Honour Be Damned

by Donachie, David

  It was still hot when he woke to take his turn of duty, the sky having clouded over to trap the heat of the earth. He went round with Halsey, changing the piquets on the forward wall, sending the men relieved to sleep, wondering, in the stygian darkness why he’d bothered. Gone was the huge moon that lit the landscape like day. He couldn’t see the ground in front of the walls, let alone the edge of the forest.

  ‘No lanterns,’ he snapped at Halsey, when the old corporal requested them, a statement he repeated to each man in the last piquet of the night, Yelland, Dornan and Bellamy. ‘They will show for miles on a night like this. Stay still, and if you hear anyone moving about the password is Garry Owen.’

  ‘Can we ask for it to be whistled?’ asked Yelland, his face no more than an indistinct white blob. It was Markham’s favourite air, one he’d marched to as a young man through those Carolina forests.

  ‘Just as long as you don’t do it in reply, Yelland. I heard you whistle, and it may sound like a tune to you, but it sounds like music being murdered to me.’

  Halsey sniffed. Unable to whistle at all himself, he was taking what he was saying as a continuing rebuke. It wasn’t meant like that. Markham felt Halsey himself should have thought of a password, but the old corporal hadn’t and there was nothing to be done about it. Perhaps the man they called Daddy was too soft for his own good. He knew himself how difficult it was to stay awake when you could see absolutely nothing, unable even to move around lest you fall of the parapet and into the courtyard.

  Markham had to feel his way down the wooden staircase, the old man behind him, then practically feel his way along the walls to get back to the stable. Markham had rigged the half-burnt altar cloth so that when they came to make preparations to leave, they could do so unobserved. But as a screen to block out the light from the stable it did just as well.

  ‘We’ve gone too far, surely,’ he said.

  ‘Lost ain’t in it,’ growled Halsey.

  Markham put out a hand and touched the corporal’s shoulder. ‘Let’s retrace our steps.’

  He must have been still smarting from the perceived rebuke, since he, normally the kindest of men, positively barked at his superior. ‘Don’t see how, as I ain’t no blessed cat.’

  Holding his shoulder, Markham was able to grip it. The sensation of someone nearby, apart from Halsey, was overwhelming, a kind of slight swishing sound as skin rubbed against skin. But the corporal misunderstood the squeeze, and started to talk in a loud querulous voice.

  ‘It ain’t no good you getting on your high horse your honour, and it were ever so.’

  ‘Shut up, man.’

  Now Daddy Halsey was hurt. ‘And there’s little need to go talking like that, your honour.’

  Markham squeezed harder. ‘Did you hear it?’

  ‘Hear what?’

  ‘Listen!’ He did, but indignation had made him breathe with feeling, and if the sound was still there that was enough to smother it. ‘I heard someone close to us, I’m sure.’

  Now the tone was all vindication, plus a good dose of I would have told you so if only you’d listen. ‘Man could walk right by, Frenchie an’ all, and you’d never know it, not having the use of a lantern to shine in their heathen face.’

  ‘Let’s find the stable, and get you to sleep before you commit a flogging offence.’

  That produced the gulping sound of words being swallowed, plus a backward movement. Halsey had been a marine a long time. He’d served under every kind of officer, some of whom would have flogged him senseless for speaking, never mind disagreeing. The way he’d talked to Markham with that type would have seen him broken at the wheel. He could not know, as he fretted his way back to the stable, how much it pleased his officer that he felt free to do so.

  They found the stable eventually, led there by the sound of snoring. Once inside, Halsey was quick to get his belt off and his head down, not once looking an amused Markham in the eye. But the old man saw his officer take a lantern, and rig a cloth to shade it, so a sniff of approval was proffered as a peace offering.

  ‘Reveille at five, Halsey,’ Markham whispered.

  ‘Christ, your honour, it will still be pitch black.’

  ‘Don’t worry, there will be no trumpets. But when you’re woken, I want you to be ready to move out in light order before dawn.’

