Honour and the Sword (54 page)

The Colonel’s smile broadens over his teeth, which was always a bad sign with him, Señor, very bad indeed. He sighs, indicates the Gilbert boy, and says to Muños ‘Beat him.’

Muños is only too happy to oblige, as he tells me afterwards it was the lad himself gave him that sword slash when they were here before. So Hernandez shoves young Gilbert against the wall, and tears his shirt down, and we’re all a little shocked at that, as the lad’s back is that scarred already it’s hard to see much point in giving him any more. We don’t do so much of that in Spain, Señor, we treat our peasantry a little better than that. Still, Muños gets his whip and lashes down hard on the lad’s back, and poor M. de Roland closes his eyes. Don Francisco raises his hand to tell Muños to stop.

‘Well, Chevalier?’ he says, and it’s that silky voice of his again. ‘Have you anything else you wish to say to me?’

The Chevalier opens his eyes and looks at him, and there’s no more calm in it, Señor, no more dignity, no pride, no honour, there’s nothing there but hate. But M. Gilbert, he’s not finished yet. He turns round against the wall and manages to say ‘Go on, André!’ It comes out a little thickly, Señor, because of the breath being beaten out of him and blood in his mouth from that first blow, but it’s clear enough, and the Chevalier ups with his chin again and young Gilbert looks back, and there’s something passes between them that’s like a shot of Madeira wine. The Chevalier’s face is lit up with pride in him, and I can understand that, Señor, because this is only a peasant when all’s said and done, but he’s showing like a gentleman.

So de Roland turns back to Don Francisco, and he’s looking relaxed now, insolent as you like, and he says – well, I can’t really repeat what he says, Señor, it’s not really fitting, but the sense of it is a little like telling the Colonel to get stuffed, if you understand me. M. Gilbert gives a snort of laughter, and I think there’s a moment my Capitán nearly does the same.

But the Colonel’s proper raging, and with him that means he goes very cold. He orders Muños again, and the beating goes on. Nasty business, Señor, I’ve never cared for flogging, and I’m worried the blood’s going to splash on our forest tapestry. The Chevalier doesn’t like it either, he starts struggling again, trying to get to his friend, and the Colonel watches with a little smile on his face.

He says ‘Would you like me to stop the beating, Chevalier?’

Young de Roland stops struggling and drags his eyes back to the Colonel, who’s affecting total unconcern, Señor, he’s even managing to look bored. Muños flexes his little whip and grins.

‘Yes,’ says the Chevalier. ‘Stop it. Now.’

The Don’s examining his fingernails, which was just an affectation of his, Señor, his nails were always perfectly groomed. He says ‘Ask me nicely.’

The Chevalier stops dead and his mouth tightens shut. He knows what he’s being asked now, Señor, and this is his honour on the line. He doesn’t say a word, and quite right too. M. Gilbert’s with him on that, Señor, he turns his head against the wall and says ‘No!’ but Muños already has his arm back for the stroke, and now it cracks right across M. Gilbert’s face. The lad can’t help a little cry, Señor, and his hand’s up to his face, but there’s blood trickling down behind it and there’s no doubt there’s a bad cut there.

De Roland’s head twitches in anguish, I think he’s about to speak, but he can’t, of course, and forces himself to silence.

The Colonel says ‘All right, Muños, break his arm.’

And the Chevalier says ‘No.’

We all look at him. He’s scarlet with the shame of it, and well he might be, but there’s pain on my Capitán’s face too. He doesn’t approve of this, not one bit. If it’s for military information that’s one thing, Señor, that’s war, we all understand that, but this was being done to save the Colonel’s face, and that’s another matter.

The Colonel waits courteously a moment, then turns to Muños again and opens his mouth to speak, but the Chevalier’s there first. He says quickly ‘No, stop.’

He takes a deep breath, and it was that ragged we all heard it, I could feel it in my own throat.

He says ‘Stop. Please.’

Jacques Gilbert

I heard it. André de Roland saying ‘please’ to that bastard Don Francisco, the man who’d murdered M. Gauthier and tortured poor Giulio till he died. André. My mind couldn’t accept it.

Because it wasn’t his fault, any of it, and I knew that now. I’d thought he was here because of his honour, but he wasn’t, he’d just proved that, he was here because he cared about me. He was letting them break his spirit and piss on his honour, and no one in the world could have made him do that but me. All this time I’d wanted nothing more than to protect him and keep him safe, but it was me who’d brought him here, me who’d made him weak, me who’d brought him to this.

They were helping me up, someone was even wiping my face, but I didn’t care, I just wanted them all away from me so I could get to the boy. I could see him, he was standing with his head down like he wanted to die, and that bastard Don Francisco reached out and patted his cheek.

‘You see how simple, d’Estrada? I think we shall have a profitable morning.’

He swiped a candle off someone, smiled round graciously, and swept off back to bed. I wanted to go after him, I had this picture in my head of running after him, grabbing him in the corridor and smashing his head against the wall, smashing it over and over again till his eyes popped and blood came out of his mouth. But he’d gone, I heard his footsteps padding away, and we were all just left there, with even the soldiers looking embarrassed.

André wrenched himself away from the men holding him, he just tugged his wrists free and shook them off, but he didn’t go anywhere, he just stood looking at the floor, his ragged hair in his face, his shoulders bowed and defeated, his fists clenching and unclenching and no one to hit. I pulled away from my own guards, I felt them reaching for me again, but d’Estrada said ‘Let him go, for God’s sake,’ and I crossed the room and no one stopped me, I reached him, and he turned round but couldn’t speak or look at me, he just stood like something broken and whispered ‘I’m sorry.’ I looked down at the top of his head, and knew this was it, this was what M. Gauthier had been trying to say to me all those years ago, this was it, and he was right, there was nothing in the world worse than this, this was shame.

