The Scourge of Sainte Barbara

This Scarlet Pimpernel fan fic is part of the Borrowed Plumes challenge. After you finish reading, please check out the other stories written by the wonderful writers taking part in this event!

The Scarlet Pimpernel was one of the original "masked crusaders". The stories are about a League of English noblemen who risk life and limb to rescue victims of the French Revolution. Their leader is Sir Percy Blakeney, who hides his identity behind the guise of a foolish fop. His wife, the beautiful redhaired Lady Blakeney, was once Marguerite St. Just, a celebrated actress in Paris with the reputation of being the cleverest woman in Europe.

If you haven't read it already, The Mask of Nakedness recounts the rescue of Antoinette Lemercier and her brother by Marguerite. This story begins where that one ends. I hope you enjoy it.

Prologue: The Cold One

In Normandy, they called her La Petite Morte -- almost certainly with some irony, knowing the local sense of humour. In Lyon, she was Madame Guillotine, coming from Paris and showing neither compassion nor hesitation to mete out justice. In sunny Avignon, they simply called her La Froide -- the Cold One.

The Public Prosecutor of the Revolutionary Government knew the woman sitting on the opposite side of his desk. He knew her history, and he knew her hatred of the despised aristocrats who had taken her dignity. He knew her hatred of the Church and the Sisters of the Convent of Sainte Barbara who had taken everything else until all that was left was her hate.

And Fouquier-Tinville had moulded that hate into something new. He had awakened in her a determination, and an intelligence she did not know she possessed. He had shown her the path of ruthlessness and dedication. If she was the Little Death, or the Guillotine, it was because he had made her so. But he would not take credit for making her the Cold One, because that was who she truly was.

Here in his large office in the Palais des Tuileries, a roaring fire kept away the December chill and made mockery of the wind that beat against the windows overlooking the great gardens. Even so, she seemed both to feel cold and to emanate it. Her thick black coat with its mannish cut seemed to give her little warmth, nor did her mannish black breeches that disappeared into black boots. She sat hunched over a cup of hot wine.

Her mind was not affected like her body was, though. "Why have you called me here, Fouquier-Tinville?" she whispered. Her lips were pale and thin, and might have been invisible if her skin had been less white. As it was, she appeared to have been drawn entirely in black and white, with dark hair pulled back into a queue, striking black brows, and below them a pair of gleaming dark eyes. "Why have you called me back to Paris? I was doing good work in the south."

He smiled reassuringly. "It is because of that good work that I have recalled you. I have need of your skills and your loyalty."

She scoffed, and sipped from her cup. "You have loyal agents in Paris. Paul Chauvelin, is he not your favourite?" Disconcertingly, her eyes stayed on his while she drank.

"Citoyen Chauvelin has his duties." He waved a hand. "And I have reason to suspect he might not be entirely dispassionate in this matter."

She continued to sip her wine. At length she spoke again. "Yet you do not wish to offend him. He has powerful friends. That is why we are meeting now, when all your servants and clerks have left." She drank again. "I am not just seeking out sedition and treason. I am seeking a specific enemy of the Republic."

He nodded. "You always did see more than most, little sister. Yes, you will be my avenger. I need your ruthlessness, your dedication to the hunt."

"How ruthless? How far may my dedication take me?"

"Do what you must. If there are casualties, you may report them as enemies of France for standing in your way. I will sign the paperwork. There will be no consequences for you."

She nodded slowly and drained her cup. "And who is my prey?"

He felt his mouth twist in bitter distaste. "An Englishman. A damned aristo!" His fists were clenched on the desk, he realised, and he forced himself to relax. Taking a deep breath, he continued, "He calls himself the Scarlet Pimpernel. Whatever the cost, he must die."

Chapter One: In Sir Percy's Chambers

The farmhouse of Le Vieux Marron stood far from the main road, an hour outside the walls of Paris. Few people came here, even in the best of times. Now, as 1792 drew to a close with December bringing winter's chill and the city itself in civil turmoil, it felt like the end of the world.

The collection of large buildings and barns hinted at greater wealth several generations ago. These days little of the land was worked except the home garden, which yielded food for the farm's inhabitants with a little extra to sell on the market. A few sous extra came from the white roses that grew in abundance along the walls in the sheltered courtyard.

The two middle-aged sisters who lived there, and did their utmost to maintain the place, were fierce enemies of the Republic. Both their husbands had fallen victim to the mob during the first weeks of the Revolution: not for being aristos, but simply for defending the wares on their cart one market day. The populace, starving and impatient, trampled them underfoot as they stood between hungry mouths and a meagre harvest of vegetables.

As passionately as they hated the Revolution, so much did Maman Marie and Maman Jeannette adore their English visitors whenever they came. "Ah, but you are too thin!" they proclaimed. "Sit and let us show you how the French cook!"

Marguerite, when she joined her husband for the first time at Le Vieux Marron a week past, had been treated with suspicion, then wariness, and at last with warm acceptance. Now, as she trundled up on the rickety cart, they came out to embrace her and usher her inside. She barely had time to tell them to take good care of the mule, and to warn them of her naked cargo in the back.

At this, Maman Marie turned back to the cart and lifted the blanket. In the soft glow of the lanterns beside the door, two pale faces peered up at her. "Mes petits!" she cried. "You shiver, you poor things! Come inside, where it's warm. We have food, we have warm blankets."

Marguerite left them and followed Maman Jeannette inside. She was cold and hungry herself, but that could wait. "Is my husband here?" she asked.

"Upstairs. He's working," the older woman said with a motherly shake of her head. "His plots and plans occupy him always."

Sir Percy, as predicted, was sitting at his desk in the outer of the rooms set aside for their use. A pair of candles kept the dark at bay, and their light shone on a small vase of the farm's white roses. His fair hair, tied back with a simple ribbon, fell across his broad frame. Only his forearms and fingers moved as he wrote on a sheet of paper with a tidy hand.

He looked up as Marguerite entered. Instantly a smile appeared that made his handsome face come alive. "Margot, my love! I tried not to worry." He rose from the desk and crossed to meet her.

Marguerite let him take her hands in his and raise them to his lips. "There was nothing to worry about."

He looked at her, searching her face as if for some sign of distress. "The plan worked?"

She recalled watching the girl Antoinette on her knees, mouth open to receive her brother's cock and deceive the watching soldiers. "To perfection. The man from the Committee of Public Safety was fooled, and he went away with his tail between his legs." Her breath caught for a moment. "And our friends were primed nicely to play their part at the Barricade."

He nodded, smiling again, then gestured at a cabinet. "Our good hostesses brought some mulled wine earlier. Come, drink! You need it, I am sure."

What I need... "That would be lovely, Percy. Thank you."

What she needed was for him to take her in his strong arms, pull her close and kiss her, kiss her and --! No, she had to keep her mind from that. Her blood was still racing at the thought of what had occurred in Antoinette Lemercier's lodgings. She should restrain herself until it was time to retire to bed.

At home in England, in Blakeney House, Percy and she seized each opportunity to express their rekindled passion. They made love every day, sharing the same bedchamber and not rising until the sun was already in the sky.

Here in France it was another matter though. Here, as Percy had made clear to her, he was the Scarlet Pimpernel, the leader of a League of brave souls. Lives depended on him, and he could not always spare the time or attention to indulge in their desires.

She understood, and agreed readily. At least he had admitted her to the League, and she could be close to him and help him, instead of being in faraway England worrying about his safety. But it also meant that she was often out on the League's business. None of the other members knew Paris as she did. None could pass as well for a Frenchwoman.

They still managed to find time for each other, though, and when they did they made love with an urgency they missed at home. Marguerite was beginning to suspect, too, that Percy had a secret side to his desires. Perhaps he had acquired it growing up on the Continent, away from the constraints of English society.

Sometimes he seemed to want more. To let his eyes and hands stray out of their usual paths. He suggested plans that were bold and previously unimaginable -- such as the plan with the young Lemerciers.

And Marguerite found herself intrigued. She herself had explored many aspects of lovemaking during her time at the Comédie Française. Passionate and fulfilling as Percy's loving was, she wondered whether they might find a connection on another level too.

"I need to bathe," she said suddenly. "Wash this disguise away, and clean myself of the stench of the city."

"Maman Marie has prepared a bath in the bedchamber," he said. "It is covered, but she placed a kettle of hot water beside it in case it grew cold before you arrived." He glanced at her legs. "Do you need help with your boots?"

It was one of the great mysteries of the age, Marguerite often reflected, how the darling of London Society Sir Percy Blakeney could manage without his valet. Yet here in France he dressed himself, occasionally with her assistance. The only complaint he made was that his boots suffered when he pulled them off.

Marguerite had fewer concerns about her footwear. The boots she wore were sturdy, but hardly designed to impress a follower of fashion. Still, she knew Percy's offer was about more than her boots.

So she threw off her cloak and lowered herself onto the divan. As she stretched one leg out before her, Percy knelt down, and she pulled up the long straight skirt. Gently, almost reverently, he took her calf and ankle and began to ease the boot down.

His fingers were strong and skilled, and it took only a moment for her heel to free itself. He smoothly drew the boot from her foot, tossed it aside and kissed her instep. A small shiver ran through her.

He repeated the process with her other boot, then held her feet and stroked them with his fingertips. The shivers increased, crawling up her legs and lighting a tiny spark between them. She leaned back and closed her eyes, simply enjoying his touch for a little while.

But the lure of the hot bath was too strong. Carefully she pulled her feet free and stood. She leaned down and kissed his lips gently. He looked up from where he knelt, eyes both adoring and amused. "I need to bathe first," she said again.

She took the wine from where he had placed it and passed through the door to the other room. This was where they slept, in the plain but large bed with its thick covers to ward off the night's chill. The fireplace stood empty now, but the candles on the nightstands and the two dressers provided both light and warmth.

The bath itself was as promised, still steaming under the wooden cover. Removing the wooden board released steam and the scent of warm lavender, and Marguerite inhaled deeply. In its own way it was as pleasing as the touch of Percy's fingers had been.

There was a small table beside the tub. Marguerite placed her cup on it and began to strip off her disguise. The smock she had donned was not as filthy or threadbare as it appeared, and beneath it her black bodice and skirt were clean, but she was still glad to be rid of them.

As she dropped the final piece of clothing onto the floor and raised her foot to climb into the tub, she noticed Percy in the outer room. He was watching her through the open door, a look of utter entrancement on his face.

Deliberately she turned towards him, putting herself on display. Her full breasts with their soft pink nipples and the blue veins showing through her pale skin. The curve of her belly, the shape of her hips and waist, the soft firmness of her thighs.

And the red-gold curls that matched the thick hair on her head and that did more to emphasise her mound than hide it from view. The pink lips that peered out when she lifted her leg higher and slowly lowered her foot into the hot water.

Her husband watched in silence. This masterful man, a brilliant plotter and dissembler who fooled two countries, was left helpless simply by her beauty.

Silently she sank into the water. Lavender-scented steam rose to envelop her. She felt the water close around her body, hiding it from Percy's eyes. Still he watched, only now his eyes rose to meet hers. She smiled and leaned back to rest her head. "This is nice," she said with a sigh.

He smiled back but still did not speak. Did not move at all, until she raised one foot from the water and set it on the edge of the tub. Then one eyebrow climbed half an inch. It was joined by the other as she placed her second foot on the opposite side of the tub.

She kept her eyes fixed on his, looking at him across the swell of her breasts and between her bare feet, gleaming wetly from the oiled bathwater. With one hand she reached out and took the cup of wine. The other she rested on her leg. Her fingers made small motions across her skin.

Up and down she stroked along the inside of her knee where it met her thigh. All the while she sipped her wine, slowly and silently, eyes locked on Percy's. By the time she drained the last sip his lips were pursed together and his fists were clenching and unclenching. His tight breeches showed where he was swelling.

"Very nice," she murmured and set the cup back on the table. "Very warming."

He grunted.

Now she began teasing with both her hands. Her fingers glided over her smooth flesh, starting at her knees and moving along her thighs until they reached the water. It was a delightful feeling. Her touch went beyond the skin and deeper, deeper, creeping up through her marrow into her stomach and settling there like a spark waiting to catch flame.

As Percy watched, she let her fingers slip beneath the surface of the water, pressing them deep into her thighs as she brought them nearer and nearer to the core of her heat. Her breathing was becoming heavy, she noticed, and the sweat beading on her forehead was not only from the scented steam anymore.

As her fingers brushed her folds, she closed her eyes and sank back into the tub. This was bliss. This was to be enjoyed, until --

The near-silence was shattered by a knocking on the outer door. The sound was soft, in fact, almost hesitant, but it jerked Marguerite out of her reverie. She opened her eyes, saw Percy staring at her with a hungry, frustrated gaze.

"I should answer it," he whispered. "But I shan't."

But Marguerite shook her head firmly. "You should, and you will. You have duties, Percy. This is perhaps an important message, from Sir Andrew or Lord Tony." She smiled and cupped her breasts in her hands. "I will be waiting." Her nipples were almost swollen, so she pinched them and pulled them up. "This will only add to the anticipation."

Percy smiled, but it was a pained smile. Then he turned and called, "One moment!" As he closed the door to the bedchamber he was reaching for his long coat. It would hide the bulging shape in his breeches, Marguerite thought, but it would take more than a distraction to make the swelling go away.

She lowered herself back into the water and let its warmth wash over her. The visitor was most likely one of their hostesses, but it was thrilling to think it might be Sir Andrew Ffoulkes or Lord Dewhurst. She imagined them in earnest conversation with her husband, while only a few paces away she lay naked, one hand pinching her nipples and the other caressing herself beneath the water.

Through the door to the outer room she heard Percy's firm step, then his voice. "My apologies for making you wait." The briefest of pauses, then: "Mademoiselle Lemercier, I presume. Forgive me for not being downstairs to greet you when you arrived. Please, enter."

