Chapter Thirty-Two
The forest was quiet now that everyone had left.
Mathilde had tried to call out but the gag was tied so tightly that she could only make guttural, animal noises deep in her throat.
Sunlight filtered through the leaf canopy and sweat was trickling down her face as she worked away at the rope cutting into her wrists.
Thank God she slept with the stiletto strapped to her arm.
By using the tree trunk as a lever, she’d managed to work the knife lower down her forearm and wedge it into the fork of a branch, so she could saw at the rope by rubbing one wrist against the blade.
It was painstaking, painful work and she had no idea of the progress she was making, yet there seemed no alternative.
Only Renard knew where she was and if he didn’t return, which seemed highly possible, she could die of dehydration.
She laboured on, listening to the blithe birdsong and torturing herself by imagining what might be happening at Chateau Albertine.
Just when the situation seemed hopeless, she felt a slight easing of the tension behind her back.
Encouraged, she redoubled her efforts and was rewarded by the knife slicing the last fibres of one strand of rope.
That was enough: she was able to loosen the rest and work her hands free.
She tore off the gag, retching, cut through the shackles around her ankles and staggered to her feet.
Rubbing her legs to restore the circulation, she blundered back through the wood to retrieve her bicycle and pistol from the camp and set off for the chateau.
Speed was more of a priority than secrecy.
The roads had changed since she’d last been out and about, even two days ago: there were no checkpoints or Kübelwagens to be seen, but more tractors, carts and civilian traffic – even a couple of American armoured cars passing her by.
At last she caught sight of Les Roches, high on the hillside.
The village seemed quiet and she was thrilled by the sight of a tricolour flag emblazoned with the Cross of Lorraine waving from a rampart of the fort.
A distant crack of gunfire further down the road brought her crashing back to reality.
Approaching the chateau, she hid her bicycle in the hedge and made her way to the back gate on foot, her gun drawn.
The body of a German officer lay sprawled halfway up the lane, pistol still clutched in his cold, stiff hand.
She stowed it in her pocket and hurried on, towards the rose garden and the servants’ block beyond.
Another round of shots came from the direction of the house and she shrank back, but there was no one to be seen in the rose gardens, as far as she could tell, so she sprinted past and ran towards the servants’ block.
From a quick peek through as many windows as she could access, the place seemed to be deserted.
Mathilde slipped through the front door and began to check, room by room.
There were signs of disarray – chairs overturned, a window smashed, clothes scattered across the floor – but no major damage.
And not a soul, either. Where was everyone?
She found the bedroom that must have been Odile and Georges’, with a child’s bed in the corner and a small cardigan on the pillow.
She held it to her face and inhaled but the scent didn’t bring Esmé back to her.
Slipping down the corridor, she entered the kitchen and was about to leave after a cursory glance when a flicker of movement caught her eye.
She shrank back, cocking her gun, until she realised Ernestine was crouching under the table.
‘It’s me, Fleur,’ she whispered, reaching out a reassuring hand. ‘Don’t worry, you’re safe.’
Ernestine looked up at her with terrified eyes. ‘I don’t know what’s happening,’ she said. ‘We were woken up by these explosions and they’ve been fighting in the chateau for hours.’
‘Where are the others?’ Mathilde asked urgently.
‘I haven’t seen Georges.’ Ernestine hesitated, then blurted, ‘But a man came and took Odile and Esmé.’
‘What man?’ Mathilde took her by the shoulder. ‘French or German?’
‘Boche. The Gestapo officer.’ Ernestine bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop him.’
‘It’s all right; of course you couldn’t.’ Mathilde pressed the German officer’s pistol into her hand. ‘Take this and use it if you have to.’
And then she was off, racing out of the building and towards the chateau, plotting a course from one hiding place to another with her mind focused and clear.
The grounds looked so different that she almost lost her bearings until she realised what had changed: the avenue of cypress trees that hid the outbuildings had been chopped down, giving a clear view of the winery opposite, the stables and the bomb crater in the paddock beyond.
