Heretic Dawn

by Robert Merle

  “I’ll remember,” said Samson.

  I then quietly recited the Our Father and the three others joined in, and having made the sign of the cross on my forehead, my lips and my heart, I exclaimed with happy confidence, as my father would have done had he been there, “Comrades, the day is ours! Let’s go!”

  We put spurs to horses, but gently, and set off with our swords dangling by their ties from our wrists, and with pistols in hand, our horses moving at a walk, their ears pricked; and as for us, our eyes were peeled, darting this way and that, and our hearts were pounding in our chests as you can well imagine, underneath our feigned calm. God knows how long it took to round the bend past Miroul’s rock, and much longer it seemed to us. But suddenly, there we were and surprised to behold our enemies, even though we knew they’d be there. There weren’t seven of them as Miroul had reported, but eight, and the eighth, leading the two riderless horses, was the priest of Marcuays, whom the farmers in the region called “Pincers”, because of his debauchery, as I’ve recounted elsewhere.

  “Hey, Monsieur priest,” I cried, “what are you doing here?”

  But he was unable to answer since our horses all began whinnying like crazy, probably because our mares smelt an uncut stallion in the opposite camp. The horses of our enemies also began a wild chorus in response, as well as a sudden chaos of croups, hooves and chests that we had to control and calm before human words could be heard. I said “words” and not “reason” since it’s my belief that man is a less intelligent animal than his mount and a thousand times more cruel.

  All this time, unable to hear a word in this din, we all looked each other over, and, for my part, with great curiosity, for though this Fontenac was the sworn enemy of my family (as his father was before him) I’d never laid eyes on him before, since the baron had never actively participated in any of the ambushes he’d set for us except the present one, which considerably surprised me and aroused my curiosity. And although he was the most egregious brigand in all of creation, I couldn’t keep from admiring him as he sat stiff and upright on his white horse trying to control it. Physically he was handsome enough, a large and strong gentleman, tending towards corpulent, I judged. He had a haughty face, with curly hair and beard and intense eyes. However, his face betrayed, when he turned his head, too much of a resemblance to a bird of prey, with a nose shaped like a vulture’s beak. Fontenac’s clothing corresponded exactly with his aspect: he was superbly dressed in a crimson doublet with matching shoes and red satin slashes.

  In the saddle next to his, on a heavy stallion, sat a large, broad-shouldered fellow, chest thrown out, short of leg and with so vile and bloodthirsty a visage that it made his master look positively virtuous by comparison. I recognized him (having caught sight of him in Sarlat, though he showed himself infrequently there, being in such bad odour) as being Fontenac’s major-domo (and possibly the baron’s bastard brother), but, unlike Samson, unrecognized as such, and he called himself the Sieur de Malvézie, though there was no land of this name in the Sarlat region. He was a man reputed for his dastardly deeds, and for having put his paws on all the shittiest enterprises that the baron, who had planned them, wouldn’t have touched with the pinky of his gloved hand. For this baron was a two-faced devil, a zealous papist, assiduous in his attendance at Mass, ingratiating himself with the bishop, and well regarded by this prelate, since he did not skimp in his calculated largesse to the diocese.

  When the horses had quieted down, Fontenac, who, for his part, had not failed to study me from head to toe, said gravely but not aggressively, “Monsieur, what are you doing here with pistols drawn and swords unsheathed on a road that belongs to my domain?”

  I took a moment to answer him, surprised at the impudence of this brigand in claiming that the les Beunes road belonged to him. “My brother,” whispered Giacomi, “this mountain of a man wants to provoke you into a duel and his priest is there as a witness. Be very measured in your answers.”

  “Monsieur,” I replied, bowing, “I hadn’t heard that this road belonged to you.”

  “Ah, but it does,” Fontenac asserted without batting an eye, “by virtue of an ancient right that I am intending to advance.”

  “Monsieur,” I said with all the calm I could muster, “such a claim would require the assent of the seneschal of Sarlat, which could not be given without a decision of the Présidial. In the meantime, and until you have such authority, do me the favour of letting me pass to return to my home.”

