19

Amazingly, I don’t die. I don’t fall off, either, but my stomach’s set up camp somewhere in my throat so it’s lucky we didn’t eat that breakfast Sebastien promised. As the road begins to rise, Dante settles into a steadier gallop. I unknot my fingers from his mane enough to grab the reins, though pulling on them doesn’t make the slightest difference. We go on like that for miles – me pulling, Dante not taking any notice. And then, at a sudden bend in the road, Dante swings left, plunging down what’s little more than a muddy country lane, where he spots a tasty patch of grass. Next thing he stops sharp, puts his head down to graze. And I go whizzing straight over the top. I land in a messy heap in a hedge.

I’m covered in mud and bits of twig, but nothing’s broken. Dante’s so filthy he doesn’t even look grey any more but at least neither of us is injured.

In every direction, all I see are fields. And trees. I’ve a sinking feeling we’re completely and utterly lost. How I’m going to find Monsieur Joseph I’ve no idea, never mind tracking down Pierre.

Seizing Dante’s reins, I try to pull his head up. ‘Stop eating, greedy guts. We need to get back to the main road.’

The horse, as seems to be the way of things between us, ignores me completely.

‘Come on, Dante – move!’

From the direction of the hedge comes a giggle. I turn round. I can’t see anything – the hedge is thick – though from behind it something rustles.

‘He’s not very good with horses is he, poor thing,’ a woman whispers.

‘Ssssh!’ hisses another. ‘He’s spotted us!’

There’s more giggling. It’s starting to irk me.

‘If you think you’re so clever, you come and move this horse!’ I snap.

Silence. Then a snort. Then a massive hoot of laughter and two ladies’ heads appear over the hedge.

‘Do forgive our shabby manners,’ the one with dark hair says. She sounds rich like Sebastien. ‘I expect you know your own horse better than we do.’

‘He’s not mine,’ I say. ‘He’s my friend’s, who I’ve lost.’

‘Oh dear. Would you like us to move the horse?’

I’m not sure if she’s teasing still or trying to help.

The other lady – fair haired, pretty – nudges her. ‘We can do better than that, Gabrielle. Let’s ask the poor boy to tea.’

I shake my head. ‘I can’t—’

‘Oh, let’s!’ This Gabrielle person is all bouncy like a puppy. ‘I’ve never taken tea with a poor boy before, and I’m very sure you haven’t, Marie.’

She pushes against part of the hedge, which swings open like a hidden gate, and the two women come through it to my side. They’re wearing these flimsy white dresses, the sort that milkmaids wear except they’re spotlessly clean as if they’ve never been anywhere near the underneath of a cow.

‘You don’t understand.’ I try to say. ‘I’ve lost my friend – actually two friends. I’ve not got time for tea.’

‘Everyone’s got time for tea,’ Gabrielle replies.

Bold as anything, she takes Dante’s reins from me and leads him back through the gate. He goes with her, too, meek as a lamb.

‘You can’t take him!’ I cry. ‘He’s not mine! I need him!’ But she’s already disappeared.

Now I’m really stumped. The fair-haired woman – the one called Marie – slips her arm through mine. ‘Don’t look so glum. We have three different types of cake for tea.’

I could stand here and argue. But tea and cake isn’t exactly the worst thing that might happen. And it dawns on me that these women in their funny too-clean dresses might know the way to Versailles. So I go with Marie, thinking I’ll stay just for the cake then make my excuses and leave.

Passing through that gate though is like stepping into a made-up world. We cross a field that looks more like a garden, and through gardens that look like magic. There are bushes clipped into bird shapes, roses twisting over walls. I smell lavender, mint, see peach trees and apple trees sagging after the rain. We pass water fountains carved out of gleaming white stone. Everything’s beautiful – a bit too beautiful. The colours and smells make me dizzy. All the while, I’m trying to remember our route so I can find my way out again.

Eventually, we reach a cottage with a thatched roof and timber walls, and even that looks more like a doll’s house than a real one. It’s incredible that these women live in such a perfect place when Paris, with all its stink and bustle, is just a few miles down the road.

Gabrielle’s arrived ahead of us. She’s setting up a table outside the cottage with a snowy white tablecloth and dainty teacups and spoons. To my relief, Dante’s tethered to the fence and munching on hay. Another animal is here too, tied to the table leg by a length of pink ribbon; from what I can see of its curly white rump it might be a dog. As soon as Marie sits down she reaches under the table to stroke it.

‘Have a seat.’ Gabrielle pulls out a chair for me.

I sit down. Then the cake appears, and there really are three types – cherry, honey, strawberries and cream. As I eat, Marie feeds titbits to the dog under the table, while she and Gabrielle bombard me with questions. Have I ever used a fork, they want to know. Can I read? Do I have more clothes than the ones I’m in? It’s a bit off-putting to be honest, like I’m a curiousity from the fair.

