The valley lay engulfed in snow. The wood was grey and silent. The glimmer of a lamp relieved the frosty afternoon. But the two girls on their ponies didn’t hurry. They scanned the fields and empty road before they started moving down the slope.

"Impressive-looking place," drawled Nell. "You’re sure we can afford it?"

Martine glanced back and grinned at her. "I couldn’t get the bridal suite, alas!"

Nell tittered as she shifted in her saddle. The sound was reminiscent of her father’s parsonage. And yet, beneath her cloak, she wore the red coat of a soldier, a trophy of her life as a camp whore. Her long fair hair and clear blue eyes gave her a winsome look – but she had a pistol on one hip and an English bayonet against her thigh.

Martine was darker, more petite, her shapely figure wrapped in an old storm-coat. A mane of chestnut hair spilled out from underneath her hat. Her hazel eyes were rimmed with kohl, lending mystery to mischief. But there was nothing mischievous about the pair of duelling pistols at her belt.

They came up behind the quiet inn, and halted just outside the stable-yard. The chimney smoked against the sky. They caught a meaty whiff of pot-au-feu. Martine dismounted gratefully and crossed the snowy cobbles. She listened at the kitchen door, then knocked.

A plump, attractive teenage girl came out onto the step. "Martine!" she squealed and kissed her on both cheeks. Then she noticed Nell and looked her over amiably. "So who’s your friend?" she asked under her breath.

"A good companion of mine," said Martine, as the English girl dismounted. "We’ve been a long time on the road. Could we shelter in your stable-loft tonight?"

"Of course," the girl said cheerfully. "I’ll bring you out some food. But take care not to show yourselves. We’ve got a proper lady staying here ..."

"Madeleine!" a woman called from somewhere in the building. Martine smiled as she recognised the voice. "It sounds as if your mother’s got her work cut out," she said. Her dark eyes glittered impishly. "This lady: is she rich?"

"She wears fine clothes and travels in a carriage," shrugged her friend. "I guess she’s fleeing with her worldly goods." Her bright eyes clouded with concern. "Martine – you will behave? An aristo she may be, but she’s under our own roof."

"Don’t worry," Martine grinned. "We’ll let the posh bitch keep her jewels. A bed of straw is good enough for us."

"Speak for yourself," Nell murmured in the background. "Not all of us were brought up on a farm …"

Martine ignored her teasing: she gave Madeleine a wink. Reassured, her friend went back indoors. The two girls led their mounts into the stable. "There’s three of them to run this place," Martine said as they rubbed the ponies down. "Madeleine … her sister Jeanne … and Marianne, their mother. They’re the kind of people you can trust. The kind who’ll always share a bowl of soup."

Nell went creaking up the steps. The loft was filled with straw and sacks of grain. It was insulated by the snow, and heated by the animals beneath. Martine came up to join her, and they made themselves a nest, then snuggled up to share each other’s warmth. They’d known each other several months, but it felt as if they’d always been together. Nell laid her cheek against Martine’s, and let the French girl idly stroke her breast.

Then a belching blunderbuss erupted through the dusk..

Martine’s fingers squeezed Nell’s flesh. They stared at one another. Then the frozen moment splintered, and they grasped their guns.

A crackle of shots rang through the inn. They heard a girl’s voice squealing. Something clattered and something smashed. The nervous horses snickered down below. Martine hauled out her duelling piece and wriggled to the window. The building seemed deserted – then re-echoed with the crack of pistol-fire.

The kitchen door burst open and young Madeleine ran out into the yard. Her face was white with panic and her low-cut bodice strained with every breath. A shot rang out behind her, from a figure in the doorway. The teenager threw back her pretty head. She pitched onto the cobbles just outside the stable door, revealing a red splotch across her back.

Martine made a stifled sound as Nell moved up beside her. They watched the killer step into the yard. The figure moved with female grace beneath her shabby greatcoat. She wore a man’s cocked hat, pulled low, and a woollen muffler wrapped around her mouth. Martine palmed her pistol’s cock, and Nell’s hand gripped her shoulder. A second girl had sauntered into view.

She was similarly dressed, her face obscured by an old scarf, but the watchers caught a glimpse of flame-red hair. She held a stubby blunderbuss and kept it raised and ready while the other woman checked the stable out.

Martine and Nell lay motionless as she moved around below them. The smell of powder made the horses snort. "Easy, now …" the killer crooned, in English. She stroked one horse’s muzzle, then went out into the twilight yard again.

A third young woman came out of the kitchen, as warmly dressed and faceless as her friends. "We’ve got them," she called out in French. The first girl holstered her long-barrelled pistol. There was malty hair beneath her hat. She glanced at Madeleine. Then followed the others back inside, leaving acrid smoke still hanging in the air.

