Honour and the Sword (34 page)

So we did it all properly, and Jean-Marie bought fabric in Sus-St-Léger for his friend Jeanette to make new clothes. She’d do anything for André because he’d avenged her family by hanging the Pedros, but we had to keep her from actually seeing him, because she would keep banging on about the hostages, and we’d already agreed we didn’t want him hearing any more about his Mlle Anne. Jean-Marie just took the measurements himself and delivered the clothes on the day.

It was the tenth of October. I even remember the date, almost like I’d known how important it was going to be, which obviously I didn’t. At the time it was just exciting to be going and wearing our new clothes. André’d insisted I have them too because of being his aide, so we’d both got these white lawn shirts with huge sleeves and about a million pleats at the back, dark-blue sleeveless pourpoints to wear over them, and a falling lace collar at the front. I was boiling in mine, and my breeches were so full I could have carried a dozen dead rabbits down each leg, but Jean-Marie said it was very modest by today’s fashions, so I supposed it was all right. Marcel even made us wear our hair loose and curling down our shoulders like proper nobility. When we’d finished André looked like someone too grand for me to even speak to, but then he showed me my reflection in the stream and I saw I did too.

We didn’t risk the Square, we went through the Dax-Verdâme woods and into St Sebastian’s by the graveyard gate. We stopped at the north door, and I reminded André to watch my signals and only come in at the last minute, then to stand quietly near the door so we could nip out fast if we had to. I remember looking at him in his smart clothes, the Chevalier de Roland going to church with his aide, and it was like getting a sudden picture of my future. Then I pushed open the door, and crashed right back into my past.

All the familiar things seemed to smack me in the face. There was that statue of the Madonna with lowered eyes, which Father said made her look like an Abbeville prostitute. There were the plaques for all the old sieurs of Dax, and the stained-glass window with the apostles on it, and St Peter pointing upwards with a finger so fat it looked like he was wearing a bandage. There were the choir stalls, and Colin at the front just as usual, then I looked over to the west door, and there were my family coming in like they did every Sunday, and me not with them, me nothing to do with them at all.

Mother still looked beautiful, even with her hair tucked into a scarf because of it being Sunday. Blanche looked older, and her blond hair was curling down her back. Little Pierre was a man now, a good-looking one at that, and there was something different about him I couldn’t work out for a minute, then realized it was because he wasn’t scowling. Last of all came my Father, and that was somehow the biggest shock of all, because he looked exactly the same. He had on his same Sunday clothes, with the grey coat too tight for his shoulders, making him look like a bull dressed up. He was strolling up the aisle with that same slight roll in his gait, his hat safe in his big fist, he looked easy and comfortable and indestructible.

Then he lifted his head, and our eyes met.

I don’t know why it made me jump, I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Then Mother turned and saw me, and it was like her whole face was swamped with a kind of disbelieving joy. It was only for a second, then she was just Mother again, and waving at me through the crowds as Father turned away and urged her into a seat. I didn’t go to sit with them, of course, I couldn’t leave the boy to stand on his own. It didn’t look like they expected it anyway, Father put Little Pierre beside him like he was the eldest son now and I didn’t even exist.

The bell was going into its final stage when it got faster and faster like an angry wasp, and the last people were sort of scurrying in looking embarrassed. I checked again for soldiers, then sidled back towards the north door and furtively waved my handkerchief to show it was all safe. André slipped inside just as the bell stopped and the west door was banged shut. I made space beside me like we’d agreed, but he said quietly ‘Come on,’ and began to walk openly down the transept towards the aisle.

I couldn’t believe it. All the faces turned to follow him as he passed, and a murmur rustled all round the church, gradually fading away till there was nothing but the rap of his footsteps on the stone, and the confident jingling of the sword against his boots. I shambled furtively after him, wondering what the hell he was playing at, but of course I should have guessed. He turned down the aisle to the Roland stalls, stepped up and sat in his father’s seat.

It was like everybody breathed out in the same moment. We had a Seigneur in Dax again, everything was back like it should be. It was a bit silly really, because he was still only fifteen, but when I looked at him I found I could remember really clearly what his father had looked like. I think other people were remembering too, some of the older ones looked like they were nearly in tears.

