Young Bloods

by Simon Scarrow

‘What? Oh, very well. There.’ He sat back in his chair and clasped his hands together with a smile. ‘I’m all yours.’

  ‘Thank you. I was wondering what you thought about Arthur.’

  ‘What I think of him?’ Garrett turned to gaze at the children playing in the garden, as if he had only just realised they were there at all. ‘Oh, he’ll do well enough.’

  ‘Really? And just what kind of future do you think he might have?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Something in the clergy, I should think.’

  ‘The clergy?’

  ‘Yes. After all, he’s displayed no signs of any intellectual mettle. Not like Richard and William. Even young Gerald there seems to have a more lively grasp of numbers and letters than Arthur.We’ll do our best for him, of course, but I dare say he’ll never go up to Oxford, or Cambridge.’

  ‘Well, yes. Quite.’

  Just then their conversation was interrupted by a piercing cry from the garden and their heads snapped round. Arthur had fallen to his knees and was clutching his head. A wooden sword lay on the ground beside him and William was staring at his younger brother angrily.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Arthur! It was just a tap. Anyway, I told you to defend yourself.’

  Garrett shook his head and glanced down at his music. Then he looked up again, struck by a sudden notion. ‘Arthur! Come here, my boy.’ As Arthur toddled in from the garden Garrett smiled. ‘I think it’s time you learned to play a musical instrument. And what better than the violin? Come here, child. Let me show you.’

  As Anne watched, her husband carefully handed his full-size violin to the young boy, and named each string for him.Then he reached for the bow and began to play some notes. In a few minutes Arthur had forgotten about his sore head, and his bright eyes eagerly soaked up every detail of the instrument as he concentrated on his father’s instructions. At length Garrett drew up a chair and let the boy sit down with the violin in his lap and Arthur sawed happily away in a series of blood-curdling screeches and scrapes. Gerald was duly disturbed from his sleep on the cushions and rose quickly, alarmed by the discordant noise.

  Anne smiled. ‘Time for supper, I think. Run along, boys. Arthur, put that down and get along to the kitchen. Your father and I will follow directly.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  Garrett held out his hands for the instrument. ‘Thank you. Do you want me to teach you how to play this instrument properly?’

  The boy’s eyes sparkled. ‘Oh yes, Father! I should like that.’

  Garrett laughed. ‘Good. And one day we shall compose music together.’

  Arthur smiled brilliantly, then hurried round the table to help his brother up from the cushions. The two of them walked towards the kitchen with stiff little steps, still holding hands. Both parents watched their progress and then turned to each other and smiled.

  ‘A musician, I think,’ said Garrett.

  ‘God help us,’ Anne muttered. ‘Your charity concerts will be the ruin of us yet.’

  ‘Shame on you! We can afford it. Besides, it’s my Christian duty to spread culture to the less advantaged.’

  ‘I’d have thought your first Christian duty was to the wellbeing of your family.’

  ‘It is, my dear.’ He stared at her intently. ‘Now, we were talking about young Arthur. Seriously, though, I think he might be suited to a musical career.’

  ‘How wonderful,’ Anne replied with acid-laced irony.

  ‘Yes, well . . . Meanwhile we must find him a school. I have one in mind.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  Garrett nodded. ‘The Diocesian School at Trim.You know the place. St Mary’s Abbey.’

  Anne stared after her son. ‘Do you think he’s old enough?’

  ‘My dear, if we don’t start preparing him for life now, when will we begin? If he is not to fall behind the achievements of Richard and William we must work him hard.’

  ‘You’re right, of course. It’s just that he seems so . . . vulnerable. I fear for him.’

  ‘He’ll do well enough,’ Garrett said comfortingly.

  Chapter 7

  Corsica, 1775

  ‘I won’t go! I won’t go!’

  Letizia shook the boy by his shoulders.‘You will, and there’s an end to it! Now get dressed.’

  Outside, the first light of day was picking out the details in the houses across the street. Letizia led her son to the clothes laid out on his bed and pointed to them. ‘Now!’

