Honour and the Sword (39 page)

‘His skin’s cooling,’ said Jacques, stroking André’s forehead.

Stefan sat back on his heels and breathed out heavily. ‘Talk to him.’

And Jacques did. No, I’m really sorry, it wouldn’t be right for me to tell you, I think that’s rather private. He talked, that’s all. Stefan and I went in and out, fetching linen, removing the wet blanket, bringing brandy, and still Jacques talked, gently and evenly on and on, until at last André’s head drooped again. Stefan laid his fingers against the side of his neck and gave a little nod.

‘Steady enough,’ he said. ‘Move fast now.’

We laid André back down on a dry blanket, and Stefan removed the sodden dressing. I brought more of the Château linen, but he didn’t reach out to take it, he seemed quite transfixed by the sight of the wound. I looked myself, and saw to my astonishment the edges were pinker and cleaner, and although there was still a very nasty area where the skin looked yellow and swollen like an overripe pear, it seemed definitely smaller than it had been.

‘More mould,’ said Stefan suddenly. ‘More of that mould. Cobwebs, anything, whatever the old bag said. It’s fucking working. Whatever it was, get me more of it’

The saddle was nearly finished, but I found more blue mould under some old leather bandoliers and a great swathe of cobwebs from the stables outhouse. Stefan took it all without comment, spread it on the Château linen and laid it gently over the great hole in André’s back.

André spoke quite distinctly. ‘That’s nice,’ he said. ‘Cool.’

A moment later he was fast asleep.

Jacques Gilbert

He slept most of the day, and in the evening Marcel arrived back with a wrinkly little man he said was the chief military surgeon from Doullens. The surgeon seemed quite grand for someone who was only a jumped-up version of M. Pollet, and came in all grumpy like he was already convinced we were wasting his time. When we told him André was alive and seemed better, he just raised his eyebrows, exchanged a funny look with his miserable assistant, and said ‘Well then, let’s get on with it, shall we?’

The boy had just had another belt of his poppy medicine and was deep asleep, so the surgeon rolled up his sleeves, drank off a huge mug of cider, sat down in the straw and got started right away. He had big fat candles that gave him loads of light, and he got us to stick them in shallow pans of water, which made the light reflect even further. He peeled off the dressing, made a face at it, and chucked it to his assistant, saying ‘Filthy, of course,’ like we were all deaf and couldn’t hear, then looked more closely at the wound and said ‘Hmm.’ He sat back on his heels a moment, looked round suspiciously, and said ‘Hmm’ again. We all looked at him blankly, and I noticed Jean-Marie had casually sat himself down in front of the mouldy saddle to hide it from view.

‘Nice job,’ said the surgeon at last. ‘There’s a chance here.’ He attached a strange pair of eyeglasses to his nose to make everything look bigger, then started picking in the boy’s back with long tweezers, like a chicken finding grain in a heap of sand. He got a shred of cloth and some little black specks of powder out of the wound, swabbed it clean, then stitched the whole thing up again. It only took about ten minutes. Then he stood up and held out his mug for more cider.

‘Remarkable,’ he said, sounding almost human for the first time. ‘Anything can happen, of course, you’ll need to take care with the dressing, but he’s a good, strong boy, no reason why he shouldn’t make a complete recovery.’

It’s funny, but it was only then I felt my knees start wobbling, and had to sit down. Things felt even odder on the ground, because it was all going on above me. I remember sitting there, my palms pressed hard against the spikiness of the straw, and looking up at the surgeon’s fashionable mauve breeches as he talked to Marcel like he was the only person there. It felt like something I was dreaming.

Then I saw Stefan. He was standing back apart from everyone else, leaning against a pillar with one great booted leg thrust out in front of him like he didn’t care who tripped over it. As I watched, he pulled out a flask from an inside pocket, flipped the stopper off with one dirty finger and put it to his lips. He watched the surgeon over the rim as he drank, and there was no expression in his eyes at all. Maybe he sensed me looking, but his eyes suddenly flicked to mine, and for a second he felt more real than anything else in that whole room.