Martine’s knuckles had grown white around her pistol butt. "Come on," she hissed, and scrambled to her feet. But before they could get down from the loft, there came the thud of hoofbeats. Beyond the white roofs of the inn, they saw five riders move onto the road.

Martine slithered down the steps and knelt by Madeleine. The dead girl’s face looked sad and distant now. Martine breathed out through her teeth, then glanced around at Nell. "That bitch was English, wasn’t she?" she said.

Nell shook her head. "Irish."

Martine’s eyes narrowed. "Was she? There are Irish with the revolutionaries …" She straightened up reluctantly and the two of them walked over to the inn.

Marianne the innkeeper lay crumpled in the hallway. Her other daughter, Jeanne, was in the bar. A mature and handsome woman and a blossoming young beauty. Both bodies had been blasted at close range. The lady’s grey-haired coachman had been shot down while he drank. Jeanne was slumped behind the bar, her riddled cleavage glistening with blood.

Martine wiped a hand across her mouth. The candles were still burning. Gun smoke lingered in the passage like a pungent fog. Nell went cautiously upstairs. A girl lay on the landing. The redcoat guessed she was the lady’s maid. Her face was pale and doleful, with a dark pit in the forehead. The door beyond her corpse was just ajar.

The aristocratic lady had been caught at her ablutions, with her hair down and her petticoat exposed. Her body sprawled across the bed, her mouth agape in protest. The petticoat was soaked with blood and clinging to the smooth mounds of her breasts.

An open, empty jewel box lay on the dressing table. Nell turned away and padded back downstairs. Martine was at the bottom, leaned against the newel-post. Her hazel eyes were glinting, and she held a coarse red cap in her gloved hands.

"Look at what they left," she said. "Our ‘glorious patriots’ wear caps like these."

"They didn’t look to me like daughters of the Revolution."

"No, they didn’t," Martine said. She threw the cap away. "A bunch of thieving bitches – just like us. So only we’ve got any right to judge them. Who says that there’s no justice among thieves?"

* * *

They knew they’d chosen the right road when they found the horse’s carcase in the snow.

It was lying slumped beside the track, already stiffening. Martine leaned over for a closer look. "I guess it stumbled: broke its leg," she murmured, straightening. A hole was punched into the horse’s skull.

They’d left the inn as soon as it was light enough to see. The tracks of the five riders were still clear. The dawn seeped through the trees like thin, cold gruel. The rusty caw of ravens broke the hush.

Nell peered round and rubbed her mittened fingers. "I’ll wager that they’re not too far ahead." They’d found traces of the gang at an abandoned shepherd’s hut, and the ashes of their fire had still been warm.

"A pony with two riders won’t get far in snow like this." Martine sat back and gave her mount a nudge. "So someone’s going to end up by the wayside."

"I wonder if they’ll shoot her too," mused Nell.

They pushed on through the deep, crisp snow. The sound of hungry ravens followed them. It carried like a tocsin through the stillness of the wood. Martine’s hand brushed the stock of the truncated shotgun in her saddle-boot.

The trampled trail led down towards a river, the sluggish current gripped in jaws of ice. A watermill sat on the bank, its thatched roof cloaked with snow. The heavy wheel was motionless, the millpond frozen up.

"I guess they left her here," said Nell, examining the tracks. She plucked the woollen mitten off her hand. Her naked fingers closed around the butt of her Twigg pistol, while Martine drew her Thonon fowling-piece.

The pair of them advanced on foot, like foxes in the snow. The air felt brittle, crisp enough to snap. Martine eased round the front of the old building, while Nell took up position at the rear. Martine could see her breath as she crept up beside a window. The glass was half-opaque with frost. She risked a glance inside.

The room beyond was heated by a small wood-burning stove, but the occupants still wore their winter coats. A fat man and a whey-faced child were seated to one side: the miller and his daughter, Martine guessed. Across from them, a fair-haired girl was sitting at a table, devouring a steaming bowl of soup. An elegant fur stole was draped around her scruffy greatcoat. A half-cocked pistol lay within her reach.

Martine peered through the glass again. The girl was young and had a brattish look. She smirked at her unwilling hosts and tore herself some bread. A keg of brandy on a sling was hanging from her chair.

Martine ducked past the window and moved over to the door. She pounded on the wood and skittered back. Another glimpse into the room. The girl sat motionless. Then her hard eyes narrowed and she picked her pistol up.

