Honour Be Damned

by Donachie, David

  ‘I would be obliged, sir,’ he said with no gentility, ‘if you would keep details regarding Fouquert and what he knows to yourself. I am going to have enough trouble with the Monsignor, without that being compounded by loose talk.’

  Germain wanted to check him. That was plain in the man’s eyes. But he couldn’t find the words right away, and Markham, seeing Rannoch, Yelland and Tully return, gave him no time for careful composition. He moved to another tree, well away from everybody else.

  ‘Nothing,’ said the Highlander. ‘I doubt there is anyone in this forest bar us, within two miles.’

  ‘Get Tully and Yelland fed, then fetch your own rations over here.’

  The first words Markham said were delivered in a harsh tone that he didn’t really intend. ‘You know who the captain’s descended from?’

  ‘He carries a name that stinks to every true soldier.’

  ‘Then I will not bother to explain why we are here. But I will tell you what it is we are supposed to be after.’

  ‘You are not certain?’

  Markham smiled for the first time. ‘Rannoch, nothing is certain.’

  The sergeant responded in kind, which went a great way to lightening the atmosphere. ‘There was an American once who said that death and taxes were certain.’

  Markham jerked his head, Rannoch’s eyes following, to light on Bellamy and Renate, deep in conversation, though sat far enough apart to cause no alarm to Monsignor Aramon. ‘You’re beginning to sound like our Negro.’

  ‘I would not mind his way with words sometimes.’

  ‘Just sometimes?’

  ‘He can charm birds out of trees, that one. He even brings laughter to the young miss you are so set on, gabbling away as he does in French.’ Rannoch saw Markham’s eyes narrow, a prelude to a futile denial. So the Highlander carried on, in what for him was a quick voice. ‘Mind you, Bellamy can also start a row in an empty room.’

  ‘I am not set on Ghislane Moulins.’

  Rannoch grinned to take the sting out of his rebuke. ‘You’re like Bellamy and his insults to those he considers lesser mortals. You cannot aid yourself.’

  Rannoch’s certainty was galling. It meant that despite all his attempts at being circumspect, here was at least one other person apart from Aramon, who’d noticed the attentions he was paying her. Then the words of Bellamy came to mind, as well as the looks he got from his men every time he went near her. With a sinking feeling Markham realised that very likely everyone in the party knew.

  ‘Shall we stick to the subject?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the Highlander responded, in a slightly mocking way.

  Markham grinned, and the words flowed as he explained the events of the past few days. There was great relief in doing so, almost a confessional quality the like of which he had not felt since his childhood. In the back of his mind was the fact that he was talking to a man he could trust, perhaps the only one, aided by memories of the things that had happened since their first battle. He told him about every doubt and fear he’d had since the mission was first mooted, only reserving to himself any mention of his own complex reasons for agreeing. The light-hearted declaration he’d made earlier would have to suffice.

  Rannoch listened in complete silence, looking at the ground for the most part, slowly munching on his ship’s biscuit, and washing the crumbs down with sips of water. Only once did he look up, and that was at Fouquert, as if he could not believe that a man like that could have anything in his possession that would stop any decent human being from killing him on sight.

  ‘I have no idea, once we get to this church, what we will face. Aramon clearly has no notion either, and if de Puy has information I think he is keeping it close to his chest. The same can be said for the way he feels about Mademoiselle Moulins, judging by the way that he makes sheep’s eyes at her. So there you have it. We have a captain with a name as cursed as my own, who desperately needs to shine, the notion of fabulous treasure and a trio of people whose relationships to each other are obscure, never mind that they don’t appear to trust each other.’

  ‘I daresay in the trust stakes the young lady will succeed where others are like to fail.’

  Markham ignored that gentle dig and carried on. ‘We also have a lying toad like Fouquert who might just have the means to confound two French armies. We must get Germain to a place where he can be treated, get free of Aramon and his need for an escort, then take Fouquert to where his information will be of value, and that will have to be done in the next three days.’

  Rannoch responded in his usual slow way, the voice deep and doleful. ‘I have heard the men speak often, laying wagers and the like. And what they say about you is true.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Markham demanded suspiciously, unaware that the Scotsman was indulging in mock gravity.

  ‘That life around you will never be dull. That if you are not in the middle of a fight, then chance will likely find you in the wrong bedchamber, with some cuckold husband trying to shoot off the parts you hold so dear.’

  ‘Is that what they say?’ he asked, not sure whether to be pleased or angry.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Is that your opinion as well?’

  ‘Time to be going I think,’ said Rannoch, standing upright and leaving his officer high and dry for an answer. ‘I would not want us to arrive outside that church after the light of day has gone.’

  ‘Then we will have to push on,’ said Markham, slightly annoyed.

  ‘I think it is safe to do so.’

  The church of Notre Dame de Vacluse had been more than just that. It consisted of a number of stone buildings nestling haphazardly in a shallow valley, some made for animals, some for humans, and others for the storage of the products garnered from the surrounding farmlands. The main construct was the church itself, more imposing structures inside stout old-fashioned walls. De Puy described it when it was bustling; carts rumbling in and out of the gates, while inside, in the large courtyard, men toiled to unload and stack what they carried. The spire of the basilica rose above it all, square and Romanesque. But even from the edge of the woods Markham could see, before he passed his small telescope to the Frenchman, that the bells it once contained were gone, the belfry a gaping empty hole.

