Honour and the Sword (26 page)

I couldn’t think, he was banging my head against the tree, I said ‘I don’t know.’

He seemed quieter then. ‘If you cared about him even half as much as you pretend, you’d do anything to save him from that.’

I couldn’t make my mind work properly. I said ‘Yes, I would, anything, just tell me what I can do.’

He slowly released me and stood back.

He said ‘You can pray Marcel shoots straight.’

Eleven

Jean-Marie Mercier

Marcel ran so fast I was struggling to keep up. Perhaps that was good, because it stopped me thinking properly. I was watching his feet pounding into the ground in front of me and ducking my head to keep clear of branches, and all the time there was a voice in the back of my mind screaming that they wanted me to kill André.

We broke out of the woods into the graveyard behind St Sebastian’s, and paused a moment to collect ourselves. Then we wedged our muskets under our arms, adjusted each other’s cloaks to hide them as best we could, and walked across the graveyard towards the church. My heart was beating so hard I felt queasy.

There were a few people sitting inside, but it was gloomy after the daylight so I couldn’t see if they were noticing us or not. I think honestly they must have, because the tips of our barrels were poking up like broomsticks, but perhaps people decided they didn’t really want to know. We made it safely to the steps and up to the tower, and nobody said a word.

I went straight to the window. It was only a square hole in the stone, so I was able to look in both directions and see with relief there was no sign of the column. I expect they’d had to delay while they found out what happened at the Flanders Road, and of course we’d been able to take a much more direct route by travelling on foot.

I turned round and saw Marcel watching me.

He said ‘It’s all right, Jean, I’ll take the first shot myself. Just remember it’s what André would want. If he talks, half of Dax will lose a son, and he’d never want that.’

I knew that was true. It’s why I loved him, you see.

Jacques Gilbert

I went to M. Gauthier’s first, but he wasn’t in. There wasn’t even Dog barking, the cottage felt as empty as a house can be, and I remember thinking I knew how it felt.

Then I went home and broke the news to my parents. Father was good, actually, he was steaming angry, but he was much better in a crisis than Mother, who just walked about wringing her hands and getting in the way while we were trying to get bags together and lug everything over to the Home Farm.

M. Legros was very kind. He’d always agreed we could come if this happened, so he just stopped what he was doing and helped settle us in himself. We arranged all our stuff in the Third Barn, then built a wall out of hay bales to hide it, and it actually looked quite comfortable. It wouldn’t be for long anyway. If the boy was killed, we could go straight home. If he wasn’t, Marcel would get my family out of Dax by the
gabelle
road. I wondered when I’d know. That’s all.

No, I’m sorry, but what do you want me to say? Look, it was André. I’d sat and watched those bastards beat and kick him till he couldn’t stand, and now they were going to torture and kill him, and there was nothing I could do about any of it. Is that what you want to hear?

Jesus. Don’t you
ever
stop writing?

Jean-Marie Mercier

There was a great cloud of dust approaching from the Ancre Road. Marcel took up position at the window, rested his barrel on the ledge and brought his hand ready to the trigger. There wasn’t room for two, so I stood behind him, listening to the horses clattering on to the cobbles of the Square. There seemed an awful lot of them.

Marcel tensed his shoulders, and I knew he’d seen André. For a long moment I watched as he tracked with the barrel, then he flung back from the window and turned to me in frustration.

‘It’s no good, he’s buried in them. Will you try? It needs a better shot than me.’

I took his place, and at once saw the difficulty. D’Estrada’s scarlet saddle-cloth was clearly visible towards the back of the column, but André himself was mostly hidden by the horse’s head.

‘I can try,’ I told him, ‘but I might hit d’Estrada.’

‘Don’t do that, Jean,’ said Marcel quickly.

None of us wanted to kill d’Estrada. Apart from the inevitable reprisals, André and Marcel always said he was the only decent Spaniard in Picardie.

