Honour and the Sword (66 page)

D’Estrada’s mouth went all thin, and I knew he was thoroughly pissed off. He came forward again, and this time he was savage, stamping and thrusting, luring the boy’s blade forward then striking up at the face, always doing that Spanish thing of going for the eyes. André defended, but it was like looking at me all those years ago, just beating the blade back, no time to riposte, it was
battement
,
battement
, lateral parry,
battement
, it was all defence, he was fucked.

Carlos Corvacho

I knew that desperate look, Señor, I’d seen it a few times when a man faced my Capitán. But the Chevalier wasn’t giving in easy. There he was, all on the defensive, then suddenly did this little half-turn, a
demi-volte
, you might say, whipping my gentleman’s blade out with him, then he was in and under it, going for the leg in my opinion, a very underhand trick, very French, but my Capitán’s left hand on to it, he beats it off easy and now he’s in for the attack. This was one of his own tricks, a sudden sharp jump forward, but the lunge twisting at the last second into a flick, and there was the Chevalier’s sword in the air, jerked clean out of his hand –

Jacques Gilbert

– and landing a good six feet away. I remember the tinkle as it came slowly to rest on the stone.

And there was my brother standing helpless and disarmed, and d’Estrada’s elbow already back for the lunge. It was too late for me to move. All I could do was close my eyes so I wouldn’t have to see it. I knew I’d hear it anyway. I knew I’d hear it for ever.

But there was nothing, and after a second I opened my eyes. There was André standing waiting for the thrust, and that awful desolate look in his eyes, because he’d been beaten and knew it and wanted to die, but d’Estrada, facing him, hadn’t moved.

Then d’Estrada said gently ‘I’m sorry.’

André dropped his head. He didn’t want pity.

‘You’re still young.’

‘Old enough.’

D’Estrada cocked his head to one side and smiled. ‘If you’d been prepared …’

‘I wasn’t.’

D’Estrada sighed. Then he said ‘You owe me a life, Chevalier,’ and sheathed his sword.

The boy stared helplessly at the ground, burning up with shame. After a moment d’Estrada walked slowly forwards till he stood right in front of him, looking down at his lowered head. He spoke very quietly, but I heard him just the same. He said ‘Come, Chevalier. We don’t cry.’

André’s head shot up. He wasn’t crying, of course he wasn’t, but there was something else on his face now, something startled, almost shocked. For a second something like a memory was tweaking at me, but it sort of wriggled away, and there was only a Spanish officer looking at André with an almost sad smile on his face.

‘We don’t cry,’ said d’Estrada. ‘We get angry, then next time we fight better.’

André hesitated, then actually smiled back. I didn’t understand, it was like d’Estrada was giving him something, he was bringing him back to life. I wondered what Corvacho thought, but he wasn’t even looking, he was staring towards the back of the roof with his mouth half open, then he yelled out ‘Capitán!’

Giles was clambering over the parapet. There were hands on the rung of the second ladder, and a curly head sticking up over the third that looked like Pepin. It sounds stupid, but I’d almost forgotten them, I’d almost forgotten everything but what was happening right here.

D’Estrada whirled round and snatched out his sword, but Giles was on the roof already, Pepin climbing over, and other men swarming up behind. D’Estrada spun back round to André, but the boy was still standing there, bound in honour not to move. D’Estrada wrenched his head away, and turned to the tower.

I got to my feet at last, with some confused idea of stopping them giving the alarm, but I was tottery, and d’Estrada pushed straight past me. He signalled Corvacho through the door, gave us one last wild glare, then turned and was gone. I heard his voice calling for guards as he went.

‘André,’ said Giles, calmly unslinging his musket.

‘Giles,’ said André, picking up his sword.

‘All right?’ He must have seen what had happened, but he wasn’t going to mention it, not Giles, he knew we’d a battle coming and if ever the men needed to keep their faith in André it was now.

André didn’t even seem bothered. It was extraordinary, he was himself again, like he’d never even thought about wanting to die. He said cheerfully ‘Sorry, Giles, I’ve screwed up, the alarm’s given.’

