Honour and the Sword

by A L Berridge

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘She killed him herself really, I only finished it. You never saw anything so brave as that girl, Jacques, you never did.’

  I dragged him back from thinking about Anne. ‘But don’t you mind? Didn’t you want to kill him yourself?’

  He shrugged. ‘He recognized me. He saw my face, it’s the last thing he saw before he died. That’s good enough for me.’

  I saw how relaxed he was and knew it was true. After a while his eyes closed, and he settled deeper into his blanket with a little sigh. I’m ashamed now, I knew more than anyone what this meant to him, I ought to have been sort of bubbling with joy, but I watched him drifting peacefully into sleep, and all I really felt was envy.

  I leant back against the wall, looking at the knots in the rafters and listening to his breathing. Everyone else was already asleep, and I was completely on my own. After a moment I sat up cautiously and put on my boots. I needed a sword too, so I reached out quietly and took Marcel’s. The touch of the metal felt cold and hard and final in my hands.

  I stood up. André stirred in his sleep, disturbed by the movement. I could see him more clearly now, there was a faint, pale light creeping in through the slats. It touched his hand outside the blanket curled into a little fist against the straw. It crossed his arm, then his shoulder, and found his face. The hair fallen over his cheek ended abruptly in a jagged line.

  I rammed the sword in my belt and went out.

  Georges was riding back from courier duty as I led Tonnerre out, and nearly fell off his horse at the sight of me. I told him I couldn’t stop, I’d got to see my family, and he nodded seriously and said he understood. Of course he did, it’s what anyone would do if their execution had been announced, I mean they’d want to let their family know they were all right.

  I was certainly looking forward to telling mine.

  Twenty-Four

  Stefan Ravel

  We were woken by that bloody Georges crashing in with the dawn light shouting ‘Isn’t it wonderful? Where’s André?’ I told him to fuck off.

  It was too late, everyone was waking, and when André heard Georges had been to Lucheux he was struggling out of his blanket and wanting to know if he’d seen the hostages. Tortured or not, he was still firmly in the grip of his little romantic fantasy.

  Georges said cheerfully ‘I saw the younger lady, she was up getting ready for the coach. She wanted me to give you a letter, only of course I couldn’t take it.’

  André looked at him blankly, and Georges actually seemed abashed. ‘Well, we all thought, I mean it looked as if …’ He ran out of words, dug a poster out of his pocket, and handed it miserably to André.

  The kid studied it in a grim silence. ‘Is she all right? Was she upset?’

  Poor Georges was going an interesting shade of pink. ‘I think she was a bit faint.’

  André scrambled up and was all for dashing to Lucheux right away until Marcel pointed out it was far too late. The coach left at dawn, and his lady love would be on her way to Paris by now, carrying the news with her.

  That horrified him even more. He said ‘I’ll have to write. I’ll write to my grandmother, she’ll be worried too.’ He turned to grope for paper, and for the first time noticed the blanket next to his own was empty. He stared at it uncomprehendingly for a moment, then turned slowly back to us. ‘Where’s Jacques?’

  I had the sickening feeling of having been here before.

  Jacques Gilbert

  I didn’t have much time. Colin would have reported the rope at first light, and once the panic was over there was a good chance d’Estrada would guess exactly what I’d do, and send soldiers round to pick me up. I galloped Tonnerre fast as I could through the forest and arrived at Ancre only shortly after sunrise.

  I didn’t think the Spaniards could be here just yet, but I was careful all the same. I went round by the Home Farm, took Tonnerre to the paddock and left him out of sight, just as I’d done before. Somewhere in my brain I felt like none of this had happened, and I was being given a chance to live the same day again, and this time my family would be pleased to see me and none of the rest of it would happen at all.

  But of course it wasn’t like that, and this was one place I was never going to be welcome again. I didn’t even go straight in, I went behind the barn into the yard and listened at the back door. I could hear Mother’s voice raised in distress, and then the rumble of Father’s, which gave me a strange feeling like a thump in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t believe they’d be talking like that in front of a load of soldiers, so I decided to risk it. I drew my sword, quietly pushed open the back door, and went in.