Soft footsteps, then the sound of the door closing. "Thank you." Antoinette's voice, soft and hesitant. "I -- I wished to thank Mistress Margot. Or Mademoiselle St. Just, I should say. No, that is not right either. I heard she married an Englishman." Her voice trailed off.

Percy gave a soft laugh. Marguerite could picture him, smiling his warm, comforting smile as he looked down at the girl's pretty face. "She did indeed. I am that Englishman. Call me Percy. And with so many names to choose from, it would be best to simply call her Marguerite."

"Oh! of course." Again a hesitation. "Maman Jeanette told me I would find her here. I am so grateful for everything she has done. My brother -- Eugene -- should be here too, but the escape has tired him out. He has a poor constitution, you see, and the cold..."

"Ah, the cold!" The amusement in Percy's voice was disguised so well that none but Marguerite would have noticed it. "Yes, I heard about your trials." There was a brief silence, and Marguerite could imagine a blush creeping onto Antoinette's cheeks. Then Percy continued, "But Marguerite is just through here. I am sure she would be happy to see you."

Before Marguerite could react, he opened the door separating the two rooms. Antoinette stood behind him, wrapped in a rough smock and with dark stockings on her feet. The suspected blush was there, but it became more prominent when she spotted Marguerite in the bathtub.

"Oh no!" she stammered, one hand going up to her mouth. "I did not realise..." She trailed off, standing in the doorway, her gaze fixed on Marguerite just as Percy's had been a moment earlier.

Percy's lips curved in a smile that was hidden from the girl. "Ah, Margot my dear, you are bathing! My apologies. But your young friend wished to thank you." There was that look in his eyes again, that not-quite smile on his lips, that hinted at his uncovered desires.

Antoinette glanced at him, bit her lip and curtsied to Marguerite. "Percy is right. I wished to say... But I can return later." The way her eyes lingered on Marguerite's bare legs said that she preferred to stay, though.

"There is no need to apologise, ma petite," said Marguerite, running a finger up and down her leg in a leisurely fashion. "I think we have little to hide from each other, since this afternoon."

If possible, the girl's blush deepened. "That is another thing. I must apologise to you. I -- I was angry with you, earlier, in the parlour."

"Angry? How so?" Of course Marguerite knew what she meant. It had been part of the plan, to leave sister and brother frustrated. Had she allowed them to continue -- however exciting it was to watch -- they would likely have been sated during the cart ride, and possibly riddled with remorse as well. No, she had cut them off at the right moment.

Antoinette swallowed, eyes fixed on Marguerite's trailing fingers. "I wanted to finish what you made me start. I felt that I had earned it."

"Ah yes." Marguerite smiled. "It can be so very satisfying. To hold a man's... desire in your hand. To know that he loses control because of you." She glanced at her husband, standing silent beside the girl. "It was unkind of me to take that from you. Will you allow me to make amends?"

"I -- what do you mean?" There was confusion in the other woman's eyes. Confusion, and a little fear, but curiosity too.

"My husband was eager for his release when you knocked." She stroked both hands up and down her legs now, seeing realisation of what she intended dawn on Percy's face. "Would you like to help him?"

Antoinette's eyes widened, and she shot a glance up at where Percy towered over her. He returned an almost apologetic look. "It is true, my dear. Had you not arrived, I would have dragged Marguerite from the tub by now and would be ravishing her on the bed." Not entirely true, perhaps, but it served to drag the girl's gaze down from his face as he shook the coat from his shoulders and tossed it aside. Her eyes dropped to his waist -- and below.

She glanced at Marguerite again, still hesitating. "Should I...?"

Marguerite rose and stood, water sliding from her body. "Take off that smock." Her long legs let her step easily from the tub, and she moved to where her clothes still lay in a pile on the floor. Kneeling down, she drew the riding crop from them. "Or do I need to remind you of this?"

The girl swiftly unfastened the buttons, fingers clumsy with haste, or perhaps eagerness. The glances she shot at the crop held little fear. As I suspected, Marguerite thought. She is one of those to whom a little pain can be an encouragement.

Besides the dark stockings, Antoinette was naked beneath the smock. Fading red stripes still marked her thighs and buttocks from where the crop had encouraged her that afternoon in the Paris parlour. With a glance at Marguerite, and another at Percy's impassive face, she knelt before him. "What...?"

Marguerite took a step closer, and brought the riding crop down on the girl's buttocks. Not too hard, barely enough to leave even a faint mark, but enough to show how things would be. "Unfasten his breeches, girl. Do you expect him to do that for you? Unfasten them, and get his cock out if you want it."

Maybe it was the crop, or maybe it was her tone, but the girl gave a startled gasp and began to open Percy's breeches. Maybe it was hearing the word "cock" out loud. Whatever it was, in moments she held his hard shaft in trembling fingers. It might have been a holy relic, from the awe with which she gazed at it.

"Well?" Again Marguerite brought down the crop, harder this time. "His release will not come by itself. Open your mouth and suck." And she struck again.

Antoinette squeezed her eyes shut and opened her mouth. One hand was on the floor to steady her, the other was wrapped around Percy's cock. With visible eagerness she guided it to her lips, her tongue coming out to meet it and lick at the swollen head.

Eyes still closed, she leaned forward and sucked the cock into her mouth. Percy placed his hands on her head, guiding her back and forth, but the girl clearly did not want to be just a passive participant. Marguerite saw her throat working, saw her cheeks change shape as she sought to give pleasure.

It was unrefined, clumsy even, but it seemed effective. Percy looked across and smiled at Marguerite. She could tell from the strain around his eyes that he was having difficulty holding back, keeping his release inside for the greatest pleasure.

"Good," she hissed, striking again with the crop. "If you want your reward, you have to earn it." She felt her own arousal begin to take over, and reached down between her legs. Her hairs were still wet from the bathwater, but beneath them her lips were slick and sticky. A finger slid along them, pressed between, teased at her button. She bit on her tongue so that her own moans would not drown out those of her husband and the girl sucking his cock.

It was never going to last long. Percy shut his eyes and threw back his head. His strong body was almost trembling. Antoinette seemed to understand, and the hand on his shaft moved back and forth. She opened her eyes and looked up, still sucking. Noticing that Percy's eyes were closed, she glanced around at Marguerite.

Their gazes locked, and Marguerite watched as the girl sucked and tugged, and Percy's body stiffened, and he pressed forward, pulling Antoinette's head against him. She spluttered a little, but managed to keep sucking, keep her eyes on Marguerite's. They shone, with triumph and satisfaction, as Percy jerked and spasmed and the tension drained out of him.

At last he let go of her and drew back his hips. His cock, no longer the hard shaft but softer now, though still half swollen, slipped from her mouth. It left a trail of something wet and shiny that joined them for a long moment, then snapped and fell down to strike Antoinette's naked chest.

The pleasure was clear in the girl's eyes. But before she could rise, before she could wipe her mouth even, Marguerite brought the crop down on her arse. "Did you think you were done?" she hissed. "Did you think my husband was the only one in need of release?" And with her free hand she grabbed the girl's hair and brought her face round. Pressed forward, so that her mound met the shiny lips.

Again the girl gave a muffled squawk. She opened her eyes wide, looking up past Marguerite's red-gold curls, the soft curve of her belly, the proud swell of her breasts. Marguerite looked back down and sneered. "Well?"

It was some years since Marguerite had been with a woman. Antoinette's tongue and lips were unpractised by comparison with that last lover, but her eagerness was exhilarating. With her eyes still open, she licked and sucked, seeking out the sensitive spots and noting what reaction they caused.

One of her hands was between her legs, Marguerite realised, and her hips writhed against it. Percy stood watching them, hand softly stroking his flaccid cock, his eyes smiling their lazy smile.

Marguerite felt her excitement build inside her. It gathered in a knot just below her stomach, and grew under the ministrations of Antoinette's tongue. She used the crop to slap the other woman's arse again, not so hard but with greater urgency, and the licking became faster, and the hips rocked, and the pleasure inside clenched, clenched, and burst free, shooting along Marguerite's limbs and up her spine so that her head went back and a cry was torn from her throat, and she felt the girl's body stiffening too, felt her tongue halt, then lick again before being interrupted by another spasm, and the women rode their climax as one, feeding each other with their arousal, stoking the fires again and again, until there was nothing left to burn, and all the strength had slipped away, and Marguerite released Antoinette's head and let her sink to her knees, and they were both breathing heavily while Percy's strong hand came out for Marguerite to clutch, and the last flames died down to nothing.

As soon as her knees were steady once more, Percy let her stand by herself. His gentlemanly habits returned, and after tucking his cock back into his hose he stepped into the outer room. He returned almost instantly with two cups of the wine. Not hot anymore, but it held a lingering warmth.

Still naked, Marguerite and Antoinette sipped at it, standing so close together that Marguerite could feel the heat of the other woman's body through her skin. The dark eyes held a new confidence, she saw, and a visible curiosity.

"There, my dear," she said, taking the girl's empty cup and placing it with her own on the dresser, "I believe this settles any scores between us." The sternness of her tone was softened by her smile, and her hand on the girl's arm.

Antoinette smiled in return, but after a moment she shook her head. "No," she said softly, looking from Marguerite to Percy and back, "I fear that I am more indebted to you than ever. I believe that this lesson will be of immeasurable value to me."

===

The December sun was still far below the horizon when Sir Percy rose from the bed. Marguerite woke, watching him through half-closed eyes while he washed in the basin of cold water. As he dried himself and then began to dress, she rolled onto her back and stretched.

Percy saw, and stepped over to kiss her. It was a slow, deliberate kiss, and Marguerite reached up to draw him down. "Stay with me a while," she whispered.

He smiled and kissed her again. His hand slipped beneath the bedcover and found her breast. Softly he stroked it, then found her nipple and made gentle pulling motions to raise it. "I wish I could," he murmured against her mouth. "But Tony should have arrived in the night. I must speak with him."

"You are cruel!" she protested, grasping at him and trying to hold him as he drew away. To no avail, of course: tall and strong as she was, Percy was many times stronger. He laughed and stepped back, adjusting himself deliberately in his breeches, and she gave another moan of protest.

Then he was gone, passing to the outer chamber and closing the door behind himself. Marguerite's fingers stroked her breast where his had been a moment earlier. It was a delicious sensation, and if she closed her eyes she could pretend it was Percy's hand. His scent lingered in the bed, and with one hand still playing with her nipple she let the other slide further down, across her stomach and through the golden curls on her mound.

It was wonderful to lie there, in the warm bed, while outside December's wind rustled the trees. Memories came to her, of Percy's powerful body, of his hands and his lips. Of their tryst with Antoinette Lemercier the night before, and the hint of mischief in his eyes. Of the girl's unpractised but eager tongue, and the look on Percy's face when he released in her mouth...

But Percy was right. She might not be the leader of the League, but she still had duties. Not least towards Antoinette and her brother, and to Tony as her husband's friend. Resolutely she rose from the bed. There would be opportunities for pleasure later.

When she made her way to the large kitchen that served as a communal eating area, Percy was sitting at a long table with Lord Anthony Dewhurst. The younger man still wore muddy boots, and a cloak was tossed carelessly over a chair by the door. He was idly playing with a rose from the small bowl on the table, but jumped to his feet when she entered. "Milady," he murmured with a slight bow.

"Oh, sit down, Tony!" she said with a laugh. "We have no use for formalities in this kitchen. Not while we break our fast." Their hostesses were busy with skillets of sizzling eggs and bacon, and the smells of their cooking mingled with the warm aroma of fresh bread and the bitter tang of coffee.

Lord Tony returned to his seat and took a letter from a pocket of his plain grey coat. He handed it to Percy. "One of your hidden friends left this for me to find."

Seeing that her husband was occupied, Marguerite went to help Maman Marie and Maman Jeanette with the food. Gathering the bread, butter and cheese onto a tray, she carried it over to the table just as Percy folded the letter.

"What is it?" she asked, joining them.

"A warning," he replied, looking up with a smile as Maman Jeanette placed a pot of coffee before them. "Our friends at the Committee of Public Safety have taken it into their heads that the good Sisters of the Convent of Sainte Barbara pose a threat to them."

The letter, he explained as they buttered bread and sipped coffee, and Maman Marie arrived with a large skillet, revealed that rumours had reached the Committee's ears. The Convent was sheltering enemies of the Republic -- fugitives from the Reign of Terror, in other words. Anybody who ran afoul of the new Revolutionary Government and its ideals of liberty, equality and brotherhood was labelled an enemy. Infants, women, the elderly, men whose hands were more used to wielding a pen than a sword, all became a threat to be removed.

"Is it true?" asked Lord Tony, helping himself to more bacon and a thick slice of bread. "Are there any poor souls taking refuge at the Convent?"

Percy was silent. "I have heard nothing," he said at last. "Of course, it is possible. At the very least I should investigate. Whether or not it is true, those animals are capable of sending every last one of the good Sisters to their infernal Guillotine."

At the mention of the word, Maman Marie launched into a litany of curses in good peasant French, stalking over to the far corner to angrily poke at the fire. Lord Tony smiled, but there was compassion in it. "The people of France pay a heavy price so that a few opportunists can suppress them with worse tyranny than the old order ever did."

Marguerite held her peace. Tony meant well, of course, but he saw only the suffering of the present day. He had not lived in the misery before the Revolution, when the difference between life and death, food and starvation, comfort and sickness was dictated by the whim of the local lord. Her own brother had been beaten to within an inch of his life, left battered in the dirt, for the crime of loving a girl above his station. And nobody had thought twice about it.

And for all the undeniable horrors of the Revolution, the bloodshed, the suspicion and betrayals, the opportunism and enrichment of a few, it had brought about the impossible: the end to a thousand-year-old system. That shadow loomed over everything that the new Republic did: if the old order could be brought down, so too could the new.

