Honour and the Sword (53 page)

He brushed himself down, wedged the knife in the lining of his boot, then straightened and said ‘Ready for anything.’

I couldn’t answer. I knew it might be the last time I ever saw him, but I couldn’t speak at all.

He grinned and said ‘It’ll be all right, Jean-Marie, I’ll be a really horrible prisoner, they’ll wish they’d stuck with Jacques.’ He went to choose a horse, and said casually ‘You won’t need to worry about anything when I’m gone. I’ve still got money, Jacques knows where it is, you’ll be looked after.’

I managed to say ‘It’s not that …’

I think my voice may have choked a little, because he turned and put his hands on my shoulders.

He said ‘Do you remember what Stefan said about Martin Gauthier? Because that’s what you’re doing, Jean-Marie. You’re giving me the choice.’

He patted my shoulder, and turned to lead a horse from the wall. It was quite a scruffy-looking beast, and I knew he’d only chosen it because there was a good chance we wouldn’t get it back.

The movement of hooves must have covered the approaching footsteps, but the door gave a sudden creak, and when I turned in panic there was someone coming in, the moonlight gleamed on blond hair and I saw it was Marcel.

André’s hand flew at once to his sword.

Marcel said mildly ‘I’m unarmed.’

He was. He wore no belt, no sword, just ordinary shirt and breeches, and really looked astonishingly relaxed. He took a step forward and said ‘Bruno reported no guard on duty.’

André’s hand never left his hilt. ‘Don’t blame Jean-Marie. He knows I have to do this.’

Marcel only nodded, as if the debate didn’t interest him. He reached out to pat André’s horse and said lightly ‘It will break Stefan’s heart if you go.’

André’s eyes seemed to be searching him in the dark. ‘He’ll understand. I’d do the same thing for him.’

‘Would you?’ said Marcel. The horse was blocking the moonlight, his face was in shadow. ‘So would I.’

He gave the horse a last pat, then stood aside to leave the doorway clear. He said ‘You’ll need to be quick. Bruno’s alert, he’ll give the alarm immediately.’

‘I’ll be quick,’ said André. He touched his hair in salute, gave me a last little smile, then led the horse out into the night.

Père Gérard Benoît

Compline was poorly attended that evening. Many of my regular congregation seemed unaccountably to have disappeared, while others may have been deterred by the cordon of soldiery stationed about the barracks to a distance of some thirty feet. As I stood on the steps to bid the remnant goodnight, there came a horse fast approaching from the north, and as the rider entered the Square we beheld with amazement the figure of our Seigneur himself.

I could not imagine what had impelled him to such a foolhardy course of action and stepped down quickly to remonstrate with him, but he did not check his horse until he had reached the cordon, which parted to let him through as if he were expected.

I stood helplessly beyond the soldiers and watched as he dismounted. Although regrettably hatless, he yet presented a splendid figure and seemed altogether in the greatest of spirits, as if on the edge of some particularly stirring adventure. He gave me a wave, then turned and cheerfully announced himself to the guards as André de Roland, Sieur of Dax, come to call upon the Don Miguel d’Estrada as arranged. The soldiers seemed inclined to be merry with him, but his look silenced them, and one at least of their number had the grace to bow and run ahead to take his message. As the others escorted him politely through the entrance he turned for a moment, said ‘Goodbye, Father,’ then walked into the courtyard, and the gate was shut behind him.

Jacques Gilbert

I knew he was there before they told me. My window overlooked the courtyard, and there were shouts of excitement and sounds of people running, then this tremendous outbreak of laughter and cheering. I peered out and could actually see him. He was walking by himself, nobody was touching him, he walked like he was in charge and they were his servants. The church clock was just striking eleven.

I squeezed as much of my head as I could out of the window, which wasn’t much because they’d stuck a bar in the middle, and yelled ‘André!’

He looked up, and I saw his face quite clearly in the torchlight. I don’t know how it’s possible to look into someone’s eyes from that distance, I only know he did it. Then he waved.

I yelled ‘Go back!’ but he was already disappearing below me, then the gate was shut and it was too late. I smacked my fist into the bar, and it actually gave a little, which pissed me off because if I’d known it was that feeble I could have knocked it out and thrown myself after it, then none of this would be happening. I ought to have known it wouldn’t be that strong, it wasn’t likely to be part of the building itself, I mean I couldn’t see Le Soleil Splendide sticking bars in its guest rooms just to stop people sneaking out without paying. But of course I didn’t think of that before, I never thought of anything till it was far too late.

