Honour and the Sword (59 page)

We set off at once for the Ancre stables. There wasn’t a great deal of urgency, because Jacques quite obviously knew the danger already, but we did need to intercept him before he could walk back into the ambush at the cottage.

André led us up a little track to a slope from which you could look down on the Manor. We peered rather carefully round the last bend, and saw them sitting out in the open in front of the stables, but the older man had a pistol in his hands, and it was pointed straight at Jacques.

All the tension was back in André’s face. ‘Can you take him, Jean?’

I had to say no. I could make the shot, but I’d have to step clear round the bend to do it, and Jacques’ father needed less than a second to pull the trigger.

‘All right,’ said André. ‘We’ll go round the other way.’

He led us off the track and through the wooded undergrowth towards a copse on the other side of the stables, where I could shoot without coming out of cover.

As long as Pierre Gilbert didn’t shoot first.

Jacques Gilbert

I said ‘What do you want with that?’

‘Think about it from my point of view. I wouldn’t want this story getting about.’

‘I’m not going to tell anyone,’ I said bitterly. ‘Why would I? The Rolands don’t want me, do they?’

He laughed. ‘You’d have liked that, wouldn’t you? To be a noble bastard? Poor Jacques. You even ask them, they’ll drown you like a farmyard cat.’

‘I’m not going to ask them, am I?’ I said fiercely. ‘Do you think I want to be somewhere I’m not wanted?’

‘Then this is the kindest thing, isn’t it?’ He pulled the dog back into the firing position, and I realized the gun must be already primed. I could still flick up the sword in time, but there was this awful kind of lethargy coming over me, like the sword would be just too heavy to lift.

He said ‘You do understand, don’t you?’

The awful thing was I did. I could see how dreadful it must have been for him all these years. When he was speaking, I almost forgot it was me he was talking about, it felt like someone else, someone it was all right for him to hate.

I said ‘It wasn’t my fault.’

‘Wasn’t mine either,’ he said. ‘Neither of us asked for you to be born.’

‘No,’ I said. I wished I hadn’t been. I sat there with fat tears rolling down my chin, and wished I’d never been born at all. I rubbed my sleeve across my eyes, and the sword slipped and ran down his arm.

‘Careful,’ he said mildly, and put it aside.

I said ‘I’m sorry,’ and laid the sword down on the grass.

He watched me. ‘What’s the matter, don’t you want to kill me any more?’

I shook my head.

‘What do you want then?’

I wanted him to comfort me.

He said ‘Look at the state of you. My Pierre never cries.’

‘He never needed to cry, you were always nice to him.’

A little flash of anger flared up in his eyes. ‘You resented that, did you? You were going to inherit everything that should have been my son’s, and you wanted me to like you as well? I hated you from the moment you were born.’

Everything was very quiet. There weren’t even any birds.

I said ‘You should have told me.’

‘Why?’

‘At least I’d have understood. I thought it was my fault, I thought it was me.’

‘It was you.’

‘It was my father.’

‘Same thing,’ he said.

I felt something strange washing inside me, like a kind of relief.

I said ‘It’s not. That’s why you didn’t kill me, isn’t it? When I was a baby? Because you couldn’t blame a baby for something its father did.’

‘You’re not a baby now.’

‘It was my father you really hated. When you beat me, it was my father you wanted to hurt, not me.’

‘Was it?’

‘Yes.’ I was suddenly so sure. I could see my whole life all in one piece, and for the first time everything in it made sense. ‘You didn’t want to hurt me at all. I remember times you were nice to me. When we started working in the stables together, and you showed me how to do it, we were close then, weren’t we?’

He ran a hand through his hair and stared at me. ‘Jesus Christ. You don’t understand a word I’ve said.’

‘But I do, that’s what I’m saying. All these years I thought you didn’t love me, but you did, you proved it by not killing me. You didn’t even want to kill me this time, did you? You said it yourself, you thought they’d let me go. You don’t hate me at all.’

‘Poor Jacques,’ he said. ‘Do you know why I gave you that name? Because that’s all you were, the extra one I never wanted. I saved my own name for my own son. I never gave a fuck what happened to you.’

