Honour Be Damned (13 page)

Hidden by Rannoch’s bulk, Markham had no idea how long he’d been standing there. He searched the Frenchman’s face for a clue, only to be struck, once more, by how gloomy he looked.

‘I shall fire it only if I am compromised with no hope of escape.’

T
here was scant light in the outhouses, only that which came through the gaps in the overhead tiles and the cracks in the shutters. Markham had been afforded a good look when de Puy exited and light flooded the place, noticing that his men as always had set about turning it into a temporary billet. The coats they’d rolled up in the main house were open again, draped and hung out to dry. Broken equipment and straw had been arranged to create places to sleep, and a space cleared against one wall to light a fire, should their officer permit. Halsey had found a well at the other end of the kitchen garden and filled everything he could with water. Dornan was asleep, his snores rising to an occasional crescendo.

They’d seen to their comforts. That didn’t bother Markham, who knew that each musket was now fully working. Rannoch had made them worm their pieces to remove any damp from the downpour. Each barrel would have been oiled, the flints changed and checked for spark before reloading. God help any Lobster whose sights did not flick up at the touch. The Highland sergeant would have their guts. Casting his own balls, he hated to see them wasted, and had trained his men to use equipment that in other units never left their knapsacks. Lookouts were placed to keep an eye on the track outside, as well as the weed-filled garden to their rear.

It was amusing to see the others, in the gloomy light, take their revenge on Aramon. He and Captain Germain had been given hastily contrived seating. Mademoiselle Moulins, along with her maid, was invited to take her ease next to them, in the most comfortable part of the interior, a wheel-less cart raised off the ground to discourage vermin. They’d lined it with straw so that they would not suffer from the hardness of sitting on bare wood. Bellamy brought water to her, gabbling away in his fluent French to both women. And some of the men offered part of their rations. Aramon, along with his servants, had been hustled into the corner
where everything unwanted had been chucked. Every time one of his men tried to get hold of one of the pitchers Halsey had filled, it was whipped away by a Lobster, with some acid remark designed to remind the cleric of his behaviour regarding the church at Calvi.

There was a moment when it appeared the Monsignor was about to appeal to Markham for an intervention. His body was tensed forward, but in the gloom the marine officer could not see his eyes. But he heard a sigh that seemed to denote despondency, with Aramon instead directing a question to Germain.

‘Will we be lighting a fire, captain?’

It was Markham who replied. ‘No, Monsignor, we will not.’

‘My clothing, and that of my servants, is damp, and so is this outhouse.’

Aramon was right. The gaps in the tiles, which had let in a small amount of light, had previously let in a great deal of water. The air was sticky rather than warm, the earthen floor damp. His Lobsters had claimed any dry straw or sacking. The same men had taken some pleasure in leaving a pile of wet stuff for the Monsignor.

‘The care you demonstrate for your attendants is most
impressive,
’ said Markham with deep irony.

Aramon shifted his ground quickly, to include Ghislane
Moulins.
She had removed her cloak and appeared quite comfortable. ‘I daresay, you, my dear, are damp too?’

‘We must not let the lady get a chill, Markham,’ added Germain, unhelpfully.

‘Her youth, and no doubt her enormous charm, will protect her from that.’

That earned Markham a winning smile from the lady and a deep scowl from her guardian. ‘I find your attempt at gallantry offensive.’

Markham made no attempt to keep the amused tone out of his voice. ‘I merely meant that my men will look after her. They generally take great care of people they admire.’

‘Soldiers, your honour, at the back of the house,’ called Tully, softly. Rannoch had put him in the loft, a position that gave him a limited view of the main garden.

‘How many?’

‘Just two, I reckon, though there a chance there could be more hidden by the trees.’

‘Coming this way?’

‘No.’

‘They would be if they saw smoke,’ Markham replied.

He hauled himself upright, at the same time glaring at the priest. Their presence hinted at the fact that the column on the road had halted for one of their periodic stops. There might only be two now, but that could turn into dozens if they were curious enough.

‘No noise from anyone, if you please.’