They came for me a few minutes later, and took me all the way down to d’Estrada’s office. There were soldiers sort of bulging round the doorway in order to see inside, but they parted to let me through, the guards shoved me in, and there was d’Estrada with André beside him. They both turned to look at me, and the boy actually smiled. I tried to smile back, but couldn’t.

‘Are you satisfied, Chevalier?’ asked d’Estrada.

‘Quite, thank you,’ said André, and bowed. I felt like they were gentlemen playing a card game, and I was the thing they’d wagered. Everything about what was happening felt unreal. The candles were twinkling in bright, shiny candlesticks, and d’Estrada’s desk even had a vase with red and blue flowers in it like we were in someone’s drawing room. The guards lining the walls looked sort of out of place against the tapestries, and there was a bottle of wine with glasses on an oak chest, like we were all going to be offered a drink.

We weren’t, of course, because now it was André’s turn to pay. He stepped back from the desk, drew his sword, and broke it formally over his knee. I saw at once it wasn’t his own sword, and felt stupidly glad. He dropped the pieces on the floor, let his hands fall to his sides, and stood in front of them unarmed.

D’Estrada made a gesture, and two men stepped forward to search him. They were just finishing when there was a stir at the door, and in swept that fat bastard Don Francisco. He’d never bothered to visit me, but obviously couldn’t wait to see the boy. He’d got one of his magnificent cloaks on, but underneath he was wearing a huge white nightshirt that looked like a ship’s sail.

‘Ah, Chevalier,’ he said politely. ‘How nice to make your acquaintance at last.’

André bowed stiffly and said something about it being an honour, which was a flat lie, but I suppose it doesn’t count if it’s manners. Don Francisco inspected him carefully, and I noticed for the first time the boy had dressed himself up. They were the same smart breeches from last night, but he’d gone and put his new shirt on, a really fancy one Jeanette had made for when we went to Paris.

‘I see you’ve made an effort for our benefit, Chevalier,’ said Don Francisco. ‘You will make a very creditable appearance on our gibbet.’

‘One tries,’ said André. He didn’t seem to be scared at all, but maybe people aren’t when they’re doing something for honour.

Don Francisco smiled. ‘Quite right. Do you know, I have given a little thought to the subject myself?’

He said something I didn’t catch to one of the soldiers, who bowed and left the room. André’s face tightened and he made a quick movement, but the men who’d been searching him grabbed his arms to restrain him. He didn’t struggle, he could see it was hopeless, he just stood still and very dignified, and I wondered desperately what it was I’d missed.

‘Is this really necessary, Señor?’ asked d’Estrada with some distaste.

Don Francisco nodded absent-mindedly, and continued studying the boy’s face. He said ‘We must be careful not to give the wrong impression. This is not a hero dying for France, but a citizen of Artois rebelling against his lawful masters. People need to see him as a common felon.’

He spoke like the boy wasn’t standing there in front of him, and I suddenly understood something of what made him so powerful. I don’t think other people were actually real to him, it’s like he didn’t believe we existed.

The soldier came back in with a pair of shears, went behind André, took a handful of his hair, looked questioningly at Don Francisco, then lopped it right off. I nearly cried out with the shock of it. They were cutting his hair, that long black hair that was just like his father’s, nobleman’s hair, they were making him look like nobody. The soldier brought the shears right up to the boy’s neck, and just went on chopping, hacking the whole length of it off. I couldn’t bear to watch. I listened to each cut, that long tearing sound ending in the clack of the shears, I stared at the floor as the hair fluttered down, great soft waves of it, the soldier’s boot trampling it as he moved along to reach the other side. Someone in the room sniggered, some bastard laughed, and d’Estrada snapped an order for silence. The hair stopped falling, the shears went silent, then I had to look up, and it was awful, I could almost have cried. His hair didn’t even reach his shoulders any more, I could actually see the back of his neck, all white and naked where the sun had never been. His head looked smaller, he didn’t look noble any more, how could he, you never see a nobleman with short hair. I couldn’t look at his face.

Carlos Corvacho

Your M. Gilbert was most upset, and I can’t say I wonder at it. It was a shocking thing to do to a gentleman, and in front of the men too.

