1636: The Cardinal Virtues (28 page)

Chapter 37

Pau

“Are you sure, Colonel?”

Sherrilyn Maddox leaned over the table, which held a detailed map of Béarn. “Yes, Marshal. I’m sure. I believe I can recognize a military formation when I see one. A regiment of cavalry and three full tercios—or, what passes for a full tercio these days: fifteen or sixteen hundred men each.”

“Why do you think they’re here?”

She looked up at Turenne.

“You’re asking my opinion.”

“Yes. Does that trouble you?”

“As long as you’re not troubled by my answer. High politics is not exactly my stock in trade, Marshal.”

“If I wanted the opinion of someone whose stock in trade was politics, I would ask Monsieur Servien.” Turenne leaned back in his chair, pyramiding his fingers. “So. I assure you that I shall not be troubled by your words, Colonel Maddox. Why would a regiment of cavalry and three tercios of infantry be crossing the Pyrenees?”

“I can only think of two reasons.”

“Which are?”

“The most obvious one is that they’re invading.”

“And the other?”

“That they’re marching into France by invitation. But that would have to come from the king, I suppose.”

“The king—well, the man who sits on the throne—sent Marshal Bassompierre with orders to move the army north, away from the border. Evidently Monsieur has made some sort of
arrangement.
”

“Spanish troops on French soil seems like a bad idea.”

“It’s a terrible idea. Even if they are
intended
for war in the north—even if Gaston believes that they are merely intending to transit our lands—they might find it to their liking and remain. He is permitting the enemy to occupy his country. Neither our late beloved king nor Cardinal Richelieu would have ever permitted such vulnerability.

“Perhaps,” Turenne said, glancing at the map, “the Spanish commander will see reason.”

“I don’t know why you want to give him the chance.”

Turenne frowned. “This is not a scouting mission, Colonel: if we seek to prevent the Spanish forces from moving north, it will come to a battle, not an ambush. That means ordered troops; it means a parley. I
will
give them
the chance
, Colonel Maddox, because that is the way war is conducted.
Perhaps the Spanish commander will see reason.
”

“As opposed to attacking us—”

Turenne stood up, making Sherrilyn stand up straight. “The only way regular troops can attack us is from ordered formations,” he said. “A tercio is not a commando unit. It can be a devastating fighting force—but not against
our
ordered formation. From a hundred and fifty yards away, we can hit them effectively—but they cannot hit us.”

“They must realize that.”

“It will enter into their thinking, I trust. But they may attack nonetheless. And if they do, we will show them exactly what
we
can do.”

Near St. Jean Pied-de-Port

Five miles south of St. Jean Pied-de-Port, the advance scouts located the Spanish cavalry. Turenne’s army of twenty-eight hundred was still north of the town; the scouts had orders to avoid engagement and report back. A few of the Spanish cavalrymen loosed shots with their pistols, but it was no more than a waste of ammunition.

Column formations are vulnerable: an army is only effective when it is arranged in its proper ranks. For a tercio, that meant a series of
cuadros
, infantry squares with musketeers in groups—
mangas—
at each corner, to provide crossfire to anyone bold enough to charge against the
cuadro
. Sherrilyn would still have been willing to take out the infantry while it was still making its way down the narrow, winding roads from the Pyrenees passes. The Spaniards were enemies—weren’t they?—and there would be no need to fight them in the field. But the marshal was willing to let them form up,
cuadros
and
mangas
, pikes and muskets, cavalry arranged on the flanks, the Cross of Burgundy standard fluttering from the standards.

In the morning light, they looked impressive. Marshal Turenne, Marshal Bassompierre, the comte de Béarn and Sherrilyn sat on horses on a hill overlooking the field; below, the French army had been drawn up in a narrower formation, four ranks deep. The Spanish cavalry—a few hundred horsemen armed with breech-loading pistols and sabers—was deployed at the right side of the line.

From what Sherrilyn could see, the French riflemen looked determined and serious, while the Spanish seemed confident. They could see they had numerical superiority. They knew that the tercio was the strongest infantry formation in existence, and had been for more than a century. They thought—they
knew
—that they would win.