Tony was talking again. "Paris was in an uproar, you know. Whatever your plan was to rescue those Lemerciers, the Committee of Public Safety is furious. There are searches going on everywhere." He smiled at Marguerite. "For the aristos, and for a dangerous redheaded woman calling herself Mistress Margot."

"In Paris?" Percy asked. "Then they are not searching the roads yet. Tony, my friend, I need you to return to England and take the Lemerciers with you. Disguise yourselves as army couriers. There are uniforms that will fit."

The men fell to discussing the best route to the coast. Marguerite looked up to see Antoinette enter the kitchen, with her brother behind. Both were still dressed in simple smocks, belted at the waist. Their boots looked out of place on their feet.

Marguerite rose and guided them to the far end of the table. Maman Marie was drawn out of her muttering and instead began to cluck over the young people like a mother hen. "Too thin, both of you, that's what you are! Sit, and let Maman Jeanette and myself feed you!"

While they ate, Marguerite appraised them. Eugene looked blissful, with a slightly perplexed gaze whenever his eyes met his sister's. Antoinette appeared happy too, but something seemed to trouble her.

"Marguerite," she said at last, wiping her fingers on a napkin, "we cannot thank you enough for everything you have done. If not for you --"

Marguerite smiled and brushed the girl's cheek with her fingers. "Do not dwell on it, ma petite. You are safe now, and Lord Tony will accompany you to England."

"That is precisely what I must discuss." The girl cast her eyes down. "We have our freedom, and our lives, and we are eternally grateful. But... but we have nothing else. In England -- or perhaps the Americas -- I can earn a small pay by teaching children, and Eugene of course has his poetry."

The young man nodded, trying to disguise his evident pride. "There will be broadsheets that will buy them."

Antoinette patted his hand fondly. Her fingers lingered, Marguerite noticed, with something more than sisterly affection. The girl turned back to her. "As I said, we can make our way in the world, but for now we have nothing. After everything you have done, I am reluctant to ask --"

"Nonsense, my dear!" Marguerite laughed. "Do you think that people are all that the Scarlet Pimpernel rescues from the clutches of the Revolutionary Government? We have a coffer with funds liberated from their Treasury and from the chests of the scum that has floated to the top. Funds that were confiscated from families like yours."

"Funds...?" Antoinette began, eyes going wide. Beside her, her brother was similarly stunned.

"Enough to set you up in England, or the Americas if you prefer. And the money is yours, as surely it was looted from yourself or others like you. Do not worry."

With a final smile, she rose and left them to continue their breakfast. Percy disliked this side of the business. But he had never lived without money, and did not understand how all-consuming a worry its absence could be. She stole a quick glance back at the young people, and was pleased to see their faces beaming with untroubled happiness now.

Chapter Two: The Convent of Sainte Barbara

Shame, pride, fear. Those emotions rose in Sister Elizabeth's breast when she thought about the Convent of Sainte Barbara. The shame was tied to her earlier memories of this place, going back to when she first arrived here twenty years ago. That was before the Revolution, though. The days since had been marked by pride at what the few remaining Sisters were doing to atone, and fear that their actions would be discovered.

Those same emotions were evoked by the small woman standing before her, and for the same reasons. Some years ago, she had come to the Convent seeking refuge. Pretty, delicate, broken, the novice Sister Agnes was an easy victim for the predators. The chill that seemed to cling to her on this December day was perhaps born then.

And now she returned, not as a novice but as an Agent of the Committee of Public Safety. La Froide, she called herself. She stood in Sister Elizabeth's office, all in black with a heavy cloak over the men's clothes and with a man's hat that she did not remove. And in her small, cold hands she brought fear, fear of retaliation and punishment, fear of discovery. Fear of the casual vindictiveness of the Revolution, its leaders and its mobs.

But the pride was the same. Sinful though it was, Sister Elizabeth derived a quiet dignity from facing the Committee's Agent and her insinuations. "I regret what was done to you in the past, Citoyenne. But there are no enemies of the Republic here, nor fugitives from its justice."

The dark eyes stared back at her. There was no emotion in them, no hint of what the woman was thinking. When she spoke, her voice was low, but it held no softness. "This place has many secrets, Sister. And many memories. If I need to, I will tear brick from brick to uncover them."

Quelling an anxious flutter in her chest -- I think she would do it too, and with her bare hands! -- Sister Elizabeth put on a warm smile. "There is no need. The Convent of Sainte Barbara is loyal to the ideals of the Republic."

Again the eyes stared at her. Then the woman gave a small nod, turned and stalked out of the office. The chill air stirred in the wake of her cloak. She did not bother to close the door behind her, and Sister Elizabeth rose from her desk to shut it. A glance up the cloister showed the small dark form stepping through the arch into the courtyard. A few pounding heartbeats later, hooves made a measured clip-clop on the cobblestones.

Sister Elizabeth stepped along the cloister to the arch. The woman in black was just riding out under the gate into the surrounding woods. Behind her rode a hulking form in a tattered uniform, with a tricorn hat on his head and a heavy sword at his waist. A bodyguard, or more likely an enforcer.

"Why did she not insist on searching the Convent?" Sister Elizabeth wondered aloud. She was relieved, of course. It would not be difficult to explain the presence of a dozen lay women in the convent. But a dozen cots made up in cells intended for nuns and novices would invite closer questioning and a search, and their meagre possessions, as surely as their papers, would betray who they really were.

In truth, Sister Elizabeth reflected as she returned to her desk, they were scared women with nowhere else to go. Forced from their homes, left widowed or orphaned by the blade of the Guillotine, often themselves branded "enemies of the Republic".

The bitter irony, of course, was that those same women would have found little but horror here if they had come before the Revolution. The good Sisters took delight in tormenting anyone they perceived as weak. It began with humiliation, escalated to menial labour and eventually ended with the women being stripped naked, flogged and...

Sister Elizabeth closed her eyes and swallowed. And worse. Much worse. So many sins.

She recalled the pleasures too, no matter how hard she prayed. No matter how many times she begged the Lord for forgiveness, alone at night in her cell she sometimes found her hands straying beneath the covers as memories surfaced of some pale face looking up at her from between her thighs, eyes pleading, tearing up, as they gazed across the hairs on her mound, the curve of her stomach, the swell of her breasts...

"No!" She rose again, straightening her habit and her back. "Enough of that! That is in the past, and in the present I must atone." The Committee's Agent would return, of that she was sure. The Convent's guests had better be out of sight when she did.

This proved a difficult task. The handful of Sisters who remained at the Convent allowed her to take the lead with the women, as they always did. Their consciences perhaps did not trouble them as much as did hers. They had in fact protested when she first proposed offering sanctuary. But when the Mother Superior, whose objections were the sternest and most vocal, was struck down by a seizure, the others had reluctantly come around. Beyond the merest effort to provide beds and meals, however, they did little to offer comfort.

At least they no longer rape them! There was enough concern that the Revolution was a trial sent to test the Church for its less than pious practices that the Sisters had agreed to amend their ways.

At least they had with outsiders. Sister Elizabeth suspected that they continued their lustful practices among themselves. Some enjoyed being subjected to humiliating treatment. Some simply sought comfort with one another during these troubled times.

The refugees, unaware of their good fortune, stared at her with wet eyes when she gathered them in the courtyard and explained that they had to remain hidden. "A woman was here. A dangerous woman, with the power of the Committee of Public Safety at her back." Sister Elizabeth looked at the small crowd, tried to gauge how far she could scare them before they panicked. "I do not believe she will return, but in case she does I need you to stay in the chapel."

The women exchanged glances. Some of the faces were familiar, some were new. They came and went, depending on how safe they felt. A few had been here for months. One of the newcomers caught Sister Elizabeth's particular notice: a tall, rawboned woman in the rough dress of a peasant that left her forearms bare to reveal hard muscle. A lace cap covered her stringy hair, and at her side hung a satchel with a handful of roses. She looked around uncertainly, a stranger among the sad group.

"Please, do not worry," Sister Elizabeth said briskly. "Into the chapel. La Froide would not dare trespass there. The sanctuary of the Church still holds, even in these Godless days."

The women allowed themselves to be shepherded through the great doors and into the cold silence beyond. The ancient stone here was always cold, whether it was winter or the height of summer. Now, in December, it was as if fingers were reaching from the grave. It was colder even, or at least it seemed colder, than outside in the open air.

The newcomer looked around curiously. Sister Elizabeth wondered if she had ever been to the Convent of Sainte Barbara, and if not, what had driven her to come today. But she preferred not to ask questions. Every woman had a story, and until they were ready to share she would not intrude on their privacy. Too many of those stories forced her to look at her own behaviour.

The group of women came to a halt in the nave, uncertain what to do and where to go. The newcomer helped one of the more infirm elderly women to a pew to sit. The older woman gave her a tired smile and patted her hand. It was a large hand, Sister Elizabeth noted, but with long agile fingers curiously at odds with the tall, blocky frame and muscled arms.

She settled them down. "The Sisters will bring you food, and blankets for you to sleep. You may use the sacristy if you need privacy." The faces looked back at her, mostly blank, mostly tired. "I suggest you spend your time here in prayer," she continued, trying to sound comforting but hearing a hard edge in her voice. "The Lord will deliver you from the evils of this Revolution if you have faith."

===

It was in the dark before dawn when La Froide returned. Two days had passed, and Sister Elizabeth was almost beginning to hope that they had seen the last of her. But the still blackness was broken by clattering hooves as horses rode past the gatekeeper and into the courtyard.

Her breath frosted in the air as she stepped out to meet them. The small woman -- La Froide, she reminded herself, no longer Sister Agnes -- was giving orders and pointing. The hulking form who had accompanied her before sat on a horse beside her, while a dozen figures on foot darted about to stand by the gate and at other points.

They were the dreaded sans-culottes, Sister Elizabeth saw. Fanatic devotees to the Revolution and its cause, this group were dressed in something approximating uniforms: stained white pantaloons and dark coats over white tunics, with red caps on their heads that bore the familiar blue, white and red cockade. Most of them were armed with pikes, and each wore a short curved sword at his belt.

Other Sisters came hurrying out of the dorter and the cloister, alone and in pairs. "What is happening?" Sister Odile whispered.

"It appears we have an official visitor from the Committee of Public Safety," Sister Elizabeth replied. "Sister, I was on my way to light the candles in the chapel. Would you be so kind --?"

"Stay where you are!" the small woman in black interrupted. She brought her horse close and stared down at them. She wore pistols in her belt, Sister Elizabeth saw, one on each hip. "Everyone will stay here. I have a mandate to search this place." She drew a sheet of folded paper from inside her jacket.

Sister Elizabeth met her gaze calmly. It was the dignity of knowing the righteousness of her actions that kept her voice steady as she replied. "As I told you when last you were here, Citoyenne, we are hiding nothing. There are no enemies of the Republic at the Convent of Sainte Barbara."

"Then you have nothing to fear, and no reason to stand in my way." La Froide dismounted and handed her reins to her large companion. "You will accompany me." She had to look up now to speak to Sister Elizabeth. Somehow it did not diminish the aura of cold danger that hung about her. "Remember that I know this place well. Do not think to mislead me."

The nun shook her head. "I would not dream of it. Where do you wish to begin?"

The Agent turned to her henchman. "See that the horses are rubbed down, Corporal. Search the stables while you are there." To Sister Elizabeth she said, "First I wish to see the Mother Superior."

The Mother Superior was incapacitated. Sister Elizabeth knew that, but the Agent would benefit from seeing with her own eyes. They took a candle and went to the dorter, the long gallery where the nuns slept. The Mother Superior's cell was at the far end, identical to the others: three paces across, five paces deep, with tall walls and a small window set a little below the high ceiling to allow light and air to enter.

"Name of God!" the small woman whispered, crossing herself. It was involuntary, instinctive. The habit of a lifetime when faced with a sight so shocking.

The Mother Superior sat upright on her small cot, surrounded by filthy blankets. One side of her face sagged, and her naked body was little more than skin over fragile bones. Scratches and sores marked her arms and legs, and she rubbed at them absently. The smell of stale sweat hung in the cold air of the sleeping cell.

"She has been like this for months now," Sister Elizabeth explained. "Sometimes she is lucid. Other times..." She shrugged.

"Why is she undressed?" the other asked.

Before Sister Elizabeth could answer, the Mother Superior broke in. Her voice was strong for once, even if her words were slurred. "Is that you, Sister Agnes? Get in here, you wretched girl, and lick me clean. Get in here and give me your mouth, before I flog you!" And she cackled and spread her legs.

The nun and the Agent glanced at the wall, where a many-stranded scourge hung on a hook. Beside it hung a leather pouch. "Yes," Sister Elizabeth said, "she still has them. She will not let anybody take them from her. Sometimes she uses them on herself, I believe."

La Froide stepped into the small cell and took the pouch. It was perhaps a foot long, and held something solid. Untying the string, she opened it and drew forth the contents.

Sister Elizabeth had seen it many times. The Mother Superior's cock. The shorter end went inside herself. The other end, which stood out at an angle, went into whatever hole she felt like punishing. Sister Agnes had been punished frequently, she recalled.

The Mother Superior had given a start when the Agent took the pouch. Now she looked on in horror at the object in the small woman's hands. "No," she whispered. "That is mine! You cannot have it!"

"I will give it to you then!" snapped the Agent, dropping the pouch and beginning to fumble at her breeches. "I will give it to you as you gave it to me!"

"In the name of mercy!" Sister Elizabeth exclaimed, stepping forward and taking her arm. "Do you not see she is punished enough? Our Lord God has judged her. Will you make it worse?"

The other woman glared at her, eyes tight with cold fury, her mouth working. Beside them, the old creature pleaded, with tears running down her face and fingers scratching at a sore on her knee. "Give it back, give it back, give it back..."

