by A L Berridge
It’s funny, but it was only then I felt my knees start wobbling, and had to sit down. Things felt even odder on the ground, because it was all going on above me. I remember sitting there, my palms pressed hard against the spikiness of the straw, and looking up at the surgeon’s fashionable mauve breeches as he talked to Marcel like he was the only person there. It felt like something I was dreaming.
Then I saw Stefan. He was standing back apart from everyone else, leaning against a pillar with one great booted leg thrust out in front of him like he didn’t care who tripped over it. As I watched, he pulled out a flask from an inside pocket, flipped the stopper off with one dirty finger and put it to his lips. He watched the surgeon over the rim as he drank, and there was no expression in his eyes at all. Maybe he sensed me looking, but his eyes suddenly flicked to mine, and for a second he felt more real than anything else in that whole room.
Marcel said something to the surgeon, then led me over, and we looked down at André together. He was breathing softly and evenly, there was a faint pink tinge in his cheeks, and his lips were red. I didn’t cry, I didn’t even want to, I felt the way you do after Confession, that clean feeling sort of whooshing through you like you’ve been forgiven and given a fresh start. I wanted to share it with someone who understood, but when I looked round, the door was swinging open and Stefan was gone.
Jean-Marie Mercier
I escorted the visitors back to the gabelle road, because they preferred to stay the night at Lucheux rather than with us.
Everything looked peaceful at the Hermitage when I got back. Pepin waved happily to me from the roof, and I knew that inside there would be light and warmth and everyone celebrating because André was going to be all right. I stabled the horse in the outhouse, brushed myself down and walked towards the door, but as I reached it I jumped back suddenly in fright. There was a huge dark shape huddled against the wall. In the gloom I could just make out a shaggy head and two glinting eyes, and then I saw it was Stefan.
I came closer. He had his flask of brandy in his hand, and there was quite a strong smell of it about him too. He took another swig as he looked at me, and a little dribble came trickling down his chin. He didn’t even bother to wipe it.
I didn’t quite like to walk past, not while he was looking at me. I thought perhaps I ought to say something, but he was very drunk, and I wasn’t sure how he’d react.
He stretched up his arm and offered me the flask. ‘Drink?’.
I could see he thought I wouldn’t, and perhaps that’s why I took it. I actually took quite a large gulp, and it scalded all the way down my throat, but it warmed my stomach and I felt better for it.
‘That’s right,’ he said, taking it back. ‘It’s good stuff. André’s, of course, it’s all André’s. Couldn’t afford it myself, not a humble tanner like me.’
I moved past to the door, but as I opened it I heard his voice again behind me.
‘What made him do a thing like that anyway?’ he said. ‘Do you know?’
I looked back at him, but I’m afraid I didn’t understand. ‘The brandy?’
He looked blankly at me, than gave an odd short laugh like a bark.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, no, no.’ He knocked the back of his hand gently against the wall. ‘No. I mean back there.’ He gave a little jerk of his head, and I suddenly understood.
‘He wanted to save you.’
His hand stopped moving. His eyes seemed to be trying to pierce through the darkness at me.
‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I’d worked that out all by myself.’
‘It was his choice.’
He took another swig from his flask, and looked carefully at the ceiling. ‘Saw it, did you?’ he said. ‘From your little nest in the heather?’
He didn’t ask even now, but I saw he wanted to know, so I described everything I’d seen, and how André had stood in front of his body and defended him against them all.
Stefan never looked at me once while I was talking, he never moved at all. When I’d finished, there was a little silence, and then his lips moved, and he started cursing quietly, almost under his breath.
I said ‘You know the rest of it.’
His face turned slightly, his eyes glistening in the moonlight.
‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘I know.’
He started to clamber to his feet, but was rather unsteady, and had to grasp my shoulder to haul himself up.
‘Stupid little bastard,’ he said. ‘I trained him better than that. You know I did, Mercier, I did everything I could.’