I looked again. They were slowing as they approached the Square, and I noticed the bobbing motion of the horse bringing up André’s body at a regular rhythm. If I aimed for the chest on the upbeat, then even if I mis-timed it I thought the ball could still take him in the head without touching d’Estrada. I watched him come up once, twice. I could see him quite clearly, down to the bruises on his face. He came up a third time, and I let him drop down. I couldn’t do it. I absolutely understood it had to be done, but I simply couldn’t do it.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘D’Estrada’s in the way.’

Marcel nodded, and resumed his position. ‘All right. I’ll wait till he’s going past and we get a sideways shot.’

I went on looking over his shoulder. The horse came on towards the Square, heads turning to stare at every step. One by one people recognized André, and a dreadful silence fell. Word seemed to spread ahead of them, and little crowds started to form outside the Quatre Corbeaux, the Forge, the bakery, the alley to the mill. A rather podgy cabo lounging about by the barracks seemed suddenly to react and stand up straight. He took a hesitant pace forward, then stopped to await the Capitán’s arrival.

We had only seconds left. D’Estrada was approaching the church. If we missed him here, he was only yards from the barracks, and the courtyard gate was already open to receive him.

Père Gérard Benoît

I watched the procession of soldiery with a heavy heart. However I had envisaged the return of André de Roland to his people, it had never been like this.

The only grain of hope lay in the presence of Don Miguel, for I knew him to be the kind of man who would never misuse a child, and had found him susceptible to pleading in the past. I accordingly removed my hat as he approached, and called deferentially for his attention.

Our Seigneur turned his head to me and smiled. Don Miguel checked his mount, paused, then urged the animal in my direction, signalling two of his men to follow.

Jean-Marie Mercier

Marcel swore under his breath. D’Estrada was trotting directly towards us and we’d lost the chance of the profile shot. If he came much closer I was afraid he’d be right below us and out of range completely.

Only he was slowing, and after a moment he brought his horse to a halt, as if to speak to the priest on the steps of the church below.

Marcel adjusted the barrel downwards. ‘That’s better. Now if only the priest can get d’Estrada to dismount, we’ll get a clear shot.’

Père Gérard Benoît

As Don Miguel brought his horse to a halt I perceived for the first time the lamentable state of our Seigneur. There were clear marks of violence on his face and body, and his clothes were in shreds.

I demanded at once what the child had done to merit such mistreatment, but Don Miguel only smiled and shook his head.

‘There is no more need for pretence,
mon père
,’ said he. ‘Your Chevalier has admitted his identity.’

I feared this might be a cunning trap to lure me into incautious speech, but André himself gave a little shrug and nodded sadly in concurrence.

Don Miguel looked between us a moment, then dismounted, passed the horse’s reins to his servant, and walked across to join me.

Jean-Marie Mercier

It was still no good. D’Estrada and the page dismounted, but the man holding the Capitán’s reins stayed in the saddle and planted himself square between André and ourselves. I think it was his servant, Corvacho, only he wore a helmet so I never had a clear view of his face.

He was the only one left. The rest of the troop had dismounted at the barracks, and were stretching and relieving themselves before wandering inside. If it hadn’t been for Corvacho, André would have been the only person mounted in the whole Square and it would have been the easiest shot in the world.

The plump cabo I’d noticed before came wandering towards the church as if waiting to speak to d’Estrada. I suddenly wondered if he might have recognized André.

‘Pray God he hasn’t,’ said Marcel, his eyes screwed up as he stared down his barrel. ‘What if he’s seen him with Jacques or his family?’

Père Gérard Benoît

Don Miguel remarked upon my lack of surprise at seeing our Seigneur in so humble a disguise, and enquired lightly if I had seen it before.

The principle of
Ad Maiorem Dei Gloriam
carried me onward, and I declared stoutly I had no idea of it until now.

Don Miguel sighed. ‘
Mon père
, I blame no man for loyalty to his liege lord, nor do I hold you accountable for the manner in which he has spent his time. For the Chevalier de Roland, however, matters are very different. Today arrives our new governor, the Don Francisco Mendéz of Seville, and the boy’s capture is most untimely. There may have been a time his age might have spared him inquisition, but I fear that is now past.’

