Author's Note: Because Frollo needs more bad-a** henchmen like the torturer in the dungeon scene. And Frollo smells of incense because D. M. Robb says so.

Musical Selection: "The Mother of All Battles" by Immediate Music. You have to love their titles.


Margaret grabbed the ends of her hair and pulled until the roots hurt. Outside the window, the gardener was pruning away the last withered remains of the summer roses.

"I can't imagine who would have concocted such a malicious lie," Lady Bertaut said. "I suppose no one, not even your father, reaches a position of prominence without making some enemies, but I'm still at a loss to-"

"-we have to ask Minister Frollo for help."

Lady Bertaut locked her fingers together and resolved to withhold as many of her fears as possible. "Darling, I'm sure he would help if he could, but he has to enforce the law. If we don't leave within a fortnight, he may be forced to turn us out."

Margaret almost laughed with incredulity. "How can you say that? We haven't done anything wrong, and he must know this is a terrible lie about Father. Someone has to rescue him. We'll go to Paris and-"

"Margaret." Lady Bertaut's voice hardened. "I don't want to hear any more about the Minister. We can't rely on anyone outside the family now."

"But they're like family-Frollo and Lady Agnes. We've spent more time with them this whole year than we have with anybody else."

Lady Bertaut ignored the interjection. "My cousin Lord Thibault has offered us protection, and we'll be leaving for his fief near Orleans in two days. I want you and Collette to start gathering your things right away."

Margaret thought of her father lying in an English prison while her own mother refused to seek help from the one man with power to help them. "I just can't believe you wouldn't ask-"

"Not another word, Margaret." Lady Bertaut turned away, her eyes burning with suppressed tears. She didn't know which it was that finally broke her restraint, the thought of her lost husband or the thought of her daughter's ruined prospects. True, she had always harbored doubts of the Minister's character and his feelings for her daughter. But Margaret was too bewildered now to realize the full extent of their tragedy.

Watching her mother, Margaret wondered for a moment if she might not have some real reason for mistrusting Frollo. She immediately cast away her doubt, but she couldn't ignore her mother's pain. She lay a hand on Lady Bertaut's shoulder and a cheek against her back. The only sound in the room was the clip of the gardener's shears.

When Margaret returned to her room, Collette had mentally played through four different game scenarios. The actual game was soon forgotten as Margaret relayed the news. Collette managed to gather that Lord Bertaut was accused of some kind of treason, that Minister Frollo had known about it for months and tried in vain to summon Bertaut to Paris, and now might seize the family property for the King. The individual parts of the story came in no particular order, punctuated with constant references to Lady Bertaut's stubbornness in refusing to seek Frollo's help. Collette simply sat and watched her mistress fly around the room gathering her clothes. Every time Margaret bundled another gown into her traveling chest, Collette pulled it out, folded it smooth, and put it back inside.

"After all," Margaret said, "Paris is only a day's journey away. Who knows how long it will take to reach Orleans. Mother is just upset, and she's not thinking clearly. We need someone with a level head to help us, someone who isn't wrapped up in this business."

"Isn't the Minister a bit wrapped up in it already?" Collette asked. "You're practically betrothed."

"Yes, but he's not one to be swept up in a panic. He'd know just what to do. Besides, as long as he doesn't prosecute Father, we're safe." Margaret flushed at the thought. She didn't often consider Frollo's position, isolated as she was from the business of the City, but now it came upon her with new force. Perhaps, once Frollo had pardoned her father, he would convince the King to rescue her father.

"You trust the Minister, oui?" Collette asked.

Margaret stood still in the center of the room. "You shouldn't have to ask that question."

"And he returns your feelings?" Collette had never seen the Minister express any great enthusiasm towards her mistress, but then again, she had rarely seen the two together. Perhaps in private he was more effusive.

Margaret thought of Frollo kneeling in church to pray, of his deep and resonant voice reciting Scripture. But she saw too the cold expression that accompanied even his devotions. "He doesn't feel things the way you and I do, but he will do what he thinks right, no matter what the consequences."