Martine pressed back against the wall and cocked her fowling-piece. She sensed the brigand peering through the glass. Slowly she breathed out, and let her breath drift past the window. With luck, the bitch would try outflanking her.

Sure enough, the girl went to the back door of the mill. She slipped outside, and ran right into Nell. The redcoat got her shot in first and clipped the brigand’s shoulder. A spray of crimson globules stained the snow. The girl jumped like a startled cat, then tumbled and fired back. Nell dropped behind a snowy heap of logs.

Powder smoke engulfed them, boiling thickly through the cold. The injured girl began to clamber up. As she drew another pistol, Nell swung into view again and fired the second barrel of her Twigg. It caught the brigand unprepared and sent her lurching backwards. She fell onto the frozen millpond, splintering the ice beneath her weight.

Nell went forward cautiously. The stricken girl lay gasping, belly-up. The ice was split and sagging underneath her, and slaty water welled up from the depths.

"You killed five women at the inn last night," the redcoat told her. "So you’re the first instalment of the debt. I guess your friends aren’t coming back. Don’t worry, though: they’ll join you soon enough."

Martine emerged from the back door. She was carrying the brigand’s brandy keg. "They leave you this to keep you warm?" She sauntered to the bank. "Perhaps you’d like to tell us where they’ve gone?"

The fair-haired girl spat blood at her. "You bitch! They’ll make you pay!"

Martine shrugged and raised the keg. "You’d better have this back, you’re going to need it."

She dropped the sturdy barrel on the helpless brigand’s chest. The girl cried out, and then the ice gave way. Her body sank into the freezing water. It swallowed her, and bubbled fitfully.

"A shame to waste good Cognac," murmured Nell reproachfully.

"She can toast the Devil with it," said Martine.

* * *

The street of the next village was a mash of snow and mud. They walked their ponies down towards the square. A little crowd had gathered round a speaker on a cart. Martine saw guardsmen looking on with tricolour cockades in their black hats.

They reined in prudently to watch. "Long live the Revolution …" murmured Nell. She glanced around and saw a little boy beside the road. Her lips curved in a smile. The youngster blushed.

A man pushing an apple-cart had stopped beside Nell’s horse, distracted by the speaker in the square. She leaned out of her saddle while his head was turned away, and calmly snatched one of the wizened fruits. Dismounting on the other side, she gave it to the boy. He took it from her timidly. She gathered up her cloak and hunkered down.

"Have you seen any ladies wearing boy’s clothes pass this way?" She smiled sweetly at his wide-eyed look. "One of them has got red hair, and one of them is Irish. They’re friends of ours. We want to catch them up."

"What’s Irish?" asked the boy.

"Someone from across the sea. I guess that she speaks French a bit like me."

"Two ladies left their ponies with the blacksmith," said the boy. "I heard one, and she sounded funny … just like you do, Miss."

Nell beamed back, ignoring Martine’s gleeful snort behind her. "So where might they be now?" she asked the boy.

"They went to the barn, it’s warmer there … or maybe they were frightened of the soldiers." He peered at Nell. "Your friend’s a pretty lady."

The English girl smiled ruefully and ruffled his brown hair. "I’m sure she is, my poppet. More’s the pity."

* * *

The tithe barn stood behind the church, with open fields beyond it. There were footprints in the snowy yard. The two girls picked their way towards the door. Nell brushed back her cloak to clear the bayonet she wore. "We’d better not make any noise," she said.

Martine nodded, glancing round. A ragged cheer came drifting from the square. The door was standing just ajar. Nell drew her slender blade. The weapon was eighteen inches long. Her fingers squeezed the makeshift wooden grip.

She slipped in through the gap. The barn was dim and cavernous. The smell of mouldy hay went up her nose. Martine came at her heels and saw a pitchfork in the corner. She picked it up and gripped it in both hands.

They heard the sound of voices and crept forward, between the piled sacks and bales of straw. A pallid ray of sunlight tinged the far end of the barn and threw the nearer shapes into relief. A cart sat in the dimness, like a hibernating beast. A pair of girls were lounging next to it.

"They’re crazy to go back," said one. "The peasants will have stormed that house by now …" She was speaking French, but Nell could still detect her Irish lilt. Her hat was pushed back on her head. A malty fringe hung over her dark eyes.

The other girl had pale blonde hair. She shrugged in a complacent sort of way. "What the hell: we’ve got our share. That rich bitch won’t have left much else behind."

Martine and Nell exchanged a glance. The tracks had parted just outside the village. Two of the riders had turned off, and only these two had continued on.

