Page 6 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
Phillipe was still protesting as Belle leapt nimbly to the ground and closed the coach door. She strode away from the carriage, hoping that Madame could keep the boy’s gallantry in check for the short time her errand would take.
Noting one of the ostlers ogling her, Belle lowered her veil. She buried her hands in the muff, comforted by the feel of her pistol secured by its leather strap. The evening air was brisk,the sky overhead beginning to sparkle with stars, the moonlight more than adequate to illuminate her way across the stableyard.
The posting inn stood just beyond the stables, its sign bearing the wordsSoleil d’Orcreaking in the breeze. As Belle studied the half-timbered frame structure with its jutting second story, she doubted the Golden Sun had ever merited its name.
The wood showed signs of dry rot, the shutters hanging half off their hinges. The candles’ glow beyond the dirty panes appeared dim and uninviting, but Belle had frequented far worse establishments. She shoved open the heavy oak door and entered.
The atmosphere was hazy with smoke from the logs crackling in a stone fireplace that was not drawing properly. Most of the rush-seated chairs were empty except for a toothless old man who hunched over a table, swilling something from a mug. He appeared to be deep in conversation with a plump woman wearing a soiled apron. Seemingly, the only other person present was a lanky youth clearing the remains of a roast chicken off one of the rough-hewn tables. But Belle was startled by a burst of male laughter.
Muffled, the harsh sound came from somewhere above her. Her eyes followed the course of a rickety stair to the gallery on the second floor, the doors to the rooms beyond swallowed by darkness.
“Can I be of some help to you, madame?”
The woman’s question snapped Belle’s attention back to the main floor of the inn. She was scrutinized by three pairs of eyes, their expression not hostile so much as wary.
“Yes,” Belle said. “I should like to purchase some food for myself and my traveling companions.”
The chair scraped on the uneven brick floor as the woman heaved herself to her feet. Twisting her work-worn hands in her apron, she approached Belle.
“Don’t got much left. Only some bread and cheese.”
“That will do,” Belle said. “And some of your good Norman cider if you have it.”
The woman nodded and disappeared through a door at the back. More noise echoed from the floor above, the sound of shattering glass followed by raucous laughter.
The old man calmly refilled his cup. Although the boy shuddered, he kept on with his work. By the time the inn’s hostess had returned bearing a straw basket, the laughter had increased in volume.
“You are having a rather convivial gathering here tonight,” Belle said.
“Mmmpf,” the woman mumbled. She cast a nervous glance toward the stairs and thrust the basket at Belle. Packed inside was a crusty loaf of bread, a creamy slab of Pont-l’Eveque cheese, and a brown jug.
Balancing her muff atop the basket, Belle began to count some coin into the woman’s calloused palm, when one of the doors above them slammed open.
Belle’s head jerked upward in time to see a girl burst onto the gallery. Raising the hem of her homespun cotton dress, she bolted sobbing for the stairs. Hard after her came a strapping soldier, his blue coat unbuttoned to the waist, revealing a hairy chest.
Although he swayed drunkenly, the soldier caught the peasant girl before she descended the first step. He hauled her roughly against him.
“What’s your hurry, ma petite? You can’t be tired of our company so soon.”
“Ah, please, monsieur. I beg you. Let me go.”
The soldier knotted his hand in a length of the girl’s hair and began dragging her back toward the room. Cold fury surged through Belle. Her gaze flicked to her companions, but the boyhad bolted for the kitchen. The old man affected not to hear, while the woman tensed and muttered, “I told ‘Ree not to go flirting with the likes of them.”
Belle took a half step toward the stairs, then stopped. It was none of her concern, she told herself. She had enough to do making sure the Coterins reached safety.
She heard the drunken soldier give vent to a loud oath. Glancing up, Belle saw that the girl had managed to wrench free. Gaining the stairs, the peasant maid fairly tumbled down them in her effort to get away. Still cursing, the soldier staggered after her.
“Isabelle, when will you learn to mind your own affairs?” Belle sighed to herself. Not tonight it seemed, she thought as she positioned herself at the bottom of the stairs. When the soldier charged past her, she thrust out her foot and tripped him.
The huge man crashed headlong, upending a table and sending a candlestick flying. The girl escaped out the back. Belle could hear the old man and the hostess draw in their breath as though fearful of what would happen next.
“So clumsy of me,” she said, staring down at the soldier’s sprawled form. “My apologies, sir.”
She moved quickly toward the door, but the soldier was not as drunk as she had supposed. As she reached for the latch, she could hear him regain his feet. With a snort of rage, he hurled himself at her.
His weight knocked her against the door, jarring both basket and muff from her hand. Pinned by his bulk, she could scarce move, too tangled in her skirts for a well-placed kick.
Belle’s heart thudded with apprehension as the soldier thrust his coarse, unshaven face but inches from her own. The reek of sour wine assailed her even through the layering of her veil.