I picked up his flask, which had fallen in the straw, and handed it back. He looked at it incuriously, flipped it open, drank, then passed it back as if it were mine.
‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I never asked for anything in my whole fucking life?’
I took another sip of the brandy, and perhaps it made me braver than usual. I said ‘Well, perhaps you should.’
He stared at me incredulously for a moment, then gave a short, huffing laugh.
‘Blessed are the meek,’ he said. ‘Is that right, you fucking little oddity?’
He reached out suddenly, seized my head and crushed it against his chest, and I realized he was actually embracing me. He released me just as suddenly, flapped a hand at me and reached for his flask.
‘That’s mine,’ he said, and heaved himself into the doorway. He looked back for a moment, but I don’t think he was really seeing me, I think he was too far gone.
‘Blessed are the meek,’ he said again, then laughed. He swung himself out through the door and into the darkness, his laughter seeming to grow louder as he wandered away into the trees.
Seventeen
Jacques Gilbert
He got better every day. One moment he was this pathetic creature meekly taking everything we gave him, the next he was spotting me mixing spider medicine with his wine and saying if I tried it again he’d break my arm. He was out of bed in a week, walking about in two, and a few days after that I caught him trying to fence.
Stefan got all the credit, of course, he went swaggering about like a King’s Physician and wouldn’t let anyone else touch the boy without his say so. I didn’t mind at first, I thought it was fair enough. I never forgot what he did when things were so desperate, or those hours in the dawn behind that cold wet sacking when it looked like Stefan was our only hope.
People thought André’s recovery was a kind of miracle. The army got almost superstitious about him, and went singing that ‘Petit Oiseau’ till we were sick of the sound of it. I can’t remember what the new verse was this time, something about a bird flying over a cliff on the back of an eagle, but they probably had it crapping on something on the way, it seemed to be always doing that, you’d think it had diarrhoea. But they sang it in the villages too, and the Spaniards didn’t like that at all. They still went round saying André was dead, they talked like we were just making it up to save our faces, but they put up big posters offering two hundred livres for his body, so I knew they wanted to be sure. Don Francisco was probably having a few sleepless nights over it, and serve the bastard bloody well right.
The odd thing was I didn’t much care any more, it was like a lot of the hatred had burnt itself out. They’d trapped us and made us run for our lives, they’d murdered Philippe and nearly crippled André, it was like the worst defeat ever, but somehow the boy surviving made it like we’d won after all. Nothing else mattered. D’Ambleville at Doullens actually sent me back my ring, he said loyalty like that was worth more than the diamond, but even that didn’t seem important. André was going to be all right, and all I remember clearly is him putting it back on my finger himself.
The next day I went to see my family. It was a bright, cold morning, with the ground making crunching noises when you walked on it, but I felt warm inside, like a kind of hero returning home. I’d got tobacco for my Father too, and I knew he’d be pleased about that. M. Merien couldn’t get it any more, but Stefan used the couriers to buy it fr
om the apothecary in Lucheux and André paid for us to have some too.
By the time I got to Ancre my nose and ears were so cold I had to keep pinching them. I remember opening the cottage door and the warmth rushing out at me with a burst of laughter from Blanche. I shut it quickly behind me to keep the draught out, and turned to look at my family.
They were all sat round the table with steaming bowls of soup in front of them. Their faces looked orange in the firelight, their hair all shining yellow and Mother’s bright gold. Blanche was on Father’s lap, his big hands clasped round her back, and the faces they all turned to me were still smiling from whatever they’d been laughing about. For a moment I felt sort of awkward.
Then Mother was up and scrambling round Little Pierre to get to me, hugging me so tightly I felt her warmth like a shock. Father looked shaken too, Blanche sliding slowly off his lap as he stood.
I said quickly ‘I’m all right.’ I could see he’d been worried, and that was warming me even more than the fire.
‘Oh my darling,’ said Mother. ‘We’ve heard so many stories, we didn’t know what to believe.’ She dragged me to the table and poured another bowl of soup. It was turnip, of course, but thick and sludgy and with chunks of pink bacon, so I knew M. Legros was looking after them all right.
