In the Name of the King Read online

  I came. The explosion was fading from my ears only to be replaced by the savage crackling of flame where rockets had lodged in the hedges. I couldn’t see our attackers, I guessed they’d just run and couldn’t blame them. We’d set fire to the whole bloody maze.

  Bernadette Fournier

  I could not say what I expected, Monsieur, perhaps a rush of guards from the enclosure to drag Bouchard and his friends away to have their heads cut off. That is what I would have done, but then I am only a woman and what do I know of politics?

  Instead there was only Madame escorted back by a servant of His Eminence, and d’Arsy never even glancing at her as she passed. She returned to us with a look of quiet satisfaction, then looked and said ‘Where is the Chevalier?’

  No one answered directly, for at that moment the great lion was lit, and oh, a great spray erupted about it like a halo and out of its mouth spewed a light that was golden, not merely white, Monsieur, I swear the sparks were bright yellow. In the distance came a great boom, then another, and we all looked expectantly upward, but there was only whiteness as if something glittered below, while plumes of grey smoke coiled up to the night sky. That this was a mistake I was not alone in guessing, for a sigh of disappointment rippled through the crowd, and as I looked towards the source of the smoke I glimpsed in the distance orange flickers of flame.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said the Comtesse, the triumph faded from her face. ‘I can guess.’

  So could Charlot, for he started at once towards the fire. And I too, for if the Chevalier was there then so was Jacques, so I tucked up my skirts and ran.

  Jacques Gilbert

  What saved us was the hedges being damp from yesterday’s rain. They fizzled and smouldered, but it was only where the rockets had actually lodged that went up in flames. It didn’t stop the smoke though, thick and grey with that bitter green smell that catches in the back of your throat. Patches of grass had caught too, flames licking up the rocket frame, and I heard a crash as it collapsed behind me. André’s hand slipped out of my arm.

  Smoke drifted past my face, and through it I saw a slot of blackness, an opening in the hedge. I shouted for André, but his voice came back muffled ‘Just a minute!’ Metal poles clanked, I flapped away the clouds in front of me and saw André hauling the green man from under the frame. I was coughing now, my eyes stinging, my throat closing up, I yelled ‘Come on!’ but the boy went on dragging till the poles rolled off with a clang and the green man stumbled to his feet. He didn’t even look grateful, he was swearing worse than Stefan, I heard him say ‘Sweet Jesus and Mary. Fucking saints and all.’ I grabbed André’s sleeve and pulled.

  The smoke was thinner on the path, and it was easier to breathe. I didn’t worry about where we were going, what mattered was getting away from that burning centre. I just kept taking whichever path had least smoke and guessed we must at least be getting closer to the outside, but André was pulling at me to stop, and the green man said ‘Whoa there, boys, this don’t look right to me.’

  It didn’t look bloody right to me either, we’d got another hedge in front of us and smoke all round, but talking about it wasn’t going to help. Then I remembered that torch floating confidently towards us through the winding paths, and felt a sudden jolt of hope.

  ‘You know the way out?’

  ‘Course I do,’ he said, affronted. ‘Now, which path did we take out of the centre? Needs to be north or south, see, them others are going nowhere.’

  My little bit of hope curled up again. ‘I don’t know.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘All right, we’ll see.’

  He wheeled off down a side turning and we followed him meekly. He was amazing, really. He’d got a sword gash across his belly and a lump coming up on his forehead, he’d been stabbed and crushed and half blown up, we’d ruined his firework display and probably lost him his job, but he was calmer than we were, I think he was even whistling as he walked. But I could hear something else too, a woman’s voice shouting nearby, muffled through hedges and smoke.

  ‘All symmetrical, see,’ said the green man, leading us into a clearing with another statue in it, a big man with a hammer who made me think of Colin back home. ‘Nah, ruddy Vulcan, we’re in the wrong part. Back to the centre, boys, we’ll take the next exit.’

  The woman’s voice was calling ‘André!’ and this time we all heard it.

  ‘Anne,’ said the boy, looking round like he expected to see her standing in the smoke. ‘Anne!’

  She called back. ‘I’m here. Can you get to the outer ring?’

