Honour and the Sword (5 page)

The press of men behind me slackened a little, and I had a nasty suspicion some of our civilians were trying to back away. Our sergeant kept his head. He watched the bastards thundering closer, he knew as well as I did those breastplates can resist a ball at anything other than close range, and only when they were nearly on top of us did he give the order to fire. It was a good, tight volley, a great crash of sound, and through the smoke we heard the screaming of horses, the shouting of men, and the thud of bodies hitting the ground.

It was over a year since I’d stood in the line, but the drill comes back pretty quickly in that situation, and I was legging it to the back before the echo even died. I’d forgotten the rest of it, though, the bitter smell of smoke, the roar in your ears, the instinct that reaches for your powder the second your hand’s off the trigger, I was only just in with the ramrod when the second rank fired. There was still a third, but the sergeant called them to hold, he knew once they discharged we were stuffed, we weren’t up with the reload. The cavalry saw us waiting, thought better of it, and backed off to regroup. Some of the civilians cheered, but not me, Abbé, I’d seen it all before. I knew what they’d do next.

And they did. They’d mustered more men for their next assault, so they halted just out of range, then sent up the first group with levelled pistols. It was only the bloody
caracole
, and us a sitting target with three thin ranks to beat it. On they came, blasted their pistols at us and skipped back out of range while the next lot took their place.

The sergeant divided our ranks into two, so we could raise six rounds to cover the reload, but it couldn’t last, men were dropping all round. Next time I reached the front there was only Marcel and one other man beside me, a hard-faced bugger in a fancy coat who was Steward of Ancre itself. He wasn’t even that for much longer, the bastards fired the same time we did, and blew a hole in his chest I could have stuck two fists in. I was over his body and off for the back, Marcel limping beside me. His hand was clutching his thigh, while between his fingers pumped out thick, red blood.

I grabbed Giles Leroux from the second rank to take his place and yelled at Marcel to leave the line, but he only grinned and shook his head. Smoke-blackened face, wide smile and eyes as bright as hope, poor lad, just burning to be a hero. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘They’ll give up soon.’

Did they buggery. A murmur ran along the ranks in front of us and I saw something nastily familiar rumbling down the Ancre Road towards us. Field guns, Abbé. Artillery. We were fucked.

Père Gérard Benoît

Our sergeant saw that all was lost, and ordered the civilians to flee while he took upon himself the business of military surrender. I was rejoiced to see the young Marcel Dubois escaping into the woods with a companion, for his gallantry deserved a better reward than to be made prisoner of the enemy.

Many of our folk had already quit the village with such goods as they could carry, but others had nothing in their lives but the homes and businesses they were now required to leave. Some ran for Verdâme, in the hope the assault might have spent itself there; some concealed themselves in the Dax-Verdâme woods which divide our two villages; others barricaded themselves in the illusory safety of their homes. Many sought sanctuary in our own church of St Sebastian, crowding the building to the extent I found it hard to re-enter, the more as some had brought their livestock, and the aisles were filled with pigs and chickens. I nevertheless sought to comfort the people with the saying of Mass, but was scarce halfway through the service when a loud crash announced the opening of the west door, and in the next moment a great body of soldiery came thrusting into the church with levelled firearms and drawn swords.

The people cried out in alarm, but I only raised my voice the higher and continued the Mass, in the hope the soldiers would respect the sacrament. In this I was at first justified, so that while they came roughly enough among us, they did not seem set on violence, but contented themselves with gathering up the livestock while demanding money of the congregation. Some, indeed, wrenched from the walls such poor ornaments as our church could boast, and one was so blind to his own soul he reached out to the very chalice in my hands, before a better-educated colleague, aware the consecration had already occurred, struck down his arm, saying ‘The blood of Christ, man,’ and averting this most terrible blasphemy.