  ‘No!’ Naboleone shouted back and crossed his arms. ‘I won’t go!’

  ‘You will.’ Letizia slapped his cheek. ‘You are going to school, my boy, and you will get dressed. You will come and eat your breakfast, and you will behave impeccably when you are introduced to the abbot. Or you will have the thrashing of your life. Do I make myself clear?’

  Her son frowned at her, eyes blazing with defiance. Letizia crossed herself. ‘Mary, Mother of God, give me patience. Why can’t you be more like your brother there?’ She nodded across the room to where Giuseppe was just tying his bootlaces. His clothes were neat and clean, and his hair gleamed from a fresh brushing.

  ‘Him?’ Naboleone laughed. ‘Don’t make me laugh, Mother. Who would want to be like him? The big sissy.’

  Letizia slapped him again, much harder this time, leaving an imprint of her slender fingers on his cheek. ‘Don’t you dare talk that way about your brother.’ She pointed to the clothes again. ‘Now get dressed. If you’re not ready by the time I come back you’ll have hard bread for supper tonight.’

  She stormed out of the room and made for the kitchen, where Lucien - her new child - was bawling for more food.

  For a moment Naboleone stood quite still, arms folded, and glared at his clothes. On the other side of the room Giuseppe finished tying his laces and stood by his bed, gazing at his younger brother.

  ‘Why do you do it, Naboleone?’ he said softly.

  ‘Sorry. Did you speak?’

  ‘Why do you make her so angry at you? Just for once, can’t you do as she says?’

  ‘But I don’t want to go to school. I want to go and play. I want to see the soldiers again.’

  ‘Well, you can’t!’ Giuseppe hissed. ‘You’ll come to school with me. We must learn to read and write.’

  ‘Why?’

  The older boy shook his head. ‘You cannot be a boy all your life.You cannot be so selfish. If you want to be a success when you grow up then you must have an education. Like Father.’

  ‘Pah! And where’s his fine education got him? Court assistant, that’s where.’

  ‘Father’s job feeds us and clothes us, and now provides just enough to educate us.You should be grateful for that.’

  ‘Well, I’m not!’

  Giuseppe shook his head. ‘Honestly, you are so ungrateful. Sometimes I can’t believe that we are brothers.’

  Naboleone smiled. ‘Sometimes, neither can I. Look at you. Mother’s boy.You make me laugh.’

  Giuseppe clenched his fists and paced towards his brother, but Naboleone stood his ground and laughed contemptuously. ‘What’s this? You actually want to fight me? I misjudged you. Come on then.’ He unfolded his arms and squared up to his older brother.

  Giuseppe stopped, shook his head, and then walked out of the room towards the kitchen. He had fought his brother enough times to know that it was not worth it. Not that Naboleone bested him. It was just that he never knew when to give up and reduced almost every playful knockabout into a bloody scrap before an adult intervened to stop proceedings. Giuseppe could not help despairing over Naboleone’s behaviour and wishing that his mother had given birth to a more kindly, less troublesome brother. At the same time, Giuseppe had a measure of admiration for Naboleone. No one was his master and those who tried to tame him often got as good as they gave. And he was nobody’s fool, that boy. His mind was as sharp as one of those daggers the men carried around, and Naboleone was just as quick to use it. By contrast, Giuseppe felt himself to be a plodder, and too anxious to please. When
his mother’s friends complimented her on the politeness of her elder son, Letizia briefly brushed the praise aside and talked incessantly of the cleverness of the younger boy, even though his mischief drove her mad.

  Back in their room Naboleone stood in silence for a moment, then glanced round to make sure that he was quite alone, before he pulled off his nightshirt and started getting dressed.

  The boys started school soon after the sun had risen. Although Giuseppe had been taken immediately into the hall and commenced lessons with the other pupils, his brother was taken to the abbot, from whom he learned the basics of reading and writing for an hour each morning before Naboleone was allowed to join the main class. Then, after the midday meal, Naboleone would have another hour of elementary literacy exercises before he was free to return home.