  Blanche was curled up on the bed, probably hiding from my parents arguing. She was about to squeal when she saw me, so I put my finger to my lips and made a face like we were playing a game, and she gave a tiny giggle and hugged her knees and grinned. I felt a bit bad about that actually, even at the time. I feel bloody terrible about it now.

  I tiptoed across the room in an exaggerated way to keep up the idea of a game, then peered round the doorway into the main room. Father was sat in his usual chair, and looked exactly the same as he always did. I don’t know what I’d expected, but it seemed all wrong he hadn’t changed, it made me feel I’d made a mistake. Mother was wandering about the room, her hands picking restlessly at her apron. Her face was pink, her eyes puffy from crying, and there was a grey bruise all down one cheek. There was no sign of Little Pierre.

  I pushed the door fully open and walked in.

  Mother cried out in shock, then her face opened up with a kind of frantic happiness, but it was how Father looked that pleased me most. He leapt up, pushing his chair back so fast he knocked it over, and just stared at me in disbelief. I’d wondered sometimes what it would take to scare my Father, but never thought it would turn out to be me.

  Mother took a step towards me with her arms out, then stopped in confusion as I moved past. Father said nothing, but his eyes followed me as I walked up to the table, the sword in my hand.

  ‘I’m back,’ I said.

  ‘Oh darling, we thought …’ began Mother.

  ‘I know what you thought.’

  She stared at me. ‘But it’s not true. Oh my darling, they let you out after all.’

  ‘We broke out,’ I said. ‘I had something to discuss with Father.’

  I levelled my sword at his face. He looked at it impassively, but Mother started with panic.

  ‘Jacques, don’t …’

  ‘You know what he did,’ I said, and it came out rougher than I’d meant. ‘You fucking know.’

  I heard Blanche squeal at the door to the other room, then Mother saying ‘It’s all right, darling, come in, look, it’s Jacques.’ I said ‘Not just now, sweetheart,’ and mouthed to Mother ‘Get her out.’ Mother looked at my face, then took Blanche’s hand, said ‘Don’t worry, darling, it’s only a game the grownups are playing,’ and led her away into the back room. I never took my eyes off Father the entire time, and he never took his off me.

  He said ‘What have you done to your face?’

  ‘Would you like me to show you?’ I touched his cheek with the point of the sword.

  I heard Mother gasp, and saw she was back in the doorway. Her eyes were huge with fear, but I wasn’t sure who for. It could have been any of us.

  Father said ‘You’re upsetting your Mother.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Then we’ll go for a little walk. Somewhere your friends the Spaniards won’t come interrupting us.’

  He didn’t move.

  I said ‘You think I won’t do it in here?’ I scratched the sword point lightly down his face and watched as the skin opened behind the blade. It was an interesting effect until the blood trickled over and spoilt it. He jerked his head away, and the fear was back in his eyes.

  Mother was talking desperately behind me. ‘Please, Jacques, please, darling, we have to talk, I need to explain …’

  I ignored her. It was hard, but I
did. I said to Father ‘You want me to do it in front of her?’

  He looked at me without expression, then indicated his coat with his head. I nodded, and he stepped to the table to pick it up. The alarm in Mother’s eyes would have warned me even without the metallic noise as the coat slid over the table. I clamped my left hand quickly over Father’s wrist, prodded him back with the sword, then jerked back the coat. Underneath it was a pistol.

  I picked it up in my left hand and gestured towards the door. This time he moved immediately, but I kept my sword in his back all the way. Mother stood watching wretchedly, her hands knotting in her apron, but I forced myself to ignore her, pushed Father out on to the cobbles and shut the door firmly behind us.