Carlos Corvacho

My Capitán was as angry as he’d ever been in his life, and quite right too, because the Colonel had done a shocking thing, dishonouring him in front of his own men, to say nothing of enemy prisoners. There’s no question but M. Gilbert’s going to be useful to us, not now we’ve seen he’s the way to break the Chevalier, but that doesn’t alter the fact he shouldn’t be here in the first place. My gentleman’s quite flushed with the shame of it and determined to do what he can to put things right.

First he gets the surgeon to see to the cut on M. Gilbert’s face, not that it was any good, Señor, anyone could see it was going to scar, but we couldn’t have him bleed to death on us, the Colonel would have had a thing or two to say if we allowed that. Then he takes the Chevalier aside and actually apologizes, he says ‘On my honour, I had no idea, I swear I had no part in this.’ The Chevalier says he never doubted it and still trusts my Capitán to do what he can to see his word honoured. We both know there’s no chance of that, Señor, but my poor gentleman says he’ll help them in any way he can.

So we escort them up to the cells personally, and we’re letting M. Gilbert back in his room, but he says ‘Please let me stay with André,’ and my Capitán looks at the two of them, both gazing up at him with the exact same expression, it’s almost like seeing double. So he says ‘Yes, of course,’ because he won’t deny them anything now, so we put them in the same room and tell the guards they’re to have wine, food, more blankets, anything they want, then we go back down to his office, and shut ourselves in.

The Capitán pours himself a glass of wine, and another for me. We’d planned on a little celebration, Señor, not that we feel much like it now.

‘God rot him,’ says my Capitán, throwing his drink back in one gulp. ‘God rot that stinking bastard to hell.’ He smashes his glass on the floor, sits down heavily at his desk, and buries his head in his hands.

Jacques Gilbert

We heard the keys rattling in the lock, then the sound of them marching away. We looked at each other in miserable silence.

I started to say ‘André …’ but he just said ‘Please don’t,’ and sounded like he meant it, so I stopped, and there we were looking at each other again, and not a word to say between us.

He gave me his handkerchief, and I wiped the blood that had oozed under the dressing on my cheek. I went to give it back, but it was bloody and disgusting and I didn’t like to, I just showed him and shrugged and said ‘Sorry.’

He made an odd little noise of distress. Then he took a step forward and opened his arms sort of shyly, like he thought I might ignore him, he stood with his arms out, and I met him, I grabbed and hugged him as tight as I could, and we just stood there holding each other, and in the end we didn’t say anything at all.

Twenty-Three

Père Gérard Benoît

A great crowd was by this time gathered, waiting in silence for the release of Jacques or the restoration of our Seigneur. One woman stood apart from the others, and beneath the hood I discerned the anguished face of Hélène Gilbert herself. I wondered that her husband should leave her alone at such a time, but Jean-Baptiste informed me he was to be found in the Quatre Corbeaux, at which I understood him to be seeking solace in his own way.

At last the gate opened, but there issued forth only a soldier with a sheaf of papers under his arm and a leather pouch slung over his shoulder. He smiled at sight of me, and asked if I would save him a journey by fastening one of his sheets to the wall at St Sebastian’s. His tone informed me this was by way of an unpleasant jest, so I read the document immediately as he seemed to wish.

It was in the manner of a handbill, and advertised the execution by hanging of André de Roland for eight in the morning of the coming 21 June. A second paper had been pasted over the bottom of the first, announcing that one Jacques Gilbert was to be hanged beside him.

Murmurs of dismay arose as this paper passed from hand to hand, at which the soldier appeared mightily amused. He announced that all in the Saillie were invited to attend, and that furthermore his Colonel thought they might like a little souvenir by which to remember the occasion. He cast the contents of his satchel on to the ground, and we saw with horror a quantity of fine black hair strewn over the stones.

The soldier laughed at our stricken expressions. ‘There’s your precious Seigneur,’ said he. ‘You’ll get what’s left on Tuesday.’

He turned jauntily away, but at that moment the words ‘
Il y avait un petit oiseau …
’ rose softly but distinctly from the crowd behind me. Another voice joined the first, then yet another. In seconds the murmur of the song was everywhere.

The guards at the courtyard gate started forward at once, for the singing of this air was a punishable offence, yet there beside me stood Michel Poulain, singing now both openly and lustily, and as a soldier swung his musket at him, Jean-Baptiste Moreau immediately took up the strain.

‘
Les soldats le chassaient,

Il avait l’aile cassée
…’

There were now scores of voices singing. Henri and Colin Lefebvre were among them, Marc Pollet, Daniel Merien, and our largest tenant farmer, Mathieu Pagnié himself.

‘ …“
Rentre au nid!” un soldat fit
…’

The sergeant at the gate called loudly for silence, threatening to fire unless we desisted, but still the singing continued.

‘ “
Je ne suis pas aussi bête,
”

Et il chia sur leurs têtes
…’

The words of this ditty were not edifying, but I ask my readers to forgive their inclusion, for on this one night they seemed as uplifting as an anthem. There were women singing too, fearless of the consequences. I remarked among them Mme Laroque, our own Beatrice Hébert, and the indefatigable Mlle Tissot, who was reputed to be eighty years of age. Hélène Gilbert joined them, the tears trickling down her face.

‘
Et l’oiseau s’envola,