The vegetable patch looked as though a bomb had exploded there too, and she could see the exposed cistern in the gravel pit, with a few empty bottles scattered nearby.
She kept to the other side, threading her way through the rose garden and along the wall at the base of the terrace, then up the steps.
The air smelt of smoke but all was quiet now.
Peeping through the balustrade, she saw about twenty German soldiers sitting in a dejected heap on the terrace with their heads bowed.
They were guarded by a group of Maquis and the American officer who’d accompanied Yves to the camp.
Mathilde spotted Thierry and was flooded with momentary relief.
Holstering her gun, she walked towards him, glancing up at the back of the house in case of snipers.
‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Renard told us you’d gone on ahead.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Inside the house with the Patron and a few others, hunting down the last of them.’
‘Have you seen Odile and Esmé?’ she demanded, but Thierry shook his head.
She was turning to enter the chateau when he grabbed her arm. ‘It’s dangerous in there. Why don’t you leave it to them?’
Naturally, she ignored him and broke away.
That bastard Schmidt was cunning as a snake.
Where would he have taken his hostages? He’d have known he couldn’t hold out for ever on the roof, and the front of the house was too exposed.
Silently she eased the kitchen door open and stepped inside, her gun at the ready.
The room was a shambles: drawers spilling their contents, china smashed underfoot and a stench of rotten food mingled with explosive in the air.
A German soldier lay sprawled on his back in the doorway, and directly opposite, Renard sat with his back against a cupboard, staring at her.
A volley of machine-gun fire from the direction of the attic made her jump, but he didn’t stir, which was when she realised he was stone dead.
Quickly she looked away, clearing her mind, and happened to notice that the door to the cellar stood a fraction ajar.
Stealthily she approached and pushed it wide enough to slip through. This had to be where Schmidt had gone.
It took her eyes a few seconds to adjust to the gloom.
A single light bulb halfway down the room cast a murky light over the stacks of chairs, side tables, lamps and a hundred other pieces of furniture that were stored there.
She stole down a narrow path through the middle, wincing at every inadvertent sound she made.
Her heart pounded and her hands were slippery with sweat.
And then she heard a sound that made the hair stand up on the back of her neck: a child’s cry only a few feet ahead, swiftly silenced.
Peering around the jutting corner of a dresser, she saw the small group, posed as if for a photograph.
Odile sat in a high-backed carved wooden chair with Esmé on her lap, and behind her stood Werner Schmidt, holding a gun to her neck.
He looked exactly the same: foppish dark hair parted at the side, lean-faced and sardonic, as though appreciating a joke at someone else’s expense.
He greeted Mathilde with a wolfish smile. ‘Madame Duval, how good to see you again. I hoped you would be coming, and that we’d have a chance to catch up.’
She swallowed. ‘Let them go and I’ll do whatever you want.’
He chuckled. ‘Now why would I do that? I need a free pass out of here and I won’t find one anywhere else.’ He glanced from her to Odile, considering. ‘And yet both of you and the child might be a little hard to manage. Sadly we may have to leave you behind, Madame Leclerc.’
He took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, snapped one around Odile’s wrist and secured the other to the arm of the chair.
‘You won’t get very far dragging that behind you.
’ Then he scooped up Esmé with one hand and settled her in the crook of his arm, holding the gun against her chest with his other hand.
‘Kindly place your weapon on the ground, chère Madame,’ he said to Mathilde. ‘We don’t want any accidents, do we? And if you try anything stupid, I shall shoot your daughter without the slightest compunction.’
Keeping her eyes fixed on him, Mathilde bent to lay her pistol on the floor. Esmé began to wriggle out of his grip, straining towards Odile, whereupon Schmidt pinched her chubby leg. She howled and he pinched her again, harder this time.
‘Let’s have none of that,’ he snapped, over her sobs. ‘I’m an impatient man at the best of times.’ He beckoned Mathilde forward with his gun. ‘Now lead the way, Madame Duval, and we’ll follow on behind.’
‘How far do you think you’ll get, Herr Schmidt?’ Mathilde asked as she walked slowly along. ‘You can’t keep running for ever.’