Marcel said something to the surgeon, then led me over, and we looked down at André together. He was breathing softly and evenly, there was a faint pink tinge in his cheeks, and his lips were red. I didn’t cry, I didn’t even want to, I felt the way you do after Confession, that clean feeling sort of whooshing through you like you’ve been forgiven and given a fresh start. I wanted to share it with someone who understood, but when I looked round, the door was swinging open and Stefan was gone.

Jean-Marie Mercier

I escorted the visitors back to the
gabelle
road, because they preferred to stay the night at Lucheux rather than with us.

Everything looked peaceful at the Hermitage when I got back. Pepin waved happily to me from the roof, and I knew that inside there would be light and warmth and everyone celebrating because André was going to be all right. I stabled the horse in the outhouse, brushed myself down and walked towards the door, but as I reached it I jumped back suddenly in fright. There was a huge dark shape huddled against the wall. In the gloom I could just make out a shaggy head and two glinting eyes, and then I saw it was Stefan.

I came closer. He had his flask of brandy in his hand, and there was quite a strong smell of it about him too. He took another swig as he looked at me, and a little dribble came trickling down his chin. He didn’t even bother to wipe it.

I didn’t quite like to walk past, not while he was looking at me. I thought perhaps I ought to say something, but he was very drunk, and I wasn’t sure how he’d react.

He stretched up his arm and offered me the flask. ‘Drink?’.

I could see he thought I wouldn’t, and perhaps that’s why I took it. I actually took quite a large gulp, and it scalded all the way down my throat, but it warmed my stomach and I felt better for it.

‘That’s right,’ he said, taking it back. ‘It’s good stuff. André’s, of course, it’s all André’s. Couldn’t afford it myself, not a humble tanner like me.’

I moved past to the door, but as I opened it I heard his voice again behind me.

‘What made him do a thing like that anyway?’ he said. ‘Do you know?’

I looked back at him, but I’m afraid I didn’t understand. ‘The brandy?’

He looked blankly at me, than gave an odd short laugh like a bark.

‘No,’ he said. ‘No, no, no.’ He knocked the back of his hand gently against the wall. ‘No. I mean back there.’ He gave a little jerk of his head, and I suddenly understood.

‘He wanted to save you.’

His hand stopped moving. His eyes seemed to be trying to pierce through the darkness at me.

‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I’d worked that out all by myself.’

‘It was his choice.’

He took another swig from his flask, and looked carefully at the ceiling. ‘Saw it, did you?’ he said. ‘From your little nest in the heather?’

He didn’t ask even now, but I saw he wanted to know, so I described everything I’d seen, and how André had stood in front of his body and defended him against them all.

Stefan never looked at me once while I was talking, he never moved at all. When I’d finished, there was a little silence, and then his lips moved, and he started cursing quietly, almost under his breath.

I said ‘You know the rest of it.’

His face turned slightly, his eyes glistening in the moonlight.

‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘I know.’

He started to clamber to his feet, but was rather unsteady, and had to grasp my shoulder to haul himself up.

‘Stupid little bastard,’ he said. ‘I trained him better than that. You know I did, Mercier, I did everything I could.’

I picked up his flask, which had fallen in the straw, and handed it back. He looked at it incuriously, flipped it open, drank, then passed it back as if it were mine.

‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I never asked for anything in my whole fucking life?’

I took another sip of the brandy, and perhaps it made me braver than usual. I said ‘Well, perhaps you should.’

He stared at me incredulously for a moment, then gave a short, huffing laugh.

‘Blessed are the meek,’ he said. ‘Is that right, you fucking little oddity?’

He reached out suddenly, seized my head and crushed it against his chest, and I realized he was actually embracing me. He released me just as suddenly, flapped a hand at me and reached for his flask.

‘That’s mine,’ he said, and heaved himself into the doorway. He looked back for a moment, but I don’t think he was really seeing me, I think he was too far gone.

‘Blessed are the meek,’ he said again, then laughed. He swung himself out through the door and into the darkness, his laughter seeming to grow louder as he wandered away into the trees.

Seventeen

Jacques Gilbert

He got better every day. One moment he was this pathetic creature meekly taking everything we gave him, the next he was spotting me mixing spider medicine with his wine and saying if I tried it again he’d break my arm. He was out of bed in a week, walking about in two, and a few days after that I caught him trying to fence.