At last La Froide gave a scornful laugh. "Very well, her own God has judged her then. But I will still take her toys to remember her by." She retrieved the pouch from the floor and slid the cock into it, then took the scourge from its hook on the wall. Before she left the cell, she turned back to where the Mother Superior still sat weeping, and spat in her face. "And that is for you to remember me by," she hissed.

As Sister Elizabeth closed the door behind them, the old woman was wiping the spittle from her skin and looking at it curiously. Then she brought her fingers to her mouth and licked them clean. The look that spread across her ruined face was one of childlike joy.

The further search revealed nothing. La Froide's hulking corporal joined them, and Sister Elizabeth showed them the individual sleeping cells, the cloistered garden, the infirmary, the study rooms, the offices. They proceeded to the kitchens and the refectory, with a quick look into the kitchen garden. Then there were the storerooms, the washing room, and the various outbuildings where the animals were housed.

"There is nobody in the belltower," Sister Elizabeth said as they stood in the courtyard again. The sun had risen over the surrounding forest. The other Sisters were grouped together under the watchful eye of two of the sans-culottes. But La Froide simply gestured to her corporal, who went inside. A few minutes later he appeared at the top, shaking his head. The small woman shrugged, and they waited for him to return.

"So you see, Citoyenne," Sister Elizabeth said, "we are not harbouring any fugitives here. We are just half a dozen brides of Christ, with a handful of servants to cook and manage the animals. The Republic has nothing to fear from us." The nuns around murmured their agreement, eyeing the Agent with a mixture of fear, contempt and shame.

"So it would seem." La Froide surveyed the Convent for a long moment, turning this way and that. "Nothing here is out of the ordinary, it appears." She fell silent, standing still and gazing up at the sky.

Sister Elizabeth waited for her to continue. The long quiet dragged on, the only sounds the cawing of the rooks in the trees beyond the walls and the plaintive bleating of a goat. It sounded unpleasantly like the Mother Superior's cries that still rose and fell from time to time.

She opened her mouth to say something, but just then the Agent lowered her gaze and spoke. "But we have not looked everywhere yet, have we?"

An icy chill formed inside Sister Elizabeth's stomach. The Lord's favour is with us. We do his work here. "How do you mean, Citoyenne?"

Again the woman was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was little more than a whisper. "In Avignon I encountered one of your Sisters. Sister Angela, do you remember her? I knew her face. I had seen it in my dreams. They were not pleasant dreams." A small smile slid across her thin lips. "She shared some interesting stories. Not willingly, not at first. But after a week in my care, she dreamed of me as I had dreamed of her. And then she was eager to tell me everything."

The cold inside began to spread into Sister Elizabeth's chest. "What do you mean?" She could barely believe that she managed to keep her voice steady. The faces of her Sisters had gone pale. Two of them made the sign of the Cross.

"She told me how the Sisters of the Convent of Sainte Barbara sheltered fugitives. She had no reason to lie to me." The woman gave a small shrug. "She had every reason to be truthful, in fact. So I ask myself, where would these fugitives be now?"

"Sister Angela left us long ago!" The lie came easily to Sister Elizabeth's lips. "Yes, at the time we took in a few poor women who came to us seeking shelter. But we have stopped doing that. We do not wish to rob the Republic of its justice."

"Is that so?" Now the Agent turned her full attention to Sister Elizabeth. "But Sister Angela told me why you helped the women. To atone for your sins, she said." She leaned close, gazing up with no hint of emotion on her face. "Have you atoned so swiftly then, Sister Elizabeth?"

The nun gazed back, lost for words. Her mind seemed to flounder as she tried to reply. La Froide watched, then withdrew, smiling. "We have not looked inside the chapel."

It is too late. Oh, Heavenly Father, if I am martyred, will I be absolved? "The chapel -- No, of course not! But who would hide there? You recall how cold it is!" And she forced a smile.

The other did not smile back. "I recall it being large enough to hold a score or more of fugitive women without interfering with your Mass. We will go there now." And she set off.

Sister Elizabeth caught her as she reached the steps leading to the great doors. "Have you no shame? Even if there were any refugees sheltering there, they have the sanctuary of the Church! Has the Republic become so Godless that this holds no value?"

La Froide pushed past her and gestured to her corporal. The bulky man strode forward and pushed open one of the doors. The Agent turned to Sister Elizabeth. "I tire of your voice, and your face. Wait here." And she stepped inside, her henchman a pace behind her.

Trapped! They are trapped! Sister Elizabeth looked round helplessly. The servants had gathered by the gate. The Sisters still stood in a small group in the courtyard. Three of them had their eyes closed in prayer, hands clutching at the wooden crosses on their breasts. The other two glared at her, the accusations plain on their faces. And so we all perish. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I have tried to atone, but I fear it is not enough.

She wondered if she could flee. But there were sans-culottes standing guard by the gate, and the few servants would not be a match for their pikes and swords -- even if they were willing to fight for the nuns' escape.

Perhaps the belltower? I could throw myself on top of that horrid woman. Is suicide a sin if I martyr myself?

She was still debating the matter in her mind when the heavy door swung open and the Agent emerged. Her lips were pressed together tightly, and her dark eyes blazed. Before Sister Elizabeth could speak, the tall, rawboned woman was pushed into the open by the corporal. In her hand she held her papers, creased and stained.

La Froide stepped close to Sister Elizabeth again, so close that her misting breath enveloped the nun's face. "Where are they?"

"Where are who?" She did not need to feign confusion. There were a dozen women inside the chapel! How could this Agent of the Committee of Public Safety fail to see them?

"The fugitives!" the other woman hissed. "The enemies of the Republic! All I found was this peasant woman, who claims she was here to bring roses for the altar." She broke off. "The crypt. Of course. You will accompany me this time. Come, Corporal. Leave that one here." She gestured at the tall woman. "I will question her later."

The chapel's interior was as cold as ever. Thin wintry sunlight leaked in through the high stained glass windows. Their footsteps echoed in the silence: the click-clack of the Agent's heels, the softer scuffing of Sister Elizabeth's shoes, the thud-thud-thud of the corporal's booted feet.

The chapel was empty. It was undeniable. The dozen or so women had disappeared. The door to the sacristy stood wide open, as if the Agent had flung it back in her frustration. They must be in the crypt. They are hiding down there, and now they will be found, and I will be a martyr.

A handful of white roses lay on the altar. They had been in the peasant woman's satchel, Sister Elizabeth recalled. They were no longer quite fresh, but the cold air appeared to have kept them from wilting.

The crypt door was opposite the sacristy. It was unlocked, and opened smoothly. The Agent waited while the corporal retrieved a candle and lit it. No sound came from within.

The corporal was about to step forward when La Froide stopped him. "No. She goes in first. Give her the candle." She drew one of the pistols from her belt. "Go."

Fearfully Sister Elizabeth ducked below the lintel. Steep narrow steps led down, a dozen of them, grey in the small light of the candle. She moved forward, one foot at a time, down and down and deeper down, knowing at the bottom lay death for herself and the women she had sought to protect.

She heard the heavy tread of the corporal behind her, and then the brisk clicking of the Agent. Ahead all was silent. Her breathing was the loudest sound in her ears, louder even than the footsteps.

The candlelight revealed the crypt before her. There were seven tombs, she knew, of the Convent's early Abbesses and its first three patrons. There was no place for a dozen women to hide.

Suddenly she was at the bottom of the steps, moving forward enough for the bulky man to join her, then the small woman. Together they stood and surveyed the low chamber. It was empty.

The stone tombs stood as they always had: three along one side, four along the other. Their heavy lids lay undisturbed, and surely not even the strongest woman could move them, let alone lift them. Small niches held the remains of candles that were lit here on holy days. The fugitives were not hiding here.

"This cannot be!" the Agent hissed, shoving the pistol into her belt. She snatched the candle from Sister Elizabeth and moved forward, peering into the niches and behind the tombs. "Where are they?" With one hand she pushed at a lid. It did not budge. "Corporal! Uncover these coffins!"

The man gave a low rumble. "Citoyenne," he began, "with respect, but there's nobody here. No woman could have moved this stone. They're not hiding here."

She looked up, eyes glaring. Her hat had slid to the side of her head. Then she seemed to regather herself, with a deep breath. One hand went up to straighten the hat. The other still held the candle so steady that the flame barely moved.

"You are right. They are not here." She made for the steps. "It matters not."

Sister Elizabeth followed her up to the chapel. The cold knot inside her had melted, leaving a hollowness. So I live. Thank you, Heavenly Father, for protecting your humble servant.

But the question still gnawed at her. Where had the women gone? And why had the large peasant woman not disappeared with them?

Outside in the courtyard, the Agent gazed at the gathered nuns and the small knot of servants standing by the gate. She opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly the silence was torn by a hideous shrieking.

"They took it! Bring it back! No no no, they took it!" The cries became sobs, then a high-pitched wailing. "Nonono!"

The small woman shot Sister Elizabeth a cold look. "Do something to silence the Mother Superior."

Still in something of a daze, Sister Elizabeth shook her head. "She is impossible to silence when the madness is upon her."

Before the Agent could reply, the peasant woman spoke up. "Begging pardon, Citoyenne, Sister, but if you'll allow me?" Her accent was thick and slow. "My own mother has a touch of the queer in her mind, see. I can soothe her, maybe give her a drink to help her sleep." She looked diffidently from one woman to the other.

La Froide shrugged. "Do it. I care not how, so long as she is silenced."

The other woman bobbed a curtsy and scurried into the dorter. The screaming continued, then broke off. A few half-hearted sobs followed, and the slurred voice cried, "Burn! We will all burn! No penance will suffice but the fire! Burn in the fire!" Then all was quiet.

"Good," said La Froide. "Now we can proceed. Corporal, go to the stables and bring half a dozen lengths of rope. You know what I want." She turned to Sister Elizabeth. "Go stand by your sisters. All of you are to strip. Move!"

Sister Elizabeth staggered as the small woman gave her a powerful shove. "Strip?" she asked, then quickly continued walking as she saw the glare in the dark eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I want all of you naked. Is that not what you enjoyed, when I stayed with you?" The cold smirk on her face did not invite a reply.

Hastily, with fumbling fingers, the nuns removed their habits. The wintry cold licked around them, but the Sisters were accustomed to discomfort. What they were not accustomed to was being watched by the servants, who looked on with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

By the time they were undressed, all but the wooden crosses around their necks, the large corporal had returned. In his hands he held half a dozen slender ropes, all with a large knot at the end. He handed them out to the nuns, one each, leering at their nudity. They tried to hide themselves from his gaze, but it was impossible.

La Froide looked on, amusement in her eyes. "Now," she said when the corporal joined her, "you will form a circle, one behind the other. You will walk, and you will flog the sister in front of you. It is time for your penance. Begin!"

At a growl from the large corporal, the Sisters hurried to do as she instructed. Sister Elizabeth felt a sharp pain across her bare back as Sister Roseline struck her with surprising venom. She glanced over her shoulder and met a glare of helpless fury. She is right, she thought, beginning to trudge as she felt the rope strike her again. This is my fault. Yet we all share in the penance. And she swung her own rope across Sister Odile's naked skin.

Off to the side, La Froide stood watching. "It is a beautiful thing," she murmured. "Let the servants watch, then send them on their way."

"Will you search further for the fugitives, Citoyenne?" the corporal rumbled.

"No. They were but a means to an end. This circle of Sisters will serve equally well. Have the cart brought."

Sister Elizabeth wondered what she meant. But it did not seem to matter much. The cold wind, the hard cobblestones, the watching eyes of the servants and the soldiers. Worry about La Froide's vindictive hatred, and what punishment she might unleash on her naked victims. Joy that the women had vanished from the Agent's grasp. Those were more pressing concerns.

She winced as another blow landed on her back, and she swung at the naked back before her in turn. All her feelings about the Convent of Sainte Barbara seemed to be gathered in this moment. Shame. Fear. Pride, she recited silently as each blow fell. Shame. Fear. Pride.

Chapter Three: Messages

Percy had been gone for days. Marguerite could not help herself from worrying, despite the calm confidence with which he had departed.

She had urged him to let her go in his place. "I am a woman, Percy! I will be less out of place at the Convent. Surely I should be the one to go?"

But he had only smiled that lazy smile of his. "Zounds, Madam," he replied with that affected drawl he put on back home in England, "have you so little faith in my ability to disguise myself?"

It was undeniable that he had a knack. He could assume the guise of a lusty fisherman, a drunken soldier or a haggard crone with equal ease, and his tall, well-built frame and handsome features disappeared behind the mask.

Even so, she had pleaded again. But he only kissed her tenderly and brushed her cheek with his long, sensitive fingers, and then proceeded with his plan. And as infuriating as it was, she understood that he was right. Whoever went to the Convent of Sainte Barbara would be alone for hours, perhaps days, and among enemies if the news from his sources was true.

Still, she could not help but wish it was her, or else that he had allowed her to accompany him. But her place was here at the farmhouse, he said, making sure that Tony and the young Lemerciers got away safely to the coast, and awaiting Sir Andrew Ffoulkes's arrival.

That young man came late in the second night of Percy's absence. After a cup of hot wine, he retired to his chamber and did not emerge until the winter sun was already in the sky. It was just as he entered the kitchen and greeted Marguerite that they heard voices outside in the farmyard.

They exchanged glances. Maman Marie gave them a warning look -- unnecessary, Marguerite thought -- and went out, wiping her hands on her apron. Sir Andrew stepped to the door, moving swiftly and silently, while Marguerite looked around for anything that might betray their identities or their business.

Maman Marie spoke, and a woman's voice replied. Then another joined in. They sounded tired and afraid. There was a silence, then the door opened and their hostess entered. In her hands she held a folded sheet of paper. The seal was broken, Marguerite saw, and neat writing covered half the page.

