Honour and the Sword (51 page)

We found his horse all right, tethered in an overgrown paddock near the Roland farm, and when we peered through the bushes we saw candlelight glowing through the cottage windows. Everything looked nice and quiet, and it stank like hell.

‘He wouldn’t have left Tonnerre if he was planning to stay this long,’ whispered André. ‘He’d have rubbed him down and stabled him in the barn.’

I took out my knife. André had left his own in the guts of that don on the Château stairs, so I gave him my sleeve-knife, then crept cautiously towards the shrubs that lined the drive. When we got within a couple of feet we stopped and crouched together, listening. Bushes are wonderful things to hide in, Abbé, but they do have a habit of rustling.

But it was something even louder we heard first. I wriggled quietly forward, and there was an elderly soldier nestled comfortably in a thick patch of broom, snoring like a sick pig. His companion didn’t look much brighter, and the empty jug beside him told its own story. We crawled along a bit further to see if there were any more.

The place was bristling with them. There were three in the next clump of bushes, and a whole lot more beyond them, judging by the rustling and murmur of voices. I have to say it, Abbé, as an ambush they were a shambles. I suppose they’d given up expecting anything to happen this late, but that’s no excuse for bad soldiering.

As I carefully turned myself round, I put my hand on something soft on the grass and saw it was Jacques’ hat. André snatched it from me at once and crushed it tightly, but there was no hope in it, Abbé, the thing was cold and damp in the night air, it had been there for hours and already felt like a piece of history. André knew it too, his face was bleak in the moonlight.

I whispered ‘Come on, little general. We can’t help him here, he’s long gone.’

A loud creak ahead of us brought our heads sharp round as the cottage door opened. A man was coming out, a short thickset man I knew through many a tedious afternoon in his company at the markets. It was Pierre Gilbert himself, and he was carrying a jug.

We watched in disbelief as he strolled to the bushes ahead of us and passed it to someone inside. There was a certain amount of chat we couldn’t hear, then Gilbert said cheerfully ‘Ah well, if he doesn’t come tonight, you’ll make sure of him tomorrow,’ then turned and sauntered back to the cottage.

We returned to the horses in total silence.

Jacques Gilbert

I don’t want to talk about how I felt. How do you think I felt? It was my Father.

I don’t remember much of the journey. They slung me over a horse’s back like a sack of corn, but it didn’t matter. They rode straight into Dax, right up to the barracks, and through their gate into the courtyard. The last time I’d seen it properly it had little tables and people eating and drinking outside in the sunshine. Now it was dark and cold, and there were horses snorting and men shouting and soldiers everywhere you looked. They hauled me inside through a side door, and my mind was trying to tell me I should notice everything and remember it because it might come in useful, but I knew nothing was ever going to be useful again, and that didn’t matter either.

As we went down the corridor other soldiers came and stared, and one kicked me as I went past. The man in charge told him to stop it, I wasn’t to be marked, but the soldier said something bitter I couldn’t catch, then spat at me instead. We passed others who looked like they felt the same. I guessed they’d got news of the Château already, and maybe some had lost friends. They looked at me with hatred in their eyes. At least it was an emotion.

They took me up two flights of stairs, then into a little corridor. They searched me and took my knife, but nothing else, not even my ring, then untied my hands and led me into a cell. It was one of the inn’s old bedrooms and still had a straw-filled bed in it, but that was about all. They slung me on top of it then just left me. I lay with my mouth in the pillow, and the gravel still gritty on my lips. I lay there a long time.

Stefan Ravel

I’ve never seen fourteen men wake up so fast.

We’d made contingency plans, we’d done those long ago. Those the captured man didn’t know well enough to pinpoint would go home and warn the others. Everyone else would stay in the Hermitage and go on stand-by for attack, with outguards stuck at the main approaches to give the roof-guard early warning.

We sent Moreau off with a team to get the horses fed and saddled for a quick escape, and Leroux with another to pack up the guns. As a Verdâme man Leroux had no need to stay, but under the circumstances I thought I’d be glad of his cool head with the men. Dawn was on the way, and for all we knew the dons were too.

