‘And where’s yours, citizeness? Among all those ribbons, surely you would have had time to put on the red, white and blue?’
I looked hopelessly down at the dress Madame Beaufort had chosen for me. It was covered in pink bows. I couldn’t blame him for being offended; the dress upset me too.
‘I apologize, monsieur, I didn’t know . . .’
‘A likely story. Everyone knows. What’s your name?’
‘Catherine, monsieur.’
‘Catherine what?’
‘Royal – I’m named after the theatre . . .’
But he didn’t want to hear about that. ‘Royal!’ he roared, seizing me by the scruff of the neck. ‘Messieurs, we have foreign royalists in our midst – enemies of the revolution. They have collaborated with the queen to poison the king against us – they persuaded him to leave.’ An angry muttering rippled through the crowd surrounding us.
‘They helped the king escape!’ shouted a woman wildly. ‘I saw them do it!’
‘I did too,’ shrieked another. The mood against the royal family was changing from bewilderment to indignation – and we were unfortunately about to suffer for it.
‘But we didn’t!’ Frank protested. ‘We had nothing to do with it. We only arrived last night!’
‘And the king fled last night!’ bellowed the man triumphantly as if this was proof of our guilt. ‘To the lamp post with them! Hang the foreign traitors as an example to our enemies!’
‘No!’ I shrieked as he dragged me with him to the edge of the square. ‘We’re innocent – we’ve done nothing!’
Joseph was struggling frantically with his captors; Frank had been wrestled to the ground by three men. A woman spat on him.
‘Death to the foreign spies!’ she jeered.
‘Cat, run!’ Frank yelled, but there was no chance of that: the man had a firm grip on me. Someone produced a length of rope and threw it over one of the arms of a lamp post, a noose tied on one end. I was now fighting for my life. I twisted round and kneed my captor where it would hurt most. He bent double, eyes watering, but still kept a hold of my hair.
‘Hang the girl first,’ he gasped. Two men stepped forward and took me by the arms, lifting me off the ground as I wriggled in their grasp.
‘But she’s only young,’ one said doubtfully, looking for guidance to our self-appointed judge.
‘Not too young to be a royalist traitor,’ he firmly replied.
‘I’m not a royalist. I’m a dancer!’ I screamed. ‘I’m from the streets like you.’ I let out a string of expletives, calling them every name I could think of which, had they known English, would have convinced them of the truth of my claim.
‘A little aristocratic firecracker, this one!’ jeered a woman as the noose was put round my neck.
I couldn’t believe it: this was the end. I didn’t want to die like this – not today, not dressed up like a pink sugar confection. These stupid halfwits were going to murder me because of a name they didn’t understand! I was so angry that I forgot even my fear.
‘You imbeciles!’ I shouted. Someone tried to pull my hands behind me to bind them. I wrenched them free and employed them in a universally rude gesture. If I was going down, I was damn well going down fighting. ‘That to you, citizen – and you – and you!’ My escaped hands were caught and tied together with a handkerchief. ‘You’ll regret this, you will!’
‘Not as much as you!’ laughed my judge. ‘Up, up and away with the royalist witch!’
‘Not Cat, no!’ yelled Frank. ‘Let her go!’
‘Not likely, mate. You’re next so shut it!’ The man gave a tug on the rope.
‘Stop!’ A new voice was unexpectedly raised in my defence. The boy I’d noticed in the king’s bedchamber picking up the knife pushed his way to the front of the crowd and planted himself before me, poised on the balls of his feet like a dancer about to spring into action. He was barefoot and had a red cap pushed back on his head. A gaudy waistcoat edged with gold braid covered his tattered shirt.
‘Who are you, citizen?’ asked my judge, letting the rope slacken a fraction.
‘Jean-Francois Thiland, bachelor of this parish.’ The boy whipped the cap from his head and gave a flourishing bow to his audience.
‘It’s J-F!’ a woman whispered to her neighbour. This obviously meant something to many of them because the name was passed one to the other, accompanied by a smile and a nod.
‘Citizens, I appeal to you! What has the girl done but come out a trifle unprepared? My maman does that when she’s had too much to drink – would you hang her too? Not very chivalrous, no?’
A few in the crowd laughed.
‘Besides, I believe her when she says she’s one of us,’ the boy continued, strutting like a pigeon on the pavement in front of me.
‘How do you know she’s one of us?’ my judge-cum-executioner asked, glaring at him.
The boy pouted, evidently annoyed to find his word doubted. ‘Citizen, what fine lady would know that sign? And I may not have understood her, but I know a girl swearing like a guardsman when I hear it. At home, I hear it night and day – don’t you?’
There was some muttering behind me and a titter of laughter. The boy was playing his audience well, transforming murderous anger to good humour. Standing with a noose around my neck, I was heartily thankful, though I could not help but think him foolhardy to risk intervening: he could so easily end up joining us in this little death party. On the other hand, he seemed to wield a strange authority over the crowd; he acted like someone used to performing in front of others. A whiff of the theatre about him perhaps? As they say, it takes one to know one . . .
The boy they called J-F scanned the faces before him, and then judged the moment was right to bring forward his demand. ‘Release the English into my hands, citizens, and I promise that I will examine the matter carefully in my court.’