Honour and the Sword

by A L Berridge

  ‘He didn’t seem worried,’ said the boy. ‘He was grinning at me, and when Chapelle reached him he just clapped him on the back and said “Let’s try a bit of steel instead,” and they ran down the stairs together. At the bottom he looked back up at me and called out “And bloody stay there!” He was laughing. He looked happy and alive, he was almost shining with it.

  ‘I hung on the rail, I wanted to see. But Camus, one of the Guard, he pulled me away and said “Come on, Mondemoiseau, the Sieur wants you back in your room.” I told him I wanted to watch, but he said “Please, André, don’t give me any trouble now, I’ve your mother to see to as well,” so I went back to my room and he closed the door. I still wasn’t frightened, because my father was there, but I put my breeches on just in case and stuck my knife in my belt. I was just getting my boots on when I heard more running footsteps and somebody stopping outside. Camus’ voice said “All right, André, it’s only me,” and then I was alarmed because he sounded scared. Did you know him, Jacques?’

  I thought he’d forgotten I was there.

  ‘He was so funny. He had a woman in Doullens and another in Beauval, and neither of them knew about the other. The one in Doullens was a widow with a nice little house, but the one in Beauval was a blonde and he couldn’t decide between them. Poor Camus. He used to throw dice to help him choose, but whenever it came up for the one in Doullens he always found a reason to throw again.’

  He was quiet a long time. I wondered if I ought to say something, but then he started again, and he was talking a lot quicker now, like it was falling out of his head and into his mouth and he’d got to get rid of it quick.

  ‘There was fighting on the Gallery, I heard it, swords and men shouting, some of it in Spanish. Then my father was there, somewhere in the other wing, I could hear him. He was calling the men, but there were no more footsteps and I don’t think anyone came. Then there was the clash of swords right outside my door, and I knew Camus was fighting. I had to help him, I started to open the door, but he pushed it shut right in my face. I didn’t want to distract him so I waited while the fighting went on, swords and little panting noises, feet slipping and stamping on the boards, then a great thud against the door, a sword point flashed through and stuck there, and someone was crying out. I tried to open the door, but it was blocked by something heavy and the screaming was hoarse and agonized. After a moment it stopped and I tried the door again, but it would hardly budge, it took ages to open it enough to squeeze past. I got out at last, and there was Camus, he’d been thrust clean through and pinned to the panel like an insect.

  ‘I came out then, as I should have done fifteen minutes earlier if I’d been any kind of man. I came out, and I wasn’t looking to do anything brave even then, I was looking for my father. I ran for his apartments, but all I could hear was my mother, and she was screaming. Screaming. It wasn’t just noise. There were words. She …’

  He stopped again. I glanced at him out of the far corner of my eyes, and he’d stopped looking at the wall, he was watching an ant climbing up his leg, he watched like it was the most important thing in the world. He picked a bit of straw, pointed it at the ant like a sword, and stared in fascination as it took hold of the blade.

  ‘She was begging,’ he said at last, but seemed to stick at that, he couldn’t get past it. The ant let go of the straw, and he brushed it off his leg and went back to looking at the wall.

  ‘There were only dead men on the landing, three in our uniform, but the others in black, all in those helmets with red plumes. The antechamber door was slightly open, and I pushed it and went in. There were dead soldiers everywhere, all of them enemy, there wasn’t one of our own, but when I picked my way through the bodies I saw my father lying in the middle of them.’

  He’d got his arms round his knees, but now he moved them up round his body like he was hugging himself.

  ‘He was right by the doorway to the bedchamber. He’d been protecting my mother, stopping them going in. I counted five. He killed five just in this one room before they got him, and even then the wound was on his back. I knelt down beside him, I think I hoped he might just open his eyes and tell me what to do.

  ‘My mother was still crying in the other room, she was begging them to stop, but there was no one answering her, only laughter. I knew what I had to do. I had to kill as many as I could to avenge my father, and I’d got to save my mother from what was happening in that room. I knew what it was, of course, or at least I knew the word for it. So I pulled out my dagger and went to the door.’