‘You must have. I couldn’t be wrong about my whole life, could I?’ I knew that, I
knew
that, it was singing inside me like a bird. ‘There were loads of times you cared. When I was tiny, and you used to throw me up in the air and catch me, don’t you remember? Then later, you’d put me on your shoulders and run with me, ‘
Bransle des Chevaux
’, you must remember that. You can’t tell me you never loved me. You can’t.’

‘Is that what you really want?’

‘I want you to be honest,’ I said. ‘No one’s ever going to know about any of this, we can say what we like. Can’t you just admit you loved me?’

He looked up, and an extraordinary expression came over his face. I don’t know how to describe it except it was happy.

‘Did you love me, Jacques?’ he asked.

‘Yes. I always did.’

‘The Seigneur’s son, and he loves me. Now there’s a thing.’

‘Tell me,’ I said.

His shoulders moved, I leant forward for the hug, then there were two shots one after the other, and a scorching pain at my waist and I fell back. I scrambled up, and there was my Father lying on his side, half his face just a mess of blood and bone, and he was dead.

Jean-Marie Mercier

With the pistol where it was, it had to be a head shot. We so hoped it wouldn’t be necessary, but I’m afraid it was. Jacques’s father suddenly gave him this awful, evil, triumphant look, then I saw him bringing up the gun. Jacques wasn’t even looking. André said ‘Now!’ and I fired.

I was only just in time. His finger must have been already pressing the trigger, but my shot knocked him sideways and the pistol ball only just grazed Jacques’ side, instead of going into his stomach where his father had aimed it.

Jacques screamed ‘Daddy!’ and grabbed his father up from the ground, but I knew he was dead, I must have shot half his face away.

I think it’s the worst thing I’ve ever had to do in my life.

Stefan Ravel

Poor Jacques, down in the dust cradling his worthless father in his arms and howling like Martin Gauthier’s dog. André ran down to him straight away, but Jacques turned to him almost gibbering, saying ‘It’s my dad, it’s my dad, it’s my dad,’ over and over again, his voice getting higher and higher until André got his arms round his neck to quiet him. Then Jacques laid the body down carefully as if it was precious, and screamed at him ‘Why?’

I didn’t hear what André said, but it seemed to have some effect, and at least that awful howling stopped. André knelt and took him in his arms, and after a while Jacques was silent, and there were just those two dark heads close together, and the faint murmur of André’s voice, the words indistinguishable in the distance.

Marcel was speaking. ‘We have to move, that shot will bring the dons out of the cottage.’

I expect they’d heard the screaming too, it was certainly loud enough. I hauled myself up out of it, left Mercier twitching in shock, and the two of us went to join the happy little party in front of the stables.

Jacques heard us coming, and wrenched away to huddle over the body. André was left kneeling alone in the dirt, but he lifted his head when Marcel spoke, nodded obediently and climbed to his feet. His eyes were red, and his face wet with tears, but he didn’t hesitate and went loping off at once towards the bend.

There was the tramp of boots coming up the track. Marcel said ‘Get him out of it,’ and ran after André. The kid peered round the bend, signalled ‘Two,’ and drew his sword.

Jacques seemed quite content to crouch in the open clutching his dead father and not caring if he got killed or not, but there wasn’t time to fuck about, so I grabbed up his sword then wrestled him back to the trees. I slung him down on the grass beside Mercier and drew my pistol. I’d lent my sword to Marcel, who seemed to have mislaid his own, but I can’t say I was worried. Only two of them, and Marcel and André lying in wait, it didn’t look a problem.

And there I was wrong, dear Abbé, which goes to show how even the most experienced soldier needs to be reminded not to underestimate the enemy. There was only a rustle to warn me, and then they were on us, another two of the bastards. They’d done exactly what we’d done, and crept round the other way.

I had my pistol levelled and fired in one movement, bringing the first man down. Beside me Mercier jerked up his musket for the other, but there was only that horrible little click which is all you can expect when you’ve forgotten to reload your bloody gun. I couldn’t believe it. After all the training I’d given him, he’d forgotten that most basic thing.