  “Monsieur,” said Fontenac, “I cannot accede to a request that is made by an armed man.”

  “Monsieur,” I countered, “we only bared our swords because four of your men chased us down from behind. But as soon as we knew they were your servants, we let them pass.”

  “But didn’t resheathe your swords,” snarled Fontenac, “and here you are addressing me with pistol in hand. This is an offence!”

  To which, after a kick from Giacomi, I answered, “If there is an offence, Monsieur, I will end it. Monsieur the priest of Marcuays will bear witness to my goodwill in voluntarily disarming and in offering you our excuses.”

  This said, and immediately imitated by Samson, Giacomi and Miroul, I returned my pistol to its holster, happy to feel the other one still hidden under my left thigh.

  At this, the Sieur de Malvézie, his ugly mug reddening with spite and his eyes flashing with violent hatred, cried with a thunderous voice, “Why bother with this silly chatter, let’s be done with this rascal!”

  Giacomi gave me another kick, so I forced myself to maintain a calm demeanour and pretended not to have heard Malvézie’s insult so as not to have to answer it.

  “Calm down, there, Malvézie!” cried Fontenac.

  “Monsieur, now that I have put my arms aside, I make the same request as before: let us pass.”

  “I’ll think about it,” said Fontenac.

  And during his silence, which was no doubt a way to figure out how to renew the provocation, I took a sideways glance at Giacomi, who was searching out of the corner of his eye the bushes on the hillside of Taniès to see if he could see the barrel of an arquebus. “Ah!” I thought. “Now I understand: a bullet for Samson, a sword thrust for me, and the two younger sons of the Baron de Mespech will be dead on the same day. What a glorious day for you, Fontenac! And who will ever know what really happened on this road since there’s only one witness, the feckless priest of Marcuays?”

  “Monsieur,” Fontenac finally replied, “did you hear Malvézie’s suggestion?”

  “No, Monsieur, I heard nothing.”

  “Should I repeat it?”

  “’Tis of no use. I wouldn’t hear it any more clearly the second time.”

  Fontenac smiled and said with the most offensive sarcasm: “A coward who would protect his honour had better turn a deaf ear.”

  Again, Giacomi kicked my boot, so I replied, “Monsieur, let the Siorac family worry about their own honour.”

  “What, Monsieur!” teased the baron with feigned surprise. “You’re a Siorac! Well then, you should know that I despise that family. They have done nothing but heap offences and iniquities on me and on my father before me.”

  “Well, then, you should challenge the Baron de Siorac to a duel, not his younger son.”

  “His younger son!” cried Fontenac with disdain. “Are you the same Pierre de Siorac who befouled his family name by going to study medicine in Montpellier?”

  “Perhaps you will recall, Monsieur, that, six years ago, my father befouled his family name by curing your daughter of the plague.”

  This could not fail to bring the baron up short, and he glowered at me but said nothing. But I, rushing to take advantage of his lack of composure, said in an icy but polite voice: “Monsieur, I request in all civility and courtesy that you let us pass immediately on our way.”

  “Well Monsieur, you play with words well enough, but can your swordplay match your words?”

  “What! You’re challenging me to a duel? Ah, Monsieur, yo
u’re aiming way too low. I’m but small game for you! You should challenge someone equal to your own prowess, such as the hero of Ceresole and Calais!”

  “This false hero,” snapped Fontenac, grinding his teeth, “is but a knave. His father was a lackey.”

  Here, Giacomi gave me an extra hard kick, but this time I ignored his mutely urgent advice, and replied in a cutting voice, articulating clearly each of my words: “My grandfather was no lackey. He was an apothecary in Rouen. My father was a member of the legion in Normandy and was promoted to captain and then écuyer. He was awarded the title of chevalier for his valour on the field of battle at Ceresole by the Duc d’Enghien. King Henri II made him a baron after the siege of Calais. Monsieur de Fontenac, if you repeat the words you just spoke, this time I shall hear them.”

  “I repeat them,” said Fontenac, with eyes aflame and crest at high mast.

  “Monsieur, I call you to account. Name the place and time.”