  At first he returned to his old haunts the moment that school was over, but now that his curiosity had been sparked by the abbot, Naboleone spent a good deal more time with the French soldiers and made every effort to pick up the language of the new rulers of Corsica. Given his mother’s patriotic sentiment, Naboleone made sure that he did not breathe a word of the time spent with the men of the garrison, and told her that he went fishing and walking in the countryside around Ajaccio. Once in a while he actually did this, and returned home with a small catch of fish, or a snared rabbit. Even then, he had the chance to exchange a few words with the numerous French patrols still looking for any of the Paolist bands that might have ventured out of the maquis. Only once did he catch sight of the rebels; a shadowy group of men, armed with old muskets, creeping along a distant treeline. Shortly after they disappeared from view he heard the distant pop and crackle of gunfire, and considered going to have a look before his fear got the better of him and he ran home instead.

  ‘Poor devils,’ his father muttered after hearing the tale over the dinner table.

  ‘Who do you mean?’ asked Letizia. ‘Your former comrades in arms, or your new friends?’

  Carlos stared at her a moment before pushing his plate to one side and turning to his sons. ‘How was school today? Giuseppe?’

  While his older brother pedantically went through every detail of his timetable, Naboleone’s thoughts went back to the men he had seen that afternoon. Many of the people living in Ajaccio had come to see them as simply brigands, or deluded idealistic nuisances at best.Yet they were Corsicans - they spoke the same language as Naboleone. The French still felt like foreigners, and that he had been born a French subject felt strange to Naboleone. So what was he? Corsican or French? Whenever he considered the question the answer was always the same. He was a Corsican.

  ‘How about you?’

  Naboleone realised his father was speaking to him and looked up quickly. ‘It’s going well, Father. In fact I have some good news for you. We’ve been reading about the Romans, and the Carthaginians, and I’ve really improved. In fact the abbot said that soon I could join the main class for the whole day.’

  ‘Really?’ Carlos beamed.‘That is excellent! And in such a short space of time as well. I think we’ll make a fine scholar of you yet, young man!’ He reached over and ruffled his son’s head as Naboleone tried to look pleased at the prospect of being a scholar. He already knew that he wanted to do something with his life, not spend his years studying the things that other men had done.

  ‘Well, now it’s my turn to be the bearer of good news,’ Carlos smiled. His family turned to him expectantly, but Carlos nodded at the empty plate he had pushed to one side. ‘That was a really good stew, my dear. Is there any more?’

  Letizia lifted the heavy iron ladle from the cooking pot.‘There is. But I’ll brain you with this if you don’t stop playing games and tell us the news.’

  He laughed. ‘Very well. The Royal Court in Paris has confirmed the governor’s certificate of my title of nobility. Marbeuf told me today.’

  ‘At last,’ Letizia muttered. ‘That’s over then.’

  ‘Better still, I’ve learned that we are now eligible to apply for an endowment to French schools for the boys.’

  Letizia stared at him and Naboleone looked confused. ‘What does that mean, Father?’

  ‘It means that in a few years’ time you and Giuseppe may be attending one of the best schools in France.You’ll be getting the finest education available. Of course, you’ll have to be fluent in French before you go, but there’s plenty of time for that.’

  ‘Go to school in France?’ Giuseppe muttered. ‘Mother, will you and Father be coming with us?’

  She shook her head, and turned to her husband. ‘I see. First they take our land. Now they’ve come for our children. They’ll take them off and turn them into proper little Frenchmen.’

  Carlos shook his head. ‘It’s not like that, my dear. It’s an opportunity, a chance for them to better themselves. A chance they’ll never have if they stay here. I hoped you’d be pleased.’

  ‘I’m sure you did. I’ll have to think about this.’

  Carlos glanced away from her and said quietly,‘I’ve already sent the petition to Paris. Marbeuf countersigned it the moment my eligibility was confirmed.’

  ‘I see.’ Letizia shook her head. ‘Merci.’