Someone else I’d have been glad of was André. The men responded to him, I’d seen it before, just the sight of that cocky little figure strutting about was enough to reassure the jumpiest of them. But he was out of it now and I’ll admit I was concerned. The trouble with old-fashioned nobility, Abbé, is they’re modelled on the old Roman types and keep their emotions well underground. Oh, it’s different now, these days nobility compete with each other to see who can sob loudest at the theatre, but André de Roland wasn’t that kind, and whatever was going on there was all on the inside. I was afraid he’d do something stupid.

He knew what it was about well enough. He understood Jacques’ real value to the enemy, and that the ambush we’d nearly walked into was for himself. He knew any attempt at rescue would just be sending men to die in a trap. He knew giving himself up would only sign the warrant for Jacques’ execution. He knew there was nothing to be done at all. And that’s just what the Andrés of this world can’t handle, Abbé, their answer to anything that hurts is to get angry and fight it. Well, we all have to learn sometime. There are things you can fight, and there are things that just hurt and hurt and there’s nothing you can do about them at all.

I knew where to find him. There’s just one spot at the Hermitage that’s out of sight of the roof guard, and that’s close behind the back wall of the weapons outhouse. I’d found it handy myself from time to time when I fancied a little privacy with a woman, and Leroux practically lived there. But it was a good place to be alone too, and that’s what I guessed would attract a lonely nobleman whose world had just caved in.

He was there. He was leaning his head against the wall, and punching the side of his fist on the wood. Nothing wild about it, he just stood there, thumped the wall once, let the heel of his hand slide slowly down off the wood, then thumped it again.

I said ‘Pack it in, André, you’ll unsettle the men.’

He turned round slowly. The pain in his face shocked me, but the discipline held. He muttered ‘I’m sorry,’ and let his hand drop back to his side.

I said ‘Leroux has a team inside packing up the guns for evacuation. God knows what they’ll think with you pissing about.’

He still didn’t get angry. ‘You don’t understand. What’s happened is my fault.’

‘On your account perhaps, but not your fault.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘My fault. It was me who turned Jacques’ father against him. He’d never have done this but for me.’

I said ‘I don’t give a fuck whose fault it is, and you shouldn’t either. You’re soldiers. He could have been killed in action tonight, so could you. Just think of it like that.’

‘Give up on him? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘I’m saying you can’t go tearing yourself in pieces every time someone gets hurt.’

He stared in outrage. ‘But this is Jacques!’

‘So? You’ve lost friends before.’

He shook his head. ‘He’s my family. If you knew how he’s looked after me …’

‘Oh we all know that,’ I said. ‘He told us often enough. But be honest, you don’t need him any more, you haven’t for months. He knew it himself. He knew you were outgrowing him. Why do you think he went to see his dad in the first place? He was pissed off you didn’t need him in the Château, he needed to feel better about himself, to brag about what a big man he was …’

He turned on me with such passion I had to take a step backwards.

‘Why do you hate him?’ he said. ‘Why can’t you leave him alone?’

I said patiently ‘I don’t hate him. I’m very sorry for him, he’s had a fucking horrible life, you’re the only good thing that ever happened to him and he knew he was losing you. But it happens, little general. The man had food in his belly, his future was secure, he was better off than most. Most of us are alone in this life, that’s just the way it is.’

He said ‘You don’t have a brother, do you?’

I kept my eyes steady and my voice level. I said ‘No, I don’t have a brother.’

‘You don’t know what it’s like to lose someone you love.’

That was harder, I’ll admit. I said ‘Maybe I don’t. Maybe I think it’s more important to get on with my own survival rather than wallowing in self-pity.’

He stared at me, half turned away, then spun back. ‘You,’ he said, ‘you think you’re wiser than anybody, but you’re the biggest fool of the lot. Why do you pretend feelings don’t matter? Why do you pretend you haven’t got any, and despise anyone who has?’

I laughed. ‘Feelings, André? If you didn’t love Jacques, they wouldn’t have taken him. That’s your real crime. By caring about the poor sod you’ve driven him to torture and death.’

He jerked back, eyes blazing, then his fist shot out and cracked hard into my face, catching me smack in the mouth.

