Honour and the Sword Read online

  Yet there are dangers other than these, and so we were about to find. The previous year our King Louis had declared against Spain, so that our northern marches now lay directly on the borders of a hostile country. Since by reason of our history Artois was the one side our Wall did not reach, we had already been exposed to raids and skirmishes from this direction, fortunately repelled by the valour of our Seigneur, but the events of 1636 proved of far greater significance than these.

  The Spaniards came in the early hours of the morning, and this time they came in force. Mindful of their previous reception, their first target was Ancre, the Roland estate, surmising that by cutting off the head of such resistance as they were likely to meet, they would incapacitate the entire body. Otherwise they would surely have opened their attack on the village itself, which they could not have known to be so empty of soldiery because of the gabelle riots at the Market in Lucheux the day before.

  It was Gabriel Lange, sexton of this church, who roused me about two of the clock to warn that the Night Watch reported a large body of cavalry approaching us from the Flanders Road, which bisects the forest. There were, it seems, too many to challenge, but the Watch reported the first part of the force had already turned west towards the gates of Ancre. I immediately sent Gabriel to the taverns to alert the militia, and myself began the tocsin, as Jehan Bruyant, our bellringer, was unfortunately indisposed after a late night at the market.

  Jacques Gilbert

  I remember the heat. I had a headache, and the flies were bothering me, the horses were all sweaty and snorting, and the straw was dry and prickly against my skin. My back was hurting because Father had beaten me about something, so I had to sleep on my stomach, and it was pissing me off because I wanted to think about Colin’s sister Simone who I’d kissed a few days ago in the lumber room of Le Soleil Splendide, but I needed to be on my back for that, if you know what I mean.

  I was fifteen.

  I was sleeping in the stables because Father had taken Mother and the children to the Market at Lucheux, and we’d had problems lately with horse thieves. I’d got an arquebus just in case, but it was a rusty old thing, and they’re stupid guns anyway, because most people aim with their eyes not their groin. At least it was a firelock, which was something. I wouldn’t have fancied pissing about with a slow match in all that dry straw.

  I was woken by gunfire. It was raining hard and I thought maybe I’d been hearing thunder, but the Général was going bonkers in his stall, and he was an old warhorse who always went crazy at the sound of guns. Then high and clear above it all I heard the distant bell of the tocsin and knew it was a raid.

  I don’t know how long it had been going on, but I’d only got one leg in my breeches when the door banged open and César came crashing in. He must have been working late in the coach-house, and was already fully dressed and clutching a nasty-looking scythe.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘It’s the Manor.’

  He was stamping about impatiently while I hurled my boots on, he just couldn’t wait to get out and start killing people.

  ‘Spanish, from the look of them,’ he said. ‘Whole troop. Have you got …?’

  He stopped when he saw I’d already hauled out the arquebus and was groping for the powder flask.

  ‘That’s good, that’s something, but we’ll need my pike against the cavalry.’

  Cavalry. My fingers were fumbling, I was spilling the powder, the ball slipped out of my hand, I lost it in the straw and reached for another. His hand came clamping down on my wrist and held it still for a second.

  ‘Steady there,’ he said.

  I took a deep breath, and finished loading. Then I slipped the strap over my head, the flask in my coat, the bullets in my mouth, stuck the ramrod under my arm and I was ready. I felt like a bloody packhorse, but I was ready.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Stick with me and you’ll do.’

  I followed him out into the rain. He was a bit mad, really, César, but I was glad he was with me, because I’d never fought before. I’d been bundled off to the woods in the last raid with Mother and Little Pierre, but César was a soldier, he’d only retired after La Rochelle.

  The bells sounded louder outside. We took the right-hand fork in the track, down the carriageway that led to the rear courtyard. I don’t think I was scared, not really, I mean we had the Seigneur, and he was indestructible, he could beat anyone. I think actually I was excited. There’s something in the sound of gunfire that makes you breathe faster and run towards it, it’s like you just have to. I remember when we reached the last bend I realized the shooting had stopped and felt disappointed in case we’d missed it all, but César only ran the harder, and his face was grim.