"A group of women," Maman Marie said. "A dozen, perhaps. They were given this, and told to come here. It's addressed to me on the outside, but the first line says I'm to give it to you." And she handed the note to Marguerite.

Marguerite took the paper and scanned it. As Maman Marie had said, the first line read My dear friend, please give this letter to my wife, if she is with you, or to A. F. is she is not. It then continued, in Percy's careful hand:

My beloved,

These women are refugees, from both the Revolution and now from an Agent of the Committee of Public Safety. I commend them to your care, and ask that you treat them with the warmth and kindness that makes you so dear to my heart.

The Agent is accompanied by troops, and I do not believe that she will be in an immediate hurry to report to the Public Prosecutor in person. However, she could communicate in writing. If so, it is imperative that her letter be intercepted. I trust to you and A. F. to devise a way.

Until we meet again, think with love of your devoted husband,

P. B.

Marguerite passed the note to Sir Andrew. While he read it, she turned to Maman Marie. "My husband vouches for these new arrivals. Will you offer them shelter? I would ask them what they know."

Of course the women were welcome, if Sir Percy sent them! They were ushered into the kitchen, tired and cold and hungry, and Marguerite joined Maman Marie and Maman Jeanette in providing them with blankets, food and hot drinks. Sir Andrew stoked the fire until it blazed and the room was soon suffused with warmth as the newcomers began to relax.

Their story emerged slowly, and Marguerite had to piece it together from information provided by nearly a dozen mouths that were more interested in eating than talking. The women had been sheltering in the chapel of the Convent of Sainte Barbara, she learned, when soldiers had arrived, led by a small woman in a man's clothing.

"She told us straight away that we had to hide," one of the fugitives said. Who? Why, the big peasant woman! She was new, and had not talked much. But she acted swiftly. She had spent her time with them exploring the chapel, and she must have found the crypt and its secret passage.

Secret passage? "Bien sur! For sure, the passage behind one of the tombs!" She had pushed the heavy stone casket aside herself, so strong was she. "If the people of France put their minds and bodies to good labour, like this woman, instead of to brutality and slaughter, why, there would be no need for anybody to go hungry!"

Marguerite left them to their mutters and drew Sir Andrew over to another table. "What do we do about this Agent and the chance that she might write to the Public Prosecutor?"

The young man thought. "I do not know," he said after a while. "But we cannot do anything here. We must be in Paris, where we are on top of any developments."

They set off an hour later. On horseback, the distance to the city was soon covered, and they made their way past the Barricade without incident. The League maintained several houses around Paris, and Sir Andrew chose one in the Rue Saint-Honoré.

"This places us close to the Tuileries," he explained, "where any official letter to the Public Prosecutor will be sent. And Fouquier-Tinville has his apartments only a few doors down."

Marguerite raised an elegant eyebrow at him. "You forget, Sir Andrew, that I was until last year a Parisienne. Or do you teach your grandmother to suck eggs, too?"

He grinned at her. "No offence, Ma'am. You were, and still are, the cleverest woman in Europe. But I would rather over-elaborate than risk misunderstanding. Consider it a fault of my intellect rather an insult to yours."

After changing his gentleman's garb for a clerk's sober outfit, he departed for the Tuileries. Evening fell before he returned. Marguerite had found her way back from the market only half an hour earlier.

"There has been no communication from the Convent of Sainte-Barbara," Sir Andrew said as he took the plate of cold meats and cheeses that she had prepared. "If a letter arrives tonight, it will be kept by the gate. In the morning a clerk will take it, with all other documents that have arrived, to the offices of the Public Prosecutor in time for his arrival."

"We could intercept the papers before he collects them," Marguerite said, musing. She sipped from a cup of wine and nibbled idly at some of the cheese. "Intercept them, and find a note from his Agent. What time does this happen?"

"There is little margin. The documents are sent up at ten minutes before seven o'clock. Fouquier-Tinville has a habit of being in his office at precisely seven."

"Then, my dear Andrew," she replied, "we must either make sure that the documents are sent up earlier, or that the man arrives later."

===

For an hour the Sisters walked in their circle, lashing at each other, wincing under the blows across their own backs. The servants had dispersed under the instructions -- and shoves -- of the sans-culottes. They had been permitted to collect their belongings, then they were sent under the gate and out of the Convent.

Sister Elizabeth no longer cared by then. Her world was reduced to pain. Pain in her back, of course, from the rope swung by Sister Roseline and, after the corporal shouted at them to turn round, Sister Odile's rope. There was pain in her feet from the endless pounding on the uneven cobblestones.

But there was also pain in her shoulder from swinging her piece of rope. Pain in her throat from breathing in the cold December air, and pain on her skin from the stinging wind. All thoughts of shame, of fear, of pride fled before the all-consuming pain.

Even the Mother Superior's renewed cries barely registered. Dimly she was aware of the peasant woman scurrying from the dorter to the infirmary and back. A little while later the cries became sobs, and at last they trailed off into moans of "Gone, gone, we will all burn in the fire..."

There was no sympathy left in Sister Elizabeth. Not for the Mother Superior, nor for her Sisters. Particularly not Sister Roseline and Sister Odile. She suspected they had as little for her, and she did not care. All the world was pain.

When finally the corporal shouted at them to stop, it took a moment to register. The big man reached out and grasped Sister Roseline's arm, and Sister Elizabeth walked into the woman's bare back. A second later she felt Sister Odile walk into her. The sudden absence of the rhythmic blows was like the silence after the choir's singing in the chapel.

"Inside." He jerked his thumb. When Sister Hélène bent to retrieve her habit, he kicked it away with a booted foot. "Leave it."

Naked, their backs and shoulders red and bruised, the half dozen nuns trudged into the dorter. There were guards everywhere, eyeing their bare breasts and thighs, and for an instant Sister Elizabeth's fears arose again. But evidently the traditional respect for the brides of Christ was too deeply ingrained even in these fanatic Revolutionaries. They thrust the nuns one by one into their sleeping cells, closed the doors and that was that.

Alone, Sister Elizabeth collapsed onto her cot and drew the blanket around her. Its warmth was scant, but it was better than nothing. At least she was out of the wind, and nobody was lashing her.

Suddenly the shock that had been lying in wait since that morning, when La Froide cantered into the courtyard, overcame her. A deep sob welled up in her chest. She tried to suppress it, tried to maintain her dignity, but it was useless.

She was not the only one, either. From the cells on either side she heard her Sisters break down in tears or prayer. Sister Odile's voice came through the window high up in the wall. "Heavenly Father, have mercy upon this sinner. Heavenly Father, have mercy upon this sinner. Heavenly Father, have mercy..."

Oddly, her Sisters' weakness gave her strength. I will not show my despair! she thought. I am a bride of Christ, and I will not let that servant of the Devil break my spirit or my faith. The Lord will provide. She took a deep breath, held it. When she let it out, her hands no longer trembled. The Lord will provide.

Slowly the strength returned to her limbs as well. How long she sat, she did not know. The moans and prayers from the other cells died away, and all was quiet. Occasionally boots sounded in the courtyard, and sometimes she heard a voice or two. The goats bleated, the hens clucked. It could have been a normal day at the Convent of Sainte Barbara.

Even the clopping of hooves and the rumble of a cart's wheels was not out of the ordinary. The boots marching across the cobblestones were out of place, though. The corporal's rough voice issued instructions for unloading, but Sister Elizabeth paid little attention. She had heard La Froide as well, and she wanted to hear what the small woman was saying.

At first she was giving instructions to her men. "Take that bale over there. That goes inside. Make sure the horses are stabled properly." As the boots faded away, she appeared to move closer to the wall. A heavy tread joined her, and the corporal's voice rumbled something.

"Word will have reached the city by now," the Agent of the Committee of Public Safety said. "This so-called League will send someone to rescue these helpless souls." The sarcasm was plain. "All we need to do is wait."

"And if they don't?"

"How can they not?" The woman scoffed bitterly. "The rumours will be all about Paris of how the Sisters of the Convent of Sainte Barbara are being tortured every day."

Sister Elizabeth's heart sank at the words. Every day? Merciful Jesus, how long must we suffer?

"Those noble rescuers will lose face if they let this continue," La Froide was saying. She raised her voice suddenly. "You, woman! What are you doing?"

The reply came in the large peasant woman's voice. "Just off to the kitchens, Citoyenne. Thought I'd see about makin' some food. A lot of hungry stomachs around, I reckon."

"Never mind that!" the woman snapped. "My men have their own food."

"But what about the Sisters?"

"They can fast and reflect on their sins. How is the old madwoman?"

"The Mother Superior?" There was a hint of shock in the coarse voice. "She sleeps, Citoyenne. I gave her a cup of wine, with some herbs I found in the infirmary. Sent her right off, it did."

"Very well. If you wish, you may leave."

"Many thanks, Citoyenne, but if it's all the same to you, I prefer to stay. It's too late now for me to reach home before nightfall. My husband will have to last another night with just his fist for company." The woman gave a leering laugh.

"Watch your tongue in the presence of your betters, peasant!" growled the corporal. "I'll have you stripped and flogged."

"I might do that anyway," La Froide hissed. "I enjoyed watching the nuns beat each others' naked bodies, but now my own arm itches. I have the Mother Superior's scourge, and it would be a shame not to use it. Restrain her, Corporal! She looks like she can take a few blows."

There were sounds of scuffling, and a grunted "Whoof!" followed by a heavy thud. Then the Agent's voice came shrilly: "Hold! Hold, or I will shoot!"

Quiet, more scuffling. Boots approaching at a run. The woman's voice again: "On your feet, Corporal, and seize her. Shame on you, being laid down by a woman. Now seize her and strip her."

The scuffling resumed, then silence fell. When La Froide spoke, her voice was low, and held astonishment. "What have we here? Not a woman after all. A man hiding behind a woman's skirts!" She laughed, and it sounded curiously childlike and joyous. "Corporal, take our guest inside while I ponder what is to be done. And have one of the men ready to take a message into Paris."

===

In the dim light of the following morning, at half an hour after six, a tall, elegant man in the outfit of a mid-ranking official entered the Tuileries. He found a seat conveniently close to the offices of the Public Prosecutor, and sat down to wait.

At about the same time, the Public Prosecutor himself was startled to hear a knock at the door of his apartments. A few short moments later, his manservant Jacques entered the salon where Antoine Fouquier-Tinville was finishing his breakfast. "A hundred pardons, Citoyen, but there is a woman here to see you. She refused to give me her name."

After an instant of panic -- no, his wife Henriette was away visiting relatives in Saint-Quentin and would not scold him for being indiscreet -- he wondered which of his mistresses would arrive on his doorstep at this hour. But upon reflection he realised that it was unlikely to be either of them. No, this would be a professional matter. La Froide, he thought. She should have written to me yesterday. Perhaps she has come to report in person, away from my offices.

But when Jacques showed the tall figure in the hooded black cloak in, he knew instantly that it was not his diminutive Agent. Dismissing the manservant with a wave of her fingers, the woman closed the door and turned the key. "It will be better if we are not disturbed," she said, tossing the key onto a side table. Her voice was low, almost a purr.

Fouquier-Tinville half-rose from his seat, wiping his mouth on his napkin. "Who are you? What is the meaning of this?"

The woman drew back her hood. Beneath, red-golden hair was drawn back in a tight braid with black ribbons. The upper half of her face was masked by a band of black velvet, so that all that he could see were two bright red lips and a pair of blue eyes that stared at him coldly.

"You may call me Mistress Margot," the woman said in a voice that sounded like silk tearing. "I believe you have been looking for me."

Acting had always come naturally to Marguerite. Whatever the part, she could sense what nuances were needed to bring the character to life. This ability, combined with her beauty and wit, was what had made her the most celebrated actress in Paris.

But Mistress Margot was more than a role. She was, in some ways, a second identity. Hidden, most of the time, but eager to come out when the opportunity arose. A woman who dominated others in this world where it was women who were dominated. A will to bend others to its wishes and desires. An opportunity to indulge in what was forbidden.

She had revelled in the little act that was played out in Antoinette Lemercier's parlour a few days before. Now she relished the chance of going up against the Public Prosecutor of France: a trained mind, and perhaps a stronger will.

The man was staring at her open-mouthed. She drew her riding crop from beneath her cloak and ran the tip across his cheek. "You are silent," she whispered. "That is good. A man's mouth is useful for one thing only."

This was a key moment. She needed him to submit now, or even go along to humour her. So, while his mind was still off-balance and she had his full attention, she used her free hand to unfasten the clasp of her cloak. It slipped from her shoulders, and his eyes travelled down.

She knew what he saw. Her pale neck and the smooth skin of her chest. The plump pillows of her breasts inside the corset, and the black silk that squeezed her tight. The tall boots, black leather that reached up midway her thighs. And in between...

In between she was naked.

His gaze lingered. It was not that he had never seen a naked woman before, she knew that. It was not simply the sight of the soft golden curls on her mound or the pink lips peeking out beneath.

It was the unexpectedness of it, the boldness. And in that moment, he lost control and she seized it.

"That is right," she whispered, stroking his cheek again with her crop. "Admire it. If I am pleased with you, I might let you use your mouth on it." She ran the leather tip up his other cheek and back down. "Would you like that?"

Finally he tore his gaze up. His mouth worked, and he began to speak. She forestalled him by flicking at his hand with her crop, and he closed his mouth and simply nodded. He might have been telling himself that he would obey for now, to do what it took for her to let him have her, but with every moment, every act of compliance, her grip on him grew stronger.

"Good. You are a fast learner. How fast can you undress?"

Very fast, as it turned out. He did it hurriedly, in the manner of a man not used to forsaking control or doing what others commanded. He tore at his cravat, dragged his waistcoat and shirt over his head without undoing all the buttons, pulled his breeches and stockings down before kicking off his shoes. It was amusing to watch, and Mistress Margot encouraged him with teasing flicks when he faltered.