The blonde girl swigged some gin and passed the bottle to her friend. Their greatcoats were unbuttoned, as if giving their firm bosoms room to breathe. The blonde wore a tight corset that revealed her upper chest, though a muffler was still wound around her neck. The Irish girl’s long shirt was belted tightly at the waist, which drew the linen taut across her breasts.

Both wore holstered horse-pistols. The dark-haired brigand had a cutlass too. But both were caught off-balance as Martine and Nell lunged forward round the cart.

The blonde girl squealed, recoiling from the glitter of Nell’s blade. She tumbled over in the dirty straw. The Irish girl was quicker, dancing clear around the cart. She tried to draw her pistol, but Martine struck out and hooked it from her grasp.

"You fucking bitch!" the brigand spat in English. She hauled her cutlass out as Martine went for her across the wagon-pole. The sword blade clashed against the prongs, deflecting Martine’s thrust. The Irish girl’s dark eyes were cinder-hot.

The blonde, meanwhile, had come up with an ugly handling-hook. She brandished it at Nell and scrambled up. The English girl eased round her with her bayonet extended. The brigand’s cleavage heaved excitedly.

The hook flailed through the air again and Nell leaned back from it. The blonde girl bared her teeth and snatched her gun. She tried to ward the redcoat off until she’d drawn the pistol, but her instincts were divided, and Nell managed to evade the slashing hook. She thrust her bayonet into the brigand’s fancy corset and pushed it past the strips of whalebone.

The blonde girl groaned with pain and doubled forward. Nell gave the blade a jerk, then twisted it. "This one’s for the lady’s maid," she told her dying victim. The brigand tried to scream, and choked on blood.

Martine was still sparring with the vicious Irish girl. "You killed my friend in front of me," she hissed. The cutlass swung towards her and she blocked it with the shaft. The dark girl followed through and kicked at her.

As Martine stumbled back, there was a meaty-sounding thud. The brigand’s narrowed eyes grew very wide. Nell had sunk the handling-hook between her shoulder blades. The cutlass wavered as the girl grimaced.

Martine lunged in again and thrust the fork with all her strength. It pierced the Irish girl beneath her breasts. The brigand’s mouth dropped open in a gawp of agony. Her lungs deflated with a bloodstained croak.

The two friends kept her upright, wedged between them. The hook carved deeper as the prongs sank in. The dark-eyed girl squirmed vainly as the spikes transfixed her body. She tried to claw Martine, and then went limp.

"You got your share, all right," said Martine grimly. She let the girl collapse beside the cart. The other brigand nestled like a lover in the hay, her eyes blank and her corset oozing blood.

Something gleamed in the thin light. Martine crouched down beside the dark girl’s corpse. A pearl and ruby earring had fallen from her pocket. The French girl picked it up and peered at it.

"Pickings from the lady’s bedroom," Nell said thoughtfully. "And worth a pretty penny, I’ll be bound."

Martine glanced round enquiringly. The redcoat nodded once. The earring dropped into the straw, and the two girls left the barn with empty hands.

* * *

The chateau looked as grey as flint amidst its snowy grounds. It loomed against the sallow winter sky. The afternoon was fading, but no lights showed at the windows. Two trails of hoof-prints led towards the house.

Martine and Nell rode through the gates and down the avenue, their weary ponies slogging through the snow. There wasn’t any cover round the walls of the old house. They’d decided to be brazen, with the hope that they would flush their quarry out.

They passed a frozen fountain and some white-cloaked topiary. There were no other tracks across the snow. No sound except the horses’ snorting and the crunch of hoofs. Nell looked round her casually. "I guess the peasants haven’t got here yet."

They’d guessed the last two thieves had gone back to the lady’s house. It was the Chateau Giraudon – Martine had seen the crest on the coach-door. The stony pile looked empty and forbidding. No doubt the brigands hoped to loot before the local villagers arrived.

No-one shot at them as they came up to the front steps. The trail led round the house, but they dismounted. Martine drew her fowling-piece and Nell pulled out her multi-barrelled pistol. The redcoat hung back, giving cover, while the French girl climbed the icy steps.

The front door was unlocked. The hall beyond was dim and cold. There was snow from someone’s boots still on the carpet. Martine sidled through, her shotgun levelled from the shoulder. Nell followed her along the passageway.

The house’s servants hadn’t fled. They were round the kitchen table. A hail of shot and ball had slaughtered them. Blood pooled on the planking, still congealing. The stink of powder lingered in the air.

A kitchen maid lolled backwards with a stupefied expression and a dripping scarlet wound between her brows. Another girl had slumped onto the table, face down across the remnants of her food. There were several more, both young and old: all murdered where they sat.

"So much for liberation," muttered Nell.