  We pounded on down to the apron, the slapping of our boots suddenly louder as we hit the wet flags. There were noises from inside the Manor now, screams and yelling and what sounded like the clash of swords; it all came through the windows, which were open in the heat. Another crashed open right in front of us, and in the light of the flambeau I saw someone scrabbling out, a woman in a long white chemise, her movements clumsy and desperate. She was running before she even got properly upright, and as she lifted her head I recognized Mme Panthon who ran the kitchens, scary Mme Panthon who bawled at me when she caught Marie giving me a cake at the kitchen door. Her hair was loose and wild, her mouth was open and no sound coming out, she saw us and stretched out her arms as she ran. A bright yellow flash cracked in the darkness of the window behind her, a wad of something flew away from the side of her head, her face seemed to turn black, but her legs still ran on two more paces before she dropped in a heap, spattering a spray of water from the stones. Her nightdress was all bunched up round her body, I could see her naked legs.

  ‘Don’t stop!’ panted César, running past me. ‘Don’t stop!’

  I hadn’t realized I had. I tore my eyes off Mme Panthon and ran blindly after César, on across the apron, past the bodies of two of the Household Guard, one on his face, the other staring up at the sky with all black shiny stuff spilling out of his belly, on without stopping and down the carriageway sweeping round the side of the house. I could hear hooves, there were horses galloping behind us, I yelled back to César and ducked off the drive into the bushes while I struggled to bring up the gun. My hands were damp and I panicked the powder might be too, then saw César had slipped on the wet flags and was still on the drive. I jerked myself forward, but he was up and skidding towards me, then the horses came hurtling round the bend.

  There were two of them, Spanish light cavalry, with huge red Burgundy crosses flapping on their cloaks, laughing and waving their swords as they galloped. They saw César at once, and rode whooping towards him. He could have got to the bushes, we could have taken them on together, but he stopped running, that stupid, gallant old man, he stopped and turned to face them, that scythe gripped fast in both hands. I was fumbling the gun up again, trying to tilt the barrel high enough to point at a man on horseback. César struck out and hacked into the first, but as he followed through, the soldier behind spitted him right through the body with his sabre. I fired at last and got him, but the horse kept going, and César was dragged with them a few paces before the soldier slid off and César crashed on his face on the wet ground.

  I knew the shot would bring someone, so I stayed in the bushes a moment, struggling to reload with hands that were shaking as well as wet, and trying to ignore the pain in my balls where that bloody gun had kicked me. Something moved above me, a man leant out of a window in the middle storey, and for a moment my heart leapt, because those were the Seigneur’s apartments, and if the Seigneur was there everything could still be all right. Then I saw he was a bearded man in a helmet, wearing a scarlet sash diagonally over his black coat like a bad wound, and I knew he was the enemy.

  That’s when I realized it was over. The Spaniards were in the Seigneur’s own rooms, and I didn’t see how they could be if he was alive. What’s more, the man looking out didn’t seem like he w
as in the middle of a fight or anything, he looked like he had all the time in the world. There was screaming going on somewhere behind him, but it clearly didn’t bother him. He just peered out at the darkness, then shrugged, said something to someone behind him, and left the window.

  I went to César and turned him over, and unbelievably he was still alive, though there was a trickle of blood coming out of his mouth. His face was covered with mud from the drive, and torn where he’d been dragged along the stones. I tried to wipe it with my sleeve, but my hands were still shaking and I was making it worse. He opened his eyes and saw me, and I felt terrible because I knew it was all my fault for not getting the gun up quicker. He tried to speak but couldn’t, then his eyes went out, and I knew he was dead.

  More screaming was coming from upstairs in the house, and now there was laughter as well, and a horrible kind of rhythmic chanting I didn’t understand. I tried to close César’s eyes, but my hands had wet mud on them and I remember I left dark smears on his eyelids. I didn’t try to wipe them off. I was suddenly afraid to touch him any more because he was dead.

