Kings of the Boyne (6 page)

G
erald and Jacques had spent the entire afternoon on horseback, Jacques pushing Gerald hard on performing manoeuvres that might well save his life in battle. They both agreed that Troy knew exactly what was required of him; it was just his rider who needed to practise.

Years of training had gone into Troy, Paris and the rest of the horses in the French cavalry. Gerald could not help but be impressed. He only needed to lightly pull the reins this way and that to signal to Troy to walk forward or backwards or to the side.

Jacques repeated what he said in every training session: ‘You must trust yourself as much as your horse trusts you. That is what it is all about, trust.’

‘I know. I know. You’ve said that before!’ Gerald flexed
his fingers to prevent them from cramping after holding them in the same position for so long. It struck him that his life was one long list of instructions, from his parents to Father Nicholas, and now his friend who enjoyed torturing him with endless repetition of directions and exercises.

Ignoring his pupil’s cheekiness, Jacques continued on with the lesson: ‘A horse is a brave and noble creature. Just think how he allows a man to mount him. As far as the horse is concerned, every rider imitates an attack by a predator. The big lion jumps onto the horse’s back to bite down on his spine while hugging the horse’s neck in order to tear it open with its claws.’

Gerald rolled his eyes. He had long ceased reminding Jacques that there were no lions in Ireland.

‘Remember to keep your musket straight. Your arms must get used to holding it straight in battle while guiding Troy this way and that.’

‘I guide him just as well by pressing my knees against him. Really, Jacques, we have done this so many times. I’m not a beginner anymore!’

Jacques grinned at him. ‘It is true you have made excellent progress, but I think this is thanks to your most excellent horse and most excellent teacher.’

Troy snorted his agreement.

As they trotted past the town, they could see their fellow
soldiers sweating in the sun, digging trenches and fortifying Drogheda’s walls. Gerald remarked, ‘Isn’t it peculiar that this is exactly what went on in Derry only we were on the outside of the walls, we were the threat?’

‘No, my friend, I do not find it strange at all. In life, everything is repeated, with the same things, and they happen again and again only to different people.’

Jacques was in a philosophical mood.

‘You mean like, the next time we’re here in Drogheda, I’ll be the one to fall in love?’

Jacques grunted. ‘Maybe so. If you’re lucky and only if we ever return to Drogheda again.’

Gerald smirked. ‘So, you still plan to leave then, after this is all over?’

Jacques answered with a shrug, ‘But of course. I am a soldier. I go where King Louis wants for me to go.’

‘Really?’ asked Gerald. ‘But what if you don’t want to go anywhere else? What if you want to make a home for yourself and have a family?’

The Frenchman reminded his friend, ‘Your father has a home and a family and he fights for Louis. He has everything, yes?’

Gerald thought about this. ‘I suppose so. I mean, for all I know he misses Ireland and Mother terribly, but they both believe in doing their duty. They told us that Father
would be better placed to help Ireland if he joined up with your king.’

Jacques waved his hand. ‘Well, there you go. We are all doing our duty. Isn’t that why you are here?’

Gerald said nothing to this. They brought the horses back to their pen, dismounted and removed the heavy saddles. Then they spent the next hour rubbing the animals down and making sure they had plenty of water.

When they were finished, Jacques slapped both horses on the flank. ‘See you later, my friends. Enjoy your evening!’

He had already decided how he and Gerald would spend the following hour. ‘Come, I need some of your horrible Irish beer to cool me down. Let’s go to the tavern and continue this interesting talk.’

Gerald knew that his mother would hardly approve of his entering such an unworthy establishment. The alehouse was nothing more than a dark basement, found at the bottom of a few rickety wooden steps that did their best to trip up the customer who had indulged himself with too much alcohol. It was far from clean, the atmosphere thick with the smell of sweat and urine. The battered furniture had certainly seen better years, better decades, but the customers did not make their way down those treacherous steps to take in the interior decoration. The dank basement was for drinking and conversation.

