternoon was overcast, and dusk was not far off.

Behind the tanner’s yard there was a paddock. A dozen horses cropped the muddy grass. Beyond that was the wood, already thickening with shadows. Anybody hiding there would see what happened to the English girl.

Smiling at the thought, the soldier sauntered up to Nell. She glared at him, her blonde hair in her eyes. Her full breasts pushed against her calfskin waistcoat. He fumbled with the buttons, and she spat and tried to knee him in the groin. The soldier stepped away and jabbed his gun butt at her stomach. Nell cried out and slumped again. The Indian brave looked round impassively.

Crouched among the horses in the paddock, Martine watched. She had doubled back as soon as Nell got caught. The soldiers were deploying round the village, but she’d already slipped inside the net. Gnawing her lip, she crept between the horses. One whickered, and she gently stifled it. Then gave it a nudge towards the fence. The nags moved closer to the tanner’s yard.

The soldier didn’t notice as he tugged Nell’s waistcoat open. The Redcoat’s breasts poked into view. The nipples were a delicate rose pink. Propping his gun against the frame, he roughly fondled them, then tried to kiss the girl’s grimacing mouth.

Then a pair of metal tubes were pressed against his groin. The soldier dropped his gaze and froze. Martine was on the ground between Nell’s legs. Her weapon was a fowling piece, inlaid with gold and silver, but cut down like a Paris footpad’s gun.

"Now untie her," Martine hissed. The man began to fumble with the ropes. Martine eased away from him and rose onto one knee. The Indian turned again and straightened up.

"Leave woman where she is," he said. The soldier stared towards him helplessly. Then the Indian glimpsed Martine, and snatched the glowing knife out of the fire.

Martine fired between Nell’s thighs into the soldier’s belly. The English girl was spattered with his blood. Martine rolled and shot again, as the Indian hurled his knife. The dull-red blade glanced off the frame. The redskin clutched his riddled chest and slumped.

The French girl scrambled up as the two bodies hit the ground. One of Nell’s wrists was almost free. Martine hacked through the rope that bound the other. Her girlfriend sagged against her, then stood up on her own feet. She turned her head to kiss Martine, who handed her a gun as they embraced.

The sound of shots brought other soldiers running. As they passed a house, a peasant opened fire on them with an old musket. One of the bluecoats spun and fell. The others scattered, turning to shoot back. Dirty gunsmoke blossomed in the twilight. "Long live the King!" the peasant yelled, then crumpled as a shot went through his brow.

Diane and Raven Hair were on the slope behind the tavern, preparing the first Indian for the crows. They snatched their rifles up and left the body were it lay. More gunfire flared and crackled in the dusk. The troops were shouting out to one another in confusion. They sniped at shadows. Nobody shot back.

As Diane reached the street, a peasant lumbered from his hovel. He was brandishing a rusty-bladed sword. "Now we’ll take your head, you cow," he shouted drunkenly. She fired a ball that blew him off his feet.

The shooting petered out like a spent bonfire. Diane glared at the soldiers angrily. "Stand your ground, you Bluecoat bumpkins! Don’t fire till there’s something you can hit!" They bit their tongues, resentful of a female officer. A foreigner, at that. But they obeyed.

Diane came to the tanner’s yard. The sight of the sprawled Indian made her curse. Raven Hair had followed; now she gasped against her hand, and went down on her knees beside the corpse.

Breathing hard, Diane looked round. The paddock gate was open. She could hear the sound of hoofbeats in the trees. "Not so fast, you lousy bitches!" she yelled after them, then doubled back into the smoky street.

"Round up every peasant in the place," she told the soldiers. "I want them all together in the barn." Her voice was quivering with pent-up anger. "They’re royal ass-kissers round here, and there’s but one way to deal with folks like that."

The Bluecoats started rooting through the houses, kicking in doors and smashing furniture. They herded the frightened occupants towards the village barn, the twilight glinting off their bayonets. Diane picked up the sabre of the peasant who’d attacked her, and watched as the crowd was shoved into the barn. Then she followed them and plunged the blade into the dirt, like the marker of a grave outside the door.

The last of the people were goaded in. The innkeeper’s young daughter was among them. Diane went across and grasped a fistful of her hair. The girl cried out as she was wrenched around. Diane let her wriggle for a moment, then spoke into the trembling child’s ear.

"Tell the Redcoat that I challenge her to a duel. And my blood-sister’s got business with her friend. If they don’t come back to face us, I’ll burn this barn with everyone inside. Tell them they’ve got half an hour. Tell them."

She pushed the girl away and watched her flee along the street, then went into the barn to join her men. One of the troopers had lit a torch which threatened to ignite the dirty straw. A couple of lanterns glowed as well, but the place was full of shadows. The peasants were crowded in like sheep, with levelled bayonets on every side.

Ignoring them, Diane recharging her rifle. She heard the young girl crying out. "Martine! Oh please! She’s going to kill us all!" Her voice was thin and miserable. The soldiers smiled grimly. The faces of the villagers grew pale.

"They’re nothing to do with us," said one man hoarsely. "Just vagabonds. We wouldn’t shelter them." The American girl just nodded and sat down on an old barrel. She took a thick black Bible from the pocket of her coat.

"Martine wouldn’t abandon us …" a tearful woman whispered. The peasants cowered in the hellish light. "Martine!" they heard the girl cry in the distance. A soldier chuckled in the loft. Diane began to read.

Raven Hair stood nearby, still wearing Nell’s red coat, her dark eyes glistening with unshed tears. She’d smeared blood on her handsome face like warpaint. Her features were as pitiless as stone.