Dornan’s snores stopped abruptly, as one of the others pinched his nose. Every man had his musket ready by the time Markham and Rannoch moved to the door, which, broken off at its hinges, had been propped across the entrance. Outside, it was invisible from the house, hidden by the wall of the kitchen garden, and both men eased themselves in to the open air, immediately aware of the stifling heat that raised swirls of steam from the damp earth.

Peering round the corner of the wall, they could see that Tully had been right. There were only the two soldiers, moving slowly through the debris, idly kicking at pieces of masonry or jabbing at something with their muskets, occasionally stooping to pick up a shard that took their fancy, before throwing it away. The whole way they held themselves reeked of a degree of certainty: that if there had been anything of value in this property, it had long been taken by those who’d preceded them. A voice called from just inside the building, the face hidden by the shade. One of the men they were watching shouted back, whatever he said greeted by laughter. Both soldiers turned back to head indoors to the shade, just at the moment when de Puy, returning from his
reconnaissance
, banged on the shutter of the outhouse.

In truth, the Frenchman hadn’t hit it hard, and had the exchanges between those in the main house and the soldiers in the garden continued they could not have heard it. But they’d fallen silent, and in the still, warm air the sound carried just enough to make the duo stop, turn and look. The pair exchanged glances for a second. Neither Markham or Rannoch could hear what words they spoke, but one of them shrugged and nodded in their direction, before they both started, slowly, seemingly
aimlessly
, down the path.

‘If they get into this garden,’ whispered Rannoch, ‘they will be bound to look in the sheds.’

‘We can’t get everyone out without making even more noise,’ Markham replied, ‘and if they look in the sheds they are going to peer out through the shutters too, which means they will likely spot us on the track.’

‘Their comrades will surely be watching them from the back of the house.’

‘Not closely. Which is why they are coming so slowly. If there’s anything to find they don’t want to share it.’

‘Do we take them here or indoors?’

Markham was about to say indoors, but he’d looked down to see the trail their earlier progress had made across the deep garden earth made soft by the heavy rain. Their progress through the formal part had been by the remains of the stone paths, and left no trace. But here there was a prominent fresh trail through the damp weeds, as well as the odd footprints where a marine boot had dug in. If the pair saw that, and had any sense, they’d probably shout for their mates before coming on.

‘It will have to be here.’

Rannoch looked doubtful, and Markham could understand why. The entrance was no more than a gap in the wall. And they were on the side that contained the outhouses. The Frenchmen would turn towards that as soon as they spied it, coming face to face with whatever threat was going to be necessary to subdue them. Both he and his officer were on the wrong side of the gap to effect any surprise by taking them from behind, and the bramble bushes that lined the stone wall were too shallow to provide any real cover. At all costs a commotion had to be avoided. It was impossible to know how many men were in the main house. But on a hot day, the prospect of a place in the shade could have attracted a whole regiment.

‘Stay here,’ said Markham, as he shot back towards the outhouse doorway.

He pushed the door open as gently as haste would allow, and called softly to Ghislane Moulins and Renate. With Tully in the loft space, looking through the trees, everyone in the building was aware of what was happening. And they knew why, judging by the sheepish expression on de Puy’s face. His request was understood by more than those at whom it was aimed.

‘You cannot do that!’ snapped Aramon.

‘I agree,’ said de Puy.

‘Shut up,’ growled Markham, rudely, vaguely aware that Bellamy had made a move as well to protest.

That died, as everyone became aware that the lady herself had stood up and was advancing, with Renate trailing behind her, towards the door. De Puy stepped forward to bar her passage,
only to be cruelly informed by an impatient Markham, who was busy relieving Dornan of his bayonet, that he’d done enough damage for one day.

‘Do we have a clear exit, monsieur?’ he demanded.

‘Only onto the track. There are soldiers on the Grasse Road. Not many, but enough.’

‘Then we must use the forest?’

‘We can get clear now, without endangering either the Mademoiselle or Renate.’

‘There is no time.’ He turned away and shepherded the two women out.

‘Over by the far wall,’ Markham whispered. ‘Start picking brambles off those bushes. On no account turn round, no matter what you hear.’