Besides, his father was no stranger to the tavern in Offaly and, according to Jacques, a variety of taverns in Paris. Jacques had known Gerald’s father in Paris. Indeed, it was Mr O’Connor who had asked that Jacques look out for Gerald, ensuring that the two met up as soon as possible by asking the Frenchman to deliver Troy to him. It had taken Mr O’Connor some time to be able to afford the horse because of the animal’s specialised training. Horses represented extra soldiers on the field but required months of tough conditioning to prepare them for the noise and chaos of battle. Finally, the day had arrived and Mr O’Connor was delighted to be able to send his son this tremendous gift that meant that Gerald was immediately promoted from the lowest echelon of any army, the infantry, to the highest, the cavalry. Although he and Jacques were rather low down in terms of the cavalry, where the wealthier members owned two or even three horses and had their own groomsmen. However, this did not bother Gerald in the slightest. He was perfectly satisfied with having just Troy and looking after him himself. This was the first time he had ever owned a horse, a fact that would have shocked his wealthy ancestors.

The room was crowded, the summer temperature creating a thirst that could only be satisfied by a mug of brown ale. Gerald insisted on paying for their two drinks, still
determined to repay, in some way, the price of the book.

They found two worm-ridden stools and sat down close to one another.

Gerald had been thinking about the word ‘duty’ and even before Jacques could enjoy that all-important first sip, he asked, ‘Can I make an observation and, pray, do not be offended?’

Jacques swallowed a mouthful of warm beer as he nodded his permission.

‘Well, it’s just that you said we are all doing our duty … but, you see, your country is not really under threat, is it? I mean, you have a Catholic king, one of the most powerful rulers in the world. He has plenty of money and a huge army.’

‘
Oui
, this is so,’ conceded Jacques, concentrating mostly on his beer, making sure none of the house flies ended up swimming in it.

‘But, well, it’s just that … you are only here because Louis told you to be.’

Gerald had rushed out his last few words and seemed to expect an explosion of some sorts.

Slightly baffled, Jacques simply agreed, ‘Yes. I know that. You know that. What of it?’

Gerald paused, feeling slightly lost himself. What was the point he had wanted to make?

‘Look,’ said Jacques, ‘you told me why you are here, about your grandfather’s castle that was burned to the ground, about your mother that longs to be a great lady again, like her mother before her. You fight to win back the riches of your family, and I fight for Louis to hold onto his riches. Don’t pretend, my friend, there is a nobler reason for us to be here. Really, war is usually about the power and the money.’

He rewarded himself for his speech by draining his drink and then looking pointedly at that of Gerald, who was not as keen on the taste and, without thinking, swapped cups with his friend.

‘
Merci bien
!’ muttered Jacques happily. ‘This is the life, no?’

The first beer had settled him in nicely and, with a contented sigh, Jacques took in their fellow drinkers. ‘Ah, see, there is Michael and Joseph.’

He waved at the other soldiers, saying: ‘Now, I do not much care for either of them but tonight let us all be merry. Yes?’

At long last, Jacques glanced at Gerald’s face and was perplexed at not seeing the usual friendly expression. However, just before he could investigate matters further, he was obliged to deal with Michael and Joseph, the two soldiers from Tallaght and Trim who had found a stool each and were pushing in beside them.

Michael glanced at Gerald and asked, ‘What’s wrong?’

When Gerald made no answer to this, Michael smirked as he said rather too loudly to Jacques, ‘Oh dear, I hope we’re not interrupting anything.’

The younger soldier, Joseph, had not noticed anything and had no idea what his friend was talking about and certainly was not prepared for Gerald’s furious bark.

‘How dare you!’

Jacques was mystified, looking from Gerald to the new arrivals and back again. ‘What? Who are you talking to?’

Gerald spat out his answer. ‘You, Jacques, you! You think it’s so easy, don’t you? You have met a girl you like so now you are perfectly happy. It doesn’t matter where you are, only that you can drink beer and chase girls. That’s all you care about!’

Michael was understandably thrilled with this. He had hardly expected a performance to go with his beer and certainly not one that involved the pompous
Frenchie
being made to look as sorry as he did.

Doing his best to ignore the eager audience, Jacques sought to calm his young friend. ‘I do not understand. What have I said?’

However, Gerald refused to dignify the question with a reply, forcing Jacques to work it out for himself.

‘Wait!’ said Jacques, before declaring, ‘This is about me
saying there are no noble reasons to fight. I am right, no?’