Collette began flipping one of the round game pieces between her knuckles, a trick she had picked up from the gypsies at the Midsummer Festival.

"There. I think that's that." Margaret lay the final garment in the chest. "Now, perhaps we should go to the storeroom for provisions?"

Collette dropped the game piece. "Whatever for?"

Margaret's eyes roved about the room. "For the journey, of course."

"I'm sure ta maman will have them pack provisions for all of us."

Margaret nodded, muttered something, and turned to the wall.

"Mon chere amie." Collette rose and stood beside Margaret, who turned to hide her face. "I hope you would not think to make your own journey to some other destination. Hoping perhaps that your preparations would not be noticed?" Margaret was silent. "Que ridicule! Monsieur Pinchface has bewitched you. You will promise-yes, promise me-that you will do nothing so foolish. You will go with your mother to Orleans."

Margaret's voice was pained. "Please, don't patronize me, Collette." She smiled wryly. "Just because you're the clever one. If I had a better plan, I'd do that instead."

"Then I will be obliged to inform ta maman to keep a watchful eye on you."

"Please, Collette. Listen to me. Don't you see, this might be my only chance."

"For what?"

"To be a married woman." Margaret opened her jewelry chest and took out a chain with a ruby pendant cut in the shape of a rhombus-a gift from her beloved. She did not know that Lady Agnes had purchased it for the Minister and insisted he give it to Margaret. She clasped the chain around her throat. "We know that Father is innocent, but the rest of France may never believe us, unless the Minister clears his name. If not, I won't marry the Minister, which I'm sure would please you. But I won't marry anyone else, either."

"Ma mie, I'm sure-"

"You know what they'll say. No one will marry a traitor's child."

Collette sighed. She looked at the chain around Margaret's neck and wondered why her friend was so desperate for a status that could only make her more dependent, only further deprive her of legal rights and powers. At times like these, she tended to forget that they were the same age.

Margaret turned to her but would not raise her eyes. "Don't make me a prisoner in my own home."

Collette tossed her head in frustration and resumed folding the clothes in Margaret's traveling chest. "Just don't try to go sneaking those provisions on your own. I'll find what we need."


The Bertaut's ancestral home had not seen a night so fevered with preparations since the siege of 1385. Candles flashed in the black windows like fireflies, then disappeared in the dark. A dog barked once, then whimpered and fell silent as a stableboy clamped his muzzle shut. Lady Bertaut and a party of servants were to leave an hour after midnight. Everyone else-the cooks, the blacksmith, the whole surrounding countryside of serfs-would remain behind to await their new master. Margaret and Collette had chosen this final night for their escape, in hopes that the bustle would conceal their own secret departure.

Margaret stopped on the stairwell and peered out through a narrow window. "A full moon. Isn't it romantic?"

Collette, further down the steps, turned around and joined her. "Not quite full, mon amie. See-it bulges on the left side."

"At least we'll have some light on the way."

"Harder to go unseen."

The storeroom was bustling with servants. The ladies pulled their hoods farther down and slipped between the men. One or two glanced in their direction, but no one took the time to question them. They kept to the walls like mice until they reached the trapdoor to the escape tunnel. Margaret tugged at the iron ring but could make no headway until joined by Collette. The wooden planks trembled and creaked, but the sound was swallowed by the thump of boots and the gruff voices of the men. The ladies tried to ease the door gently down, but it slipped their grasp, slammed shut, and left them in darkness.

Margaret immediately wished she hadn't allowed Collette to talk her into making the journey without a light. She kept a tingling ear open for the sound of scuttling rodents or worse, snakes. She stretched her hands out before her face and felt the misty, sticky film of cobwebs. Shuddering, she wiped her hands on her dress.

"I will go first," Collette said. "Hold on to my shoulder."

They picked their way over the crumbling stone floor, across tree branches that years ago had burst the masonry, through puddles so deep the freezing water flowed into their shoes and chilled their feet. Every moment Margaret expected to reach the end, but the tunnel continued on, silent apart from the occasional drip of water. Only once they heard a scuttling. Margaret jumped and threw her arms around Collette, who squeezed her shoulder affectionately and waited for her friend to regain composure before continuing on.