Stefan got all the credit, of course, he went swaggering about like a King’s Physician and wouldn’t let anyone else touch the boy without his say so. I didn’t mind at first, I thought it was fair enough. I never forgot what he did when things were so desperate, or those hours in the dawn behind that cold wet sacking when it looked like Stefan was our only hope.

People thought André’s recovery was a kind of miracle. The army got almost superstitious about him, and went singing that ‘
Petit Oiseau
’ till we were sick of the sound of it. I can’t remember what the new verse was this time, something about a bird flying over a cliff on the back of an eagle, but they probably had it crapping on something on the way, it seemed to be always doing that, you’d think it had diarrhoea. But they sang it in the villages too, and the Spaniards didn’t like that at all. They still went round saying André was dead, they talked like we were just making it up to save our faces, but they put up big posters offering two hundred livres for his body, so I knew they wanted to be sure. Don Francisco was probably having a few sleepless nights over it, and serve the bastard bloody well right.

The odd thing was I didn’t much care any more, it was like a lot of the hatred had burnt itself out. They’d trapped us and made us run for our lives, they’d murdered Philippe and nearly crippled André, it was like the worst defeat ever, but somehow the boy surviving made it like we’d won after all. Nothing else mattered. D’Ambleville at Doullens actually sent me back my ring, he said loyalty like that was worth more than the diamond, but even that didn’t seem important. André was going to be all right, and all I remember clearly is him putting it back on my finger himself.

The next day I went to see my family. It was a bright, cold morning, with the ground making crunching noises when you walked on it, but I felt warm inside, like a kind of hero returning home. I’d got tobacco for my Father too, and I knew he’d be pleased about that. M. Merien couldn’t get it any more, but Stefan used the couriers to buy it from the apothecary in Lucheux and André paid for us to have some too.

By the time I got to Ancre my nose and ears were so cold I had to keep pinching them. I remember opening the cottage door and the warmth rushing out at me with a burst of laughter from Blanche. I shut it quickly behind me to keep the draught out, and turned to look at my family.

They were all sat round the table with steaming bowls of soup in front of them. Their faces looked orange in the firelight, their hair all shining yellow and Mother’s bright gold. Blanche was on Father’s lap, his big hands clasped round her back, and the faces they all turned to me were still smiling from whatever they’d been laughing about. For a moment I felt sort of awkward.

Then Mother was up and scrambling round Little Pierre to get to me, hugging me so tightly I felt her warmth like a shock. Father looked shaken too, Blanche sliding slowly off his lap as he stood.

I said quickly ‘I’m all right.’ I could see he’d been worried, and that was warming me even more than the fire.

‘Oh my darling,’ said Mother. ‘We’ve heard so many stories, we didn’t know what to believe.’ She dragged me to the table and poured another bowl of soup. It was turnip, of course, but thick and sludgy and with chunks of pink bacon, so I knew M. Legros was looking after them all right.

Father still seemed shaky, like he couldn’t really take it in. He said ‘Lefebvre’s been saying all kinds of things, a big battle and God knows what. I thought it was just you and André.’

I felt a bit bad about that actually. It’s true I’d implied it was just us, I think I’d wanted to impress them, but they were impressed enough now, they wanted the whole story, and even Little Pierre listened with his mouth open and forgot to look grumpy. Father actually seemed upset, he made a mess lighting his pipe and bits of tinder went fluttering all over the floor. When I told about Philippe being killed, he made an exclamation and pushed right back from the table.

‘Oh poor Philippe,’ said Mother. ‘He went with you to the livestock markets, didn’t he, Pierre?’

Father grunted. ‘Every year.’ He pulled out his old red handkerchief and mopped the back of his neck. ‘They were good times. The ones at Abbeville were the best, we’d stay up the whole four days.’

‘It sounds like a lot of drinking,’ said Mother, but she said it nicely, and stroked his hand.

He looked at her fingers, patted them idly, then turned and stared into the fire. ‘We used to share a room with Gauthier, Ravel and Leroux, we’d split the money we saved and buy spiced apples. Yes, Nell, we’d have a drink or two, we were on holiday, all of us.’ He touched the tips of Mother’s fingers to his lips, and smiled.