Free The Ruby Talisman by Belinda Murrell Page B

portmanteau to the front of her saddle.
    ‘Let’s go,’ cried Tilly as she galloped past Amelie. Tilly’s heart surged with joy at outwitting the horse thief. She felt wonderful, galloping a horse off into the French countryside on a sunny, summer day. They were finally escaping.
    The two horses slowed to a trot to negotiate the busy streets of the township of Versailles. The streets were crowded with people, waiting in anticipation for the King to attend a meeting of the National Assembly.
    There were artisans in wooden sabots, tradesmen carrying tools, market women with their cheeks stained with red wine to replicate the fine ladies’ rouge and barefooted children in rags, their faces grey and hungry.
    A thin boy with sunken eyes watched Amelie and Tilly trot past on their expensive horses, dressed in fine velvet and lace. His stomach ached with perpetual hunger, and a rage roared through his blood. He stooped, found a broken stone and threw it with all his strength after Amelie.
    The jagged stone struck Angelique on the rump and made her rear with panic. Amelie clung on tightly, Mimi shrieking with rage and fright.
    ‘Down with the aristos.’ He shook his fist at Amelie, speaking with a heavily accented, rough patois that was difficult for Tilly to understand. ‘Long live the Third Estate!’ he shouted, referring to the common people– anyone who was not of the nobility or the clergy.
    ‘Long live the Third Estate,’ echoed a mob of tradesmen, punching their fists in the air. ‘Down with the aristos!’
    A carpenter grabbed an orange from a nearby stall and hurled it. Tilly decided not to waste time watching to see what might happen. She kicked her heels into the sides of the pale-grey mare and cantered on, dodging the orange and passers-by. Behind her she could hear the angry cries of the fruit seller and the insults of the mob.
    In a few minutes the girls were away from the town of Versailles and riding down a country lane, heading roughly south. Amelie stopped to check if Angelique was wounded, but she seemed more frightened than seriously hurt.
    ‘Sorry, I had to use your bag as a weapon to fight off your horse thief,’ apologised Tilly. ‘I dropped it on his head.’
    Amelie looked stricken, realising Tilly no longer had the other portmanteau. She glanced back towards Versailles, as though she was prepared to gallop back and fetch it.
    ‘We can’t go back,’ warned Tilly firmly. ‘We might not make it away a second time. Besides, last time I saw your bag the horse thief was lolling in horse manure with your clothes draped all over him.’
    Amelie sighed and nodded.
    ‘Oui,’ she agreed. ‘I suppose you are right. We should ride on if we want to reach the chateau by nightfall.’
    ‘Do you know how to get there?’ asked Tilly curiously.
    ‘Chateau de Montjoyeuse is about fifty kilometres south-west of here,’ replied Amelie. ‘It is very beautiful, set in a little open valley near the royal hunting forest of St Arnoult. We need to ride south towards Rambouillet, then on the back road towards St Arnoult.’
    ‘Fifty kilometres?’ asked Tilly. ‘How long will that take us?’
    ‘It is a long ride, but we could do it in one day if we tried. Angelique and Mystique, your horse, are both Arabs, so they are fast and strong. They could do twice that distance in a day if we really had to.’
    The day was hot, the sky a vast blue. Late flowers– white feverfew, deep-blue lupins, pink thyme and fragrant honeysuckle bloomed in the hedgerows. The girls rode on, clopping through shady forest paths, wide-open fields golden with nearly ripe wheat and corn, and small villages.
    At midday, they stopped for a short rest in the shade of an old oak tree to drink chilly, clear water from a brook and to eat bread and creamy, tangy goat’s cheese before riding on. Mimi curled up and slept in Amelie’s lap, ignoring the bumps and jolts.
    By mid-afternoon Tilly’s legs and back were aching. They paced the