  “Here and now!” cried Fontenac triumphantly. “Will this little clearing just down the hill do?”

  I knew this field well for having belonged to a labourer named Faujanet, a cousin of our Faujanet, but who’d refused to sell his land to the Brethren and held out alone in this little enclave of well-watered, good farmland.

  “Yes! It will do fine!”

  “My brother,” whispered Giacomi, “be careful not to drop the pistol you’re hiding under your right thigh.” I agreed with a nod and, unhooking my cape, I did as he suggested and secretly slipped the pistol into a saddlebag.

  “My brother,” said Giacomi quietly, “remove your doublet and ask the baron to do the same.” Which I did, but the baron, shaking his head, refused without saying a word.

  “Aha!” cautioned Giacomi. “I thought when I saw how straight he was sitting on his horse that he must be wearing chain mail under his doublet! Pierre, you’ll have to strike him in the face or neck.”

  “My brother,” said Samson looking ashen, eyes shining and teeth so clenched that he wasn’t lisping, “should I shoot this felon right now, who dares against all the rules of honour to cover himself with mail while fighting a duel with an adversary in a shirt?”

  “Don’t you dare, Samson! The papists would cry murder!”

  This said, I dismounted and, throwing the reins of my Accla to Samson (so that, with reins in both hands, he wouldn’t be able to shoot anyone), I stood, head bowed, both hands on my saddle blanket.

  “What are you doing?” cried the baron. “What’s all the delay? Are you such a coward—”

  “I’m praying to the Lord, Monsieur,” I interrupted, “before joining battle with you.”

  But in truth, may God forgive me, I was not praying at this moment, but wanted to hear Giacomi’s instructions. He understood and joined his hands next to mine on Accla’s saddle and said very quietly: “My brother, this villain is more than forty years old. He’s strong, but quite heavy and weighed down by his nasty armour. Run him out of breath! Keep breaking away and moving in circles around him like a fly on a lion! Harass him, then duck away! And be careful of his nasty tricks, like throwing his cape in your face to blind you. Keep ducking away, for the love of God! Don’t grab him—he’d crush you! And again, keep breaking away! With all his pursuit of you, his legs will tire, his attacks slow down and his brain become confused. Moreover, by constant delay, you’ll give the people at Mespech time to get here. As for you, take no chances—don’t try any risky tricks. Attack only when it’s a sure thing and aim at his face.”

  “Giacomi,” I said, “now let me give you some advice. Don’t get too caught up in watching the duel. Keep an eye on bushes on the Taniès hillside where you think these snipers may be hiding. I put Samson’s life in your care. And Miroul’s as well.”

  “Monsieur,” shouted Fontenac, “this prayer is taking for ever! Is your soul so black that you need so much time to recommend it to God?”

  “Monsieur,” I replied in a strong voice, my eyes flashing, “it’s not for my soul I’m praying, but for yours!”

  I must say I was happy with this retort, and, wrapping my left forearm in my cape, I held my dagger in that hand and, with my sword in my right, I headed towards the field, wanting to remain several steps ahead of Fontenac so he couldn’t strike me from behind before we got there. I bounded onto the field and turned to meet him, my blades at the ready. Fontenac was surprised by my vivacity, for I was already in position while he laboured to descend from the road to the pasture, taking small steps and being careful not to jump as I had. His laboured approach augured well for our duel, I thought.

  I threw a quick look at our les Beunes mill, whence any help might come, but nary a soul or noise could be seen or heard there other that the barking of the dogs. And so I turned to meet my assailant, convinced I’d have to save myself or perish here.

  Once on the field, the baron rushed at me, sword held high, with a speed that surprised me and gave me pause, for I wouldn’t have expected it from the way he climbed down the hill. And when I saw this mountain of a man charging at me with a face that had lost any semblance of civility, shouting and grimacing like a demon, hurling foul and horrid insults at me with an ear-splitting fury, and slashing at me with such violence he would have severed a stone wall, my heart fell into my entrails—especially since, at the first clash of swords, he very nearly knocked my sword from my hands. And so I broke away, almost fled from him, while up on the road his henchmen, believing me already overwhelmed and killed, screamed their hatred and venom at the top of their lungs.