Father still seemed shaky, like he couldn’t really take it in. He said ‘Lefebvre’s been saying all kinds of things, a big battle and God knows what. I thought it was just you and André.’
I felt a bit bad about that actually. It’s true I’d implied it was just us, I think I’d wanted to impress them, but they were impressed enough now, they wanted the whole story, and even Little Pierre listened with his mouth open and forgot to look grumpy. Father actually seemed upset, he made a mess lighting his pipe and bits of tinder went fluttering all over the floor. When I told about Philippe being killed, he made an exclamation and pushed right back from the table.
‘Oh poor Philippe,’ said Mother. ‘He went with you to the livestock markets, didn’t he, Pierre?’
Father grunted. ‘Every year.’ He pulled out his old red handkerchief and mopped the back of his neck. ‘They were good times. The ones at Abbeville were the best, we’d stay up the whole four days.’
‘It sounds like a lot of drinking,’ said Mother, but she said it nicely, and stroked his hand.
He looked at her fingers, patted them idly, then turned and stared into the fire. ‘We used to share a room with Gauthier, Ravel and Leroux, we’d split the money we saved and buy spiced apples. Yes, Nell, we’d have a drink or two, we were on holiday, all of us.’ He touched the tips of Mother’s fingers to his lips, and smiled.
It was lovely seeing them tender with each other. I said ‘I’m sorry about Philippe.’
Mother reached out her other hand to me, all warm from the fire. ‘It’s not your fault, my darling, we’re just glad you’re all right. And André too, we heard terrible things, people saying he was crippled and M. Ravel having to operate to save him. I’ve been so worried.’
Father sat back suddenly and let go Mother’s hand.
I said ‘It wasn’t Stefan, it was me. I got him a surgeon all the way from Doullens, and he’s walking already, he’s going to be good as new.’
‘Is he?’ said Father. ‘There you go, Nell, you can stop worrying now.’ His voice was still soft, but he didn’t take Mother’s hand again, he just went on staring into the fire and hardly said another word.
Anne du Pré
Extracts from her diary, dated 8–9 November 1638
8 NOVEMBER
I am so happy. Jeanette says André is expected to make a full recovery. Her friend Mercier told her our linen was the best of anyone’s and it is all they use for his dressing now. I feel quite strange about that. I took it from the press with my own hands, and it feels so odd to think of it now being wrapped round André’s body.
Jeanette said ‘Who knows, Mademoiselle, perhaps once he is stronger he may think of coming to rescue you to express his gratitude.’
It is a very salutary experience hearing one’s own fantasies spoken aloud. I managed to laugh and say ‘For a little linen, Jeanette?’
‘Ah, but this was very special linen,’ said Jeanette, and there was something coy in her manner I could not explain. ‘M. de Roland is a gentleman and will doubtless soon work it out for himself.’
9 NOVEMBER
We had a visitor today, and it was that loathsome Pablo Colette liked so much at the dinner. I could not understand how it was permitted, but it was the Slug who let him in and I should not be surprised if he took bribes. Florian made no objection, but I think that was because Pablo brought us a cake. Poor Florian, he is getting so thin, and the soup has been very watery this week. Last night I dreamed of cheese.
Pablo pretended his was merely a visit of courtesy, but since he sat next to Colette and spoke to her the entire time his real purpose was clear to us all. What is most distressing is that Colette did not seem to mind. She fluffed up her hair and stuck out her chest and giggled, so that I was really quite ashamed. She seems quite to forget that Pablo is Spanish and our enemy.
He seems to forget it too, and speaks as if we were all on the same side. He even expected us to commiserate with him that there was still no sign of André’s body when Don Francisco wanted to put it on a gibbet. I had difficulty remaining silent when he said that, and jabbed the needle so hard into my embroidery I pricked my thumb. I would have left the room, but then he said casually ‘Some people think we shall never find it. Don Miguel’s informant says de Roland is still alive.’