Then they heard a stifled giggle from the floor above. Martine looked up. Her trigger finger flexed. She and Nell retraced their steps towards the draughty hallway. There was someone rifling through the rooms upstairs.

Martine began to cat-foot up the staircase. The redcoat made to follow her, then noticed something hanging on the wall. It was an antique hunting crossbow, beautifully carved. She took it down and aimed across the hall. Martine glanced back, and pulled a face of mock-exasperation. Her friend just smiled slyly, like a girl about to try out a new toy.

She spanned the weapon with a creak, and took an arrow from the wall display. Then she came on up the stairs, her pistol in its holster once again. The house was silent as they reached the landing. They paused, and heard a rustling of clothes. The noise was coming from the master bedroom. As Martine crept towards the door, Nell heard the squeak of floorboards from behind her.

She twisted round, the crossbow at her shoulder. "Oh, look at me in this!" a girl’s voice crowed. She was in another bedroom, down the passage. Nell’s trigger finger tightened as the brigand with red hair came breezing out.

The girl was wearing a fur coat with just a shirt beneath it. The loose neck emphasised her large, round breasts. She came up short, eyes widening, and then the crossbow twanged. The arrow struck her cleavage with a thunk.

"Hgghh!" the redhead grunted with an agonised grimace. She reared beneath the blow and clutched her breasts. Nell’s blue eyes watched calmly as the girl went lurching backwards. Martine strode through the door ahead of her.

The brunette in the room beyond looked round with gleeful eyes, which widened like dark pools of disbelief. She was nude, and had been measuring a gown against herself. The sight of the shotgun made her flinch and clasp the garment tightly to her breasts.

"Good day, my Lady," Martine mocked. "I take it you’re the mistress of the house?"

The girl was young and pretty, but she was no aristo. There was a shrewish toughness in her stare. Her eyes flicked to the holstered pistol on the dressing table. Her carbine lay behind her on the bed.

Martine clicked her tongue, and aimed towards the brigand’s breasts. "So what were you – a housemaid here?" she said.

The girl moistened her lips, then nodded slowly. "She treated me like dirt," she said. "Now I can have my pick of everything." Her gaze flicked to her gun again. She let one nipple show. "If you want to have a share of it, you’re welcome ..."

Martine smiled crookedly and walked across the room. The girl was clearly tensing up to pounce. Martine let her make her move, then thumped her in the belly. The brigand doubled forward with a gasp.

Martine shoved her up against the bedpost and tied her wrists with a discarded sash. "You thought it was romantic, no?" she muttered. "The housemaid who became a highwayman …" The girl strained at the knots, her firm breasts heaving. Martine picked up the carbine from the bed.

"There’s an old tale of a highwayman. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. The redcoats caught his lover first, and set her up like this …"

She cocked the gun and placed the muzzle under the girl’s breast. The kiss of metal made the brigand flinch. Martine set the butt against the floor, then tied the gun in place, using strips torn from the rumpled linen sheets.

"You little cow!" the brigand sobbed. Her breasts were panting now. Martine went looking for some twine, and came back with a toothpick in her mouth.

Carefully she wedged the pick against the carbine’s cock, then pulled the trigger back and tied it down. The little toothpick took the strain as the lock-spring was engaged. The girl stared down with horrified dark eyes.

"I wouldn’t move if I were you," said Martine equably. She straightened up and turned towards the door. "Perhaps, if you shout loud enough, the other maids might hear you." She glanced around. "Except you killed them all."

"You can’t leave me like this, you bitch!" the girl wailed helplessly, but Martine simply walked out of the room. Nell stood on the landing with a wry look on her face. The French girl touched her on the arm, and the two of them went down the stairs together.

The brigand was left trembling in the bedroom. She tried to fumble blindly with her bonds. Her left breast rose and fell against the muzzle of the carbine. The cold had made the nipple pink and stiff.

"Slut …" she whimpered. "Peasant sow …" She thought her wrists were starting to come free. The silence of the house was deep and lonely. She clearly heard the toothpick snap in two.

"Oh NO!" she squealed, and then the gun erupted through her breast. It slammed a half-inch ball into her heart. The brigand jerked, mouth gaping, as the shot transfixed her body, and the canopy above was splashed with blood. She drooped over the carbine with her head bowed in defeat. Blood bubbled down the barrel, and hissed sharply as it touched the powder’s dregs.

Martine and Nell were on the steps when they heard the muffled shot. They turned to look up at the bedroom window. Martine stayed impassive as Nell gently kissed her cheek. A deathly silence settled on the house.

As they climbed astride their ponies and turned back towards the gates, the waning winter sun came out at last.