When he was naked, she bade him stand before her in the centre of the parlour. "No, keep your hands by your sides." His cock was half engorged. She ran the tip of her riding crop along it. It twitched, and began to rise.

"You desire me."

Again he opened his mouth to speak, and again she forestalled him. This time she brought the leather tip down on his shaft. He winced, bit his lip, clenched his fists. Then he nodded.

"You desire me, but to have me you must obey."

Again he nodded. Continuing to tease him with her crop, she slowly walked around him. His buttocks clenched as she stroked up the insides of his thighs. "Stop," she commanded. "Surrender to the sensations."

She could see the effort he made. His clenched fists relaxed, and the tension drained from his legs. Again she ran the riding crop between his thighs. This time, though he trembled, he managed not to flinch away.

Higher she brought it, and back down. Then up again, a little further, a little closer to where his legs joined his body. A little closer to his arse. He was doing his best not to move away, not to tense up.

She leaned close and breathed in his ear. "This is pleasure, if you let it be." A glance over his shoulder showed him that his cock was fully erect. "Stroke yourself for me."

Hastily he obeyed. Eyes fixed ahead, body trembling as the leather tip brushed his arsehole, he grasped his shaft and began to pump his fist up and down. She breathed on his neck, and he closed his eyes and gave a soft moan.

Mistress Margot could feel the heat rise within herself. It was always an erotic sight when a man was erect, and to see him pleasuring himself was arousing. Her body reminded her that she had not had Percy's cock inside her for days.

"On the floor," she hissed. "On your back." She could hear the urgency in her voice.

The Public Prosecutor must have heard it as well. He did not hesitate, but lay down, hands still clutching at his cock. Mistress Margot stood over him, feet on either side of his head, watching him stroke himself.

Slowly she lowered herself until she was on her knees. His breath was hot against her thighs, then her folds. "Now," she whispered, "now you may use your mouth."

She felt him breathe in, inhaling her scent. His hand paused for a moment on his shaft, and she flicked the crop at it. Hurriedly he began to stroke once more, and an instant later his lips met hers. They nibbled, then his tongue ran along her folds, and then he started to suck at her button.

His mouth and his hand moved with the same rhythm, and she let her body respond. The fire that had sparked inside her spread through her stomach, up her spine and down between her legs.

Beneath her, the man twitched. His cock was hard and trembled in his fist. The head was swollen and purple, shining from the promise of his cream. The image came to her of how he had responded to having his arse teased, and she reached forward to angle the riding crop between his thighs.

A muffled moan came from between her legs. The sucking paused, as did the hand. Then, as she tickled him with the leather tip, they both resumed. It was in earnest now: he was coming close to his release, and the thought excited her so that she approached the brink of climax too. The small knot of ecstasy was clenched tight inside her, growing, swirling, struggling to break free, and she closed her eyes and threw back her head, her long braid falling across her back until it reached her arse, and the pleasure within burst in an explosion that ripped through her, up her spine and down it, making her spasm and ripping a loud cry from her throat, and beneath her the man stiffened too, stiffened and jerked, and she opened her eyes to see cream spurt from his cock, again, again, and he squeezed and shuddered as more came out and ran over his hands, and a fresh wave of pleasure coursed through her and she pressed herself down onto his face, smothering him, hearing his grunts become moans and muffled gasps, until she laughed and pushed herself up onto trembling legs, shaking deliciously and breathing heavily before she was steady once more, steady and in control of her body and her mind and the room.

The man lay on the floor, panting. His cock was shrinking in his hand, his cream leaking over his fingers. His eyes were closed, but his tongue licked at his lips. He would not be going anywhere for some minutes yet.

Marguerite gathered her cloak and wrapped herself in it. Drawing the hood over her face, she retrieved the key and unlocked the door, and slipped into the passage. The manservant stood there, face red and the outline of his cock plain inside the material of his breeches. He had been watching through the keyhole, she realised, and the thought sent another thrill through her body.

"Let your master rest for a while," she murmured. "Then take him coffee." That would buy even more time.

The servant nodded dumbly, then he opened the front door and she slipped out into the Rue Saint-Honoré. Snow was falling, dampening the sounds of the city with its whispers. The cold wind tried to sneak under her cloak, but she pulled it tight while she removed the mask from her face. A few doors away stood the slim figure of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, in the sober garb of a government official. As she drew closer, she noticed the troubled look on the young man's face. Her heart lurched inside her, and sank when he spoke.

"They have Percy," he said.

Chapter Four: The Scourge

Sister Elizabeth prayed deep into the night. For the first time, the danger of sheltering fugitives felt very real. Until now she had been aware of the risks, but they seemed remote and ephemeral compared with her memories and guilt. Never had she truly expected that she and her Sisters would suffer consequences in this world for their actions.

And now those consequences were here. They came in the form of La Froide, once the novice Sister Agnes and now a Government Agent with soldiers at her back and hatred in her heart. She would not be here, holding the nuns' lives in her hand, if it were not for the fugitives they had sheltered. And they would not have sheltered the fugitives if they did not need to atone for their past treatment of women like Sister Agnes.

It was an endless cycle of sin and punishment, punctuated by the sobs of her Sisters and the occasional wail from the Mother Superior. Sister Elizabeth clutched her wooden cross and prayed and prayed until she was distracted enough, and tired enough, that she fell asleep despite the confusion in her mind and the pain in her body. Naked, sore and hungry, she passed a fitful night and woke at the cock's first crowing.

There were boots in the corridor outside, and boots in the courtyard. She had heard them in her sleep, where they became an endless tramping march as she was led to the Guillotine. No! she recalled screaming in her dream. Give me time to atone! I have not cleansed myself of my sins! But the boots kept marching, and the Guillotine was always waiting ahead. Waiting, always closer, always closer...

She sat and shivered in her blanket. In truth, her small cell was not that cold, despite the snowfall she could see through the small window. Her body heat had warmed the air as she slept and seeped into the cot. The shivering was more from the memory of cold, and the anticipation of what the day would bring.

It was midmorning before she found out. There was a heavy tread outside, and the door was flung open. The large corporal stood in the opening. "Come," he grunted.

Clutching the blanket to her body, trying to ease the stiffness in her limbs, she followed him along the cloister to the refectory. A handful of the sans-culottes were at their breakfast at a long table. They looked as she passed, and she felt their eyes on her legs. The blanket only covered her down to mid-thigh, and there was plenty of naked flesh for those hateful men to gaze at.

The corporal halted by a table in the corner close to the great fireplace. La Froide sat there with a bowl of gruel and a steaming cup of coffee. An open satchel lay on the table, with papers and books. The butts of her pistols stuck out. The small woman glanced up as they approached. "Drop the blanket."

Sister Elizabeth thought about protesting, but decided not to. What did it matter, anyway? The men had already seen her naked. Had probably lusted over the sight of her, the idea of a nun bare and vulnerable. What difference would it make if they saw a little more?

Besides, the fire was close and it would be pleasant to feel its heat on her skin. She let the thin material fall to the floor. Silence was more dignified than protesting. So she kept her lips together and her emotions from her face.

If La Froide had expected a reaction, she did not show any disappointment. She let her eyes roam up and down Sister Elizabeth's body as if she was no more than a piece of meat. They lingered briefly on the wooden cross resting between her breasts.

It brought back memories from a long time ago, when the Sisters had treated the novices and other women in that manner. Suddenly Sister Elizabeth found herself imagining what it would be like if this small woman decided to take her revenge in kind. She still has the Mother Superior's cock, after all.

"Who is the man?" the Agent of the Committee of Public Safety asked.

"Man?" Sister Elizabeth repeated. Her mind had gone blank. What man?

"The man who disguised himself as a peasant woman. Did you not know?"

She shook her head, but now she remembered what had happened the evening before outside her cell. La Froide threatening to flog the woman, the scuffle, the discovery.

The Agent looked at her for a long moment, taking small spoonfuls of gruel. Eventually she continued. "No, you did not know. Very well. It was a convincing disguise."

"Yes, Citoyenne." What else was there to say?

"Today we will find out who he is and what his purpose here is. Do you know why I did not question him immediately?"

Sister Elizabeth shook her head.

"I have questioned many people. The methods are sometimes extreme." The small woman's pale lips curled. "I do what is needed to get results. But it is a curious thing." She paused and took a sip of coffee, letting her eyes roam over the nun's naked body again. "Doing nothing is more effective by far."

Fighting the urge to cover herself with her hands, Sister Elizabeth asked, "How so? How can nothing be effective?"

"Because a person will torture themselves with their imagination. They know their own greatest fears better than I possibly ever could. I leave the man alone for the night, I sleep and he lies awake fearing what is to come." She shrugged and sipped again. "Often their will is broken before I even begin."

Sister Elizabeth recalled her own fitful sleep and tortured dreams. Heavenly Father, she prayed silently, have mercy upon that poor man's soul. If he somehow hid the fugitive women, whatever punishment befalls him should instead be visited upon me.

The Agent finished her coffee. "Corporal," she said, "bring our prisoner. And tell these men to be about their business. They have work to do."

The minutes that followed were awkward for Sister Elizabeth. At first La Froide simply sat and looked at her. Then she reached into a pocket of her coat and drew forth the Mother Superior's cock. She placed it before her on the table and began to stroke it idly, her eyes still on the nun's naked body.

It should have been terrifying. It was probably supposed to be -- that torture by the victim's own imagination that La Froide had just explained. Heaven knew that Sister Elizabeth had wronged the woman in the past, and that she had reason to fear the revenge. But she found herself wondering what it would be like to be subjected to the treatment she had given out. To be flogged with the leather scourge, to be forced to her knees before this small woman and made to satisfy her, and to receive that wooden cock...

She was torn from her warming reverie by the corporal's return, sword in hand, marching the prisoner before him. Seeing him stripped naked -- as naked as she was herself, Sister Elizabeth realised with a flush -- it was impossible to imagine how he had ever passed as a woman.

His tall frame was broad across the shoulder, and his limbs were thick with muscle. With his hair pulled back and tied with a simple piece of string, his face was revealed to be handsome beneath the remnants of the disguise he had worn. Blue eyes coolly took in the scene in the refectory, and he bowed his head to the women. "Sister," he said in a deep voice that held no trace of yesterday's thick peasant accent, "Citoyenne."

La Froide rose from the table. From inside her coat she drew the scourge. Its leather cords spun as she twirled it in her hand. "Who are you?" she whispered, gazing up at the man. "Why are you here?"

If he tells her about the women who disappeared, we are all doomed! Fear clutched at Sister Elizabeth's heart again. Will she flog him for answers? Will she torture him? She found her eyes straying to the wooden cock that still lay on the table. Will she...?

The man seemed unconcerned though. "A man who hides behind a woman's skirt, Citoyenne, just as you said."

The small woman eyed him. The scourge in her hand ran up his thigh, down the other. "A coward," she said at last. "It is possible. But you do not seem the cowardly type." She trailed the leather strands over his manhood. It twitched, thickened slightly. "Perhaps you are a degenerate who came here to take advantage of the nuns?"

Sister Elizabeth was unable to tear her gaze away. It was not the first cock she had seen -- even disregarding the Mother Superior's wooden one -- but it was the first since before she came to the Convent. The sight of it growing under La Froide's ministrations brought memories to the surface, memories that she had thought long buried.

"Ma'am," the man said in a strained voice, "I must protest. This is no way to treat a captive." He did not draw away, though.

"No?" La Froide stepped closer still. "Would you prefer I flogged the skin from your back until you answer me the truth?"

"It would be less embarrassing," he replied. "But you would need a different scourge. The one you hold is too soft."

She stood back again, eyes cold and mocking. "You seem knowledgeable, O cowardly man!" Twirling the scourge around once more, she swung it suddenly to strike across his buttocks.

Besides a slight flinch, the man did not react. Nor did he to a second blow. By the third, however, his cock was growing harder and beginning to rise.

La Froide noticed, and lowered the scourge. "It would be amusing, I think, to see how much of this you could take before it ceases being enjoyable." She smiled. "Enjoyable for you, I should say. My enjoyment would last much longer."

He simply looked back, his eyes slightly apologetic.

"But I have not the time," she went on. "I suspect that you are not, in fact, a coward or a degenerate -- or at least not only a degenerate," she added, stroking his erect cock with the scourge. "No, I believe that you might be the one I was waiting for, hiding here all along."

"I have been many men to many people, Citoyenne," he said. "Perhaps I could be who you are waiting for."

"We will know soon." The woman smiled. "Because now I am expecting someone else. I have sent for Paul Chauvelin -- do you know the name? If you are who I think, he will confirm my suspicions."

The man shook his head. "I do not believe he will identify me. And if he did, would it not be a shame? After your efforts here, will you rely on someone else to find out whether or not you have succeeded?"

"The thought has crossed my mind." She turned to the corporal. "Tie him up. Throw a rope over a roofbeam."

It did not take long, and soon the nameless man stood with his wrists bound and his hands above his head. He made no move to fight or escape. When it was done, La Froide sent the large corporal away. "Oversee the men." A sudden shriek broke the quiet of the Convent. "And silence that old woman!"

The Agent's intentions became clear as soon as they were alone. "You are a man, I think, who will go to the grave without spilling a secret," she said. "But I think you are also too noble. Citoyenne, come forward!"

Sister Elizabeth started at the sudden command. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words stuck in her throat when she saw the look on the other woman's face. So much anger! But there was more, too. A lust like Sister Elizabeth had seen on her Sisters' faces in the past, when they subjected some poor novice to their will.

She felt her legs tremble as she moved to where the woman indicated. Whether it was fear or anticipation, she could not say. Both, perhaps. At La Froide's command, she bent forward and placed her hands on the table. Her cross rested on the wood. The rough surface was warm beneath her hands, and familiar from long acquaintance.