The thought of anyone being so disloyal made me burn with anger. I listened intently in hope he would say more about the informer, but naturally he did nothing so useful. He only sighed and said ‘It is very hard on poor Don Luiz. There was a bonus promised for whoever killed de Roland, but it won’t be paid now.’
‘Don Luiz?’ said Colette, her eyes wide open, as if everything Pablo said had to be interesting.
‘Oh, he is a splendid fellow, Mademoiselle,’ said Pablo. ‘He comes from a very old family, one of the greatest in Spain. You will meet him yourself soon, for he is to be transferred from Dax to replace poor Santos, who was killed at the gorge.’
I know who he means by Don Luiz, it is that man at the dinner who told Carlos he killed André. I am not looking forward to seeing him again, I don’t see why these officers must visit at all. I told Colette so this evening, but she said I was only in a bad mood because I will bleed again soon. She says it is always like that, and I must accept it as part of being a woman.
I do not see why being a woman means one must be nice to people who have tried to kill our friends. I may be very stupid, as Colette says, but I do not see it at all.
Jacques Gilbert
By mid-November he was out trying to fence again and this time there was no stopping him. He’d have healed much faster if he hadn’t tried to do stuff so quickly, but that was André, he wanted to be back to strength right now and no one was going to tell him not. Stefan said it wouldn’t do him any harm, I’d got to let him go at his own pace, but it wasn’t anything to do with Stefan, it wasn’t his job to look after André, it was mine.
He didn’t need Stefan’s encouragement anyway, he was just pushing and pushing himself so I could hardly bear to watch. Those fencing exercises were the worst, he’d be doing that crouching down and springing up thing over and over again, his breath coming in gasps and sweat breaking out on his forehead, and I’d say ‘You can’t, André, you can’t, you’re going to tear yourself open.’ Then one day he put his hands on my shoulders and said ‘Jacques, I’ll have to wear this sword all my life, do you really want it to be just an ornament?’
I understood then. He was noblesse d’épée, and that was something M. Gauthier said, he’d said the boy needed honour, courage, and the use of the sword. So I made myself bear it, I stood back and watched him rip himself open time and time again. The next week I even let him fence me, I let him k
eep at it, stabbing and thrusting, stamping and lunging, smashing and scraping his blade against mine till there were blue sparks from the force of it, I let him fight till he could beat me again, and only then did he collapse.
That’s what started it all, I suppose, him collapsing and needing more stitches. Stefan grumbled like it was my fault, so I said it was him told me to let André go at his own pace, but he only looked at the boy lying flat on his belly and said ‘And what pace is he going at now exactly?’ He wouldn’t even let me help with the dressings at first, but I spoke to Marcel, I said it was me was André’s aide, and he agreed it was my job to look after him. Stefan just shrugged and said ‘Well, if you want to get possessive about pus, that’s up to you.’
So it was me changing the boy’s dressing that day in December, and maybe that’s why things happened how they did. I was rubbing in ointment while the boy lay on his stomach idly looking at the old bandage, which I know is disgusting but everyone does it, when suddenly he froze quite still, and his back went tense under my hands.
‘What is it?’ I said. ‘There’s nothing yellow, is there?’
He twisted his head round to look at me. ‘This linen, it’s from the Château at Verdâme, how on earth did we get it?’
It was our very best linen, white and new and so fine it was almost shiny, but the boy was right, it was from the hostages. Stefan was always careful not to let him see it.
I said lightly ‘Oh, I think a maid who works there gave it to Jean-Marie.’
‘Well, she shouldn’t have,’ he said. ‘Look what it is, Jacques, this is Mlle Anne’s own linen.’ He showed me the monogram embroidered on a corner in fine white silk. ‘It’s her dowry linen, it’s just like my mother’s. They’d no right taking that. Is there much left?’
I riffled through the bale and saw there was a little lump in the middle. I peeled off the sheet above it, and there it was, a crushed rose, dried and falling to pieces, but still dark red and smelling beautiful.
