Honour Be Damned (21 page)

Only when he said that, did he realise that Aramon was standing at the door. Filthy as he was, he still wore his ecclesiastical robes. And the man had presence. Markham
suddenly
realised that the monk had no idea that the Monsignor was here. He must have looked, standing in the doorway in the flickering candlelight, like the vengeance of the Lord personified. The one eye settled on that and the monk sank to his knees, begging forgiveness in a pitiful tone.

‘Hand him over to me,’ Aramon said. ‘The man’s soul is troubled. He requires the power of prayer, not the bonds of restraint.’

This was a real dilemma. How to explain the paramount need to keep a piece of scum alive; that he could take no risks with his life without even hinting at the information he had in his head, all that without even a hint at his intentions. It was as well that no one else knew them. He had enough difficulty himself in appearing ingenuous.

‘If he does murder, it is his soul that will suffer in hell, Lieutenant, you know that.’

Markham had a happy thought then, of both the monk and Fouquert in the eternal flames, with the former still in a position to inflict pain on the latter.

‘Might I suggest, Monsignor, that he be left in peace till tomorrow, here in the stable with my men to guard him. In the calming light of day, he may be less disturbed.’

‘It has merit,’ Aramon replied, moving forward, ‘as long as I can confess him.’

‘You would do that here?’

‘It is obviously not perfect, but if you will not release him what choice do I have?’

‘The sanctity of the confessional is too sacred to break. If you give me your word that you will keep him from harming himself or others, then you may take him to a quieter place.’

‘Thank you, Lieutenant,’ said Aramon, genuinely surprised.

The Monsignor looked at Fouquert, which made Markham’s heart jump. But the words he used soothed that.

‘I should confess you too, monsieur. But I heard what this poor creature said and understood some of what he suffered. I cannot, in all conscience, deny you the sacrament. But I will risk Our Saviour’s wrath by delaying it until tomorrow.’

‘I have no need of your superstition.’

‘You do my son. If what I have heard here tonight is even
half-true
, more than anyone else.’

‘I burnt God out of that man’s head.’

‘No!’ the monk screamed, the ugly head shaking.

It was now Fouquert’s turn to shout, trying to get the words out before Aramon got to him. ‘Do not deny it, monk. You denied Our Lord to save what was left of your face. You …’

The sentence was never finished. For the second time, mouthing on this occasion some Latin form of eternal damnation, the Monsignor hit Fouquert, this time dashing his head against the stone of the wall. Markham had moved too, and was just in time to save a second blow by grabbing the cleric’s arm. As he pulled with all his might, only just managing to stop Aramon, he wondered if all men of the cloth were gifted extra strength by their faith.

‘Why do you protect this filth?’

Markham couldn’t answer, and for once he could not look Aramon in the eye. The priest violently threw off his restraining hand and turned back towards the doorway. Gently, he raised the monk to his feet and
,
with an arm around his shoulder, and soft comforting words about the behaviour of St Peter himself, he led him out into the night.

Fouquert was out cold, a long, bleeding gash on his right temple where his head had struck the wall. Markham had to call for water and bandages to bathe and cover the wound. He came
round while he was carrying that out, shaking his head and groaning.

‘I want them dead.’

‘Shut up, Fouquert.’

He repeated himself in a louder voice. ‘I want them dead! If you do not help me I will find a way to lose my memory.’

Markham grabbed him by the front of his shirt, nearly raising him bodily off the ground, his voice harsh and uncompromising as he shook him back and forth.

‘You parcel of shite. You are going where I take you, and when you get there you will tell them what you know. If you don’t the only thing that will stop them from hanging you will be my request to bring you back here, light a big fire, and leave you with that monk.’

Weeping was the last thing he expected. But Fouquert began to cry genuine tears, the fluid streaking down his face, unable to wipe it away because of his tied hands.

‘You’ve no idea how sick you make me, Fouquert,’ said Markham sadly, before pushing him roughly back against the wall. ‘Sergeant Rannoch, let’s get the guard details worked out.’