  He made it sound really matter-of-fact, like it was what anyone would have done.

  ‘There were six of them,’ he said. ‘Three just standing by the bed, and two holding my mother down, one each side, they were pressing her arms down, and holding her legs apart. The last man was between them.’ He stopped and swallowed suddenly.

  I said quickly ‘You don’t need to tell me this, don’t tell me about this.’

  He nodded vaguely, but I don’t think he actually heard.

  ‘She saw me,’ he said. ‘She turned her head to the door and called out my name. I went to her, I tried, I tried to get to her, but they stopped me, they were grabbing at me, and I slashed out with the dagger to keep them off, and I got one, Jacques, I cut full across his face, then one was in front of me and he wasn’t armoured, only leather, so I pushed the knife right deep in and out again, it stopped him and I got past. I made it up to the bed, but the others caught me, I tried, I wasn’t strong enough, there were too many, and they seized my arm and twisted it and I dropped the dagger, then one of them punched me, and I fell back and banged my head against the wall.’

  It must have been a hell of a punch. I remembered how badly bruised his face was, how swollen and black he’d been round his ear.

  ‘Two came after me with their swords drawn, but one by the bed said “No,” he called out “No” and something else I didn’t understand, and they put their swords away. He was an officer, Jacques, an enseigne, tassets and a red sash. He ought to have been stopping it, not joining in like some rutting animal.’

  ‘At least he stopped them killing you.’

  He shrugged. ‘I suppose they’d had orders. They’d have done it otherwise, I know they wanted to. They were angry because I’d stabbed their friend, and I think I must have killed him, I got the knife in really deep.’

  I thought he must have too. I remembered his arm being soaked in thick blood right up to the elbow.

  He said ‘They dragged me off the floor, they held me tight between them. The officer told them … he said to make me … they turned my head towards my mother, I tried to fight but they …’ His hand went uncertainly up to his hair. ‘They held my head up, they made me … they made me …’

  They made him watch.

  ‘They found it funny,’ he said. ‘They should have killed me. It would have been better.’

  He sat back and closed his eyes. When he started speaking again his voice sounded calmer. ‘There was a shot outside. I hoped it might be the militia come at last, but the officer went to the window and said there was no one there.’

  I said ‘I think it was me.’

  ‘Was it?’ he said. ‘I thought it was the militia. But it helped. The officer stayed down that end of the room watching, because it was still going on, Jacques, it was going on and on, and now they started up this awful kind of chanting, emphasizing every thrust, it was animal and vile and I had to stop it. I wrenched myself towards them, I almost got loose, and the nearest one holding my mother came with arms spread to stop me, and I saw her hand come down off the bed and pick up my knife.’

  There was a silence. Then he said ‘They didn’t kill her. She did it herself. I saw her. She saved herself because her son couldn’t.’

  I tried to think what it would be like to see your own mother kill herself. I remembered watching the boy cleaning that knife on the wet grass.

  He said ‘The officer was furious, I think he knew he’d be in tro
uble. They forgot about me, they let go, and I didn’t wait, I turned and ran.’

  I said ‘Of course you did, there wasn’t anything else you could do,’ but he looked at me blankly as if he didn’t understand what I was saying.

  He said ‘I needed a sword. I couldn’t fight them with nothing, I needed my father’s sword. I ran into the anteroom, and bolted the door behind me to buy time. I knew where my father’s sword would be, I bent down and tried to take it from his hand. His grip was still firm, I had to loosen his fingers, but they were warm, and when I looked at him his eyes were open. He was alive.

  ‘He shouldn’t have been. He was cut wide open, he shouldn’t have been breathing at all. But he looked at me and knew me, he said “André.” He looked agonized, he looked frightened, I’ve never seen him …’

  I tried to imagine seeing my own father frightened, and couldn’t do it. I couldn’t imagine it with the Seigneur either, it just couldn’t happen.