A distant echo of stamping and hushed voices floated down through the blackness. The ladies hurried towards the sound, until Margaret tripped on a pile of stones and hurt her ankle. She was glad no one could see her limping and hopping along. They emerged in a tangle of brambles that ripped their clothes and scratched their skin. The two stableboys, Andry and Loys, stood in the torchlight holding the reigns of the horses.

"Begging your pardon, M'Lady, but we didn't dare bring your Snowflake," Andry said. "I thought they'd be sure to suspect."

Collette nodded. "Tres raisonnable." Loys held the reigns for Margaret while she mounted; Collette jumped into the saddle without waiting for assistance. Andry described their route, which would take them through the copse and into the fields to the north. When dawn came, they could risk turning west and taking the road to Paris.

A distant shout startled the horses from their doze.

"Put out the torch," Collette ordered. Margaret groaned in frustration at the thought of being caught and taken back home. On the other hand, their adventure had already been less pleasant than she had anticipated. She wouldn't mind a fresh change of clothes and the warmth of a fire on her soaking wet feet. The crash of horses' hooves through the undergrowth shattered her musings.

"Get down," Collette whispered to the stableboys as she urged her horse to a gallop. Margaret followed, bewildered. The uneven ground made her bounce painfully in the saddle. A branch whipped and stung her cheek. She gained on Collette until they were riding neck-and-neck.

"They probably sent Monsieur Puchot after us," Margaret said, referring to the family equerry.* "We'll never outrun him. Perhaps we should turn back?"

"It's not Puchot," Collette said. "Those men were armed."

Margaret kicked her horse. Its rippling muscles beneath her, the moan of the wind on the hillside, and the rumbling of the horses that pursued them began to stir up strange fears. Imagined sensations rose in her mind, as though she hovered on the borders of sleep. Everything was disjointed, nonsensical-the roses in their garden at home, Lady Agnes and her scent of rose water, Frollo's robe with its cloud of spicy bittersweet incense; the lines of his hand holding a game piece, the embroidered hem of her mother's handkerchief raised to her eye, the hull of her father's ship rising and falling with the swell of the sea. The images goaded her like a wound she knew she had received but could not yet feel.

She craned her neck for a glimpse at their pursuers. They were four men, on huge horses that snorted like bellows.* They were much closer than she had guessed. She gripped the reigns tighter until the leather cut her palms. Collette pulled ahead and lead the chase towards a narrow gorge. Margaret followed, but found herself flanked by one of the horsemen. The entrance of the gorge loomed ahead, too narrow for more than one horse at a time to pass through. Margaret kicked her mount with greater force than she had ever suspected she could muster. Her lungs were raw from gasping on the cold night air.

Collette disappeared into the black mouth of the gorge. It grew ever higher as Margaret approached, yet the space between the cliffs seemed to threateningly narrow. Just before it, Margaret's courage failed. She wrenched her panicked horse's head to one side.

The rumble of hooves over loose stone told her that the greater number had followed Collette. She tried keeping near the gorge, but the shadowy figure of a giant horse and rider blocked her way and forced her into an open field. The single light of a cottage window gleamed in the blackness. She called out, but the wind swallowed her voice. A figure appeared in the cottage doorway and shouted something she couldn't make out. A goose honked and flapped out of her path as she rode through the dusty yard of the house. Behind her, a horse screamed in pain. She turned to see the horseman struggling with his mount as it reared and tossed its head. Then the trees closed behind her, and she was left to trust her horse's night vision.


Simon Longuet lowered his bow and took a step back into the doorway of the cottage. The black horseman dismounted and tore the arrow from his horse's flank. He advanced on Simon, the arrow clutched in his armored fist.

"You maggots out here in the country really are getting restless, aren't you?" The man was so tall he would have to stoop to enter the door. The blade of his sword came hissing out of its sheath. "It's a good thing we don't have to waste time putting your kind on trial."


*The keeper of the horses.

*The horses are War, Famine, Conquest, and Death.