It was too late now, the bastard was already on us, sword slicing down at Mercier. I parried him with the pistol barrel, then ducked my head and charged him, there was nothing else to do. The bastard jumped back to bring his sword up, which would have been the end of me if Jacques hadn’t come to himself and stuck his own blade up and in the don’s thigh. He crashed down on one knee, and Jacques slashed out at him, all but severed the man’s throat with one blow, then slashed again the other way, he was for cutting the poor sod to ribbons. I pulled him back after the second cut, because the man was more than dead, and I didn’t see the need for mutilation. He turned and glared as if he couldn’t remember who I was.

I turned to look down to the track, where Marcel and André were engaged sword to sword with the other pair, but it looked all right, André was in beautiful form, he was sending his man’s blade spinning and was ready to lunge. Beside me, Mercier was furiously reloading his musket, just a little too late to be any good to anyone. Jacques looked blankly at him, then suddenly seemed to realize the significance of what Mercier was doing.

‘It was you,’ he said. ‘You shot my Father.’

Mercier fumbled the powder, and spilt it on the ground.

‘You did, didn’t you?’ said Jacques.

His voice was rising. I glanced down to the track. André’s man was down, and he and Marcel were fighting the other. He was left-handed, that one, and his blade got an unexpected slash down André’s arm before the kid twisted and stuck him through the middle.

Mercier said ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry?’ said Jacques. He was swinging his sword and looked rather dangerous.

I said ‘Leave him alone, he was obeying orders.’

The sword stopped swinging, and he turned his head to me. His eyes were almost boiling. ‘Orders? Whose orders?’

I remembered André down there holding Jacques in his arms, and the sound of his voice.

I said ‘Mine.’

Jean-Marie Mercier

Stefan was absolutely glaring at me, so I knew I was meant to keep quiet.

He tried to explain we’d had no choice, but Jacques quite refused to believe it, and insisted his father’s gun only went off by accident when I shot him. At last Stefan said ‘Have it your own way, but it was your bloody life we were saving, remember that,’ then turned away to reload his pistol. Jacques went on staring at his back, and after a moment he said ‘I won’t forget, Stefan. I’ll never forget what you’ve done.’

I was rather relieved when André appeared through the trees, asking what the shooting had been about. Jacques turned to him at once, then stared in consternation at the long scratch down his arm.

André shrugged. ‘I’m getting old and slow. That last man was very good.’

Jacques examined it. ‘This is bad, you’ve got to be more careful.’

André opened his mouth to protest, then hesitated and said instead ‘I’m sorry, it was stupid.’

‘Got to be more careful,’ said Jacques gruffly. He ripped off the sleeve of his shirt and bent to bandage André’s arm with it.

André looked down at the top of his head and said very quietly ‘I know.’

Stefan watched them a moment, then turned away.

Jacques Gilbert

My Father would never have tried to kill me, he’d already made that clear, he only pointed the gun in self-defence. I know he did mean to kill André, obviously I know that, but anyone could understand why. We’d all survived, no harm was done. If Stefan hadn’t murdered him we could have talked it all through properly, he could have told me he loved me, and then I’d always know it deep down, instead of having stupid doubts in my head making me not sure.

I wanted at least to take his body back to Mother, but André explained there were two soldiers at the cottage, and we mustn’t do anything to implicate her. He said the soldiers would find the body, and when they’d gone I could go and explain. He even offered to come with me, but I didn’t want him hearing what I said to Mother, it was all stuff he must never know. I’d promised my Father I wouldn’t tell. It was the only thing I’d ever be able to do for him again.

We set off to collect the horses. Marcel wouldn’t let us use the track in case more soldiers came, so we climbed down the bank and walked round by the Manor itself.

I remember that walk very clearly. The grass of Ancre was still bright in the sun, but I had no father, I never had had, and it all looked black, like it did that night I came running out of the stables with a mad coachman waving a scythe. We were actually crossing the lawn where it all happened. I looked up at the window, the one where I’d seen the soldier and thought for a moment it was the Seigneur. I remembered feeling if the Seigneur was there then everything could still be all right. He wasn’t, of course, but that didn’t change the fact I’d had that feeling. I’d had it as long as I could remember.

I felt a little tingling somewhere inside.