Honour and the Sword (62 page)

They certainly did. The civilians were often training at the same time as us, and we could hear Margot’s voice all over the fields. We went to talk to her about it once, because it really was very difficult trying to give our own instructions over Margot shouting ‘That’s the way, ladies, let the bastards have it where it hurts!’ Giles was very charming, but Margot only laughed, and told him to save it for his floozies and let her get on with her job. Giles seemed a little distracted the rest of the afternoon. He kept looking over at Margot and fingering his moustache.

The whole army trained in those fields. Sometimes we even had the cavalry, so they could gallop in the open without trees in the way, and that was a splendid sight. We’d never had a full cavalry section before, and all kinds of people volunteered for it, even Bettremieu. Georges thought that was tremendously funny, he said being on a horse still wouldn’t stop Bettremieu being wounded, but Marcel gave him a simply enormous animal to take his weight, and he honestly looked quite terrifying.

We were all out there. There were archers and crossbowmen, there was Bruno’s knife team, and even a section of pike to protect the Gate. Stefan was training the pike with Pinhead, and sometimes he made them work with us to learn how long we needed for a reload. Stefan hadn’t really changed very much. Watching him yelling at those pikemen brought back memories of him teaching our unit all those years ago, when we were a groom, a farmer’s son, a blacksmith, a merchant, and a child.

Now we were soldiers, and it was up to us.

Stefan Ravel

It might have been fun if only we hadn’t got Châtillon in charge. I knew what the army thought about Châtillon even back then, and they were right. He couldn’t make a decision to save his life, and more importantly he couldn’t make one to save ours.

He wasn’t even going to be there, he was crossing the border somewhere else. We were being left to some ambitious nobleman called the Comte de Gressy, who’d obviously bought himself the honour, since I’d never heard of him, and never met anyone who had. It still didn’t stop Châtillon meddling. Come the spring, we got dispatches from the idiot every week.

It had to be very precise timing now. The troops would emerge from the cover of the beech forest about half an hour before dawn, then advance to just over a mile’s distance of the Wall. This, of course, kept them nicely out of cannon range, because naturally they didn’t want anyone getting hurt, or at least no one important. They’d wait there nice and safe till five o’clock, which is when we were meant to stage our attack, spiking the cannon and getting rid of those inconvenient guards on the Wall, who just might have noticed a whole French regiment thundering towards them over the plain. By ten past, they reckoned we’d be keeping the Gate Guards and cannon occupied, and it would be safe for them to go the last mile. If the theory worked we’d only have to hold that Gate for twenty-five minutes, but of course it all depended on the watchtower not spotting them coming at half past four and manning the Gate with the entire garrison before we even started. In other words, it all depended on our little Chevalier. He and Jacques were taking that one themselves.

That, at least, was the plan. I thought you might as well know it, Abbé, since it’s not what happened, it’s only what we poor innocents were expecting. We were expecting it a long time too. Spring crawled into summer, and all we had were endless picky messages from Châtillon. Young de Chouy came so often we actually got to know him quite well. He was a cheerful little beggar, always singing, we could hear him coming a mile off, and it was a sound we learned to dread.

He was singing that last day too. We weren’t training that afternoon, we were all of us ready long ago, and becoming more than a little pissed off with the delay. We were lying about in the sun doing nothing, and André was actually asleep.

Then we heard it, the faint sound of someone singing in the distance, and a minute later the cheery jingle of light harness. André opened his eyes and groaned. I looked over to see de Chouy trotting happily towards us, waving a letter as if he expected us to be excited.

I said ‘If it’s another change of timing I’m going to stick it up his arse.’

Philippe d’Argenson, Comte de Gressy

Extract from plain text of letter to André de Roland, dated 2 June 1640

… It is quite definite. The Seigneur de Puységur returned from Soissons this afternoon, where he had speech with both His Majesty and M. le Cardinal, and the plan is finally approved. We are currently at Amiens, but M. le Maréchal desires the troops shall move within twelve days from this date. Our own force is to move sooner, and our intention is to be in Abbeville on 7 June, so that our assault will take place in the early hours of Friday 8th along the schedule of timing previously discussed.