He paused, not wanting to upset Gerald anymore than he had already done. Nevertheless, he had finished the second beer and, therefore, was not going to indulge any silly whims. He was nobody’s nursemaid.

But, first things first.

He stood up quickly, startling them all, announcing quietly, ‘I need more beer!’

Gerald rolled his eyes to the grimy ceiling while Jacques called out his order to the plump barmaid, who sloppily filled a jug and brought it over to share out between the four beakers. Joseph and Michael were mightily appreciative of Jacques’ generosity and drank up quickly, to make room for more. Only Gerald did not offer up his empty cup.

Jacques pretended not to notice and focused on the latecomers, asking them, ‘So, tell me, you two, why are you soldiers in King James’s army? Why will you fight his battle for him?’

Gerald scowled while the others seemed surprised at such a strange question.

However, Joseph wanted to be helpful and offered, ‘My father told me I had to go because we needed the money.’

Jacques seemed surprised at this and stared at Joseph, who suddenly looked far too naive for his red coat. Joseph’s face was covered by a dizzy blend of orange and brown
freckles, and Jacques pitied the boy for his giant front teeth that refused to stay hidden.

Feeling that he should elaborate, Joseph added, ‘I’m the eldest of seven.’

Michael nodded. ‘I have a family to feed back in Trim and this uniform is an improvement on scrabbling in other men’s fields, planting their vegetables.’

Gerald now stirred himself to ask, ‘So, you believe in King James and in returning to the old Ireland, where we can be free to better ourselves?’

Michael smirked. ‘Do you mean Tir na nÓg, the Fianna, Oisín, Niamh, Cuchulainn and his hound, and all that lot? Do not forget, my lad, that we are lining up to fight for an Englishman. I doubt that the Fianna would be so proud of us.’

‘But James can give us back our religion, our rights.’ Gerald was adamant that at least one of them would see sense.

Michael slurped his beer noisily and swallowed quickly. ‘As far as I’m concerned, James is the one who pays my wages.’

It was Jacques’ turn to become tetchy. If they were going to drink his beer they had to get their facts straight: ‘Correction! King Louis is the man who pays your wages. Without him, none of this would be happening. Your children would starve and you, Joseph, would be still sitting at your poor parents’ table.’

‘You know what,’ said Michael rather loudly, ‘I don’t like your tone. And I don’t care who pays me as long as I get paid!’

Joseph seemed lost. He sent Gerald a worried look, which was promptly ignored.

‘There!’ Jacques nudged Gerald lightly. ‘Is Michael any better than me? He might have an Irish accent but at least I know who I’m fighting for.’

Wanting to keep his two hands free to hit someone, Michael shoved his mug at Joseph. Joseph, however, scraped enough courage together to refuse it. He stared at his feet and pretended he was elsewhere.

‘You don’t know anything about me, Frenchie.’ Michael spoke slowly and precisely. ‘Remember you’re not in France now. You have no idea what we’ve been through.’

Jacques was confused. ‘Huh?’

Michael twisted around suddenly, making Joseph flinch, as he pulled up his tunic and shirt to show them his back which was crisscrossed with shiny welts that they could just about make out in the candlelight.

‘You know who gave me them?’ he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he told them, ‘the English lord that caught me looking for potatoes on his estate. I was twelve years old and my parents were dead. I was hungry, dressed in rags, and he had his gardener whip me as if I was a rabid dog.’

The others stared at Michael’s red face. Feeling a little
embarrassed, the older soldier slid his clothes back into place. Lowering his voice, he said, ‘That Englishman told me that I had no business being alive! Has any foreigner said that to you in your own country?’

His question was for Jacques who was struggling to understand the turn in conversation.

Adamant that Jacques concentrated on what was being said, Gerald added, ‘You hear that, Jacques and that’s only one story. There are plenty more! I spent my childhood being walked for miles by Father Nicholas so that he could show me burnt-out churches and graves that had been dug up just because the corpses were Catholics.’

Michael nodded at this, as Gerald continued, ‘People are starving,
our
people. We’re not allowed to farm our own land because it belongs to England. And when we can’t afford to pay the rent for our homes the English landlord evicts us without a second thought. Babies, old people, sick people, left sitting on the side of the road, hungry and with nowhere to go.’