  “Hey, you coward!” shouted the baron. “You’re running away! Stand your ground, you chicken-hearted sissy! I’m going to make lace of your guts!”

  And striking my sword, he hit it with such force that, again, he would have knocked it from my hands had the wrist strap not held. I broke away again, but this time to the side, and like a bull he charged straight ahead and I was able to land a point in his leg as I fell to the ground. Then, forgetting Giacomi’s advice, I took a huge chance. As he rushed at me roaring like the seventy devils of hell, Fontenac would have pinned me to the ground, had I not rolled over several times on the grass and then leapt to my feet as nimbly as a cat. Again the baron charged, his ugly maw opening wide with the fury of the imprecations he was shrieking, but I noticed that he was dragging his left foot where my sword had left its mark. Again I jumped to the side, but instead of somersaulting away as I had so madly done before, I began circling around him, my sword point flying like a wasp around his head, but not yet hitting him. By now my initial terror was gone and my confidence growing and I remembered Giacomi’s advice and engaged my sword with his, but so closely that he couldn’t use his strength to slash at it as he’d done twice before. Of course, he made one more attempt at this, but missed, and so we stood engaging point to point, but I was able to parry all of his blows because his fury had robbed him of any accuracy.

  I also remembered to pay close attention to his every move, fearing lest he try some felonious trick. And when I saw him grab his cape with the hand that held his dagger, I broke several steps away, expecting him to try to toss it in my face to blind me. But instead, having waved it high several times, he dropped it on the grass beside him, and it must have been some sort of signal, for immediately three or four pistol shots rang out which nearly cost me my life—as the baron must have planned—for, taking my eyes off him for but a second to look at my friends up on the road, he would certainly have run me through had Providence or instinct not inspired me to take a quick step to the right, so that his blade slipped between my left side and my arm, ripping my shirt, but missing its mark.

  I broke away again and began spinning around the baron, attacking and retreating at will, and much reassured by what my quick glance at my brothers told me: that they were still up there on the road, mounted on their horses. And seeing that they were safe filled me with renewed joy, vigour and confidence and I went back on the attack. But, if it please you reader to abandon me for a moment, swor
d and dagger in my hands, facing this monstrous baron, as if immobilized in a painting, and return to the group on the road to see—as I only learnt later—what happened when the baron gave the signal to his snipers.

  As I had expected, Samson was having a tough time holding both Accla’s reins and those of his own horse, especially since his eyes were glued on the combat down the hill. My mare, sensing that he wasn’t paying full attention to her and excited by the presence of an uncut stallion in the enemy’s cavalcade, and being no doubt in heat, began moving back and forth, turning her rump this way and that and tossing her head, breathing fire and giving surreptitious kicks at Samson’s gelding as if to reproach him for being cut.

  And though the gelding was not fighting back, habituated as he was to living in fear of Accla, he didn’t fail, having been kicked, to begin bucking, making it even harder for Samson to manage the two of them. And so Accla, feeling no longer properly held by Samson, and governed by my own presence, began bucking and pulling savagely on her reins as if to escape, standing up on her hind legs and pawing the air. It was at this moment that the baron gave his signal to the snipers in the bushes, just as Giacomi had guessed he would, and they both aimed and fired at Samson. But my poor Accla, at that very moment rearing even higher than before, was hit in the neck and the head by their bullets and immediately fell to the ground. Meanwhile, the smoke from the assassins’ arquebuses had revealed their hiding place, and Giacomi immediately seized the pistol he’d hidden and shot one of them, and Miroul the other, and the two snipers rolled down the hill and ended up at the feet of the enemy’s horses, and so they too started bucking in panic.

  As for Samson, always a bit slow to grasp what was going on around him, he saw none of this, having eyes only for poor Accla and thinking only of my despair at losing her. But suddenly pricked with anger at this heinous act, he grabbed his own pistol and, pointing it at the Sieur de Malvézie, he cried with his delicious lisp: “Whath thith, Monthieur? You’ve killed our Accla!”