Giles shrugged. ‘Minute early, if that. They’ll know about us soon enough when we start shooting.’

‘Do you want me to hold here?’ asked André, gesturing towards the tower door.

‘And leave the army without their capitaine?’ said Giles. ‘Bugger off, we’re fine.’ There were more of his men up now, and he whistled two of them over. They were probably loaders, but they had swords, and that was all that mattered. Giles said ‘You two, guard that door. Anything tries to come through it, stick them, got it?’

They were used to Giles. They just nodded and went to the door.

André leant forward suddenly and grasped Giles’ arms. Giles gripped him back, then they broke quickly, and Giles went to the parapet, where his men were starting to lie down with their muskets.

‘Look at the spacing of you, for Christ’s sake,’ he said. ‘Three feet, how many times have I told you? Stop bloody cuddling up to each other, where do you think you are?’

André helped me as far as the ladder, then went over first to support me if I got in trouble. The sky was lighter now, but it didn’t seem like it when I looked down, I couldn’t see the bottom. I waited a second to give the boy a start, then lowered myself after him into the dark.

Twenty-Seven

Jean-Marie Mercier

The sky was getting paler, and it was almost time. I eased myself into the firing position, and rested my first musket on the parapet like a stand. I remember how it felt lying there. The stable roof was tarred wooden lathes, but the sun hadn’t warmed it yet, it was cold through my breeches. I remember how it felt against my legs.

I had already allocated the first targets. Mine was the furthest man on the firing step, a large, rather jolly-looking soldier, who was pacing up and down, flapping his arms against the cold. He leant forward for a casual look through his embrasure, and I took careful aim between his shoulders.

The clock started to strike five. At the same instant my man stiffened, turned, and said something to the soldier next to him, who at once looked through his own embrasure as if to see what my man had described. I didn’t wait for the clock to finish. I adjusted my aim, and fired.

Stefan Ravel

It was stifling in that barn with the whole assault team squashed in together. At the first crack of Mercier’s musket I yelled ‘Go!’ and we burst the doors and were out.

Those poor dons never knew what hit them. By the time I reached the Gate, the Guards on the firing step were already dead, cut down in that first volley, and those on the ground hadn’t time to turn before arrows came pelting at them from the woods on the other side. I hacked one down by the first cannon, Pinhead took out another with his sledgehammer, Mercier’s lot unleashed their second volley and that was the Gate Guards gone.

Which only left the little matter of the men in the barracks a hundred yards away. Not my business, of course, I was one of the mules hauling back that first cannon for Pinhead to hammer the spike in, but I could hear a great roar going up from the Square and knew the civilians were doing their stuff. I did glance round to check our infantry running across to screen us, but they did it all right, and so they should, God knows I’d drilled them long enough. Two rows of pike, with musketeers on each wing to provide sleeves of shot, just as we’d planned it all those months ago. It was a good plan, Abbé.

Given a chance, it might even have worked.

Jacques Gilbert

André shot through the empty Forge, me limping speedily after him, and there we were in the shelter with the horses. I was giddy and sick after the climb, but he helped me up on Tonnerre, and the relief of taking the weight off my leg was wonderful. I felt safer on horseback anyway, and there were my pistols loaded and ready in the holsters, everything just where it ought to be. The boy opened the half door and mounted Tempête, and I ripped off my Spanish coat. André hadn’t fought under false colours today, and neither would I.

It was just starting as we rode out. It was a shock even for us, so God knows what it did to the Spaniards. There was a terrific howl of people shouting, and a rumbling crash right next to us as the wagon with barrels was heaved to slam against the courtyard gates. The guards on our side tried to resist, but were overwhelmed in the rush of people pouring out of the Corbeaux and Les Étoiles, all armed with clubs and pikes and scythes and axes and reaping hooks, and screaming like madmen. One went down with a pike deep in his stomach, and the woman wielding it was Mme Laroque, Pierre’s mother, her face wild with hate. Another was scrambling over the barrels in the wagon, hooking his hands over the courtyard gate and scrabbling with his feet, trying to climb back inside, but a dozen hands were reaching for him, then a reaping hook came sweeping across the cart and yanked his legs from under him, and M. Poulain was dragging him down on the ground to the mob. There was a flash of steel as pikes and scythes were all raised in the air at once, and I turned away fast so as not to see them slicing down.