The lash of the scourge across her buttocks was not unexpected. It stung, though, and she squeezed her eyes shut and felt herself flinch forward so that her nipples brushed across the table. She had not felt the lick of that leather for many years, not since her own time as a novice.

The scourge struck again, and again. Sister Elizabeth clenched her jaw to stop herself from whimpering. The leather straps might be too soft to strip the skin from her flesh, but La Froide was not sparing with her strength and her legs already felt as if they were on fire.

The fourth strike did not come. Instead, La Froide ran her fingers over the nun's naked buttocks. "See?" she whispered. "See these red marks on this pale skin? You can end it simply by answering my question. Who are you?"

The man did not reply. Sister Elizabeth opened her eyes and glanced to the side. He stood motionless, arms still over his head. His cock had lost some of its hardness, but otherwise he seemed unmoved.

"Very well." The small woman stroked Sister Elizabeth's thighs once more. "The lashing will continue."

The stroking was nice. La Froide's fingers were cool on the burning skin, and it been many years since anybody but she herself had touched her there. A shiver ran through her, and she bit her lip to trap a moan inside.

If the small woman noticed, she did not give any sign. Three more times the scourge came down. It struck buttocks and thighs, licked in between to sting at the vulnerable flesh there.

I deserve this, Sister Elizabeth told herself. For all that I have done, for all that remains unatoned by my acts of contrition. This suffering is mine, and I thank the Lord for visiting it on me and not on the strange man.

But remembering past sins also reminded her of past pleasures, and the thought of those cool fingers on her skin was a welcome and pleasant distraction. When La Froide tossed the scourge on the table to stroke her again, she was unable to hold back a gasp that sounded to her own ears like a moan.

"Do you know what this is?" the woman asked. It was not addressed to Sister Elizabeth, but she knew the answer. She knew that the Committee's Agent had taken up the wooden cock. She knew what that meant.

What she did not know was whether it was punishment or reward.

She glanced over her shoulder. La Froide had unbuttoned her coat and was pulling it off. Beneath it, she wore a grey undershirt. Unfastening the laces of her breeches, she pulled them open and over her hips. A patch of dark hair was revealed, flattened from being pressed down.

The small woman noticed her watching. "Does this look familiar?" She pressed her hand against her mound. "Because yours is familiar to me. But then, I spent more time with my face pressed against it."

It was intended as a threat, Sister Elizabeth knew that. But her body was yearning to be touched. That wooden cock entering her, punishing her, setting her soul free...! She could even imagine being forced down between the other woman's legs, to give pleasure with her tongue like she had demanded it herself.

She could not move her eyes away from La Froide. The woman held the cock by its long end and brought it between her thighs. A few rubs back and forth -- Sister Elizabeth recalled seeing the Mother Superior do it a hundred times -- and then up inside. A soft wet noise broke the near-silence.

She held her breath. Whether it would be punishment or pleasure, for now the anticipation was making her heart pound. A draft swept through the hall and stroked her burning arse. Oh, how she long to feel those cool fingers there again, gliding up her thighs and seeking out the heat in between...

But when La Froide came up behind her, she simply forced the nun down onto the table. She was moving slightly awkwardly, with her breeches around her knees. The wooden cock bobbed up and down with each step.

"I should not punish the Mother Superior," she hissed. "That is what you told me. Very well." The wooden tip touched Sister Elizabeth's folds and made her moan. "You will have to take her place."

She seemed to have forgotten about the man. She did not demand information, did not ask whether he would allow a nun to be tormented so. Sister Elizabeth, her cheek pressed into the wood, saw him watching them. His cock was as hard as La Froide's now. I take the punishment for him, and for all my Sisters. Surely then I will have atoned enough?

When the carved wood glided along her folds it made the same wet noises as it had between the other woman's thighs. While her soul desired to be punished, her body yearned for pleasure. The head pressed against her entrance, and another moan escaped from her. It became a gasp when, with a series of short thrusts, the shaft forced its way inside her.

She felt herself being stretched, tearing apart, a burning sensation that somehow was what her body craved. Her fingers clawed at the wood of the table, but her hips pushed back, seeking out the invader and inviting it further in.

It was wrong. In her mind and in her soul, she knew it was wrong. She knew it just as she had known it in the past, when she joined her Sisters in abusing the novices and others. It was wrong, but her body did not care. Her body felt that it was right.

La Froide bent over her and hissed in her ear, "This must be torture for you, Sister. How long will you have to pray before your God forgives you for experiencing pleasure?"

Sister Elizabeth did not reply. She could not. She could only moan, with her cheek pressed against the table, while the small woman's thighs slapped against her own and sharp nails clawed at her back. The familiar sensation of Paradise was building within her, and the more she denied it the stronger it grew.

Behind her La Froide's regular grunts were becoming a high-pitched keening. The cold hands seized her shoulders and pulled her back violently against each thrust. Sister Elizabeth let it happen, let herself be used and her body burned with pleasure from being used. Her nipples rubbed against the rough surface of the table, and a pain in her lip told her she had bitten herself.

But it did no good. Paradise approached and burst over her, sweeping away her fear, her guilt, her pain and pleasure both, lifting her up to Heaven, and the singing of angels sounded in her ears like the cries of the small woman she so feared, which was impossible, and confusing, and Paradise disappeared as suddenly as it had come, and she was back in the refectory, bent over a table with tears flooding her closed eyes and a vast emptiness inside her where La Froide's cock slipped out.

She managed to open her eyes. The naked man still stood with his hands above his head. His manhood was swollen, pointing straight up. It was disgusting, Sister Elizabeth thought, even while the question tickled at her mind of how it would feel, whether it would be different from La Froide's cock, hotter, more alive...

"Come here!" the small woman commanded. She had drawn the cock from her breeches and held the short end out. "On your knees, and clean this!" One hand seized Sister Elizabeth by the neck and forced her down while the other held the wooden object before her mouth. "Lick it clean!"

The nun obeyed. She opened her mouth and tasted wood, and something else, and her tongue swirled around it. She swallowed. She hated it, and she licked and sucked and almost cried out when La Froide pulled the cock from her mouth.

"If you enjoy it so much," the other woman hissed, "there is another one right there." She turned Sister Elizabeth's face towards the captive, then back. "You want it, do you not? Oh, the shame, the sin of it all, Sister!" Her mocking laugh sounded flat in the large hall.

Sister Elizabeth blinked to fight back tears. Oh yes, forgive me Father, but how I want it! How I want him, and I want her, and --

Something of her thoughts must have been visible on her face, because La Froid's laughter ceased, and she peered down. "But not yet. Not while I have you here." She tossed the cock onto the table with the scourge. "Give me your mouth."

It was the same command as the Mother Superior used to give the novices. Give me your mouth. Sister Elizabeth knew what it meant, and what was expected of her. Even before the small woman's hands pulled her face forward, she was pressing her lips against the dark hairs, letting her tongue seek out the folds beneath.

The woman's body smelled clean. The only scent was that of her arousal, and Sister Elizabeth inhaled it, relished it. The taste of another woman's body was familiar even after so many years. As a novice, she had been forced to pleasure the nuns with her mouth. Now, with the threat of torture and death hanging over herself and others, she did it willingly and eagerly.

La Froide was just as eager. If the wooden cock had already given her a release, her body was ready for another. Her button was swollen and hard, and her arousal leaked from between her folds into Sister Elizabeth's mouth and onto her chin. Her breathing was fast and shallow. Her head was thrown back and her hips bucked against the nun's face, still pressed against her.

Memories came back to Sister Elizabeth of how to give the best pleasure. She sucked the other woman's button between her lips, sucked at it and flicked it with her tongue, brought her hands up to sink her fingers into the hard buttocks and drag her nails across the cold skin.

She wished she could spare a hand to rub between her own legs. But she doubted that her captor would allow her that much -- and besides, she felt a perverse pleasure at depriving herself. It will be better later, she thought. It will be better when she commands me.

La Froide's body tensed. She was approaching her climax, swiftly and eagerly. Her breath choked, faltered as a spasm swept through her. The fingers in Sister Elizabeth's hair clawed and clenched, and a low moan broke free from her mouth. Again she spasmed, and at the third spasm her knees buckled beneath her. Her weight pressed on Sister Elizabeth as she fought to steady herself. "Stop," she breathed, "enough."

They rose together, almost as if they were supporting each other. La Froide's face and neck were flushed. It was the first colour Sister Elizabeth recalled seeing on her features. A drop of sweat clung to her brow, and she wiped it away. Taking slow, deep breaths, she tucked her shirt into her breeches.

Sister Elizabeth watched, and glanced at the naked man. His cock looked ready to explode. She ran her tongue over her lips in anticipation, tasting the memory of the other woman's pleasure.

Before anybody could say anything, though, there came a knock at the door. "What?" La Froide snapped.

The door opened slightly, and the big corporal looked in. "A thousand pardons, Citoyenne. But there's a messenger." He cleared his throat. "From the Tuileries, he says."

The Agent glared at him. "Send him in," she said at last, tying the laces of her breeches.

The corporal opened the door, and let in a blast of cold air and a slim figure dressed in sober colours. A handsome young man, Sister Elizabeth thought, almost pretty. She could almost picture the plump red lips kissing hers, brushing across her neck, exploring between her thighs.

No! she thought, shocked at the image in her head. What is becoming of me? Have I abandoned all decency, all propriety? I am a bride of Christ, in spite of what is happening here. I do what I am forced to do! But she knew that she had participated willingly. Her body still ached with the memory of Paradise, and her heart knew that she had little propriety left to cherish.

The young man stepped smartly up to La Froide. If he thought it odd to see how an Agent of the Committee of Public Safety was engaged, he did not let it show on his face. "A letter for you, Citoyenne." His voice was youthful and clear, although it was obvious that he was trying to make it sound older and gruffer. "With the Public Prosecutor's compliments."

"Hmm." The woman took the note from him and broke the seal. Her eyes scanned it, then fixed on the newcomer's face. "Do you know what it says here? Greetings, Citoyenne. I regret to inform you that Citoyen Chauvelin is presently not able to come to you. Send your prisoner to Paris with this messenger and his guard. It is signed F. T."

"Yes, Citoyenne. Fouquier-Tinville."

"This is not the first letter I have had from him." The small woman's tone was musing. "In fact, I have had many. I was his protégée, did you know that?" She shook her head. "Of course not. Few people do. But every time he has written to me before this, he has addressed me as his little sister. He does not do so here. Why do you think that is?"

The messenger looked startled. "I -- I do not know, Citoyenne. Perhaps he was rushed?"

"Perhaps." She shrugged. "Or perhaps he did not send this letter. Perhaps it is simply a ruse to rescue this man from my custody." Crumpling the note in her hand, she glanced at the naked prisoner. "And so all my questions are answered after all, are they not? Corporal, seize this man!"

The big soldier's hand shot to the hilt of his sword, but the young messenger was smooth and fast. His short blade shot from its sheath and slapped across the corporal's wrist. The larger man gave a cry of surprise and pain, and his attacker spun to face the Agent -- and froze.

The small woman had retrieved her pistols from the satchel. One of them was aimed at the messenger, the other was pressed into the prisoner's side. Her pale lips were drawn back from her teeth, and her eyes blazed with a cold hatred. "Drop your blade," she whispered. "It is over."

===

Marguerite fought to keep the fury from her face as the large corporal cut the rope that held Percy to the beam. The plan had been simple -- of necessity, as there was little time for elaborate preparations. Deliver the false message, and ride away with her husband. By the time anybody discovered that the prisoner had never arrived in Paris they would be sailing safely back to England.

Sir Andrew had wanted to pose as the messenger. But she argued that he would make a more convincing guard. She would be the fresh-faced official, self-important and too young to be entrusted with any real information.

But it had fallen over a simple detail. Nothing that she and Andrew could have known, even with more time to prepare. But here she was, a pistol pointed at her and her husband being guarded by an armed soldier.

Something had been happening before she arrived, that was clear: her husband had been stripped naked, which was not unusual treatment for a disguised prisoner. A scourge lay on a table nearby, which again would almost be expected.

But he had also been visibly aroused.

Marguerite tried to put the pieces together in her mind. Percy's skin bore only a few flog marks, as far as she could tell. But the naked woman -- a nun of the Convent, presumably, judging by the wooden cross -- bore red stripes across her thighs and backside, and scratches on her shoulders. Hair was plastered to her forehead, and her eyes were red as if she had been crying.

Had this Agent of the Committee of Public Safety been torturing her in an appeal to Percy's nobility? That seemed plausible. Percy's nobility far outmatched his sense of self-preservation.

So why was he physically aroused? It was not simply the presence of the naked woman. What precisely had happened? It was a question for another time, Marguerite knew. And if they did not escape it was a question that would likely go unanswered. Still, she could not help but wonder whether it was another sign of that hidden side of her husband.

A sharp command from the small woman in black drew her back to the present. The naked woman -- the nun -- scurried towards Marguerite with the rope that had held Percy to the beam. "Your hands, sir," she whispered without raising her eyes.

Marguerite shot a glance at Percy. He looked as imperturbable as ever. His cock had subsided now. Had his wrists not been bound he might have been in their bedchamber back in Blakeney House, looking out across the gardens after their lovemaking.

She suppressed the urge to scream and fight, and instead let the nun bind her hands. What is happening? How can he be so calm? Her own heart was pounding inside her chest. If the Committee's Agent had not held those pistols, she felt she must have attempted to break free.

"This messenger was not alone, I presume?" the woman asked the corporal.

The soldier shook his head. "A guard. I'll secure him." At a nod from the Agent he left.

Andrew! For a moment Marguerite entertained the idea of screaming a warning. Her young friend might get away, fight past the armed men at the gate, return with more members of the League!