  I crept back to the bushes to get out of the light from the torches. There was banging and crashing all over the house, but nothing that sounded like real fighting, just a lot of soldiers having a good time. There was screaming coming from the servants’ quarters downstairs, women shrieking and men laughing, and I thought of Fleurie and Marie and felt really sick. There was nothing I could do. I couldn’t stop any of it, I just stood by this stupid box hedge, shaking like a kid and doing nothing.

  After a bit I cleared my head and started to edge along the laurels towards the front of the Manor. I wasn’t thinking of fighting any more, there obviously wasn’t a defence left to join, but I was hoping the front might be clear and I could escape into the woods behind the dairy.

  But it wasn’t. When I peered round the corner I saw horses and a couple of Spanish soldiers guarding them, though they seemed to be more interested in what was happening indoors. They were talking and laughing and looking towards the courtyard doors, then one wiped his mouth on his sleeve, tugged at his breeches, and strolled inside.

  I daren’t risk it. I left the laurels and was just crossing back to the first box hedge when I heard a sort of slithering from the house, then the hard thump of boots and a ring like iron on the flags behind me. I jumped like a rabbit, swivelling the gun round so fast César would have been proud, but the terrace looked empty, there was only a sword rolling to a standstill on the drive. Then something moved under the ivy, a small figure sat itself up in the light of the flambeau, I saw a white face with a lot of floppy black hair and realized it was the boy. It was him, I mean. It was André.

  I guessed he’d climbed from a window, but the Spaniard at the front had heard him too, he came belting round the corner, blade raised and ready, a tall black-clad soldier slashing down with his sword at a little kid of twelve. The boy dived to one side, but he wasn’t trying to run, he was scrabbling across the drive to retrieve the sword. He snatched it up fast, but it was too big for him and his balance still off, the soldier grabbed his collar, dragged him round, and drew back his sword for the lunge.

  I fired. I’d forgotten the kick on that gun, and it walloped me straight back into the bush. I scrambled up fast, but there was just the boy standing bewildered, looking out into the dark like he was wondering where the shot had come from. A black heap on the ground beside him proved at least I’d shot straight.

  I showed myself and tried to call out in a kind of loud whisper, which is impossible actually, especially when you’ve got bullets in your mouth, but they’d have heard the shot indoors and someone could come any second, so I waved my arms around and sort of hissed ‘M’sieur, m’sieur!’ He stood staring like his wits had gone, which I suppose was reasonable now I know what happened in there, then suddenly jerked himself towards me, running across the drive on to the lawn, that stupid long sword trailing behind him on the grass.

  I yanked him right into the heart of the bush and clamped my hand tight over his mouth, just as three soldiers came charging round the corner. He was wearing this bright white shirt I was terrified would show through the leaves, so I covered him with my body and pressed his face hard down, but he was wriggling away and my hands were wet and slippery, I was scared I couldn’t hold him. The bush was rotten and almost hollow inside, but we were still making it rustle, and the soldiers only feet away, looking at the body of the man I’d shot. Then he bit me, right in the hand, but I didn’t dare yell, I just clenched my teeth and forced him to face me till I saw recognition in his eyes and felt him relax. I took my hand carefully away from his mouth, and turned back to watch the soldiers.

  They were looking round to see where the shot might have come from, then caught sight of the other bodies further up, which were César and the first two soldiers. One went to look, but the others peered fearfully out into the dark and I realized they were more scared than I was. They were in the light and totally exposed, they hadn’t expected attack from outside the Manor, and they couldn’t know there was just me and the boy, and our only gun discharged with no time to reload. When the horses started kicking up and neighing round the front, they all jogged back to stop them wandering off, but I think the truth was they just didn’t want to stay out there another minute.