  De Puy observed the same things as Markham. There wasn’t a single roof, door or window that had not been burnt away and that included the gates that had once enclosed the courtyard. Aramon was dejected. But allowing for his gloomy nature, once he swept the area with the telescope, de Puy seemed fairly sanguine. Both Markham and the Monsignor had watched him carefully, trying to discern which particular building interested him. But he seemed intent on giving them all equal attention. That was as far as it went. Asked for his opinion as to the merits of proceeding, he declined to give them.

  Markham was at a loss as to what to do. Germain could hardly stay upright in his saddle, and the case was the same here as it had been on the coast. Any shelter was better than another night in the forest. But he took no chances, and sent men both ways along the rim of the woods to make sure that no French force was waiting in ambush.

  After the protection of the trees, going out into the stubble of the uncultivated fields made him feel naked. He and the two men he’d brought had a quarter of mile of almost totally open country to traverse, through corn stubble or untidy rows of herbs that threw up pungent smells as their boots kicked or crushed the tiny flowers. Even where there were hedgerows or trees they were overlooked by the forest from which they’d just emerged. Despite the reassurances he’d received from his own men he felt certain that there were eyes upon him, perhaps even muskets trained on his back. The hairs on his neck were tingling, and judging by the way Gibbons and Leech kept jerking round, they were feeling the same sensation.

  The sun was sinking, creating an angled golden light that turned the corn stalks mellow, and deepened the purple of the strips of lavender. It also threw every standing object into sharp relief. Long shadows stretched across the lan
dscape, shimmering in the heat, creating the illusion of dark moving figures. The time it took to reach the outer wall by the gate seemed like an eternity. Still hot from the sun, the wall towered above them. This was a real medieval setting, and these stones had been raised for defence against invaders. Odd that they’d probably been destroyed by the very people who once worshipped in the church.

  Markham went through first, edging round the huge gudgeons which had once held the studded gates to flatten himself against the inner wall, in the deep shadow under the wooden parapet. The courtyard was bare earth running to the steps that led up to the church. There was an arched portico over that, with elaborate carvings that had, up to just above head height, been hacked so that whatever figures of antiquity they represented lacked noses and arms. The entrance to the church itself was just a black hole in the middle of that surmounted by a crucified Christ who had escaped the attention of the ransacking mob.

  There was a heavily scented wind, and in the confines of the walls it swirled round, sending up little wisps of dust. There had been wooden structures set against the walls between the doors that led to what looked like monky cells, the outline of the odd lean-to still visible. The sound of banging he heard was too rhythmic to be human; a door or perhaps a shutter that had survived the inferno this must have been. It was easy to imagine the place full of life and prosperity, just as it was depressing to see what it had become, a victim of blind revolutionary prejudice.

  ‘Right, you two, forward down the walls and round to the church door, one each side.’

  Markham stayed still, his eyes never wavering from that black hole. Leech and Gibbons stooped at every doorway, to peer through before jumping the gap and turning to see if that produced a reaction, Leech in deep shadow, Gibbons in the last of the bright sun, both with bayoneted muskets out in front of them like feelers on an insect. As soon as they were in position Markham moved, walking right down the middle, up the steps and into the body of the church.

  He crossed himself before he called his Lobsters in. Markham wasn’t religious, but right now he felt superstitious enough to believe that ignoring the ritual would be madness. All three stood just inside the doorway, staring at the bells that had been burnt out of the belfry, to crash into the stones of the nave. In here it was silence, excepting the odd fluttering as a pigeon changed its perch. Their boots sounded very loud on the stone floor, as they moved past the bells to look at the altar.

  They heard him before they saw him, a single kneeling figure, brown robed, the chanted words of his prayer bouncing ever so gently off the barren walls. The discoloration of the stone showed where they had once had paintings or tapestries, the vaulted ceiling a place for singing voices to echo from the now ruined choir stalls. The monk, which was what Markham supposed him to be, remained still as they approached, even though he must have easily heard them. Then, when they were no more than five paces distant, he stood, crossed himself, and turned to face them.

  But he had no face to speak of, just twisted, wrinkled and burn-blackened skin with one blue eye staring straight out. There was a patch above that, on a leather thong. The other eye was an empty socket; there was no hair on the head or around the eye and the nose looked like those of the gargoyles outside, a stump. Both marines, even with muskets extended, recoiled from the sight, taking a sharp inward breath and a pace back. Markham felt that familiar stabbing ache pass down through his stomach to his groin when faced with a horrendous wound. No amount of experience could render him immune; it was his imagination transferring the pain and suffering to his own body. And then the monk smiled.

  ‘Welcome to Notre Dame de Vacluse. If you come in peace, the church receives you in peace.’