The analysis had only one flaw: they were at least six hundred yards away. There would be at least two minutes of volleys that they couldn’t answer.

Her own troops were on the slope above the battle line; their targets, if they presented themselves, would be the officers—the
alfareces
—in their plumed hats.

Alexandre de Brassac, the comte’s son, was moving slowly out from the French lines, with a Béarn banner in his stirrup—crows and bulls quartered on a yellow field, with a crown on top: there were fancy heraldic terms, but Sherrilyn didn’t remember them. He had a piece of white silk tied to the top of the staff. A Spanish officer, also on horseback, journeyed out to meet him. After a bit of bowing and doffing of hats, they spoke, and the Spaniard handed Alexandre a scroll. He glanced briefly at it, doffed his hat again, and rode quickly back and up the hill to deliver it to his father.

“Tell me what you’ve learned,” Brassac said.

“There are three tercios deployed,” Alexandre answered. “The one in the center is the
Tercio de Infantería en Navarra
; its commander is Don José García Salcedo, and it’s at nearly full strength. Don José is in charge of this expedition. The other two are the
Tercio de Fuenclara
and the
Tercio Nuevo de Valladolid
. Fuenclara was in Germany and was badly beat up; it’s under a thousand men—Don José has placed it on his left. Valladolid is a new tercio, raised within the last six months; it’s a little over half strength, but it has two
cuadros
of veterans who fought in Italy.”

“Don José is an old cavalryman,” Brassac said to Sherrilyn. “He’s one of the smartest field commanders the Spanish have in their employ. We must be especially careful of him.”

“So he’s a high priority target.”

“If it comes to that,” Turenne said.

“I don’t know why you think it’s
not
coming to that, Marshal,” she answered. “Those boys look like they’re ready to attack. And they think they’re going to win.”

“We are engaged in a parley,” Turenne said. “Monsieur de Brassac, if you would continue.” His glance at her sent a clear message:
shut up and listen
.

She shut up and listened.

“Don José’s envoy presented the compliments of his commander, as well as this document.” He gestured to the scroll. “It claims to be a safe-passage for his troops, by order of his king, with the kind consent of our king.”

“Gaston,” Brassac said.

“He is named in the document. It’s not signed or sealed; it refers to a . . . radio conversation.”

“A radio—” Brassac read through the document: it was a parchment written in Spanish, formal phrases and proper diplomatic terminology. It bore the signature of Gaspar de Guzmán, count-duke of Olivares. “This could be a complete fabrication.”

“Or it could be what Señor Garcia Salcedo assures me it is.”

“What was your response?”

“What you instructed me, Father. I told the envoy that I would bear this document to you, and deliver your response.”

“And what did he make of that?”

“He was unsurprised. But he acted as if this was an inconvenience, nothing at all. Indeed, he told me that if we were not disposed to let their forces pass, it would be necessary for them to force the issue.”

“He told you they’d attack?”

“As I said,” Alexandre answered, “he implied that they did not consider us a threat. When I asked him for clarification of the term ‘forcing the issue,’ he said that they would be required to ‘sweep us aside.’”

“Sweep us aside.
Vraiment.
Bien
,” he added, “they’re in battle formation,” Turenne said. “Colonel Maddox is correct. They are ready for a fight. If they were not prepared to enforce their will they would remain in marching order.”

“What are your orders?” Alexandre asked.

“Tell the envoy that, with due respect, we do not accept this document: not from any question of its legitimacy, but because we do not take orders from the usurper. Gaston,” Brassac said, taking a deep breath, “Gaston d’Orleans is not our rightful king. His promises have no value.”

“He’s not going to like that answer,” Sherrilyn said.

“That is the answer I propose to give,” Brassac said. “Unless you wish something else,” he said to Turenne.

“No,” Turenne said. “That is the answer I would have you give.”

Turenne looked at Bassompierre, as if expecting defiance or protest. The old marshal looked grimly from the young marshal to the comte de Brassac, and after a moment he nodded his agreement.

Alexandre took one last glance at his father, then turned his horse and rode back down to the field, where the envoy from the Spanish side waited.