It was still hot when he woke to take his turn of duty, the sky having clouded over to trap the heat of the earth. He went round with Halsey, changing the piquets on the forward wall, sending the men relieved to sleep, wondering, in the stygian darkness why he’d bothered. Gone was the huge moon that lit the landscape like day. He couldn’t see the ground in front of the walls, let alone the edge of the forest.

‘No lanterns,’ he snapped at Halsey, when the old corporal requested them, a statement he repeated to each man in the last piquet of the night, Yelland, Dornan and Bellamy. ‘They will show for miles on a night like this. Stay still, and if you hear anyone moving about the password is Garry Owen.’

‘Can we ask for it to be whistled?’ asked Yelland, his face no more than an indistinct white blob. It was Markham’s favourite air, one he’d marched to as a young man through those Carolina forests.

‘Just as long as you don’t do it in reply, Yelland. I heard you whistle, and it may sound like a tune to you, but it sounds like music being murdered to me.’

Halsey sniffed. Unable to whistle at all himself, he was taking
what he was saying as a continuing rebuke. It wasn’t meant like that. Markham felt Halsey himself should have thought of a password, but the old corporal hadn’t and there was nothing to be done about it. Perhaps the man they called Daddy was too soft for his own good. He knew himself how difficult it was to stay awake when you could see absolutely nothing, unable even to move around lest you fall of the parapet and into the courtyard.

Markham had to feel his way down the wooden staircase, the old man behind him, then practically feel his way along the walls to get back to the stable. Markham had rigged the half-burnt altar cloth so that when they came to make preparations to leave, they could do so unobserved. But as a screen to block out the light from the stable it did just as well.

‘We’ve gone too far, surely,’ he said.

‘Lost ain’t in it,’ growled Halsey.

Markham put out a hand and touched the corporal’s shoulder. ‘Let’s retrace our steps.’

He must have been still smarting from the perceived rebuke, since he, normally the kindest of men, positively barked at his superior. ‘Don’t see how, as I ain’t no blessed cat.’

Holding his shoulder, Markham was able to grip it. The sensation of someone nearby, apart from Halsey, was
overwhelming
, a kind of slight swishing sound as skin rubbed against skin. But the corporal misunderstood the squeeze, and started to talk in a loud querulous voice.

‘It ain’t no good you getting on your high horse your honour, and it were ever so.’

‘Shut up, man.’

Now Daddy Halsey was hurt. ‘And there’s little need to go talking like that, your honour.’

Markham squeezed harder. ‘Did you hear it?’

‘Hear what?’

‘Listen!’ He did, but indignation had made him breathe with feeling, and if the sound was still there that was enough to smother it. ‘I heard someone close to us, I’m sure.’

Now the tone was all vindication, plus a good dose of I would have told you so if only you’d listen. ‘Man could walk right by, Frenchie an’ all, and you’d never know it, not having the use of a lantern to shine in their heathen face.’

‘Let’s find the stable, and get you to sleep before you commit a flogging offence.’

That produced the gulping sound of words being swallowed, plus a backward movement. Halsey had been a marine a long time. He’d served under every kind of officer, some of whom would have flogged him senseless for speaking, never mind disagreeing. The way he’d talked to Markham with that type would have seen him broken at the wheel. He could not know, as he fretted his way back to the stable, how much it pleased his officer that he felt free to do so.

They found the stable eventually, led there by the sound of snoring. Once inside, Halsey was quick to get his belt off and his head down, not once looking an amused Markham in the eye. But the old man saw his officer take a lantern, and rig a cloth to shade it, so a sniff of approval was proffered as a peace offering.

‘Reveille at five, Halsey,’ Markham whispered.

‘Christ, your honour, it will still be pitch black.’

‘Don’t worry, there will be no trumpets. But when you’re woken, I want you to be ready to move out in light order before dawn.’

He didn’t ask why, or where they were going. Like the good marine he was he just said, ‘Right, sir.’

The shaded lantern didn’t show much, just the ground in front of his feet and the edge of the wall as he made his way to the entrance to the church. A breeze was springing up, a hot wind from the south that made things worse rather than better. Inside the church it whistled through cracks and crevices, stirring loose objects, that banging he’d heard on first arrival once more audible.