But he would not. If he heard her scream, he would do everything in his power to come to her rescue. If he was not taken captive, he would be killed in the struggle. No, Percy was unconcerned, and so must she be.

"Time to move," their captor said in a whisper. "Sister, since you derived such pleasure from them, you may take the Mother Superior's toys. If you want, you may return them to her."

"Wh-- where are we going?" the older woman stammered. Her cheeks were burning with shame as she retrieved the scourge from the table, and with it a curious club-like piece of wood.

"To the chapel, for prayers."

The nun looked relieved at that, if still ashamed. She did not appear to notice the look on the Agent's face. It was one of malevolent triumph.

The snow was still falling. The nun led the way through the corridors and along the cloister. She went naked, and seeing the red marks on her skin Marguerite wondered again what had occurred. Percy walked beside her, tall and massive and silent. His calmness helped to steady her nerves. She wished that she could speak to him, or that he would give her some sign that everything would be alright.

But the armed woman was close behind them, and any words or glances they exchanged would be noticed. If Percy had a plan, she would be alerted.

None spoke as they walked. A few guards stood here and there, slovenly in their makeshift uniforms but armed with pikes and swords. Outside in the snow-covered courtyard, others were herding chickens and goats towards the gate. Horses were saddled and ready, including the pair that she and Sir Andrew had ridden to the Convent.

The corporal was waiting. Sir Andrew stood a few paces away, with two more sans-culottes pointing their pikes at his chest. His hands were bound like hers and Percy's, and he sported a bruise on his left cheek.

"To the chapel," the Agent said again, and they set off up the steps. The wide doors were open, Marguerite saw past the naked nun's shoulders, and inside she noticed people. A small group of figures clustered together, and more of the guards moving around. A handful of white roses lay dead and trampled on the stone floor.

She blinked as they went from the meagre light of the December morning into the darkness. It felt colder inside than out somehow, as if the very stone leeched any trace of warmth from the air. Curiously, she smelled a hint of the stables.

While her eyes became accustomed to the dark, she heard praying. The group standing together were nuns in rough smocks, clutching their crosses and entreating the Lord. For forgiveness, for salvation, for succour. For all three.

"In!" the Agent commanded. "Corporal, is everything ready? Will the Mother Superior finally have her wish?"

"Yes, Citoyenne!"

"Good. Take your men outside. You lot, walk!" She indicated with a pistol. "Stand by the altar, all of you."

The nuns gaped at her, at the weapons in her hand. Slowly they began to move. One stopped and gestured at a pew. "The Mother Superior... she is unwell. Your men hit her. She cannot walk." Marguerite noticed a pair of bare feet sticking out into the nave.

"She may stay where she is then." The Agent barked a laugh. "You may return to her side in a moment, if you wish. Now move!"

They all trooped back, the nuns still murmuring prayers and casting anxious looks around. The naked woman from the refectory said nothing. Her hands were clenched tight about the scourge and the other implement. Percy remained silent, and after a glance at him Sir Andrew followed his example.

As they moved into the darkness, Marguerite whispered, "Percy!"

He glanced down and smiled. "Do not fear, my love."

"What is happening?"

"It appears that our small angry friend wishes to burn down this place."

"What!" Looking around, she noticed for the first time the bales of straw, the bundles of wood -- and small kegs that could only hold gunpowder!

"And I believe that her plan is for us to perish in the flames."

Marguerite spun round, reaching out clumsily with her bound hands for her husband's arm. If they could make a dash for the doors, fight their way free...!

But two of the guards were already tossing burning candles onto the straw by the doors. Beyond them, she saw others holding wooden beams, hammers and nails. The horrifying reality of what was about to happen swept over her. "No!" she cried. "No!"

The pale-faced Agent looked at her sharply. "Not a man after all! What a curious fellowship you are. A man who dresses as a woman, and a woman pretending to be a man." She shrugged and turned to leave. Flames were already licking along the walls. "Maybe in a next life you will find the bodies you prefer."

And then she was gone, taking the soldiers with her. The doors slammed shut, and a moment later came the sounds of hammering.

Inside everything was quiet, except for the crackling of the burning straw. Then one of the nuns screamed, "We will burn! The Mother Superior was right, we will all burn for our sins!"

"Nonsense, good Sister!" Percy said with calm authority. "If you would be so kind as to unbind my wrists, I will see to it that no harm befalls anybody."

So assured did he sound that the nun fell silent. The other Sisters faltered in their prayers and looked at him, amazed hope blossoming on their faces. Before they could crumble back into despair, he held up his hands. "Please?"

It was the naked nun who acted first. Dropping the scourge and the wooden club -- or whatever it was -- onto a pew she stepped forward and began to worry at the cords. After a moment she gave up. "I am sorry. These are too tight." She glanced at Marguerite. "But I should be able to free this young man, and he can untie you."

It was the work of moments. Clearly the nun had not put an excessive effort into binding Marguerite. The rope fell away, and Marguerite darted to Sir Andrew. "These knots look looser. Percy, what is the plan?"

Smoke was beginning to gather under the chapel's high roof. The wooden bundles were smouldering too by now. If the flames reach the gunpowder...! Whatever Percy intended, they did not have much time.

"Into the crypt," he said. "Sisters, that is where safety lies." He glanced down at his naked form, and at the unclothed nun. "There are smocks and cloaks in the sacristy, Sister Elizabeth."

"I must see to the Mother Superior first!" she replied and darted away.

"Well my dear," he said to Marguerite as she succeeded in working loose the knots around Andrew's wrists, "would you bring your husband something to wear then?"

By the time she returned, bearing a handful of smocks and two worn cloaks, his hands were free too. "Andrew, help with the Mother Superior. Do not tarry. Thank you, my love," he went on, taking one of the smocks and pulling it over his head.

The other nuns were gathered uncertainly by a small door opposite the sacristy. They parted to let him pass, and he opened the door. "Quick," he said, "inside."

"We will be trapped!" one of the nuns wailed, and coughed. The smoke was thickening. The other Sisters muttered their agreement. "Trapped! Burned alive! Choked to death!"

"The end will come all the sooner if you stay here," he replied. "Andrew, hurry!"

Marguerite darted to join the young man and the naked nun -- Sister Elizabeth, Percy had called her -- by the pew where the bare feet had been. They belonged to an old woman, she saw as she approached, wrapped in a thin blanket that showed bony limbs covered with sores and scratches.

"She does not respond," the nun said, looking up. She took the smock that Marguerite handed to her, but did not put it on. "We cannot leave her here."

Andrew shook his head. The bruise on his cheek gave him a haggard look in the spreading glow of the fire. "I fear that we can do nothing to help her. Come, we must go! She is beyond suffering, but we cannot stay." Gently but firmly he pulled the woman away. She came reluctantly, with many looks back.

Percy had already ushered the other nuns into the crypt. Two of them held candles, and by the uncertain light Marguerite saw him heaving at one of the stone tombs. "Andrew, a hand please!"

The young man passed the naked woman to Marguerite and joined Percy. Marguerite helped the nun pull the smock over her head. She seemed dazed, and kept glancing up at the stairs into the chapel. "Is this how they escaped?" she breathed.

Percy must have heard her, because he looked up from his efforts and smiled. "A secret passage. Many churches in France have something similar. A legacy of your religious wars."

The side of the tomb shifted to reveal a square opening, black in the candlelight. It was large enough for a person to crawl through. "Who will go first?" Percy asked.

After an instant one of the nuns darted forward and into the passage. The others followed, Sister Elizabeth going last, with a final look at the stairs. A sudden explosion shook the stone, and she gasped and fled into the black hole.

"Well," said Percy in his calm voice, "shall we?"

===

When the sun set three days later, they were aboard Sir Percy's schooner, the Day Dream.

The secret passage led nearly straight for was seemed an interminable time to Marguerite, crawling on hands and knees. She could see nothing, could hear only her breath and the breath of the others around her. Up ahead one of the nuns was praying in an endless monotone: Heavenly Father, deliver us. Heavenly Father, deliver us. Heavenly Father...

Occasionally a dull thud was felt through the rough bricks as another keg of gunpowder exploded, and the nuns would all whimper and crawl faster.

But at last it was over and they emerged into a clearing in the woods. The passage was disguised as a shrine, and it was evident that others had passed here recently.

By the sun, it was not yet midday, and the snow had ceased to fall. Woodsmoke hung faintly on the winter air, and when they turned they saw a column of black rising above the trees. The nuns fell to their knees in the cold mud, weeping and praying, except Sister Elizabeth. Heavenly Father, she said softly, crossing herself, we commend the spirit of our Mother Superior to your care. Forgive her sins and embrace her in your arms. There was sadness in her voice, but on her face guilt fought with relief.

They stayed in the clearing, all but Sir Andrew, who departed for Le Vieux Marron. He returned some hours later with horses, clothes for Sir Percy and food. A carriage was waiting a short way along the road, and by evening they were all safely at the farmhouse.

They did not linger there. Four of the nuns announced that they would make the pilgrimage to Rome. We have sins to atone for, they said, and we would pray for the soul of our Mother Superior. They did not meet the eyes of Sister Elizabeth, the only one who asked to go to England.

And now she was in a small cabin aboard the Day Dream, while a naked Marguerite lay with her head on her husband's chest on the wide bed in Sir Percy's spacious quarters. A bowl of white roses filled the air with their perfume. For the first time in days, she felt tension drain from her shoulders.

"Percy?" she murmured, breathing in his scent.

"Hmm?"

"How did you know?" She sat up and looked at him. "About the tunnel, and that she would lock us all in the chapel." She frowned as a thought struck her. "Our escape hinged on that."

"My dear," he replied, reaching an arm around her to stroke her back, "it was quite simple. I told her to." He paused, then smiled. "No, I told the Mother Superior, and she passed on the notion to our angry friend."

Marguerite thought. "I do not understand."

"Ah." He let his fingers glide down to the curve of her buttocks. "I saw that the soldiers were preparing to burn down the Convent. It seemed like an excellent opportunity to cover our escape. The woman from the Committee of Public Safety will report us dead and buried."

"Paul Chauvelin will not be deceived. He knows you are the Pimpernel."

Percy smiled. "But for now their guard will be down."

She smiled back, and kissed him before frowning. "How did you know about the tunnel?"

"I spent two days in the chapel. While the women prayed and complained about being cold, I explored. Many such places have old hiding places and escape passages. This country has a long history of religious strife and persecution, and --"

"It is my country," she interrupted. "I know its history. I did not know about secret passages though."

"Well my dear, you have not been engaged in subterfuge for as long as I have." His hand squeezed her buttock. "And before you ask, had I not discovered the tunnel, I would have found another way. I was prepared to hack a hole in the stable wall, if need be."

She kissed his chest. "Very well, my love, I concede your mastery of planning and improvising. But tell me one thing." She slipped from the bed and crossed to where the valise lay that she had brought with her from the farmhouse. Reaching inside, she drew forth the wooden object. "What is this?"

His eyebrows rose. "I supposed it to have been lost in the fire!"

"It was lying on a pew. I was curious, so I took it, and a scourge I found there too." She climbed onto the bed again, and sat beside him. "What happened at the Convent before I arrived?"

He took the wooden object from her hands. "I believe it belonged to the Mother Superior. She inserted it so," and he placed the shorter end between Marguerite's thighs, against her folds, "and inflicted the other end on her novices."

Marguerite took the object back. Now that she looked at it, it did resemble a cock. She held it against herself and looked down, picturing how it would be. The thought was strangely intoxicating.

And not to her only, she noticed. Percy's cock was twitching and stiffening. She reached out and cupped it, feeling its heat in her palm. "Is this a sight you enjoy?"

His hand went out and rubbed her thigh. "It looks good on you. When we are home, perhaps we should ask Sister Elizabeth for her thoughts."

Marguerite opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but realisation came. The flogging. The small woman with a grudge. The tears, and the arousal. "Shall I call for her now?" Her curiosity was piqued, not least about Percy's reaction.

"Later." He reached up with both hands and drew her onto him. She tossed aside the wooden cock and settled atop his waist, one leg on either side of his. His hard shaft pressed against her folds. "For now, it should be just you and me."

"You and me," she breathed, and reached down to guide him to her entrance. He slid inside smoothly, forcing her open, stretching her, filling her, making her complete with every thrust. She leaned forward until her breasts rested on his chest. His strong arms pulled her close, and their lips met. Her moans mingled with his grunts as they thrust against each other, slowly at first, enjoying the renewal of their intimacy and cherishing the feel of their bodies. But the urgency soon came over them, and they bucked and rose and fell, Marguerite biting at Percy's chest and he burying his face in her curls, gasping and moaning, and feeling the moment of ecstasy come closer, closer, and so close that it could not be denied, and then it swept through her like the explosions in the Convent, with fire and heat and the world trembling around her, again, again, until Percy ground up against her and faltered, and pressed again, and then he was still, and the fire ebbed away and all that was left was the warmth, and feeling of her husband's body beneath hers, the scent of roses and the gentle motion of sailing on the sea.

===

Author's note

Careful readers might have noted some historical inaccuracies in this story. The Reign of Terror is generally considered to have begun in 1793, not 1792. Similarly, the Committee of Public Safety wasn't created until four months after this story is set, in March 1793. The sans-culottes weren't, as far as I can tell, formed into an official militia at this time either, nor was Fouquier-Tinville the Public Prosecutor yet.

These and other errors must be excused in the name of storytelling. Baroness Orczy herself infuses her stories with these details, including referring to the franc as the currency of France, even though the livre wasn't abolished until 1794. However, these are details that add to the general public's impression of Paris during the Revolution. I believe that staying true to the spirit of the original books adds flavour and colour to the story more effectively than would a strict adherence to historical fact.

Thank you for joining me in this erotic excursion into the world of the Scarlet Pimpernel.