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a mistress. You would be willing to suffer that—for me?’ She smiles. ‘Ah, but it looks like you already have.’ She waves in the direction of the stairs, the maid.
    ‘Very droll, Julia. You think of an alternative.’
    He’s angry now. This isn’t how she planned it. She climbs onto the bed, draws the quilt around her.
    ‘I can’t think,’ she says. ‘I’m afraid. D’Armagnac’s anger is terrifying.’
    ‘We’ll deny everything.’
    ‘You don’t understand. You’ve never seen him in a temper.’
    ‘I’ll protect you, pet.’ He comes closer, sits on the edge of the bed.
    ‘You?’
    ‘Have faith in me, darling.’
    ‘D’Armagnac is the most powerful man in France. And you are …’ She pushes herself up and away from the bed, laces up her blouse.
    ‘My blood is as noble as his.’
    ‘Of course.’
    Séranne breathes in slowly, glancing down at his scarred belly, his wiry arms. He is strong. His blade is sharp. He will not be shoved around—not by her, not by d’Armagnac. ‘I’ll need money.’
    ‘How much this time?’
    ‘I don’t know yet. I’ll send you a message. You should go.’
    She is already at the door. ‘I shouldn’t have come.’
    ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I’ll devise a plan of some kind.’
    ‘I know you will.’
    But he doesn’t. Why should he? He fears no man, can beat anyone in a duel—well, possibly not his mistress, but any man, certainly.
    Which he does. Inevitably. Stupidly. One dark night behind the convent of the Carmelites. Some fool who insulted him at the dice table, called him a southern catamite or some such thing, and he doesn’t know exactly what that means but it doesn’t sound noble and he challenges and they fight and it’s over fast but not without a great deal of screaming as his opponent dies at his feet and the seconds come running, shouting at him, and it’s never like this in the fencing salles , where people get back up after a bout even if a little scratched, but they never scream and certainly never die.
    The seconds don’t honour the dead or the sacred duelling ritual, not for a moment. They clutch at the body and weep and threaten Séranne with assassination, with vile poxes and plagues, with the law.
    Next morning, the news swirls around the city. The police are alerted, the Lieutenant-General himself—La Reynie, the mysterious, dread lord of Paris—takes an interest. He sends his dogs out. Issues orders.
    Julie plays her card.
    ‘There’s nothing for it. They’re calling you a murderer, a criminal. We’ll have to leave the city.’
    ‘Never!’
    ‘But my darling …’ She knows she is pleading—for his safety, for her life. ‘The dungeons.’
    ‘They can’t hurt me.’
    ‘Oh, they can. Believe me.’
    ‘It was a fair fight,’ he says.
    ‘The King has issued endless decrees against duelling,’ says Julie. ‘You know that. The police turn a blind eye only if nobody gets hurt. And you—’
    ‘He insulted me.’
    ‘He’s a nobleman. They do that.’
    ‘But I, too, have noble blood.’
    ‘So you keep saying.’
    ‘Do you doubt it?’ One hand is on his sword. ‘Do you dare?’
    ‘Darling, be reasonable.’ She slides her hand up his arm.
    ‘I mean it. I’m not going anywhere.’ Séranne pushes her away and crosses his arms. Pouts a little.
    They leave the next night.
    Julie chooses horses from d’Armagnac’s stable that nobody will miss much, packs a few clothes in one bag, buckles on her fine sword, and rides out through the city gates at dusk without looking back. They head south. She wears men’s clothes and a great cloak, a chevalier’s hat that used to be her father’s, feather and all—a disguise, she says. Nobody will be able to trace them. D’Armagnac will send men out, of course, and La Reynie will, too, but they’ll be searching for a man and a woman. Lovers eloping. Not two men, perhaps brothers, perhaps not. Safer on the back roads, anyway. There are bandits. Rapists.
    She laughs as