  André turned to the green man. ‘Can we?’

  ‘No way out there,’ he said, turning back towards the centre. ‘It’s the middle or nothing.’

  Anne called again, her voice breaking and desperate.

  The boy grabbed the man’s coat and practically shook him. ‘The outer ring, please, now!’

  ‘All right,’ said the man, shaking him off and staring. ‘Steady, that man. I’ll take you.’

  He turned off jauntily and we limped after him. André was holding his side all the time now, shaking the man had just about done for him. My knee was throbbing like things were grating together inside it, I hoped to God it wasn’t far.

  We were there in less than a minute, but the green man was right, the outer path tapered into another dead end. He said ‘See?’

  André ignored him. ‘Anne, we’re here!’

  She was only feet away, I heard her running on the other side of the hedge. Then her voice said ‘Can you stand back?’

  André’s arm pushed me away from the hedge. ‘We’re back.’

  The whole hedge suddenly shook, there was a loud cracking sound, then the fluttering of agitated leaves. I caught a glimpse of flashing metal, then the hedge shook again, more violently than before.

  ‘Mind your heads, boys,’ sang out the green man. ‘Female with an axe!’

  The next blow cleft the hedge wide open at the top, I could see her on the other side tugging the axe free for another go.

  André stepped at once to the gap. ‘Give it to me, sweetheart, we’ll finish it.’

  She didn’t argue, I don’t think she’d got any breath left, she just passed it through. I took it myself, André was in no state to swing, I took it and chopped down twice, wrenching the axe out of the splinters of the last trunk, and there was a space a man could climb through.

  I shoved André to the gap, and for once he didn’t hesitate, he saw Anne on the other side and practically leapt. I stood back for the green man then started to follow, but my leg was dragging, I caught my foot on a shattered trunk and fell headlong, crashing heavily on to the grass on the other side. I levered my face up out of the turf and saw something coming towards me, smart yellow hose above a pair of shabby black shoes. Anne was crying out, I scrabbled up on my knees and there they were, four of them, and us in no state to fight a fly.

  A hand reached down to the grass beside me and picked up the axe.

  ‘I’ll have that,’ said the green man.

  André pushed at Anne, his voice high with panic. ‘Run! Get help, run!’ She was off at once in a rustle of skirts, and then he was calm again, turning to face the enemy with his sword steady in his hand. I clutched at the hedge and hauled myself to my feet.

  They approached us warily but I didn’t think they needed to. The boy was done in, I was half lame, the green man was a gardener, we were fucked.

  Bernadette Fournier

  Others ran as we did towards the fire. Ahead of us hurried a group of Musketeers, swinging their grand blue cloaks so the crosses on their backs flashed their self-importance.

  The hedge of the labyrinth rose up before us, and the Musketeers ran down the side where the smoke billowed thickest. I followed with Charlot, but towards us came running a girl in a pale dress, her cloak flying wildly behind her, and it was Mlle du Pré, alone and in fright and with blood on her skirt. She seized the sleeve of the leading Musketeer and babbled that there were men attackin
g the Chevalier de Roland and they must come at once to his aid.

  Charlot and I pressed forward, but the leading Musketeer drew his sword and turned back to face us. A great firework exploded high above us, a magnificent ball of stars which erupted into a fountain over the whole gardens.

  ‘Stand back there,’ commanded the Musketeer. ‘Stay back, in the King’s name.’ He turned to lead his men down the side of the maze and I stopped indeed, but only in shock, for the starburst flicked a white light under the brim of his hat and revealed to me a face I knew. It was the last of those gentlemen, the red-faced Dubosc, and we had sent the Chevalier only more enemies.

  Jacques Gilbert

  We hadn’t a chance of fighting our way out, we were just trying to fend the bastards off. André’s left hand was pressed constantly to his side and my leg was creaking under me, a trained swordsman could have had us in seconds. It was the green man who really saved us, he was whirling that axe in great sweeps, shouting ‘Keep back, you buggers,’ and none of them dared come near.