I shuffled quickly into the low seat beside André’s and tried to be invisible. It felt strange seeing the church from a different angle, like looking through someone else’s eyes. There was a bunch of rosemary tied to the rail in front of me, probably to cover the smell of the rest of us. I touched its prickly spikes with my finger, and it gave out a faint hint of scent in a crumbling dust. I looked up, and saw Father was watching me.

I don’t remember much of the service. I remember the choir sang a
Te Deum
for Louis Dieudonné, and I heard Colin’s powerful baritone, but not Robert’s tenor, I’d never realized how beautiful it was till it wasn’t there. I remember Père Gérard adding prayers in French at the end, thanking God Le Câtelet had returned to French hands, and praying this was a sign our own liberation might soon come. I remember the huge amen after it, which was the loudest I’d ever heard. I remember my Father’s eyes on me, and the touch of André’s sleeve as he sat by my side.

When it was over we nipped out quickly by the north door, but there was already a crowd gathering in the graveyard to pay their respects to the Seigneur. I stood back where I could see him and keep an eye on the Square at the same time, since this was the obvious moment for anyone who wanted a quick thousand livres to run and tell the Spaniards he was there, but then a hand fell on my shoulder, and when I looked round it was my Father.

He looked amused at my surprise, and took his hand away quickly, like he was embarrassed himself. I don’t remember saying anything, I think I just stared.

‘Don’t do that, boy,’ he said. ‘You look like a sheep.’

I expect I went on looking like it.

He said ‘You’re a little dusty behind. Do you want me to …?’

I shot my hand round to my arse, and he was right, there was all soft grit on the seat of my breeches, I suppose it had been years since anyone bothered to dust the Roland stalls. I brushed it off furiously, feeling stupid, but when I looked up at Father he just nodded and actually gave me a smile.

‘Looking good, boy. I understand why you couldn’t sit with us.’

I stared at him. ‘I thought …’

‘What?’ he said, and tipped his head to one side. ‘What?’

I’d thought he didn’t want me.

‘So when are you coming to see us?’

My heart jumped. Maybe he was trying to make things up between us. Maybe it was really possible we could somehow put things back the way they used to be.

‘Think about it,’ said Father, gazing vaguely over the crowd, looking at everything and anything that wasn’t me. ‘Your mother misses you. Give us a bit of notice though, she’ll want to kill the fatted calf.’

He patted my elbow and wandered off to join Mother, who was smiling and waving goodbye from the road. Blanche waved too, but Little Pierre stuck his hands in his pockets and scowled, like he always did when he wasn’t coming first. I began to realize Father was serious, and when he said Mother missed me, what he really meant was he did too. I felt happiness floating up inside me like wine.

The feeling lasted all the way back to the Hermitage, and it’s like it had sort of come on ahead of us, because there were loads of people there already, just having a drink to celebrate. Jacob wedged the door open so the sunshine could pour in, and the Hermitage looked quite different. People were dressed nice from going to church, there were bright colours everywhere, blues and reds and yellows, and people talking in happy voices, with little threads of laughter weaving through the babble. It’s like the service had had the same effect on everyone, we’d got a new Dauphin, things were going our way, and everything felt full of hope.

Marcel obviously felt it too. He stood up at the platform end and said we’d lain low long enough, it was time to get active again as soon as we could think of a worthwhile target. Everyone started shouting out at once, some wanted to raid the Spaniards’ stores, others wanted to get back at the looters, one or two really drunk ones suggested the Château but shut up fast when they saw Stefan’s face. Then Giles said ‘What does André think?’ and others started calling it too, everyone turned to look at the boy.

He was leaning against a pillar with his head down and hadn’t said a word, like it all meant too much to him for that. Now he lifted his head and said ‘We want to hit back, don’t we? We want to make them pay for Giulio, and Martin and Pierre and Robert and Vincent and Clement and Jehan and Cristoval?’

Everyone went very quiet.

‘Well then,’ said André. ‘We don’t waste time on the petty things or the soldiers following orders. I say we go for Don Francisco himself.’