  ‘The soldiers were at the door, they were shoving against the bolt. My father said “Run.” I said “No,” and he said “Run, or it’s all for nothing.” I said “I’ve got to have the sword,” and he understood and smiled at me, and his fingers relaxed, and he let me take it. No one else, Jacques, he wouldn’t have let anyone else in the world take his sword but me, and when I had it in my hand he said “Now run,” and there was blood dribbling down his chin.

  ‘The soldiers were hurling themselves against the door, thudding hard against it, they daren’t let me escape now. My father forced himself to sit up, the blood was pouring out, he shouldn’t have been moving. But the top bolt fell off, the door was bursting open, the soldiers piling up behind it.

  ‘And my father stood and threw himself into the gap. He didn’t even have a sword any more, he only had his body, but he threw it at them anyway and cried at me to run, and then he was stumbling, they were pushing him back, and I did run, Jacques, I ran down to the drawing room and climbed out of the window, and they didn’t catch me because my father held them up long enough, he saved me, and he died all alone in that room because his son left him and ran.’

  He stopped abruptly, and his hands crept slowly back around his knees. He was still staring at the wall and it was safe for me to look at his face. I think I expected him to have changed somehow, to look like someone this awful thing had happened to, but it was already done by the time he first came to me, and the only person changed was me, because now I knew.

  I’d got to say something, I’d got to at least try. I told him it was stupid for him to go blaming himself, he’d done more than anyone else would, and it wasn’t his fault it hadn’t been more, because he was only twelve years old.

  He said ‘What matters is they both died in agony and all I did was watch.’

  I said ‘It was their choice, wasn’t it? Your mother wanted to die, and your father gave his life to save you.’

  He nodded. ‘They died honourably, didn’t they, both of them? And I’m left alive to carry the shame of it.’

  ‘There’s no shame in surviving, it’s what they wanted, isn’t it? I bet your father was really happy he didn’t die just lying on his back but standing up and fighting to save his son.’

  Tears trickled slowly out from under the boy’s eyelids. He didn’t even wipe them away. ‘And that’s what I want too. I don’t want to be this, I don’t want to be me. I can’t go on watching other people suffer when I ought to be helping them, that’s where the shame is, that’s what I can’t bear. I wanted to be like my father.’

  I said ‘But you are. I was in the Corbeaux last night, and everyone was saying so.’

  ‘Killing soldiers, that’s all. It’s not enough, Jacques, it doesn’t undo any of it.’

  I said ‘It could do. Those soldiers, the ones who did it, they’ll still be here, won’t they? We could find them and kill them.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know them if I saw them. It was dark, they wore helmets, the only one I saw properly was the officer. It could be any of the soldiers who’ve come to use our well, that could have been them with the cart that day, it could be bloody any of them, any soldier I ever see.’

  The horror of that hit me like a hammer. I remembered the hate in his face when he’d stared at that cabo, and how I’d made him let the bastard pat him while he stood and lowered his eyes.

  I said ‘It doesn’t matter, you’re still fighting them, aren’t you? You did everything you could, and you’re still bloody doing it, you ought to be proud.’

  He gave a hard little laugh. ‘I tell myself that every day. I tell myself I tried.’

  I felt a complete shit. ‘I didn’t mean that. It’s not the same.’

  ‘No, it’s not. You saved your mother, I didn’t save mine.’

  I shook my head and wished I hadn’t, it sent a sort of stab through my ribs. I said ‘I was scared to even fight my own Father. But you, you went in to fight all those soldiers on your own. You’re a hero, you must see that.’

  He jerked forward so hard he knocked the basin right over, I watched the pink water soaking away into the straw. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘All right then, what does that make you? I couldn’t have done what you did. Not without a sword in my hand. Never.’