When I can get a question in myself, I ask the quickest way back to the main road.

‘Where are you going?’ Gabrielle replies, stifling a yawn.

‘To Versailles.’

A look passes between them. Then, in the bush to our left, something moves.

‘Oh no,’ Gabrielle mutters under her breath. ‘Here we go.’

And just like that the whole bush is suddenly a frenzy of arms and red-trousered legs.

Two men come crashing towards us, swords raised, yelling, ‘Keep away from the Queen!’

I’m mightily confused.

Gabrielle rolls her eyes. ‘Calm down, everyone.’

‘King’s orders, your Majesty.’

The men are guards. I feel a twist of panic as his words sink in. King’s orders? Could this mean I’m nearer to Versailles than I’d thought? Why is he telling me to keep away from the Queen? And who’s he calling ‘your Majesty’?

The guard doing the talking has an enormous ginger moustache. ‘We’ve to arrest any strangers on the estate, especially anyone who might be English,’ he says, gawping at me.

‘He’s just a boy having trouble with his horse,’ Gabrielle explains.

‘Aha!’ Ginger Moustache says. ‘But how do we know he’s not spying for the English, eh?’

‘I’m honestly not!’ I tell him, nervous now.

Gabrielle tuts. ‘Tell them to stop this nonsense, Marie.’

As Marie clears her throat, the men bow. Just slightly. And suddenly it becomes clear: she is the Queen.

I stare so hard I think I forget to blink.

Marie, the person who’s just poured my tea and cut my cake, is Marie Antoinette, the Queen of the whole of France!

I can’t believe it, not when she’s so pretty and so gentle in her manners, yet in the news-sheets they make her seem like a greedy monster. How’s it possible that she’s the same person?

If this is the Queen then she’s not looking very sad, either, despite what the King’s letters said. I’m hoping that’s down to Lancelot, that our gift really has cheered the Queen up, though sitting here in her fairy tale garden, I’ve got my doubts. Would a grubby sheep sent all the way from southern France really do the trick?

It’s then that the pet dog under the table stomps on my foot.

‘Ouch!’ I cry.

‘Don’t move!’ the guard warns. He lunges forward, lifting the cloth with the tip of his sword. He’s holding his breath like he’s expecting a tiger to leap out.

‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ Gabrielle snaps. ‘It’s a sheep, not a spy!’

I sit forward, very eager to see this sheep.

Sure enough, with a yank on the pink ribbon, Gabrielle pulls the creature into the open for the guard to see. It totters out, blinking and chewing cake.

It’s not Lancelot, I’m disappointed to see. This sheep is so white it looks like a cloud on legs. Realizing it’s not a spy, Ginger Moustache lowers his sword in relief. I decide this is a good time to slip away. Yet when I get to my feet, the guard’s sword is up again in a flash.

‘Sit,’ orders the guard. ‘I’m not finished with you yet.’

Frustrated, I sit again and try explaining. ‘Please, I need to find the Montgolfiers to tell them about their son. He’s been taken by an English person against his will.’

The Queen looks astonished. ‘The Montgolfiers are here at Versailles, yes. There’s to be a demonstration in a few days’ time over the Palace! We’ve invited half of France to watch their flying machine! Won’t it be incredible?’

‘That useless pair?’ Gabrielle laughs. ‘There’s more chance of that pet lamb of yours flying, Marie, than the Montgolfiers getting anything off the ground!’

Which proves just how little she knows, I think crossly.

‘Where will I find the Montgolfiers?’ I press her. ‘I need to speak to them.’

But the Queen’s turned to Gabrielle. ‘I’ve had an entire wardrobe of new dresses and shoes made for the occasion. Louis doesn’t know yet. I haven’t told him.’

‘You naughty creature!’ Gabrielle cries, clapping her hands in delight.

‘You’ll have to help me decide what to wear, cherie.’ And the Queen starts reeling off all the hats and shoes and frocks she’s got to chose from. I think she’s forgotten we’re even here until the guards cough politely.

‘If it’s the King’s orders then you’d better take him,’ she says with a waft of her hand, then goes back to discussing dresses.

I grit my teeth: now this is more like the Marie Antionette from the news-sheets, dismissing me like I’m a bit of stale cake.

But before I can protest, I’m hauled away so fast I can hardly keep up. I’m tripping and stumbling and sick with frustration.

‘Just listen, will you? I’m not a spy. Or English,’ I say more than once. I’m not a boy either, though they’re still convinced of that, too.

‘We’ve already got your friend, son,’ Ginger Moustache says. ‘So save your excuses.’

I scowl at him. ‘Friend?’

The guard, liking his little bit of power, won’t say any more, which leaves me eaten up wondering which friend he means.