Honour and the Sword (29 page)

The soldiers dragged him to the foot of the gibbet and began to fasten a rope round his neck. Yves was talking frantically to the curé, he was saying Pierre had died a few hours ago and the soldiers had just come and taken him. The curé seemed to grow taller with outrage. He shouted at d’Estrada, then shoved the soldiers aside, stood between them and the body, and held out his crucifix square in the air against them. He said ‘In the name of Christ, you dare not touch this man. In peril of your immortal souls, you dare not.’

The soldiers started murmuring and one actually crossed himself, but then everyone went quiet and there was this big fat Spaniard striding towards us, dressed like a royal procession and looking like we were all dirt under his polished boots. This was Don Francisco, our new governor, but I didn’t know that then, I only knew he was something very bad. He was even carrying a bloody great pistol on his belt, and I’d never seen anyone do that except Stefan.

D’Estrada started to explain, but Don Francisco waved him aside, like he could see what was happening for himself. He turned to the curé and said kindly ‘Stand aside, Padre, and let my men do their duty.’

The curé didn’t answer. He just stood with his eyes closed and his lips moving, but the hand that clutched the cross was as steady as the boy’s with a sword. Everything was quiet, except for the buzzing of flies round M. Gauthier and the miserable, wavering howling of Dog.

Don Francisco sighed and stepped forward, ignoring the cross completely. He looked around at his own soldiers cringing away and the rest of us standing like frightened sheep, and he actually smiled. It’s terrible, but in a funny way he reminded me of the old Seigneur, or even of the boy himself if he’d got grown up and fat and was evil instead of good. There was a kind of fearless authority about him. Power was curling off him like steam from a cauldron.

He reached out his hand, touched the crucifix, and pushed it down.

There was a kind of sigh all round. I don’t know what we expected, maybe a thunderbolt or something, but there was nothing, just this fat bastard holding Père Gérard’s arm down and smiling into his face, and the priest was looking smaller again and nothing had happened at all.

‘Do your duty,’ said Don Francisco, pointing to Pierre, and the soldiers rushed forward to pick him up.

The Capitán saluted, and turned rather quickly away. Don Francisco gazed calmly round at the rest of us, then swung his cloak grandly about him ready to sweep off. The cloak actually struck M. Gauthier’s legs and set them swinging.

Dog came feebly to life. He stopped that awful thin howling and jerked his poor old head to snap at Don Francisco’s heel. I’d never liked that dog, no one did except M. Gauthier, but just for a moment I felt I loved it.

Don Francisco looked down at Dog with disgust, pointed his pistol and shot him. Dog gave one strangled yelp, then flopped on his side and lay still. Above him, M. Gauthier’s feet half revolved slowly one last time, then came to a final stop.

Stefan Ravel

We’d hanged them the previous night. Marcel fussed about giving them a proper trial, but that was hardly practical, Abbé, our only magistrate being loose in France on a bolting horse, so we just said fuck it, and strung the murdering bastards up on the spot. They were riddled with gunshot wounds anyway, I doubt they’d have kept till morning. No, we didn’t bother with a priest, why the hell should we? They hadn’t given Truyart one, let alone that poor baby. It was Magdeburg Justice, Abbé, and that’s all they deserved.

André didn’t seem concerned. He watched the Pedros dangling for a moment, then simply nodded and said ‘Good.’

I’d hoped for better. I’d hoped for a smile at least, but there didn’t seem to be one in him any more.

I said ‘You broke Fat Pedro’s nose for him, you know.’

He turned away. ‘Doesn’t seem like much now, does it?’

He set off walking back towards the Hermitage, his shoulders hunched and the tatters of that revolting shirt trailing off him like the rags of his little victory. I wondered just how funny that journey of his had really been. Alone in the dark, battered and bruised, no means of defending himself except the horse’s speed, while a faintly pungent smell suggested at least one thing he’d found difficult to do with his hands tied round a horse’s neck. What concerned me most was that he didn’t seem to care. All that bravado had shrivelled out of him as soon as he heard about Gauthier.

I said ‘We’d better get you cleaned up and some fresh clothes on you. There’ll be something in d’Estrada’s baggage.’

He shrugged miserably. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

I grabbed his shoulder and swung him round so fast he nearly fell over.