I rocked backwards, but stamped down and managed to keep my footing.

He stepped back, and faced me warily.

I touched the back of my hand gingerly to my lip and it came away bloody. I looked at him reproachfully.

He said ‘Fight me. For God’s sake, fight me.’ His breathing was ragged, his eyes desperate, and his hands clenched tight into fists.

There was only one possible answer, and I gave it.

I opened my arms.

Jean-Marie Mercier

We hadn’t told anyone what really happened. Marcel said the Spaniards might use Jacques’ father to set a trap for André, and they mustn’t have the smallest suspicion that we knew. I don’t think I’d have said anything anyway. It felt like something very private to Jacques.

Everyone was quite upset enough as it was. Jacques was popular, you see, and all the Dax men were very subdued. I think Dom was almost in tears. He told us what Jacques had been like as a child, how lonely and unhappy, and how he used to try and cheer him up when they worked together with the manure. Then Colin said he’d known Jacques since they were both two years old, so he was obviously more distressed than anyone.

It was André I was most worried about, and so was Marcel. There were refugees beginning to arrive from Dax, Edouard, Bruno, people Jacques could identify from either full names or profession, but there was no sign of André anywhere. Then Giles told us he thought he’d heard him behind the weapons outhouse, so we went to look.

Stefan was there already, and he had André in his arms. André’s head was buried deep in his great chest and his arms tight round his body, and Stefan was holding him close. He saw us, of course, but didn’t move for fear of disturbing André, he only looked at us over the top of his head and smiled with gentle pride.

I whispered to Marcel ‘He’ll be all right now, won’t he? Stefan’s looking after him.’

Marcel didn’t speak for a moment, and I thought he seemed quite tense. He said ‘Yes. Yes, he’ll be all right now,’ but he didn’t sound quite himself. He didn’t seem to want to move either, so I slipped back to the Hermitage by myself.

I found Jacques’ blue blanket on the platform, folded up neatly as he’d left it. I picked up his hat, and placed it carefully on top of it, but then I absolutely had to take it off again. There was something strange about seeing his things piled up in a collection like that. It made me think he was dead.

Jacques Gilbert

D’Estrada came to see me after a while, and I saw it was morning.

‘So you’re Jacques Gilbert.’

I didn’t say anything. He knew who I was, he knew it better than me.

He said ‘We’ve been wanting to meet you for some time. You disappointed us rather badly at Christmas.’

I understood that, I just didn’t want to think about it. I lay on the bed and looked at him instead. I felt I was in a dream, or on that poppy medicine the boy used to take, I could look at him like he was a picture and couldn’t see me back. I noticed what dark-brown eyes he had, as dark as Tonnerre’s. I noticed the tiny black dots fringing the sides of his face, and knew his beard was only so neat because he shaved it that way. I noticed a ragged little scar on his face, then the cheek seemed to redden around it, and I knew he didn’t like me noticing it, it’s like he was ashamed.

I said ‘Did we do that?’

His eyes seemed to get thinner. ‘How do you mean?’

‘In the explosion. We thought we’d left you far enough away.’

He looked at me intently, like I was a book and he was trying to read me. Then he sat back in his chair, and ran his fingers over his beard. It made a faint scraping noise.

‘It wasn’t the explosion,’ he said.

I said ‘Oh.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

He said ‘I’m sorry about your father. Sometimes one has to employ methods one might normally deplore.’

His French was very good. It was better than my Spanish. It was better than my French, come to that.

He said ‘Let’s talk about André de Roland.’

I looked away and studied the wall. There were grey cracks in the plaster like someone had drawn lines with a pencil.

D’Estrada sighed and said ‘You might as well. Nothing you say can save him now.’

‘Why not?’

He made an impatient gesture. ‘It’s done now, there’s nothing we can do. But we can give him a quick death. I think you know I would prefer that.’

‘What do you mean “It’s done”?’

‘I am sure I can get the Colonel to agree to a quick death if you tell me some things I really want to know. For instance, why don’t you tell me where I can find the tanner of Verdâme?’

I said ‘What do you mean “It’s done”?’