  Footsteps charged towards us, voices shouted ‘Put up!’ and ‘Stop in the King’s name!’ I swivelled sharply, and that was it for my knee, it shot a slicing pain up my leg and dropped me in a heap on the grass. I peered up and saw Musketeers coming towards us with drawn swords. Two of our attackers turned and legged it, the others backed off like they couldn’t decide, but their weapons went down and I knew it was over.

  André lowered his blade and leaned against the hedge. ‘Sorry about all that, Jacques.’

  I said ‘You and your women,’ and watched him smile.

  The Musketeers came panting up, and the last two attackers turned and fled. But the lead Musketeer kept his sword levelled, he was still charging at the boy and a woman’s voice cried ‘Look out, Chevalier!’ Then I saw, I bloody saw, he was one of the men we’d fought that day, and his blade thrusting full at the boy’s chest.

  I shouted ‘André!’ I think I bloody screamed it. The boy scrabbled up his sword in a frantic parry and the Musketeer’s blade slid harmlessly over it, but he’d been lunging even as he charged and his body crashed on to André’s sword with the force of his own thrust. The boy struggled to withdraw but his elbow had been smashed back into the hedge and the man was already stuck through. He collapsed on his knees, blood pouring thickly out of his mouth on to the grass, then he pitched forward on his face and was silent.

  Feet came towards us, more Musketeers, but they weren’t running any more, they were staring in horror at their officer dead on the ground. So was André, I heard his shallow gasp as he took in what he’d done. Other voices were round us now, I heard a woman’s little scream and a man saying ‘Killed a Musketeer. Did you see? Man’s killed a Musketeer!’

  André’s head came up, and there he was, stood with bloody sword over the man’s body, then I saw what other people were seeing and was suddenly sick with understanding.

  The leading Musketeer cried ‘Seize him.’

  André’s sword lifted in feeble defence, but he couldn’t fight them, he couldn’t kill another. The woman’s voice came again from the crowd, Bernadette yelling ‘Run!’ The boy stared round wildly, at the crowd, the advancing Musketeers, the dead man at his feet, then seemed to grasp what was happening, spun round and bolted into the dark.

  The Musketeer was sending men after him, I was struggling up to stop them, but a hand clamped firm on my shoulder and Charlot’s voice said ‘Stay where you are, Monsieur, it is your safest course now.’

  He was right. The only reason they weren’t grabbing me was because I was down, not even those Musketeer bastards could pretend I’d been fighting them. But the unfairness was unbearable, I kept saying ‘The man was going to kill him, it was self-defence.’ Charlot’s grip tightened on my shoulder, but the senior Musketeer stood with his arms folded and his lip curling, and I guessed he was another of them. When a young Musketeer said ‘I don’t understand, why did Dubosc …?’ the senior told him to shut his mouth. I remembered suddenly there was another witness, but when I looked round to where the green man had been there was nothing but that red-handled axe lying on the ground.

  Seven

  Albert Grimauld

  From his interviews with the Abbé Fleuriot, 1669

  Never mind the ‘Monsieurs’, laddie, Grimauld’s good enough for me. A name’s not where the respect is, see, it’s who a man is. You know what they call me in the Vieux? Old Gappy. Boys look at my teeth and call me Old Gappy, but there ain’t a man in the regiment they’d rather have next them than me. I’m the man can blow up anything, the man who mined the gate at Hesdin in ’39. Steel? War’s about the walls and the black powder, that’s where it’s at, that’s the future.

  Ah, but it’s the past you want, and I won’t say no to a bit of that. You’re thinking ‘An old man, what can he tell me about the age of honour and a young man called André de Roland?’ Well, pour us another goblet of that wine and you’ll see.

  1640. I was out the army for a while, and never you mind why, maybe I’ll tell and maybe I won’t, let’s just see how we suit. I was out the army and in stinking Paris where there’s no work for a man without his nose up the arse of the guilds, and nothing and its bastards for a man like me. Then this firework business comes up, so it’s back with the old powder and making things go bang, but not for its natural purpose of ripping a man to pieces, this was for making pretty sparkles and to get the gentry going ‘Ah!’