I was struck with horror, and he saw it.

‘There is still hope,’ said he. ‘My Colonel could scarcely fail to extract the information he requires from one so young and unschooled, but if a good friend such as yourself were to supply it in his stead, there would be no necessity to try the experiment, and your Seigneur would be spared the torture.’

I said truthfully that I knew nothing of the Rebel Movement.

‘But you know the Chevalier’s friends,’ said he. ‘You know where he has been hiding and who has helped him. These are the people who will lead us to the rebels. Give me those names and I give you my word of honour to spare the child.’

I did not care for the office, for it felt like a betrayal of my beliefs, my community and my country. I said I could not help him.

‘Then no one will,’ said he. ‘For you should know these same friends permitted him to be captured and beaten today without lifting a finger to save him. Of all Dax, yours is the only hand that has been raised to support him, yours the only voice that has spoken in his defence. You are his only friend. I would you were mine also.’

His voice was passionate, and I saw for the first time how genuinely distressed he was. There was a fine sheen of moisture on his upper lip and a vivid pain in his eyes. He said very quietly ‘
Mon père
, I have never yet participated in the torture of a child, and would not begin now. I beg you to help me.’

I saw the anguish he was suffering, and understood that any names I gave would be merely anticipating, as André would be compelled to yield them in any event. It also occurred to me that apart from the pain of the torture, a young man of the character of our Seigneur could never live content with the knowledge he had betrayed his friends. If somebody had to take upon himself the mantle of Judas, was not the truly Christian thing for me to do it myself and spare the boy? Might not dishonour itself be honour in such a cause?

I hesitated.

Jean-Marie Mercier

We honestly couldn’t think what was going on. The Capitán’s servant certainly seemed to imagine he was in for a long wait. He stretched, eased himself, then finally started to dismount.

Marcel had the stock tight against his cheek. André was now lying so low on the horse’s back as to present only the smallest target, but we were above and looking down on him, and I didn’t think Marcel could miss. His finger tightened on the trigger – but at that same instant André made his move.

The second Corvacho’s feet struck the ground, André jerked the horse’s head, and dug his heels hard into its flanks. The reins were simply wrenched out of the servant’s hand, as the beast leapt forward and away. D’Estrada and the servant were left standing in amazement in a cloud of swirling dust.

Horse and rider simply streaked down the road to the Gate, right past the soldiers outside the barracks. There was shouting, but no one was mounted to go after him, and really it was chaos. Soldiers were running for horses or reaching for their guns, but crowds of spectators suddenly poured in among them, milling about between André and the pursuit. Our own Martin Gauthier was there, apparently chasing his dog, but always blocking the view or jogging the elbows of soldiers trying to raise guns. Some still managed to squeeze off a shot, but André was so low on the horse’s back he was virtually no target at all. One soldier kept his head, but even as he lowered his musket to shoot the horse, Marcel fired and took him clean in the neck.

I quickly took his place at the window and levelled my own weapon. There were soldiers staring round below us, trying to work out where the shot had come from.

‘Time to go,’ said Marcel.

It took me a second to find the plump cabo in the mêlée, but he hadn’t moved far. He was still standing alone and I didn’t see how he could have yet told anyone whatever it was he knew. I fired, and watched him fall.

‘Now, Jean!’ said Marcel. ‘Leave the guns, we’ll have to mingle with the crowd.’

Père Gérard Benoît

The Chevalier was away before any man could lay hold of the bridle, and the speed with which he rode caused the soldiers to scatter before him. I was concerned he appeared to be heading towards the Gate, which was closed and heavily guarded, or that he might attempt the Dax-Verdâme Road on the left, out of which more Spanish horsemen were already debouching. Nor was I reassured when he turned instead to the right, galloping down the Market Street, which runs alongside the Wall to its west corner, for I could not see how he could hope to flee from this position. He must of necessity turn right again where the Wall lay in front of him, but this track led only to the Thibault farm, which was walled and offered no route of escape on the other side.