When it was over the Colonel had himself a look at the final result. He took the Chevalier’s chin in his hand and turned his face to inspect it, which was a terrible indignity, terrible, then said ‘I think that will do, d’Estrada, what do you think? A little more?’

My Capitán was a kindly gentleman, and he says ‘I think that’s quite sufficient.’ Then he looks at poor M. Gilbert who’s straining at Muños’ arm like a wild dog, and says ‘I think we might let this man go now, Colonel.’ The Colonel only turns to him and says ‘Really, d’Estrada? I don’t.’

It takes a minute, Señor, even for me. My Capitán, it takes him even longer. He thinks it’s just the Colonel not quite understanding, so he says ‘I did promise the release would be immediate, Señor.’

‘And I,’ says the Colonel, ‘made no promises at all. This man is far too valuable to let go, I am sure you can see that.’

My Capitán goes quite pale with shock, but the Chevalier, he’s even madder. He turns to my gentleman and says ‘You gave me your word. Am I to understand you intend to dishonour it?’ His eyes are proper blazing, Señor, burn a hole just to look at you.

My Capitán pleads with the Colonel, he says ‘I have engaged my word of honour, Señor, you cannot ask me to break it.’

‘And I don’t, d’Estrada,’ says the Colonel, all smiles. ‘I am ordering you. You have given your word, you have done all in your power to keep it, but as senior officer I have overruled you. It’s quite simple.’

‘Señor,’ says my Capitán, and there’s a line of sweat breaking out on his brow, which was most unlike him, Señor, he was calm at all times. ‘Señor, you authorized me to go ahead with my plan. You permitted me to make this promise, you must allow me to keep it.’

Now ‘must’ isn’t a good word to use to a senior officer, and the Colonel doesn’t like it at all. He says ‘I authorized your plan, but I did not promise. I have not given
my
word, and am not required to do anything.’

My Capitán still doesn’t give up. He says ‘How can I possibly obtain information on the rebel army if the people cannot trust us to keep our promises?’

‘My dear d’Estrada,’ says the Colonel, yawning. ‘Do you really imagine that in twenty-four hours there will even
be
a rebel army? M. de Roland will tell us all we need to destroy the old one, and the example of his execution should deter anyone from starting another.’

‘I won’t tell you anything,’ says the Chevalier, outraged.

The Colonel turns round with an air of exaggerated patience. ‘I think you will, Chevalier. You will tell me whatever I want to know the moment we begin to interrogate your friend.’

I can’t say I liked the Colonel very much, Señor, he wasn’t the kind of officer a man could warm to, but I’d have to credit him with intelligence. There wasn’t any doubt in that room where the Chevalier’s weak point lay, his very presence here told us that.

M. de Roland stares at him, breathing heavily, then with no warning at all he goes right for him, throws himself full at the Colonel and tries to get his hands on his throat. The Colonel steps back nimbly while our men grab de Roland from behind, but it takes two of them to hold him, Señor, he’s struggling that wild. M. Gilbert’s trying to spring across the room to help him, and my Capitán has to signal his guards to hold him too. He’s still fighting, though, I’m worried he’s going to have my wine glasses over, so I move the tray safely on to the desk.

The Colonel adjusts himself, and looks at the Chevalier with disdain. Your M. de Roland, he looks right back at him and says ‘You bastard.’

I’m not saying there weren’t some of us would like to have said that about the Colonel a few times, I’d thought it myself on occasion, but it’s no way to speak to an officer, let alone one of the rank and status of our Don Francisco. For a moment I thought the Colonel was going to forget his position and give the Chevalier a good slap. But he was a gentleman, Señor, whatever else he may have been, and he keeps his control. He simply gives an order, and Muños goes and smacks your M. Gilbert across the face, good and hard too, sound like a musket shot.

The Chevalier flinches as if he’s been hit himself, and our Colonel, he just smiles. He says ‘Now then, Chevalier, what was that you just said? I don’t think I quite heard you.’

I felt quite sorry for the lad, your M. de Roland, I mean. He just stared at the Colonel, but daren’t say another word. M. Gilbert, he was game all right, he called out ‘Tell him, André!’ And with that, there’s a flicker of the old spirit across the Chevalier’s face, he sticks his head up and says ‘I called you a bastard. A filthy, stinking, evil, rotten, cowardly bastard.’