  ‘André …’ I said, and stopped. No one had ever looked at me the way he was looking now. I’d dreamed of my Father looking at me like this one day, I’d dreamed of it even when I was awake, but he hadn’t, he’d never, no one, ever. ‘André …’

  He nodded gently and sat back. ‘Trying’s got to be good enough, it’s all there is. How would you feel if you hadn’t?’

  I remembered how awful I’d felt while I was sitting letting it all happen, and how much better when I was up on my feet. I tried to recapture that aching feeling I’d had, but found to my surprise I couldn’t, it had sort of broken up and gone, there was a kind of warmth growing there instead.

  I looked at him again and he actually smiled. The tears weren’t dry on his face, but he smiled.

  He said ‘So stop calling me bloody stupid.’

  We sat in silence, but it was a nice silence and went on for a long time. An owl hooted somewhere, and the boy’s head slipped down off the wall. He was asleep. It didn’t hurt me, and I didn’t move him. His head was on my shoulder like it belonged there, like it always had.

  I knew it was true what I’d said. I thought of the Seigneur dying on his feet, and there was a kind of fierce pride burning up in me because he was the Sieur, and it’s what I would have expected of him, he was everything I always thought he was, and I’d loved him. And André was the same. He’d fought six soldiers on his own, and he’d have gone back if his father hadn’t stopped him. He was the Seigneur’s son. I don’t just mean the title and all the other stuff, I mean he was the son of Antoine de Roland in every way there was. And here he was, sleeping beside me in the straw like I was part of it too.

  As I was drifting off to sleep, I found myself remembering a day when I was very little, and Mother was bringing me back from the Manor. The Seigneur walked a little way with us, and I was tired, and Mother held my hand and the Seigneur took the other. They walked me between them, and I felt like the safest person in the world.

  PART II

  The Soldier

  Nine

  Père Gérard Benoît

  As spring warmed into summer, the hopes of our people rose. A year had passed since our Occupation, a new campaign season was upon us, and there were once again French armies abroad in Picardie. The success at Landrecies stirred all hearts, and the investment of La Capelle rendered them almost feverish with excitement. Our conquerors clearly shared in the sense of anticipation, and began forthwith a great work of fortification, not only extending the height of our Wall, but also erecting a watchtower on the roof of their barracks, the better to spy the advance of the French troops we expected daily for our relief. Yet no one came. The siege of La Capelle proved prolonged, and autumn was well advanced before the fortress once more reverted into French hands. Arm
ies withdrew into winter quarters, the campaign season was over, and another year of Occupation was begun.

  Yet for all the heaviness of our hearts, the evils of Occupation proved less than fear had made them. Some indications of unrest had made the Saillie a less attractive prospect for colonization than perhaps the Spanish had hoped, and there was no further sign of either the importation of new citizens from Flanders, or the arrival of our long-threatened governor. Dax-Verdâme continued under the rule of Don Miguel d’Estrada, whose government was as fair and peaceable as circumstances could allow.

  The André of this period was a charming gentleman of fourteen, but grown a little rustic in his manners and sorely in need of contact with his own kind. I saw him more regularly at this time, for he visited me weekly for the purpose of his neglected education, but he was not, alas, a scholar by nature, and while his progress in the Spanish tongue was rapid, his Latin did me little credit. Madame la Comtesse contrived to send books for his improvement, but while he displayed considerable acumen in his study of martial strategy I was less sanguine as to his progress in the arts. He was enchanted by the old-fashioned Amadis de Gaul, but his reaction to a translation of Don Quixote was to hurl the book against the wall of my cottage and say he wished he might throw the author after it.

  These lessons were abruptly terminated by the events of the following spring. The little signs of unrest I had already remarked began to swell, and rumours now circulated freely among us of an Occupied Army formed in our very midst, which was not only in communication with French forces outside, but also assailing and frustrating the enemy within. It was whispered abroad that the Sieur of Dax had followed in the spirit of his family’s tradition and was leading a great body of men for the succour of his stricken people.