  He didn’t ask why, or where they were going. Like the good marine he was he just said, ‘Right, sir.’

  The shaded lantern didn’t show much, just the ground in front of his feet and the edge of the wall as he made his way to the entrance to the church. A breeze was springing up, a hot wind from the south that made things worse rather than better. Inside the church it whistled through cracks and crevices, stirring loose objects, that banging he’d heard on first arrival once more audible.

  The vestry was well lit by the larger type of church candle, and as he entered Markham was surprised to see Germain sitting up in the cot, a quill in his hand, scribbling away on some of the fine vellum that had in the past been used for manuscripts. The light made him look very pale, and what he had undergone had sharpened his features, so that his visitor felt as though he was being gifted a vision of the older man that Germain would eventually become.

  He looked up and stopped writing as Markham entered, greeting him with a weary smile, then pointed the lifted quill to the paper beneath him.

  ‘My despatch, Markham, which I hope you will deliver for me to Admiral Hood.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Germain lay back against the tapestry pillows which had been placed to ease any discomfort, his eyes closed. Markham peered then, glad to see that the reason appeared to be fatigue rather than pain.

  ‘You will deliver it for me.’

  ‘If I can, sir.’

  ‘You must,’ he replied without much emphasis. ‘I am relying on you.’

  Markham felt awkward, unwilling to tell a lie but knowing he must. It was with a huge sense of relief that he heard Germain’s next words which relieved him of the need.

  ‘You said you intended to leave some of your men with me. I think that would be unwise.’

  ‘Reluctantly, sir, I am forced to agree.’

  The eyes opened, and Germain stared at him. ‘This was, I perceive, a decision you’d already arrived at?’

  ‘No sir. But it was something I was going to ask you.’

  ‘And if I had not been conscious.’

  ‘Then I would, reluctantly, have had to operate on my own instincts.’

  There was a pause while Germain digested this. When he spoke, it was accompanied by a thin smile. ‘I am glad they are of the right order, Markham. When do you leave?’

  ‘It is my intention to go before dawn, sir, in about three hours’ time. The Monsignor and his party should be asleep.’

  ‘I will, no doubt, have to explain your actions to them.’

  ‘That is something, sir, which I am sure you will do well.’

  ‘Has anything happened about the Avignon treasure?’

  ‘Nothing yet. You will have realised as I have that de Puy holds the key.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  With the voice suddenly weakening, Markham was unsure as to whether that was an affirmation or a question. He decided to treat it as agreement. After all, it made no difference now.

  ‘I fear he is playing that advantage for all he’s worth. The Monsignor has condescended to him enough to deserve it. He has stated that nothing can be done in the dark, and settled down to get a good night’s sleep, with Aramon’s servants taking it in turns to watch him.’

  ‘So he intends to recover it tomorrow?’

  ‘I assume so.’

  ‘After you have departed.’

  ‘Yes. What you must do, sir, is try and keep them here until you are well enough to move.’

  Germain stiffened then, a flash of pain crossing his thin face. Markham realised he had spoken in too harsh a manner, and sought to soften his tone.

  ‘By then, matters between the F
rench and our allies will have been settled one way or the other.’

  ‘And you will earn a knighthood.’

  Markham didn’t believe that for a moment, though he was favoured with a vision of himself wearing a red sash across his chest bearing a Bath star. Nor could he tell if that was said matter of factly or in bitterness. He was tempted to point out the dangers, and evaluate the risk of getting killed before garnering glory. But he reckoned that Germain would see that as churlish, so he set out to be as cheerful as he could.

  ‘Why, sir, there will be great credit due to you for getting us this far. And should you succeed in bringing Monsignor Aramon and his Avignon treasure out, I’m sure there will be rewards at home, as well as at St Peter’s, to gladden your heart.’

  ‘Please don’t try to cheer me up, Markham. Just let me finish this despatch.’