"We’re honest country-folk," another peasant girl protested. "We don’t care who’s in power, just so long as we’ve got something in our bellies …"

Raven Hair went forward quickly, like a hungry cat. She caught the girl by her fair hair and dragged her from the group. A hunting knife flashed out and sank into the peasant’s belly. The girl grimaced in pain and doubled up. The watching soldiers had a chance to ogle her plump cleavage, and then the Indian princess gutted her. The girl flopped back into the straw, her brown eyes staring upward. Her cleavage spilled a stream of blood across her chest and neck.

Diane looked up briefly, then turned over a new page. "By his stripes, we are healed …" she read aloud.

"Listen," said a soldier by the doorway. Some of the villagers were sobbing. "Be quiet!" another snarled. In the wretched pause that followed, they heard hoofbeats. A horse was walking down the village street.

The soldier sitting in the loft got quickly to his feet. There was the click of muskets being cocked. Diane closed her Bible with a calm look on her face. The Bluecoats looked towards the open door.

One man saw a movement from the corner of his eye: a pile of sacking twitched in a dark corner. Then Martine sat up beneath it, throwing it aside. Her shotgun flared like lightning in the gloom.

The buckshot riddled a blue coat with bloody holes that matched its red lapels. She fired again at point-blank range, projecting a man’s body off its feet. Smoke erupted through the barn and filled it with confusion. As the Bluecoats brought their muskets round, Nell rose out of a pile of dirty straw. Shafts of it clung to her hair, as if to mock its colour. She levelled a horse-pistol in each hand.

The first shot smashed a trooper’s skull and dropped him where he stood. Nell swung her second pistol round and up. The soldier in the loft cried out as the ball seared through his belly. He pitched into the churning smoke below.

Martine dropped her empty gun and scrambled to her feet, her bosom joggling in her knotted shirt. She and Nell had never left the village. They’d simply run two ponies off, and one of them had wandered back again. Drawing her brace of pistols, she blew two men off their feet. And then the panicked peasants rushed the door.

The soldiers were too bewildered to resist them. Bayonets were knocked aside and men were beaten down. One young trooper drove his blade into a girl’s soft breast. She squealed in pain, he yelled with fright, and then the mob of peasants mangled him.

Nell was casting round for a new weapon. She saw her own Twigg pistol in the waistband of a corpse. As she knelt to get it, she glimpsed scarlet through the smoke. The familiar colour of her coat. Then Raven Hair came at her like a lynx.

Nell seized her gun and rolled, then aimed a kick at her opponent. Her boot found a taut belly, but the Indian barely flinched. She landed on her hands and knees, her dark eyes full of hatred. Nell scrabbled back across the gritty floor.

The soldier who had filched her gun had not reloaded it. The lower barrels were still charged, but she had to realign the mechanism. As she fumbled with the switch, the Indian pounced again and tried to slash her with a hunting knife. Nell caught hold of the girl’s wrist and clenched her teeth with effort. The blade dripped blood onto her face; she levered the Twigg’s flint back with her thumb. But Raven Hair had her wrist too, preventing her from aiming. The two girls thrashed and wrestled in the dirt.

The knife moved closer to Nell’s face as she rolled onto her back. "I’ll have your scalp, you bitch!" hissed Raven Hair. But slowly, inch by inch, Nell brought the heavy pistol round. They glared into each other’s eyes; then the Twigg went off against the Indian’s throat.

The bullet tunnelled through her head, emerging from her scalp. A gout of crimson streaked the girl’s dark locks. The fire went out of her black eyes and left them dull as cinders. Her mouth fell open and white smoke drooled out.

Her body flopped, her bosom lolling in her buckskin tunic. The English girl crawled clear, then clambered up. She pulled her scarlet coat off the girl’s shoulders and shrugged into its warm, familiar weight.

The last of the fight had spilled outside into the deep blue dusk. Outnumbered by the villagers, the soldiers had no chance. They were stabbed with captured bayonets or brained by musket butts. Their guns were too unwieldy – but Diane still had her knife and tomahawk.

She laid about her furiously. The tomahawk split open a man’s skull. The peasants shrank away from her, as if she was a cornered wildcat. Then Martine came wading in, her own eyes bright with anger. She snatched a fallen musket up, although it had been fired. The bayonet gleamed sharply as she thrust it Diane, but the flailing hatchet knocked it to one side. The American lashed out with her knife and just missed Martine’s belly. The French girl gasped and stumbled back. The tomahawk came swinging at her head.

Still off-balance, Martine raised the gun to block the blow. The hatchet split the musket’s stock and sent her reeling back another step. "We should be on the same side," Diane taunted bitterly. "The Redcoats are your enemy and mine …"

She hacked and stabbed again and Martine parried desperately. She had no room to wield the bayonet. Diane’s pretty face was twisted in a mask of fury. Martine recoiled once more and dropped the gun.

Diane whooped triumphantly. She lunged as Martine ducked and spun away. But as the French girl wheeled, she pulled the sword up from the roadway: the challenge which Diane herself had left. Swinging round again, she drove the blade through Diane’s midriff, so fiercely that the point came through her back.

The American girl’s blue eyes grew wide; she made a guttural sound. Martine gave the sword a twist and watched her gawp with pain. Still clinging to the hilt, she put her boot in Diane’s belly and ripped the rusty weapon free again. "Awghh!" the girl cried out, and then her voice became a gurgle. She crumpled to her knees and pitched face down.

Martine’s bosom heaved for breath as she stared down at the body. A deathly hush had settled round the barn. Somewhere a girl was weeping, very softly. Nell came and slid her arms around Martine.

"You’d best move on," the innkeeper said flatly. "Those bastards got what they deserved, but more of them will follow soon enough." Martine nodded sombrely, still leaning against Nell. Perhaps they should go north, or east. The Vendee was no place for honest thieves.

Straightening, she dropped the sword by Diane’s blood-soaked body.

"I reckon you’re the redcoat now," she said.