Puységur is confident the ruse will work. As he told His Eminence, the Spaniards are convinced we dare not assault Arras. They have a saying to the effect that ‘When the French take Arras, the mice will eat the cats!’

We will make them eat their own words, will we not? …

Stefan Ravel

So you’ve even got that, have you? My word, you are thorough. Fancy young André keeping it all that time. Still, I suppose it’s reasonable, we’d been waiting for it long enough.

But do you know, it was almost a sad occasion in a way. Now the moment had finally come we all began to see what it was really going to mean. It was the end of the Occupation, the end of the army, we were suddenly going back to the real world. For one thing, I’d been eating at the expense of the Chevalier de Roland for some time now, but in just over a week I’d be back to worrying where my next meal was coming from.

I’m a soldier. A man like me, you don’t get close to people, for the simple reason they’re likely to get blown to fuck the minute you take your eyes off them, and sometimes even if you don’t. Still, I’d been with this unit four years now, and that’s a long time. I’ll be honest with you, Abbé, I looked round that little bunch of men that afternoon and felt something almost like affection. Young André, perky, bright-eyed with excitement. Marcel, radiant with enthusiasm, eyes on my face, seeing the future as he wanted it to be, not the way it was. Even bloody-minded Jacques Gilbert and dopy Bernard Rouet, I almost felt as if I’d miss them. Sentimental balls, of course, but you know how it is, things seem different when you know you’re going to lose them.

I wasn’t the only one feeling that way. We had a little party on the last night to finish up our reserves of cider, but it was rather a subdued affair. Oh, people like Lefebvre were fine, the ones who’d only seen the war as a disruption of their routine, but there were one or two more thoughtful types who saw things differently. Mercier, who for the first time in his life had really been something. Libert, who’d been fully accepted as a Flamand among Frenchmen. Pepin, who most of us would normally have been chucking stones at. Leroux, who’d have to go back to doffing his hat and bowing to a master he’d always despised. Oh, there were a few of us, Abbé, a few.

I stuck it for as long as I could, then wandered outside for a little peace and privacy, the sound of singing following me out into the night air. I headed for that quiet spot behind the weapons outhouse, but heard movement as I approached it, and realized someone else had had the same idea.

It was André, and he was fencing all by himself in the dark. Thrust, parry, riposte, lunge in-out, and all against the empty air.

Well, I’d had a bit to drink, Abbé, maybe more than I should. I’d had a drink, there was unfinished business here, and the opportunity would never come again. I stepped out in front of him and drew my sword.

‘Fancy a bout?’

He laughed politely.

‘What’s the matter? Think you’re too good for me?’ He was, of course, I’ve never denied it, but it wasn’t everybody who’d risk fencing him at all.

He had the grace to look abashed. ‘Well …’

‘You beat me once, remember?’ I said. ‘This is my last chance at revenge.’

He grinned at me, the cocky bugger. ‘Well, in that case …’ He saluted and gave me
en garde
. ‘But practice speed only, all right?’

‘To start with,’ I said, and smiled.

We plodded through the opening moves, and I was careful to give him my full attention.

‘Why does it have to be your last chance?’ he said, as we patted our blades against each other, civilized as little girls. ‘There could be others.’

‘Really?’ I said, risking a thrust, and nipping back fast. ‘Think you’ll be up for an occasional afternoon’s fencing with the local tanner, do you?’

He smoothly closed distance to engage me again. ‘I might.’

‘Not with this one, you won’t,’ I said. ‘I’m giving up the tannery, I’m going to be a soldier.’

He did something complicated with his wrist and sent my sword flying harmlessly into the grass. ‘So am I. We might be in the same regiment.’

I picked up my sword and wiped it on my breeches. ‘That’ll be nice. You can splash me as you gallop past.’

He waited patiently for me to resume position. ‘It doesn’t have to be like that.’

‘Yes it does. I’ll make appointé maybe, and anspessade if I live long enough, but that’s as good as it gets.’

We resumed the bout. He was gentler for a moment, doubtless making allowances for my inferior skill, then said casually ‘Yes, but if you come with us …’

I walloped his blade out of my face. ‘I’m not coming with you.’