  Neither did I. As soon as they disappeared I pulled the boy up on his feet and squeezed us out from the bush. I gave up the idea of escaping from the front while those soldiers were there, and led him back towards the bank instead. If we climbed that, we’d get on to the upper bridle path and the stables.

  But as soon as he realized I was leading him away from the Manor he stopped dead and let go of my hand.

  ‘No,’ he said, and shrank back into the bushes. ‘We can’t leave the others.’

  I crouched down beside him and started to reload the arquebus. If there was still a defence going on somewhere I was going to need it.

  ‘The Seigneur …’ I started.

  ‘They’ve killed him.’

  I think I knew that anyway, but hearing it was awful. If the Seigneur was gone, there was no hope at all.

  ‘My mother’s dead too.’

  There was something funny in the way he said that, though I didn’t know why. I went on loading, I didn’t want to look at his face.

  ‘The Guard?’ I asked.

  ‘They’re all dead. What about the militia? Has anyone gone for the militia?’

  ‘They don’t need to,’ I said. ‘Listen.’

  He cocked his head, then seemed for the first time to hear the tocsin, which was still ringing urgently from the village. I was surprised he hadn’t heard it before, even with the rain.

  ‘They must know,’ I told him. ‘They’ll be here any minute.’

  ‘How long has that been going?’

  ‘Ages.’

  ‘Then why aren’t they here?’

  I remember what it felt like as that sunk in. He was right, of course, you can ride from Dax into Ancre in ten minutes, five if you gallop.

  The Spaniards must have got there first.

  Père Gérard Benoît

  The militia were mustered in haste, but as I relinquished the bells to younger hands and proceeded on to the Square, it became clear to even the most sanguine among us that the road to Ancre was cut. The enemy could by this time be perceived by the movement of horses down the Ancre Road, which runs for a mile between the village and the estate. Barriers were speedily constructed, yet we had perhaps fourteen of the militia to man them and had to call upon our own folk to fill the broad gaps between. Our blacksmith, Henri Lefebvre, took the lead among the civilians, and himself took a musket, assisted in the business of loading by his son Colin. Our ranks were further augmented by the return of some of our people from the Livestock Market, among them Pierre Gilbert, the Ancre groom, and Martin Gauthier, the chief verderer, whose devotion to our Seigneur was so great he had needs be forcibly restrained from rushing to his rescue against t
he entire Spanish cavalry. It is pleasant to record that some of the Verdâme men also elected to remain with us in our extremity, most notably their village tanner, a man named Stefan Ravel.

  Yet there was little reliance to be placed upon so slight a defence as this, and I accordingly dispatched Gabriel’s son to plead for aid at Lucheux and convey the intelligence to M. de Rambures, Governor of the citadel at Doullens. He had but just departed when there came a young soldier on foot from Verdâme requesting help of our own Seigneur. It appeared there had been an attack there also, but the Baron was from home, and had only a small ceremonial Guard at the best of times, so the Château had fallen with scarcely a shot fired. The young family of the Baron was believed to be imprisoned within, so this soldier had been sent of his officer to beg help from Ancre in repelling their invaders. He had run all the way through the woods without even shoes to his feet, for there had been no time to dress.

  This young caporal was in fact the famous Marcel Dubois, who was later to cause such a stir among us. He was perhaps eighteen years of age at this time, but his devotion to duty was such he would not even permit me to dress his feet, which the stones of the roads had used sorely, but was determined to continue to Ancre as he had been ordered. Only the first movements of the Spanish cavalry against our northward barricade convinced him that help from that direction was not to be thought of, but at this realization he merely loaded his musket and went to the barricade himself. He had failed in the defence of Verdâme, he said, so must lend us his aid in what looked to be the last defence of Dax.

  Jacques Gilbert

  ‘No one’s coming,’ he said. He looked back towards the Manor, and there was another burst of screaming and yelling, then a huge loud crash, like furniture being overturned and crockery breaking. His face was suddenly desperate. ‘There’s no one but us.’