The vestry was well lit by the larger type of church candle, and as he entered Markham was surprised to see Germain sitting up in the cot, a quill in his hand, scribbling away on some of the fine vellum that had in the past been used for manuscripts. The light made him look very pale, and what he had undergone had sharpened his features, so that his visitor felt as though he was being gifted a vision of the older man that Germain would eventually become.

He looked up and stopped writing as Markham entered, greeting him with a weary smile, then pointed the lifted quill to the paper beneath him.

‘My despatch, Markham, which I hope you will deliver for me to Admiral Hood.’

‘Sir.’

Germain lay back against the tapestry pillows which had been
placed to ease any discomfort, his eyes closed. Markham peered then, glad to see that the reason appeared to be fatigue rather than pain.

‘You will deliver it for me.’

‘If I can, sir.’

‘You must,’ he replied without much emphasis. ‘I am relying on you.’

Markham felt awkward, unwilling to tell a lie but knowing he must. It was with a huge sense of relief that he heard Germain’s next words which relieved him of the need.

‘You said you intended to leave some of your men with me. I think that would be unwise.’

‘Reluctantly, sir, I am forced to agree.’

The eyes opened, and Germain stared at him. ‘This was, I perceive, a decision you’d already arrived at?’

‘No sir. But it was something I was going to ask you.’

‘And if I had not been conscious.’

‘Then I would, reluctantly, have had to operate on my own instincts.’

There was a pause while Germain digested this. When he spoke, it was accompanied by a thin smile. ‘I am glad they are of the right order, Markham. When do you leave?’

‘It is my intention to go before dawn, sir, in about three hours’ time. The Monsignor and his party should be asleep.’

‘I will, no doubt, have to explain your actions to them.’

‘That is something, sir, which I am sure you will do well.’

‘Has anything happened about the Avignon treasure?’

‘Nothing yet. You will have realised as I have that de Puy holds the key.’

‘Indeed.’

With the voice suddenly weakening, Markham was unsure as to whether that was an affirmation or a question. He decided to treat it as agreement. After all, it made no difference now.

‘I fear he is playing that advantage for all he’s worth. The Monsignor has condescended to him enough to deserve it. He has stated that nothing can be done in the dark, and settled down to get a good night’s sleep, with Aramon’s servants taking it in turns to watch him.’

‘So he intends to recover it tomorrow?’

‘I assume so.’

‘After you have departed.’

‘Yes. What you must do, sir, is try and keep them here until you are well enough to move.’

Germain stiffened then, a flash of pain crossing his thin face. Markham realised he had spoken in too harsh a manner, and sought to soften his tone.

‘By then, matters between the French and our allies will have been settled one way or the other.’

‘And you will earn a knighthood.’

Markham didn’t believe that for a moment, though he was favoured with a vision of himself wearing a red sash across his chest bearing a Bath star. Nor could he tell if that was said matter of factly or in bitterness. He was tempted to point out the dangers, and evaluate the risk of getting killed before garnering glory. But he reckoned that Germain would see that as churlish, so he set out to be as cheerful as he could.

‘Why, sir, there will be great credit due to you for getting us this far. And should you succeed in bringing Monsignor Aramon and his Avignon treasure out, I’m sure there will be rewards at home, as well as at St Peter’s, to gladden your heart.’

‘Please don’t try to cheer me up, Markham. Just let me finish this despatch.’

‘Sir.’

He pulled himself up, blinking as he opened his eyes. Then he set to with the quill, writing swiftly. Markham’s head dropped forward, and he was nearly asleep, that is until the captain reached the point when he signed, this achieved with a great flourish.

‘Pass me that wax, Markham?’ he asked, as he carefully folded the vellum.

‘Of course.’

Germain took the wax, held it to the candle, and then tipped it so that the melted drops hit the point at which the folds met. His ring must have been taken off earlier, because he lifted it from his side and pressed it home, before examining the result and holding it out to his marine lieutenant.

‘There you are, Markham. And if you wonder why I have sealed it, that is to save your blushes.’

‘My blushes, sir?’

‘I assume you are like me, and would not want to see the praises of you that I have sung. I have told them of your exploits, Markham. I would not want you honoured without my personal endorsement.’