  Chapter 8

  ‘I always knew he had it in him!’ Letizia smiled in delight as she brandished the school report in front of her husband’s eyes when he returned from the courthouse. Carlos took the report and read it through while his family sat round the table expectantly. The two years at Abbot Rocco’s school appeared to have paid off.Two years and two more children, Carlos reflected. In addition to Giuseppe and Naboleone there were now three more mouths to feed: Lucien, Elisa and young Louis, who had yet to master the correct application of cutlery and was busy trying to stick the handle of a spoon up his nose.

  Abbot Rocco was extremely complimentary about Naboleone’s progress. The boy had excelled in maths and history but as ever, his performance in arts subjects and languages was lagging well behind. His behaviour had improved too - far fewer tantrums and fights with the other boys - and while he still tended to question authority from time to time, on the whole he was causing no problems. Carlos laid the sheet of paper down and nodded slowly at his son.

  ‘Most respectable. Well done.’

  Naboleone’s eyes sparkled with pleasure.

  ‘Father!’ Giuseppe piped up. ‘Read my report!’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Here.’ Letizia lifted it up from the chopping board and handed it to her husband. ‘No surprises there.’

  It took far less time to read about the older boy’s academic progress. Giuseppe was a kind, considerate and polite boy who was making good progress in every subject and seemed to show a particular interest in ecclesiastical matters. Carlos laid the report down on top of Naboleone’s.

  ‘Well done, boys. I’m proud of you both. Giuseppe, have you considered a career in the Church? It would seem to suit you.’

  ‘I had thought of it, Father.’

  Letizia nodded. ‘A good career. You have the temperament for it.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  As Giuseppe smiled at her, Carlos turned to his younger son. ‘And you, Naboleone, what do you want to be when you grow up?’

  ‘A soldier,’ he said without an instant’s hesitation.

  Carlos smiled. ‘That’s an admirable aim, my son. I think you might make an excellent soldier, although you must realise that you will have to obey orders.’

  ‘But, Father, I want to give orders, not obey them.’

  ‘Well then, you must be prepared to do both if you are to be a good soldier.’

  ‘Oh . . .’

  Letizia began to serve up the evening meal: a rich stew of goat and stewed hazelnuts - a favourite recipe of the family. When every bowl was filled she took her place and the children fell silent, closed their eyes and pressed their hands together as Carlos said grace. As the children started eating she looked down the table at her husband.

  ‘Has
there been any word on the boys’ scholarships?’

  ‘No. I’ve heard nothing from the academy at Montpellier. It looks as if they’ll be going to Autun after all.’

  Letizia frowned. ‘Autun?’

  ‘Autun will do to start with,’ Carlos said.‘They have good links with some of the military schools. If Naboleone wants to join the army it would be a good start for him until I can find a better opening. I sent an application to Brienne this morning.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ Letizia said quietly, ‘but even if the boys do get the scholarships, how can we afford to pay the balance of the fees?’

  ‘We might not have to,’ Carlos continued. ‘The governor has promised to pay our share of the fees.’

  Letizia froze for a moment, then shook her head. ‘To think we have sunk so low as to accept common charity.’

  ‘It’s not charity, my dear,’ Carlos said, forcing himself to keep his tone even. ‘He places great value on our service to France.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he does.’

  ‘Besides, he can easily afford it and we can’t. It would not be very gracious to refuse his offer.’

  ‘Huh!’

  Letizia continued eating for a while before she addressed her husband again. ‘Do you really think it’s for the best?’

  ‘Yes. Their future is in France. That’s their best hope for advancement. So, that’s where they must be educated.’

  ‘But they’ll leave home. When will we see them again?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Carlos replied. ‘When we can afford it, we can have the boys home for holidays, or travel to see them.’

  ‘And how will they cope without me?’

  ‘Ask them,’ he said firmly. ‘See what they think. Naboleone!’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘Do you want to go to school in France?’

  The boy glanced quickly at his mother. ‘If I must . . .’

  Carlos looked at him, and smiled. ‘Bravo! See, Letizia, he understands.’

  ‘But I don’t.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘I don’t understand what I have done that my children should want to leave me before they have even grown up. Leave home and forget me.’