  I herded him along the drive and up the track to the stables. It seemed to be the right place. We used to work there together side by side. When I was little I used to watch him working on his own, I’d stand in the doorway and he’d talk about what he was doing, and tell me one day I could do it with him.

  The sun was properly up now, it was actually a nice day. The sky was pale blue, and there was a cuckoo calling somewhere, it made me remember summers when I was small. Father seemed more like himself out here too. As we walked up the track he put his hands in his pockets and actually whistled, like we were just going to work together on an ordinary day. I ignored it and concentrated on watching his back. He moved easily and confidently, and the muscles beneath his shirt were as strong as ever. The back of his neck was thick and red with sunburn, but I noticed with a pang that the little hairs there were white now, like the soft fuzz of a baby’s hair. He was getting old.

  We reached the stables and I told him to stop.

  ‘Getting used to giving orders now, are you, boy? What are you in that army of yours, a general?’

  It was good to hear that mocking tone back in his voice, it made him easier to hate. I told him to sit down, then turn and face me. He did it with almost exaggerated obedience. I didn’t know anybody could sneer with their body, but they can.

  ‘Stones aren’t very comfortable,’ he remarked. ‘Can’t we go inside on the straw?’

  ‘There won’t be any straw now.’

  I didn’t want to go in there. The ghost of what he used to be to me would be hanging in the dark like a giant cobweb, floating like dust in the very smell of the place. I sat in front of him, laid the gun close by my left hand, but kept the sword in my right with the point towards him.

  I said ‘Well?’

  He looked quizzically at me like he didn’t know what I meant. I felt the coldness inside me beginning to break up, and found I was getting angry instead. I needed him at least to try to explain. It didn’t have to be an excuse, I just needed him to give me something I could make sense of, something I could believe.

  I moved my sword back up to his cheek. ‘Haven’t you anything to say at all?’

  ‘Can’t talk with that thing in my face,’ he said, and pushed the blade away. I tried to return it, but he blocked it mildly with the side of his hand. I retracted to get the point to him again.

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ he said kindly. ‘You’re not a murderer.’ He reached out to take hold of the faible, but the sword was edged, his hand sprang back.

  I said ‘They were going to hang me. They were going to have me tortured.’

  ‘Don’t get yourself in a state, lad, you’ll do someone an injury.’

  He was reaching for the sword again, so I pulled back and whipped at his face with it, and the blade slipped down and scratched his chest.

  He looked at the thin line of blood trickling down onto his shirt. ‘Now look what you’ve done.’

  ‘You sold me,’ I said. ‘You betrayed me to the soldiers.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘You lied to me. You pretended you wanted me back, you made me trust you just so you could do this. They were going to kill me and you didn’t care, I know you didn’t, I saw your face.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a handkerchief,’ he said.

  ‘You can bleed to death for all I care.’

  ‘Not me, lad, you,’ he said patiently.

  He took out his big red handkerchief and offered it to me. I took it without thinking. He was right, there were tears running all down my face, I could taste them on my mouth. I wiped them, and clenched the handkerchief in my hand. He’d had that same handkerchief for as long as I could remember. He wiped his brow with it when he sweated, or cleaned his hands on it when we were mucking out. Once when I cut myself on a broken harness he bound my arm with it. He was very gentle.

  ‘You’ve got to tell me why,’ I said. ‘You’ve got to.’

  He reached out for the handkerchief and I gave it to him.

  ‘It won’t help,’ he said. ‘It never does. Don’t you know that by now?’

  ‘Was it the money?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘I’d have got you money, I could have got it from André.’

  For the first time his face changed. It darkened down the sides of his nose and round his mouth. His eyes seemed deeper.

  ‘I wouldn’t have touched his money.’

  ‘But you took it from the soldiers?’

  ‘A thousand’s a lot of money. Thirteen hundred if they counted you in, but I wasn’t bothered about that. After all, we were supposed to be getting you back.’

  ‘Is that what they told you?’

  ‘Of course. You didn’t think I’d want you hurt, did you, boy?’