Rannoch had already pressed his own back into the bushes to the left of the gap in the wall, and Markham soon joined him. They could hear their quarry now, talking to each other in a desultory sort of way, the scrape of their trailed muskets audible evidence of the fact that they apprehended no danger. That stopped abruptly as they entered the gap in the wall, and caught sight of the two young women intent on picking berries from the bushes.

The slight sound that one of them made was quickly hushed by his companion, and both French soldiers slipped though, muskets up and grinning, exchanging excited jabs as they tiptoed towards Ghislane and Renate. The noise they made, as they swished through the high weeds, should have alerted and alarmed the women. But they didn’t react. That same sound covered the movement of Rannoch and Markham. Careful to ensure that they were not observed by those at their back, they came up behind the enemy soldiers.

Ghislane didn’t turn round even when she heard the sounds of death, the grunt as the covered mouths were pulled back on to the eighteen-inch bayonets, the muffled sounds of dying men rising from two throats. But her maid, Renate, was less disciplined. She did see what happened, her dark huge eyes fixed on the
bloodstained
steel tips that came through the front of the victims’ tunics, to slice up and out as the blades tore through their vital organs. She was looking right into a pair of startled eyes, and would have screamed if Ghislane had not slapped her. Slowly, the two men let
the bodies down, till they lay at their feet, twitching as the last vestiges of life were extinguished.

Markham still had his hand firmly over the mouth of the man he’d killed.

‘Mademoiselle. Please ask my men to come out and assist, then request Monsieur de Puy to get you and your maid, plus, Monsignor Aramon, out through the shutters.’

‘Come, Renate,’ said Ghislane gently, as she dragged her still transfixed maid towards the outhouse door.

‘These two have to go out through those shutters with us,’ said Markham, as the kitchen garden filled with his men, Germain at their head. ‘We’ll hide them in the bushes over on the other side of the track. Try to keep the spilt blood to a minimum. I want their officer, and their mates, to think they’ve taken a chance to desert.’

‘That will not survive a search,’ hissed Germain.

‘No. But it will buy us some time. And if that army is wanted on the border with Piedmont, and always assuming they find them, they won’t have time to hang around and hunt for the folk who knifed their men.’

Germain and Markham went back in through the door to consult with de Puy about the route, while the sergeant, having set two men to get the Lobsters’ packs out through the window, oversaw the transport of the bodies.

‘We will have to be quick now, lads. Dymock, keep an eye on the back of that house, and make sure no other nosy swine comes this way.’

It was impossible, given the wounds Rannoch and Markham had inflicted, to avoid blood pumping out of the dead pair, as muscles in spasm continued to operate. But most of it was gone by the time they reached the outhouse, and a bit of earth turning was enough to disguise the passage. Speed saved the earthen floor from too much, but the sills were covered as the cadavers were dragged over the stone. Halsey’s pitchers of water came into use to wash them down.

There was no time for careful disposal. Fifteen-minute halts every two hours were the norm for a marching army, and by Markham’s reckoning they’d already exceeded that. The state of discipline might be lax, but it was not something he could calculate for, so the two bodies were thrown into a thick
hedgerow
and the broken branches quickly rearranged. Then the party grabbed their packs and ran to catch up with the others.

Short of breath because of the steep climb, de Puy was busy explaining the topography to Germain and Markham. They were within a few hundred yards of the winding road that ran up into the hills towards the town of Grasse. With soldiers in evidence they must avoid it, taking a wide arc to the west to avoid the need to cross it as it snaked up the mountainside. The track they were on petered out just before the farmhouse it served, and they were forced on to a narrower even steeper route to circumvent buildings that were clearly inhabited.

To call it a trail was a misnomer. It was part animal tracks, part small gullies worn away where the rain had dribbled down the mountain, the whole once turned into a route for mules. Obviously it was hardly used now, and in full summer the vegetation had run riot. Sometimes it disappeared altogether, leaving them to hack their way through the undergrowth. Under a canopy of trees, the heat of the day was trapped. Added to the torrential rain that had already fallen in the last twenty-four hours, this made the atmosphere something infernal. The ground underfoot was slippery, a mixture of damp earth and leaves that sapped the strength of everyone, male and female.