All this while I continued the service, and the people kept their eyes upon me and their voices steady in the familiar responses as if their lives depended on the action. The soldiers stood irresolute while the service proceeded, but as at last the ‘
Ite, Missa est
’ was uttered, they stirred and looked about them as though awoken from a spell. Seeming to become aware for the first time of women amongst us, one reached out to the beautiful Mme Gilbert, while another seized the youngest daughter of Mathieu Pagnié, a maid but eleven years old. At once his fellows plunged eagerly into the crowd, competing to secure the youngest and most attractive women, and all was in uproar as men fought to protect their wives, and parents their children. In vain we appealed for restraint in the house of God, but as Pierre Gilbert wrested his wife from the hands of one trooper, another thrust forward with a pike to spear him to the wall.

The boom of the west door as it was flung violently open shocked us all into silence. There stood in the entrance but one man, yet at sight of him the soldiers immediately lowered their weapons and became still. The man stepped forward within light of our candles: a tall, slim figure, elegantly dressed, with a broad scarlet sash slung carelessly over his breastplate, and atop his helmet the red cockade of Spain. That this was a Capitán was evident from the page who now stepped from the shadows to his side, and as he advanced down the aisle, the escort which filed after him numbered the full eight of a
maestro de campo
himself.

The soldiers parted in respectful silence to let them pass. Those who still clutched evidence of their looting now furtively laid it down, and one man who held in each hand the legs of a struggling chicken attempted to bestow them discreetly on a bench behind him, but the affrighted birds made such haste in effecting their escape they collided in mid air with much squawking and flapping of wings, so that feathers flew all about us and into the very face of the advancing Capitán. He paid no heed, but continued on his way, pausing only at sight of the soldier who had hold of Suzanne Pagnié. He still spoke no word, but only looked in the face of his trooper until the man bowed his head and released the girl to her anguished father. Others about him immediately relinquished their own captives, and I rejoiced to find we were fallen at least into the hands of a gentleman.

My faith proved justified, for on reaching the sanctuary the Capitán removed his helmet to salute the altar, then turned to address the people. He announced himself as the Don Miguel d’Estrada, and said there was no need to be afraid, for we were come under the protection of the Cardinal Infante of the Spanish Netherlands. He urged the people to disperse to their own homes, assuring them of their safety as long as no further resistance was offered and all assistance and co-operation given to the forces of Spain. His men would require billeting and maintenance, but we would be otherwise unmolested.

He made us a curt bow as if to retire, but fear for our Seigneur emboldened me to ask the fate of our people at Ancre.

He turned to me a face of such strain it was with a sense of shock I realized he was but a young man, of perhaps not even one and twenty.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I understand there was resistance and my men had no choice. By the time I arrived there were no survivors.’

Our world darkened, and all within hearing bowed their heads. I fear my voice trembled as I asked ‘None at all? Not even the child?’

He had been in the act of turning away, but my words arrested him.

‘Child?’ said he, and his manner seemed more attentive than before. ‘The Chevalier de Roland had a child?’

Jacques Gilbert

We spent the whole bloody day hiding in the forest, and it was just awful.

It was raining for a start. We went deep into the woods to get shelter off the trees, but the rain had still drizzled through and everything was dripping wet. I dried off Tonnerre and Duchesse with their blankets, but hadn’t got one for Perle, so I used mine and hoped she’d keep the foal warm by nestling up to it, which she did.

The boy cleaned his bloodied sword on the grass, then sat against a tree, hugging his arms round his knees. He was soaking wet and shivering all over, so I offered him my blanket but he just shook his head. I showed him it wasn’t that damp after rubbing down Perle, and really it wasn’t, though it was perhaps a bit hairy, but he just waved it away and went on sitting in silence.

So I fed the horses, then got out my bread and cheese for the boy, but he wouldn’t take that either, I guessed he’d never seen black bread before. I didn’t feel I could eat if he didn’t, so I wrapped it up again and stood with my stomach rumbling. I couldn’t even think of anything to say. I’d never talked much to him except for answering his questions, but he wasn’t asking anything now, he was sitting looking miserable as if he knew.

What made it even harder was him being a different person, because now he was Seigneur. I didn’t mind nobility, not the way Father did, but when they were around you had to behave nicely, and not scratch yourself or fart or anything, and you had to be very careful what you said and did. So I just stood there, because of course I couldn’t sit unless he said so, and he wasn’t saying anything at all.