  That was too much. ‘You didn’t want me hurt?’

  ‘Oh, come on, what’s that, a little scratch on your face? You look all right to me.’

  ‘I’m not talking about that.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Feelings. Is that what you want to talk about?’

  I didn’t say anything. I don’t think I could.

  ‘You don’t know anything about feelings,’ he said. His whole face was darker now, and his voice deeper. ‘There isn’t any pain at your age. Who are you fucking these days, I wonder? I hear you dropped Lefebvre’s girl.’

  ‘I can still have feelings, can’t I?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Can you?’

  ‘How can you say that?’ I said, and I could hear my own voice trembling, because this was it, really, this was what I needed to know. ‘You’re the one with no feelings, you don’t love me, you never have.’

  ‘True,’ he said again. ‘True.’

  I reached blindly for the handkerchief again. ‘You can’t just sit there and say that like it doesn’t matter. You’re supposed to love me, you have to love me, I’m your son.’

  ‘No,’ he said tiredly. ‘You’re not.’

  Stefan Ravel

  It had to be just the four of us. No one else knew it wasn’t exactly a good idea for Jacques to go home, and it wasn’t something we thought he’d want spread around

  We found his horse where it was last time, and left ours beside it. We checked the bushes, then André crept to the front of the cottage, peered through the window, then drew his sword and motioned me to open the door. I kicked it open, actually, I wasn’t in the mood for pissing about. This whole house and everything in it made me sick.

  There was just Gilbert’s wife there with a little girl. She looked terrified when I burst in but then saw André and rushed up calling his name. He checked her politely, and I saw he wasn’t in the mood for any flannel either.

  ‘It’s all right, Nelly,’ he said. ‘Just tell me where he is.’

  She dug her hands in his shirt. ‘I think, I’m afraid, oh, I think he’s going to kill his father.’

  So he knew after all, poor bugger. No wonder he’d looked so bloody awful.

  ‘Where did they go?’ asked André.

  ‘He didn’t say. André, please, you must stop him. There are things Jacques doesn’t know, things I ought to have told him, if he kills his father it will all be my fault.’

  Typical woman. Every second counted, so she had
to talk about blame instead of giving us what we needed to know.

  André tried again. ‘How long ago did they leave?’

  She made an effort at last. ‘Only a few minutes. They’re not in the barn, I looked. Jacques wanted to talk privately but I don’t know where.’

  ‘All right,’ said André. ‘I can guess.’

  He turned to leave, but from the doorway Mercier said ‘Horses on the Ancre road.’

  André jerked his head towards the back room, and we all piled in to find a door out to a little yard with a well in it. There was a track running behind the barn back to the paddock, and Marcel and Mercier started down it right away. André hesitated, then said to the woman ‘Nelly, you are going to tell the soldiers your husband has gone to the village and you have never seen Jacques at all. Do you understand?’

  She was useless as soft string. ‘Oh, André, I can’t.’

  Me, I’d have smacked her one, but André merely pressed her hands together and leant down to speak directly into her face. ‘You can. You’ll be quite safe. They won’t hurt you, your husband is too important. You can do this, and it will buy me the time I need to save your son.’

  She seemed quite fascinated by him. She nodded like someone in a trance.

  He said ‘Good girl,’ kissed her quickly, then turned and ran to join us on the track. Behind him I heard horses pounding up the Ancre drive.

  Jacques Gilbert

  I know it was obvious, I’ve been seeing it all the time I’ve been telling you, but it’s different for you, you’re only getting the important bits, then it’s easy to see where it’s all going. It’s not so easy when it’s your own life, and you don’t know beforehand what the important bits are, and you’ve got a habit of believing the things you’ve believed since you were too tiny ever to question them.

  As soon as he said it I knew it explained everything. I didn’t even need to ask who my real father was. There’d been too many signs for me to have missed them all. The way my Father hated him, the way he hated André who looked so like him, the way he talked like Mother loved him.