‘Why not? You’d be much more independent. I’d be a Gentleman Volunteer, you’d only really be answering to me.’ He was back on the attack again, dancing back and forwards, luring me out towards him.

I stayed right where I was. ‘You want me to be your servant?’

‘Of course not.’ He kept distance, his blade tickling mine point-to-point. ‘I’d still need your advice. You could do what you liked.’

I batted his blade away and stepped back. ‘You don’t know much about the army, do you, André?’

He bristled at once. ‘My family has always been in the army.’

‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘You know what it looks like from horseback with a wagonload of servants following you around. Come down in the mud sometime and I’ll show you what it’s really like.’

He was silent a moment, then offered his blade and we engaged again. ‘Maybe that’s why I need you. I’d like to understand those things, I’d be a better officer if I did.’

‘Won’t happen,’ I said. ‘Officers and men don’t mix.’

‘They can. We’ve proved that here, haven’t we?’

‘A year from now if you see me in the ranks you’ll cut me dead.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘You’re a gentleman, aren’t you?’

He came in hard at my chest. ‘So? Why shouldn’t a gentleman be friends with a soldier?’

I slammed my sword round and stopped him dead. ‘Because.’

He stepped back, wiping the back of his arm across his face. ‘I do wish you’d tell me.’

I looked at him seriously. ‘No, you don’t.’

He lowered his sword. ‘I sometimes think you don’t much like nobility.’

‘I sometimes think you’re right.’

‘It’s different in the army …’

‘It’s worse in the fucking army. There are more of the bastards to steer clear of, that’s all.’

He sighed patronizingly. ‘An officer has to give orders, it’s his job …’

‘All right,’ I said, and touched his blade to draw him back into the bout. ‘All right, here’s a little story for you. A young man in the army at the siege of La Mothe, under heavy cannon fire all day. That night he got drunk.’

‘You?’

‘Not me,’ I said, fencing him back to a safe distance. ‘But the lad got pissed enough to hit someone, and unfortunately it was his capitaine.’

‘That’s not so good,’ he said. He was attacking again but his mind wasn’t on it, he kept glancing up at my face.

‘Not so good,’ I agreed. ‘So next day the capitaine made him run the gauntlet. You know what that is, my little officer?’

He nodded without looking up. ‘You run between two ranks of men and they try to hit you as you pass.’

‘Very good,’ I said. ‘You clearly have all the education an officer needs. This wasn’t one of the worst either, no pike, only cudgels. The lad was popular, no one hit as hard as they might. The men either side of me never touched him at all.’

‘You knew him?’

‘A little,’ I said conversationally. ‘He was my brother.’

He stopped dead and stared at me. ‘Stefan …’

I struck his blade hard with my own. ‘We’re bouting, damn you.’

He dropped his eyes and put his sword back into play. ‘What happened?’

I fenced without speaking a moment, beating the memory down hard. ‘He made it through. So the capitaine had him driven through again. And again. Until he died.’

I heard his intake of breath. ‘I’m sorry. Oh, Stefan, I’m so …’

‘You’re not allowed to be sorry,’ I said. ‘You’re an officer, remember? Your whole authority depends on it. So let’s hear you justify what happened.’

‘I can’t, it’s wrong …’

‘It’s legal. Justify it.’

‘I won’t.’

He stepped back, but I struck out hard at him, my point grazing right across his shirt. He stared at me in shock.

‘Justify it,’ I said, and lunged.

His sword smashed up to meet mine. ‘You think I’d do something like that?’

‘You’d have to. Discipline is all that stops the men tearing you in pieces. You’d do it, André, what makes you so fucking different?’

He didn’t answer, he was too busy fighting me off. I lashed out again, but he was twisting away and back, his blade up square to block me, the impact jarring up my arm. I slid up close, driving hard against him, his feet slipping on the grass as he struggled to hold ground. I used my whole weight to shove him away, then swiped sharp after him. He ducked, but my guard glanced off his chin, sending him staggering backwards, out of control. I thrust forward at once, but he spun clean round for the parry, then leapt back, righting himself straight and shaking the hair out of his eyes. Then he was steady again, coming in fast, jabbing at me in sharp, crisp thrusts, I couldn’t deflect quick enough, I was having to give ground. He was too good for me, the little bastard, he always was.