  ‘Sir.’

  He pulled himself up, blinking as he opened his eyes. Then he set to with the quill, writing swiftly. Markham’s head dropped forward, and he was nearly asleep, that is until the captain reached the point when he signed, this achieved with a great flourish.

  ‘Pass me that wax, Markham?’ he asked, as he carefully folded the vellum.

  ‘Of course.’

  Germain took the wax, held it to the candle, and then tipped it so that the melted drops hit the point at which the folds met. His ring must have been taken off earlier, because he lifted it from his side and pressed it home, before examining the result and holding it out to his marine lieutenant.

  ‘There you are, Markham. And if you wonder why I have sealed it, that is to save your blushes.’

  ‘My blushes, sir?’

  ‘I assume you are like me, and would not want to see the praises of you that I have sung. I have told them of your exploits, Markham. I would not want you honoured without my personal endorsement.’

  Markham was embarrassed now, and quite overcome. Their relationship, though short, had not been easy. And what about the man doing the deed? Germain was gauche, rather than malicious, prone to error through enthusiasm not stupidity. Determined to shine because of that burden that he, Markham, knew so well. To think ill of the man was the act of a base creature, and he was not going to be that.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.’

  Chapter sixteen

  The faint glimmer from the well house caught his eye when he was about halfway across the courtyard. Like the stables that contained his sleeping men a cloth had been hung to contain the light, but the material was thin and ill fitting, which left a bright border round the edge, and the barely discernible shadow of a moving body inside.

  He was drawn towards it like a moth to a flame, tiptoeing without realising it. He peered through the gap at the edge, and was gifted with the sight of Ghislane Moulins, stripped to the waist, standing over the rim of the well wearing only her shift, bathing and singing softly to herself.

  There was a delicious thrill in watching her unobserved as she raised one hand high to rub the wet cloth over the downy hair of her armpit. The breast he could see was shaped like something off an ancient Greek statue, perfectly formed, firm underneath and smooth on top, though instead of being white it was a warm honey colour, with the aureole of her nipple a dark enticing red. Her young waist was tight, with not an ounce of extra flesh, each rib below her slowly moving hand clear and defined, even in shadow. With the light behind her, her shift was almost see through, and the shape of her thighs and legs were silhouetted, and looked every bit as enticing as what was naked.

  The stab of guilt at watching her like this was no more than that, easily submerged under the delight of a healthy man watching a more than beguiling woman. The temptation to throw back the cloth and just walk in was almost unbearable. But he couldn’t do it, on the good grounds that if he did she must suspect he’d been there for some time.

  The argument in his mind, spoken, would have taken a day. In his imagination it was but a second. She was attached to Aramon by duty, desired by de Puy, yet had made it plain to him that she found him attractive. He examined that for traces of his own vanity, as well as hints of the temptress on her part. It was no great feat to put them to one side. All George Markham’s considerable experience with women told him he was right; that Ghislane Moulins was his for the asking, and that despite her youth, she was no stranger to the delights of love-making.

  She finished her wash, but instead of taking up the damp dress that was hanging over a broken shutter, she merely wrapped herself in a long shawl and stood over the well, looking down as if trying to see the water below. Now that she was covered, walking in was easy. There was a simple rule that had served George Markham well all his adult life. In any seduction that would eventually prove mutually satisfying, someone had to make the first move. It had been his great gift never to stand upon his dignity on such occasions, accepting that if the humiliation of rejection followed his advances, then that was a price worth paying for the numerous successes he enjoyed. He unshaded his lantern, so that the full light showed, then firmly pulled back the sheet.

  ‘Forgive me, Mademoiselle,’ he cried, feeling, as he declaimed the words, like the worst kind of ham actor. ‘But I saw the light and came to investigate.’