‘Don’t you give me that, don’t you fucking dare. You did a man’s job yesterday, you took it for all of us, then stuck it to them in front of the whole village by jumping the Wall. Now you’re back, and all right, it’s not what you expected, the dons have been busy and a friend of yours is dead, but look at me and tell me you’re going to just let it go. Look me in the eye and tell me you’re giving up’.

He wrenched himself out of my grip. ‘Get your hands off me.’

‘All right,’ I said, raising my hands in surrender. ‘Whatever. But you can at least get yourself washed, can’t you? I can smell you from here.’

He glared at me a moment, then a shadow of his old grin flickered over his face. ‘You really are a bastard, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But call me one again and I’ll chuck you in that stream myself.’

‘You could try,’ he said, and smiled.

Jacques Gilbert

I don’t really remember walking back to the Hermitage, I just remember arriving. I remember bursting through the door, and seeing André all clean and dressed in new clothes, and coming towards me saying ‘What is it? Are you hurt?’ I’ve planned it all out how to break it to him gently, but suddenly it’s not like that and I can’t speak at all.

Then his arms are round me and he’s sitting me down, and I manage to say ‘M. Gauthier,’ and he looks sad and says ‘I know,’ and I say ‘You don’t, you don’t know,’ and then it all comes pouring out, the gibbet and the dog howling and Don Francisco and the green flies round M. Gauthier’s head, I tell him about Mme Laroque sobbing, and the creaking of the ropes as they haul Pierre’s body up on the gibbet till he’s right off the ground and there’s nothing left on the stones but a little pool of blood from his body, and then a great, disgusting, swollen fly goes and lands on that too.

‘Drink this,’ said Stefan. He shoved his flask against my teeth, and it was brandy, good and fiery, and some of the sickness went away. After a moment my head cleared and I started to take things in properly. There was d’Estrada’s baggage strewn over the straw, stupid, irrelevant things like soap and handkerchiefs and a picture of a Spanish girl looking soulful. There was a dark shape in the corner that was Bernard waiting for sentry duty, and he was staring at me with open mouth and wide, dim eyes.

I said feebly ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No,’ said André. ‘But they will be.’

He gave my shoulders a little squeeze, then took his arm away and stood up. Stefan took back his flask and had a drink himself. He was watching the boy.

Marcel said doubtfully ‘The Spaniards are Catholics too. Surely they’ll …’

‘You think?’ said Stefan. ‘They wouldn’t take the bodies down for the priest.’

André was fastening his baldric over his new shirt. ‘Then we’ll do it ourselves.’

There was a little silence, broken only by a chuckle from Stefan.

‘But can we?’ said Marcel. ‘Is the gibbet guarded?’

I said Don Francisco had only left three guards there, but it was right in front of the Gate, where there were always loads of them, six on the ground and two on the firing step.

‘Ten, eleven, it’s not so many,’ said André. He started pacing backwards and forwards with his arms folded and his head down. ‘Is it in sight of the barracks?’

I thought of the long, downhill slope to the Gate. ‘No. But they could see it from the bottom end of the Square if they went down there.’

André nodded. ‘Suppose we organized a demonstration of some kind, suppose we put a crowd in the way? They’d never see anything then.’

‘They’d hear it,’ said Stefan. ‘They’re not fucking deaf.’

The boy flushed. ‘If we do it without guns. If we use the archers, or get close enough to use blades.’

Stefan sighed. ‘This isn’t an ambush in the forest, you’re talking about the middle of Dax. One shout, one shot, and there’s three, four hundred dons round our necks.’

The boy shook his head in irritation and went back to his pacing. Marcel watched him, and started biting his nails.

I said ‘Can’t we distract them?’

Stefan looked at me. ‘Four hundred? How exactly?’

There was a kind of rumbling from the corner by the door, and I realized Bernard was actually saying something. He said ‘We could blow up the barracks.’

Stefan snorted. ‘Thanks for that, Rouet. Apart from the fact we haven’t enough powder to breach those walls and the dons are rather likely to spot us setting a mine right next to them, that’s really helpful.’

Bernard went scarlet, lowered his head again and cracked his knuckles. I began to see why he didn’t speak much when Stefan was around.

André paused, thought a moment, then walked on. ‘Bernard’s right. That would do it, it’s the only thing that would. Bernard’s right.’

Bernard’s head came cautiously up again, like he suspected a trap.