I had an inspiration, and offered him the brandy bottle. He sniffed it and looked a bit doubtfully at me, so I nodded encouragingly and he tried a little sip. Then he coughed, looked at the bottle more thoughtfully, and had another. He passed the bottle back, but when I took it he noticed my bitten hand. I tried to hide it, but it was too late.

‘Let me see,’ he commanded.

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Let me see.’

I showed him, and it was a bit of a mess actually, he’d practically gnawed it. It was throbbing too, but I didn’t feel I could complain, I mean he was the Seigneur, he could bite every peasant in the village if he wanted, even if it was a rather odd thing to want. But he tore a strip off his nightshirt, soaked it on the wet leaves, and cleaned the wound himself, then wrapped another strip round like a bandage and said ‘There!’ like it was all better.

Things felt easier after that, so I risked asking if I could make myself comfortable. He said of course, so I walked deeper into the forest and grabbed the chance to eat some bread where he wouldn’t see. I had a good belch too, and yawned and stretched and scratched my legs where the wet breeches were itching, everything I couldn’t do in front of the boy.

It had stopped raining when I got back, but the boy was still sitting against that tree, looking soggy and sullen. The bruising on his face was coming up black now, like someone had clobbered him good and hard, there was dried blood by the corner of his eye, and his ear was just a mess.

‘How did that happen?’

He ignored me, but I remembered his parents had been killed and his house burned down, and maybe it was reasonable he didn’t want to talk. So I just passed him the bottle, took the strip of linen he’d used before, and crouched down to clean his face.

At once he put up his hand to shield his cheek. ‘No, it’s all right.’

‘I’ll just clean it,’ I said, and made another dab at him, but his hand snatched up and caught my wrist, and he’d got the strongest grip I’d ever known. I felt helpless and humiliated, and maybe that’s why I said what I did, which obviously I wouldn’t if I’d thought about it. I said ‘I let you do mine.’

He stared at me in shock, and that’s when I realized I’d also given him ‘
tu
’, which is about as good a way of committing suicide as I know of, I mean you don’t
tutoyer
your Seigneur, however young he is. I closed my eyes.

His fingers slowly relaxed and let go of my wrist. After a moment I heard him say ‘All right.’

I couldn’t understand why he was letting me off, but certainly wasn’t going to ask, I just got on and cleaned him as best I could. He didn’t flinch at all when I was doing it, not even when I wiped round his battered ear, it was like he was determined not to show any feeling at all.

He just said ‘Thank you,’ then ‘Why don’t you sit down?’

I realized he genuinely didn’t know I was waiting for permission. I sat down quickly and he passed me back the bottle, but I didn’t like to drink much because I saw he was watching me. It’s like he was expecting me to say something, but I couldn’t think what.

I began to feel uncomfortable. I’d like to have gone off again, but couldn’t keep pretending I needed to crap, he was going to start worrying there was something wrong with me. I tried suggesting he get some rest, and laid out my blanket all invitingly on a pile of bracken, but he said he didn’t think he could sleep. In the end there was only one thing for it, so I just kept passing him the bottle and waited for results. It wasn’t the real thing, that brandy, just distilled cider M. Thibault used to make on the quiet, but it was good strong stuff and I didn’t think the boy could hold out against it long.

After a bit he started to talk. He didn’t say anything about what had happened, he just talked about the future and getting the estate running again like nothing had changed.

I said ‘But the Spaniards have destroyed it all, haven’t they?’

He looked down his nose, like I was a bit of snot hanging on the end of it. ‘I can rebuild. I have resources hidden here, I don’t need to worry about money.’

I’d never heard anyone say that before, I mean you don’t, do you? But he seemed to mean it, so I asked casually if he was going to live in Dax or stay in Paris like his uncle, who used to spend all his time at court before he got the pox and lost his nose. I didn’t say that about the pox, obviously, we all had to pretend we didn’t know about that, I just said ‘like M. le Comte’, and he understood.