  The sheet had dropped behind him, and the small room, with her long candle and his lantern was full of light. Now it was up to her. She could show outrage and demand he leave her in peace, claim the right of privacy and allude to the idea that he was no new arrival. If she did he would go, not through fear but through a desire to show respect to her right to choose. Too many men, to Markham’s thinking, failed in this very moment, advancing too fast as though all the privilege to make decisions were theirs.

  ‘I was hot, Lieutenant Markham, and I could not get to sleep.’

  A bit formal, but promising. Time to be bold. He moved forward to the opposite side of the well, feeling the heat of his hands drain into the cool stones.

  ‘I must confess to you I saw the light a good two minutes ago.’

  There was no shock in her voice. ‘You have been standing outside watching me?’

  ‘I must confess, I have.’

  ‘You confess more than Monsignor Aramon.’

  ‘Would that I had cause.’

  Their eyes were locked, and he could see the small hint of movement at the corners of her lips, the hint of humour that was a positive plus. You could never seduce a woman, if you couldn’t make her laugh.

  ‘I think, monsieur, that you are a stranger to shame.’

  He moved again, not far, but enough to indicate that the circumference of the well was not absolute.

  ‘Sure, Ghislane, I’m Irish, and God save us, we don’t know the meaning of the word.’

  That made her laugh, her head going back to reveal that beautiful throat, the action pushing those nipples against the shawl. It was at times like these that Markham marvelled at the acuteness of his observation. If he’d had a half an ounce of that on the battlefield, he would be the most successful general in the world.

  ‘Then you admired what you saw.’

  No objection to the use of her Christian name. Another important point negotiated. Now it was his turn to laugh, that mixed with words that had to be both flattering and self-deprecating.

  ‘Admired, is it? Why only the stone of this round wall here keeps hidden just how much I admired you. Sure, Ghislane, I’m not certain the rocks, even tied as they are to my mortar, will have the strength to withstand the pressure.’

  ‘There is a bucket of cold water here, Lieutenant.’

  ‘George!’

  She dropped her head then, as though that was too much. But she also blushed, which gave the lie to that.

  ‘This bucket of water. Perhaps you could use it. I’m told it is the perfect remedy for too much ardour.’

  ‘Cooling that is the last thing I want to do.’

  She bit her lower lip, a bad sign, and he knew why. Ghislane Moulins was tempted, the blood coursing through her veins just
as fast as it was racing though his. The risk she ran was something only she could calculate, and only she could overcome. He had no idea the nature of Aramon’s hold over her, and what the consequences would be if having succumbed to his advances, she were then found out.

  He was leaving before dawn, attempting to do something that might cost him his life. It would be easy to say that if any man had a right to comfort it was he. Nothing would persuade him to plead that case with Ghislane, and that had little to do with subterfuge. He wanted to take her, but not by pleading. If she consented, it would be because she wanted to, not for some specious reason to do with his notion of self-sacrifice.

  He moved slightly, just enough to pressure her into a decision, and was both gratified and stimulated by the way, without raising her head, both her arms dropped to her side, letting the shawl fall open, and revealing both of her beautiful breasts. He covered the three paces between them, and had his hands on the flesh of her back, before her head had time to fully come up and meet his eyes.

  The real intimacy of lovemaking, especially when it is successful, happens after the event. Talk changes from the guarded, upright and tense, to the languid, horizontal and revealing. Markham, lying on the remains of her clothes and his uniform, found out more about Ghislane in the five minutes after he’d pleasured her, than he had in the previous week. He felt the same as she did, drained. But the words she’d said, just after they climaxed, were to him the real badge of honour achieved.

  ‘No one has ever done that for me before.’

  Post-coital languor is no good for personal defences. It is hard to find a subtle and untruthful answer to give to someone who has just surprised you by the depth of your own, newly discovered sensations. Markham asked questions in the same state of both mind and body. She could have lied to him about why she was here and he would never have noticed.

  ‘I am the bargain.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Monsignor Aramon gets the treasures that were once housed at the cathedral of Avignon. Le Comte de Puy gets me, though not as his concubine, but as his wife.’