  There was a bit more than ‘Ah’ in it that night. Rockets sizzling into men’s bellies, whole ruddy maze on fire, not what His bleeding Eminence had in mind at all. Not the brightest of lookouts for me neither. Job up the devil’s chimney, people killing themselves all round me, bunch of Musketeers yelling ‘murder’, and when a gentleman’s accused for no more than defending himself, what chance for a man like me? Trust me, I was out of it, off and over the back wall in less time than it’d take you to pour me more wine.

  But one handy thing about the Luxembourg is where it is, see, because the minute I was over that wall I was safe and solid in Saint-Germain. Ah, use your head, boy, it’s abbey land, the King’s law doesn’t reach there. There’s bankrupts moved in, there’s cutpurses and footpads and all sorts know how to nip in smartish when things get hot, and never you mind how I know them things, I knows them, that’s all.

  So I ain’t worried when I hear someone scrabbling up the wall after me, I just duck in a doorway for a discreet look-see. Over he comes like a cat with a dog after it, lands heavy on the stones, then straightens up to lean against the wall. It’s the young gentleman that spiked the Musketeer, but pale as a mushroom and that much blood down his breeches I couldn’t say which bit of him’s punctured. He wipes his arm across his face, takes one deep, shuddering suck of air, then sets off down the street, weaving like a dockside drunk.

  Well, that gave me a qualm. Saint-Germain was a poor lookout for any gentleman straying in after dark, specially one reeling about with ‘wounded and helpless’ round his neck like a banner. He was worth the stopping too. He’d lost his hat and cloak, but the baldric on him was enough to feed a man’s family for months, to say nothing of whatever purse he’d got. I wasn’t thinking that for myself, see, I’m only saying others would. Left to himself the lad was sausage meat by morning.

  I strolled after him, but he was turning down the Rue Taranc when I saw a couple of figures in a doorway already giving him the look. Their heads never moved, but their eyes went slowly round with him till he was past, then they looked at each other and that’s it, the hitch of the shoulders and out they come, solid and soft-footed as cats in the dark. Well, I knew the bigger one, fellow named Menoult, Molin, something with an ‘m’ in it, so I kept myself to the shadows and followed.

  He sensed them fast. Round he came, hand on hilt in a heartbeat, and I thought maybe he’d more savvy than I gave him credit for, but not a bit of it. This is a gentleman can take a Musketeer, but the minute he sees a couple of roughs lurking after him with ‘footpad’
like it might be branded on their foreheads he relaxes like there’s nothing to fear. He takes his hand off his sword and actually speaks to them, he goes and asks the way to the bleeding abbey.

  They can’t believe it neither, it’s not often you get the bird asking you where on the lime you want it to sit. The ‘m’ one, oh call him ‘Molin’, it’ll do, he gets a grip on himself and says ‘We’ll show you, Sieur, it’s right in our way.’

  So in they come, close either side, steering him off of the middle of the street. There’s a lantern on this road, see, a little house opposite does the business with the women if you get me, and they want him safe in the shadows before they start to work. The gentleman doesn’t like being crowded, he’s saying ‘I’m all right,’ and trying to shake them off, but Molin says ‘You’re hurt, Sieur, let me just help you.’ He realizes at last, struggles back and goes for the sword, but Molin’s out quick with his foot, trips him neat as neat, then it’s in with the old one-two jabs in the guts, down he goes and it’s done. They pause a second, caught in the lamplight, faces up and listening for the watch, but they don’t see no one, so it’s hand under each armpit, lug the gentleman into the alley and that’s him cooked.

  I could have walked away. Mark that, I could have looked the other way, but I crossed the street and into the alley after them.

  They hadn’t wasted time. They were tossing him a treat, shoes already off, feeling down the body for the purse and found it too from the sound of it, I heard the chink of coin. I stepped up and said ‘Whoa there, boys, that’s a friend of mine.’

  Ever caught a cat with a bird? Their hands were down smack on the body, faces sharp as knives with suspicion. Molin said ‘Fuck off, Grimauld, we found him first.’

  The other’s fumbling at the baldric. ‘Turn him over, will you, I want the sword off.’

  They roll him on his back, and his face is that white I think he’s popped it, but when Molin starts undoing the scabbard there’s suddenly a hand groping out to the hilt, and the laddie mutters ‘My sword.’