The second wagon was hurtling forward to block the south alley, propelled by the sheer weight of people shoving it, ordinary people like old Gabriel the sexton and Robert’s sister Agnès, only they didn’t look ordinary any more, they looked frightening. The wagon by the north alley was already in place, and as we urged our horses through the mêlée, there was a great
whoomph
of flame as the straw flared up, setting fire in an instant to the pitch underneath. There were a couple of soldiers on the other side, but the flames drove them back and they turned to run towards the mill. Old Mlle Tissot actually leant over the wagon to shake her fist and scream ‘Cowards!’ as they ran. She needn’t have worried. Bruno’s men were guarding the bridge over the mill stream, and no one was getting out that way.

We were out and in the clear. I turned in my saddle to see M. Thibault’s men blocking the main door to the barracks, but the crashing inside sounded like the soldiers were actually trying to barricade it shut, like they thought we were trying to get in. Looking at the mob by the courtyard, who’d run out of soldiers to kill and were climbing on the wagon to take pot-shots over the gates, I began to think they might even be right.

Carlos Corvacho

We went down those corridors like cannon shells, Señor, banging on doors and yelling the French were on us. We thought the rebels were trying to get in, you understand, we thought they were attacking us through our own roof.

We’d hardly touched ground on the bottom floor when we learned different. There’s young de Medina panting up saying our front door’s held against us, the guards dead and marksmen on the other side, there’s a wagon against the courtyard gate and rebels simply swarming up it, he says they’re not after attacking us, they’re trying to keep us in.

‘The back,’ says my Capitán, and round we turn to head the other way, but now there’s Alférez Calante coming up the corridor in a panic, saying the back gate’s shut and the guards killed. My Capitán’s for breaking out anyway, but Calante says we can’t, the gates are locked. They’re wrought iron, you see, Señor, and it seems somebody’s stuck a chain through the bars and padlocked the whole bloody lot shut.

It didn’t look good, Señor. There’s men shouting in alarm all round us, and glass breaking where they’re trying to escape out the windows, and gunfire and screaming coming from outside. Shocking sound, that screaming, it sounded like women to me, and that’s no joke in a battle, you don’t want to come up against a female when her blood’s up, and certainly not a French one. Our men are trying to fire at them through the windows, but they’re below us or out of sight at our own doors, we can’t get at them at all. So I’m looking at our officers, and there’s Calante shaking like a fever, and young de Medina licking his lips and looking as if he’s about to bolt.

It’s times like that you can tell the real gentleman, Señor, that’s when you know you’ve got the real thing. My Capitán gives a little laugh and says ‘All right, Calante, round up a couple of
escuadra
, we’re going out the side windows.’

‘No good, Señor,’ says Calante. ‘The alleys are blocked by fire, and the back yard’s suicide, there are marksmen on our roof picking off anyone who gets out. I tell you we’re trapped.’

My Capitán laughs again. He’s still flying a little, seeing as he’s just beaten the Chevalier de Roland blade to blade, he’s maybe a little light-headed. ‘It’s not as desperate as that, Fernando,’ says he, clapping the alférez on the back. ‘There’s a third way out of the south alley, and we might just give the rebels a little surprise.’

Jacques Gilbert

We met up with Marcel’s cavalry north of the church, hunting down the soldiers who’d emerged from the out-billets. There weren’t many actually, I think most had decided to stay quietly indoors. We chased a few running out of the cottages by the Almshouses, but it felt really strange doing it, like these were our streets again, and they were the fugitives. It felt sort of wonderful.

The clock was striking the quarter and our troops would be here any minute, so we galloped back down to the Gate, people cheering as we passed. Edouard was climbing on to the firing step to open the top bolt of the Gate, Pinhead was hammering a spike into the last cannon, and I remember thinking it was all safe no matter what happened, nothing could stop our troops now. But Pinhead had this awful strained expression on his face, and Stefan was actually hurrying towards us, he was almost running.