Chapter 22: Sandrine Is Attacked

[Autumn, 1678]
Oxford, Oxfordshire

HE STRUCK HER from behind, and his blow might have knocked her unconscious had it landed true. The fight would have been over before it started.

Sandrine was on her weekly visit to Mass at the nearest Catholic church, the one she knew remained open until late on Wednesday nights. She kept her Catholicism quiet. She’d been baptized in the Church on Martinique as an infant and had received some instruction from the priests and from her owner. Her faith had been shattered by the loss of her baby and whatever churchgoing survived her loss of faith had lapsed when she was taken from Martinique and sold to Amélie’s father not long after she’d given birth. Her new owner and his family were non-practicing Christians and did not care a whit about Sandrine’s religion. Here in Oxford, however, Catholics were practically outlawed, and the recent so-called Act of Toleration meant amnesty of a form only to Nonconformists, those Christians who did not adhere to certain teachings of the Church of England.

All this was secondary to her as she walked along the quiet street. Although it was unusual for a young woman to venture out at night alone it was not unheard-of, especially in the quiet neighborhood where she and Amélie lived in the establishment of Master Heathcoate.

The small man had observed her and Amélie over at least a month. He’d become aware of the Wednesday night excursions early on but wanted to be sure before he struck. He was unable to solve the question of where to take her once he had immobilized her, which meant he would have to conduct the ritual outside. It was unfortunate but he saw no alternative.

He did not know anything about the woman he chose to attack, that was certain. Because of his size, he had heretofore relied on speed and surprise to overcome his victims. Had any of them been able to react and had any of them previous experience in wrestling or self-defense, his captures would have gone very badly.

Instead of her head the stick in his hand struck Sandrine’s right shoulder. It broke off but it left Sandrine’s right arm temporarily paralyzed. She dodged his attempt to follow up and struck him in the chest. When she turned to flee, however, he caught her skirt and pulled and she tripped and fell in the gutter. He was on her in an instant but, torn between completing his rape or rendering her unconscious, he hesitated. It was his undoing. Sandrine may not have been as experienced a wrestler as Gérard, but she’d had more practice escaping the clutches of those who hoped to help themselves to her charms without first asking her permission.

She twisted when he landed on her and threw him off. It wasn’t hard to do—she outweighed him by at least twenty pounds. When he lay sprawled she rose and kicked him between the legs as hard as she could. She left him curled up in agony where he attempted to breathe and scream at the same time.

“I’ve seen him before, Amélie,” she said when the two sat down together following her safe return to the residence. “I can’t remember where, exactly, but I remember noticing him or somebody like him, a small man, at least a couple of times before. Maybe he was following us, or me, around?”

Amélie held her close. “Let’s tell Gérard when we see him, Sandrine. He needs to know.”

Neither one thought right then of the young women who had been found murdered in recent times in Oxford.