Jane dropped her folds of glamour and turned to Vincent in time to see him punch the ruffian with the gun in the nose. The man dropped to the ground. Scarcely had he fallen when Vincent turned to the man with the sabre who had threatened the old woman. Jane grabbed folds of glamour convulsively, as if she could weave some sensible illusion to help her husband from twenty paces.

The remaining sabre-bearer still threatened, so she could at the least remove the old woman and her charge from harm. Jane lifted her skirts and hurried to their side. She wove a Sphère Obscurcie to mask them from the rebels’ view. The young girl was crying, but the matron seemed ready to take up a sabre herself. Jane put her finger to her lips. ‘They cannot see us,’ she whispered. They stared at her, uncomprehending, so she repeated it in French and Italian. When this did not quiet the girl, Jane glanced back to see how close the rebels were, and beheld something astonishing.

Vincent had somehow disarmed one of the sabre-bearers and was now fighting the other with the liberated sabre. While Jane had known that her husband was quite fit, she had not realized he had any skill with weapons. Yet Vincent wielded the weapon as though he were well used to it. Indeed, with his superior height and reach, it took but moments before he had reached past his opponent’s guard to strike him in the upper arm. This drawing of first blood did nothing to ease Jane’s fears.

When the carriage thundered back down the road, Jane nearly cheered, but stopped herself for fear of giving their position away. The German soldier jumped down and ran towards Vincent with the captured musket in hand.

The German shouted something, and the remaining rebel dropped his sabre. Vincent picked it up and gestured to the man to kneel. In short order, he bound the man’s wrists with his cravat. Vincent stepped back and turned. ‘Jane?’

‘Here, love.’ She dropped the fold which was hiding them and her husband heaved a sigh of relief.

‘Cleverly done, Muse.’ He trotted across the field as the coachmen and the soldier secured the other rebels. A spot of blood flecked his sleeve.

‘Are you hurt?’ Jane hurried to meet him. Only now that the events were over did she have time to realize how very real the danger had been.

‘Eh?’ He stopped and noticed the blood for the first time. ‘No. It is the other fellow’s. I am afraid it will be a bother to get out.’

Jane pressed herself against him, trembling. ‘Never take such a risk again. You could have been shot.’