‘If we didn’t have to breach the walls,’ said André, ‘if we could actually set the mine inside, we’ve enough powder for a good bang, haven’t we?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Stefan calmly. ‘We’ve enough for that. What do you propose, my little general? You want Rousseau to smuggle it in under his apron?’

André had stopped again. He bent down suddenly, and picked up the rags of his old shirt. It was ripped down the back, it was filthy and worn, no good for anything except maybe cleaning the guns, but he looked at it like it was suddenly precious.

‘Maybe there’s another way,’ he said.

Carlos Corvacho

We weren’t having the best of days, Señor, no. The Colonel Don Francisco, he was what you might call a difficult man. A fine soldier, there’s no denying it, wonderful reputation, but just a little … difficult.

Oh yes, he was sympathetic to my Capitán’s position, especially as he wasn’t happy to be exiled here himself. A little question of embezzlement in his case, or so I understood, but the end result was the same: no command in the army this year, and only the prospect of a long stay in what he called this pit of lost souls. He used to write poetry, Señor, did you know? A very refined gentleman, our Colonel. I helped his servant unpack his wagon, and there were wonderful ornaments in it, wonderful, he had a real fancy for anything in miniature. He even had toy soldiers, can you believe? Beautifully painted and all quite lifelike, they were really.

Oh no, he wasn’t soft, I wouldn’t want you to think that. We’d hoped he’d stay in the grand house we’d reserved for him, but he insisted on moving into the barracks itself. Quite commendable in its way, Señor, but not really convenient, with my gentleman forced to give up his quarters and move out to this chilly great lumber room, and me taking the whole day to make it nice for him. I did my best, Señor, I put up his tapestry with the hunting scenes and found some nice red poppies for his desk, because he did like flowers about the place, he said it made things cheerful. I showed him in the afternoon, and he put his hand on my shoulder and said ‘You’re a good fellow, Carlos. Take the evening off for a change, have some time for yourself.’ That was just like him, Señor, there never was a more considerate gentleman. I said ‘But what about your supper, you’ll be wanting something brought in,’ but he only shrugged and said he had no appetite.

I knew what that was about, it was that business with the gibbet. All morning he’s been at the Colonel to reconsider, he says it’s enough to drive the local people to rebellion, but the Colonel only laughs and says he thinks not. ‘These are peasants, man,’ he says. ‘Without de Roland they’re just sheep.’

My Capitán’s not so sure. They were singing this new song in the alehouse last night, all about a bird being chased by soldiers, I expect you know it, don’t you, Señor? Well, I don’t know I’d care to repeat it, but the burden seems to be it defecating on the heads of the soldiers and escaping by flying over a wall. Seems a lot of nonsense to me, but my Capitán thinks it’s important. The way he sees it, the Chevalier may have gone, but his reputation’s all the higher for it, and that’s dangerous with superstitious country folk. My gentleman’s really quite fretting over it, he’s pacing up and down so much he’s making me dizzy.

I say ‘If they do make a little demonstration, what does it matter? Ask yourself, Señor, what can they actually do?’

My Capitán stops pacing so suddenly he’s got a leg stuck in mid-air. Then he puts it down and turns round to me, and bless me if he isn’t smiling.

He says ‘You’re quite right, Carlos, of course you are. Now tell me, what would I do in their place?’

That’s easy, Señor, I’ve known him long enough for that. I say ‘You’d try to take the bodies down.’

He laughs. ‘Of course I would. And so will they.’

Jacques Gilbert

We dug the graves at Ancre, in the burial ground for family retainers. The graveyard looked pretty in the evening sun, shaded by the beech trees but with that sea of forget-me-nots crowding all over it in a great froth of blue and white. I thought M. Gauthier would like it there. Georges even dug a little hole on the edge for the dog. I was glad he and Dom were with me, they’d been fond of M. Gauthier too. I remember our walking back to the Hermitage together, our spades over our shoulders. ‘Still shovelling, little Brother,’ said Dom peacefully. ‘Still shovelling.’

As we approached the clearing I heard that grinding whirr getting higher and higher like a wasp getting closer, and knew the whetstone in the weapons outhouse was hard at work. Robert was walking purposefully towards the Hermitage with a great armful of bandoliers, while Jean-Marie sat cross-legged against the wall, stitching red Burgundy crosses on to a pile of dark coats to add to our stock of Spanish soldiers’ dress. We’d collected a fair amount of Dax Company black and red by taking it off soldiers’ bodies, but we were going to need more than that tonight.