There was a few seconds’ silence, then suddenly this great roar that was even louder than the amen in church. Marcel was smiling and nodding, everyone was shouting ‘Don Francisco!’, it would have scared the fat bastard to death if he’d heard it. Then I noticed a still patch in all the movement, and there was Stefan, standing by himself in his shabby brown coat, holding a wooden mug of cider and watching the boy in silence. When André glanced round at him he lifted his mug a few inches, and bobbed his head in something oddly like a salute.

Carlos Corvacho

I can’t think what possessed him, Señor, coming to Sunday Mass in the very place he was an outlaw. Naturally we found out, Muños still had his ears open at the Corbeaux and we had the full story within a week. He’d not only been in Dax, he’d sat in his father’s seat, and he’d done it in full daylight while wearing a sword.

I thought the Colonel would have a fit when we told him, but he was surprisingly composed. He sent for the chef, laid his hat on the table in front of him, and said ‘There you go, fellow. Can you cook that?’

Rousseau was a funny-looking chap, but a genius at cooking, he used to make this
pâté de canard en croûte
I still dream about. He doesn’t flicker so much as an eyelid, he just looks the Colonel in the eye and says superbly ‘Entrée or dessert?’

‘Entrée,’ says the Colonel, smiling with all his teeth. ‘The Capitán d’Estrada will provide dessert.’

So Rousseau takes away the hat and serves it to the Colonel at dinner that night. He minced it into pieces with pork, Señor, and simmered it with onions in cider to soften it, then he served it in a pastry case shaped the way the hat used to be, and on the top was the plume, each little strand coated and cooked brittle in sugar. It was very pretty, but I couldn’t say how it tasted, the Colonel insisted on eating every mouthful himself.

When he’d finished, he raised his glass to the Capitán and said ‘My word is now honoured, d’Estrada. May I ask if you hope to honour yours?’

It wasn’t really fair, Señor, my Capitán never passed his word of honour, not strictly speaking, neither of them did, but there’s only one answer for a gentleman, so he drew himself up and said ‘I shall honour it or die.’

‘Oh good,’ said the Colonel, picking pieces of hat from his teeth. ‘But I do hope it’s the former, d’Estrada, I should hate to have to spend evenings with that boor Martínez for company. The man can’t even play chess.’

My gentleman was rather broody after that, but he never liked a fuss, so I pretended everything was just as usual and went to get our horses for his evening ride, and that’s when it happened, Señor, almost like a miracle.

Not that it looked much like it at first, only one of the grooms saying he wanted to see my Capitán. Naturally I told him no, I didn’t let people like that near my gentleman, least of all the French ones who worked here as a labour tax, but he only said ‘Oh well, if your officer isn’t interested in laying hands on André de Roland, then that’s his affair, isn’t it?’ and turned to walk away.

My Capitán didn’t like informers as a rule, but he was a practical man who understood soldiering. ‘Carlos,’ he’d say, ‘you have to touch pitch sometimes, and count the being defiled as an occupational hazard.’ This groom now, he was what you’d call pitch in any language, but there’s no denying my Capitán was in a very delicate situation, so I said ‘All right, but you’ll catch it hot if you’re wasting his time.’

He smiled at me, insolent as you please, and sauntered after me to the barracks, whistling as he went. He was forever whistling while he worked, and quite catchy little tunes they were too. There’s this one, goes like this, do you know it? I think he called it ‘
La Pernette
’.

That’s right, Señor, that’s the fellow. Gilbert, they called him. Pierre Gilbert.

Fifteen

Jean-Marie Mercier

It was the most wonderful October, with blue skies and sunshine, and everything full of promise. The apples were being harvested all over the Saillie, the wine presses were busy, the farmers were grazing their pigs in the forest, and the soil looked rich and brown for the sowing of the winter corn. The Spaniards had taken a lot of this year’s harvest, but everyone felt next year’s would be ours.

We had a purpose of our own too, and all over Dax-Verdâme our people were looking out for Don Francisco. Unfortunately he was very difficult to target, because he lived in the barracks and never came out without an enormous escort. When he did travel anywhere, he went in a closed carriage with no escort, so we could never be sure whether he was really in it or whether we’d be giving away our intentions by attacking it and finding some innocent person inside. We knew our best hope was to learn his movements in advance, but that was proving quite impossible. Arnould Rousseau listened out for rumours in the barracks, but while he was able to repeat some splendidly scurrilous stories, there wasn’t really anything we could use.