  It was a beautiful voice, deep and masculine, but at the same time tender and truly welcoming, all the more remarkable given the horrible visage of its owner. The face tried to smile, but that made it even more ugly, exposing teeth that only threw the blackness of the skin into prominence. The one eye flicked unblinkingly from bayonet tip to bayonet tip, then to Markham’s pistol. Immediately he dropped it, and ordered his men to do likewise.

  ‘You were not alarmed by our approach?’

  ‘No. I saw you come across the fields with such caution that I knew you presaged no danger. Men who kill and burn come in confidence and greater numbers.’

  ‘Are you a monk?’ asked Markham.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you were here when this happened.’

  The monk raised his arms, to encompass what had once been.

  ‘God has punished us for being too worldly. Our church had wealth in abundance. The friends I had who inhabited this place loved good food and wine more than piety. Other sins of the flesh were commonplace. So is it not fitting that we suffered the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah?’

  The hand flicked to the ruined face, stroking the gnarled burnt skin.

  ‘I suffered from too much vanity, cultivated my appearance and spent too much of my time with ladies of quality rather than in prayer. This is what was visited on me. How would those wellborn women look on me now.’

  There wasn’t a trace of self-pity in the explanation, just a matter-of-fact acceptance of his fate.

  ‘Quite a number of them will have lost their heads to the Revolution. It may be that they would envy you.’

  ‘Then I must pray for them on two counts.’

  ‘We require shelter.’

  ‘Would you believe, monsieur, that is what this church was set up to do hundreds of years ago. A place of sanctuary for weary travellers. It is a good thing that it should be returned to the proper function.’

  ‘We have a wounded man. Do any of your monks have knowledge of medicine.’

  To see him laugh was alarming in the way it rendered him so ugly, the horror of the face so at odds with the humour of the noise that came from his throat.

  ‘There are no monks other than me here now. Some have returned to the life of the laity, and profess to deny God. The rest have moved to other places, ones that are intact and can still feed them and fill them full of wine.’

  ‘Yet you chose to stay.’

  ‘God chose, not I.’

  ‘Do you have a name?’

  ‘Not one that I wish to share.’

  ‘Are there any soldiers around?’

  ‘There are you three.’

  ‘You are a Frenchman?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then,’ Markham said, ‘I have to admit that we are the enemies of your country.’

  ‘I was a soldier myself at one time, young man. I know only too well the colour of that coat your wear.’ He ran a hand over his face. Perhaps now God has now seen fit to forgive me for the men I killed, both on my own side, and on yours.’

  Markham wanted to ask him where he had served, and what actions he had taken part in. But under the gaze of that basilisk, single, unblinking eye, he found any deviation from religion and his purpose in being here impossible. Was the fellow mad or sane? He certainly had the right to be the former. The pain he’d suffered must have been horrendous, enough to turn his wits. Yet he sounded sane enough, if you took away the fact of his solitary existence in this place.

  ‘Leech, signal to Sergeant Rannoch that it is safe to come in.’

  There was a pause before the order was obeyed; one caused by the very simple fact that neither marine had the faintest idea what was going on. But once moving, Leech did so quickly, the sound of his crashing boots reverberating off the walls.

  ‘I will leave you to your prayer. I must look at your walls and seek to set up some kind of defence.’

  ‘There is no need for that,’ the monk snapped, displaying the first hint of displeasure.

  ‘Rest assured I will not defile any holy place.’

  ‘Indeed you will not,’ he hissed.

  Markham forced himself to look into that eye, not out of any desire to challenge, more to see if he could discern the workings of the man’s brain.

  ‘I must tell you, si
r, that a force of French infantry is pursuing us. Should they come upon this place I would be loath to surrender.’

  ‘There will be no fighting, and certainly no killing. And should you choose to ask me why that will be so, I will tell you. It will be my duty to stop it. No one will die within the limits of Notre Dame de Vacluse unless I expire first.’

  There was no expression on the face by which to judge the veracity of such words. Nor did the eye, lacking eyebrows, lids and lashes convey truth or bombast. But Markham made no attempt to argue. He would do what he had to and mount a defence, without, if possible upsetting this cruelly deformed monk.

  ‘You said you had a wounded man.’

  ‘He has taken a musket ball in the shoulder. It is still there.’

  ‘Then bring him to my cell, which used to be the vestry by the side of the altar.’

  ‘You can tend to him?’

  ‘With the help of God, yes.’

  That, to a man with little in the way of faith, was hardly reassuring. But Markham had little choice. There was no one in his party who could offer Germain any real help. That ball, left where it was, would probably kill him. God’s help, through the agency of this solitary monk, was better than nothing.

  ‘Gibbons, have a good poke round, but do not go beyond the altar. See if there is any other part of the property that has a sound enough roof to give us a bit of shelter.’

  Chapter fifteen

  Markham had toured the perimeter by the time the remainder of the party trooped in, their shadows even longer as the last of the light sunk to the very rim of the mountains to the west, the Massif des Maures. The walls were not much use against a modern enemy, having been built centuries before to withstand spears and arrows. Not that he could, anyway, hold it with a dozen men against any type of determined assault. His job was to get out of here as fast as possible.