◊ ◊ ◊

The Spanish officers conferred for several minutes while the troops waited. It was obvious that they were in no hurry to attack and had no fear that the French might make a move while they discussed their options.

To Sherrilyn, who hadn’t been present for a battle—at least not with the French—it was almost surreal: each side’s toy soldiers were set up on the field, their helmets and cuirasses reflecting the sun, the horses neighing and pawing the ground . . . and no one was moving. It was like a football game before the referee blew the whistle.

With one significant difference
, she thought.
When the whistle blows, these guys will try to kill each other.

Then the whistle blew: three blasts on a horn from the center tercio, followed by three blasts from each of the flankers, and the Spanish cavalry began to move across the field toward the French line.

She looked at Turenne and the comte de Béarn, whose expressions hadn’t changed.

“Now we will see how good they are,” Turenne said, and rode down toward the center of the line.

The Spanish cavalry was heavily armed and armored; it took them a few moments to get up to speed. Thirty seconds after they began to move they had covered a quarter of the distance to the French line; thirty seconds later they were more than halfway.

Thirty seconds after that, the French line, armed with Cardinal rifles, began to fire. Every fifteen seconds another volley erupted from the formations on either side, striking the cavalrymen and their mounts with devastating effect: each time the front rank retired in order, and the loaders behind the line reloaded their weapons as the other ranks stepped forward.

The Spanish cavalry on each side had been expecting to strike the Frenchmen, firing a pistol caracole and then attacking with swords and the momentum of their charge. There was no pike square opposing them. But by the time their pistols were in range, too many of them were wounded or unhorsed, utterly dispersing the charge. Those who remained turned aside, trying to ride out of range of the French rifles—which continued to fire, volley after volley.

Then the horns blew again, and the infantry began to advance.

Paris

When King Gaston came to the telegraphy chamber, Terrye Jo was ready and waiting. Several in his entourage seemed tentative and perhaps even a trifle afraid: but the king himself was accustomed to the up-timer technology. The hum of the radio set did not disturb him in the least.

She stood, not removing the headphones, but Gaston waved her back to her seat. He gestured to the others with him.

“Mademoiselle Tillman is very skilled with this device,” he said. “My lord of Soissons, did you discharge the man you had working for you? I understand he was quite inferior.”

“No . . . no, Sire. Mademoiselle Tillman asked that he be retained.”

“Indeed.” Gaston looked from Soissons to Terrye Jo, one eyebrow raised. “And why would that be?”

“Because, Your Majesty,” Terrye Jo said, removing the headphones and laying them carefully on the table, “as at Turin, no one can attend the equipment at every hour of the day and night. Monsieur Cordonnier—”

“He has a name, does he?”

“Of course he does. Everyone has a name,” she answered. And then added, “Your Majesty.”

“Yes. You are correct, mademoiselle,” the king said. “But most names are not worth remembering.”

There was a titter of laughter. Terrye Jo did not laugh, and did not find herself moved to smile.

“Have I offended you?” Gaston asked.

“No, Sire,” she said. “Not me. But I do not wish to waste Your Majesty’s time. By your leave, we should proceed.”

The duc d’Épernon frowned—
glared
, actually, Terrye Jo thought—at what he must have perceived as impertinence. She returned his stare.

“Then let us proceed,” Gaston said, waving at her to sit.

Terrye Jo sat down and put the headphones back on, tuning the radio set to the frequency she’d been given.

GJBF CQ
, she sent.
CQ CQ CQ
.

“Any response?” D’Épernon said. “Is there—” He stopped at a gesture from his king.

GJBF. GJBF.

GJBF HDAT
, she heard at last.
HDAT. KN.

HDAT was the call sign she had been expecting to hear:
Henri Tour d’Auvergne, Turenne
.

“Go ahead, Sire,” she said.

“I would speak with Marshal Bassompierre. Tell the telegrapher to summon him.”

HDAT GJBF LE ROI DESIRE PARLER A BASSOMPIERRE KN.

There was a pause, and then she received a response:
LE MARECHAL TURENNE DIRIGE L’ARMEE. LUI SEUL PARLERA POUR L’ARMEE.

GJBF HDAT QSM. Please repeat
, she sent.
QSM.