by A L Berridge
The people cried out in alarm, but I only raised my voice the higher and continued the Mass, in the hope the soldiers would respect the sacrament. In this I was at first justified, so that while they came roughly enough among us, they did not seem set on violence, but contented themselves with gathering up the livestock while demanding money of the congregation. Some, indeed, wrenched from the walls such poor ornaments as our church could boast, and one was so blind to his own soul he reached out to the very chalice in my hands, before a better-educated colleague, aware the consecration had already occurred, struck down his arm, saying ‘The blood of Christ, man,’ and averting this most terrible blasphemy.
All this while I continued the service, and the people kept their eyes upon me and their voices steady in the familiar responses as if their lives depended on the action. The soldiers stood irresolute while the service proceeded, but as at last the ‘Ite, Missa est’ was uttered, they stirred and looked about them as though awoken from a spell. Seeming to become aware for the first time of women amongst us, one reached out to the beautiful Mme Gilbert, while another seized the youngest daughter of Mathieu Pagnié, a maid but eleven years old. At once his fellows plunged eagerly into the crowd, competing to secure the youngest and most attractive women, and all was in uproar as men fought to protect their wives, and parents their children. In vain we appealed for restraint in the house of God, but as Pierre Gilbert wrested his wife from the hands of one trooper, another thrust forward with a pike to spear him to the wall.
The boom of the west door as it was flung violently open shocked us all into silence. There stood in the entrance but one man, yet at sight of him the soldiers immediately lowered their weapons and became still. The man stepped forward within light of our candles: a tall, slim figure, elegantly dressed, with a broad scarlet sash slung carelessly over his breastplate, and atop his helmet the red cockade of Spain. That this was a Capitán was evident from the page who now stepped from the shadows to his side, and as he advanced down the aisle, the escort which filed after him numbered the full eight of a maestro de campo himself.
The soldiers parted in respectful silence to let them pass. Those who still clutched evidence of their looting now furtively laid it down, and one man who held in each hand the legs of a struggling chicken attempted to bestow them discreetly on a bench behind him, but the affrighted birds made such haste in effecting their escape they collided in mid air with much squawking and flapping of wings, so that feathers flew all about us and into the very face of the advancing Capitán. He paid no heed, but continued on his way, pausing only at sight of the soldier who had hold of Suzanne Pagnié. He still spoke no word, but only looked in the face of his trooper until the man bowed his head and released the girl to her anguished father. Others about him immediately relinquished their own captives, and I rejoiced to find we were fallen at least into the hands of a gentleman.
My faith proved justified, for on reaching the sanctuary the Capitán removed his helmet to salute the altar, then turned to address the people. He announced himself as the Don Miguel d’Estrada, and said there was no need to be afraid, for we were come under the protection of the Cardinal Infante of the Spanish Netherlands. He urged the people to disperse to their own homes, assuring them of their safety as long as no further resistance was offered and all assistance and co-operation given to the forces of Spain. His men would require billeting and maintenance, but we would be otherwise unmolested.
He made us a curt bow as if to retire, but fear for our Seigneur emboldened me to ask the fate of our people at Ancre.
He turned to me a face of such strain it was with a sense of shock I realized he was but a young man, of perhaps not even one and twenty.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I understand there was resistance and my men had no choice. By the time I arrived there were no survivors.’
Our world darkened, and all within hearing bowed their heads. I fear my voice trembled as I asked ‘None at all? Not even the child?’
He had been in the act of turning away, but my words arrested him.
‘Child?’ said he, and his manner seemed more attentive than before. ‘The Chevalier de Roland had a child?’
Jacques Gilbert
We spent the whole bloody day hiding in the forest, and it was just awful.
It was raining for a start. We went deep into the woods to get shelter off the trees, but the rain had still drizzled through and everything was dripping wet. I dried off Tonnerre and Duchesse with their blankets, but hadn’t got one for Perle, so I used mine and hoped she’d keep the foal warm by nestling up to it, which she did.
The boy cleaned his bloodied sword on the grass, then sat against a tree, hugging his arms round his knees. He was soaking wet and shivering all over, so I offered him my blanket but he just shook his head. I showed him it wasn’t that damp after rubbing down Perle, and really it wasn’t, though it was perhaps a bit hairy, but he just waved it away and went on sitting in silence.
So I fed the horses, then got out my bread and cheese for the boy, but he wouldn’t take that either, I guessed he’d never seen black bread before. I didn’t feel I could eat if he didn’t, so I wrapped it up again and stood with my stomach rumbling. I couldn’t even think of anything to say. I’d never talked much to him except for answering his questions, but he wasn’t asking anything now, he was sitting looking miserable as if he knew.
What made it even harder was him being a different person, because now he was Seigneur. I didn’t mind nobility, not the way Father did, but when they were around you had to behave nicely, and not scratch yourself or fart or anything, and you had to be very careful what you said and did. So I just stood there, because of course I couldn’t sit unless he said so, and he wasn’t saying anything at all.
I had an inspiration, and offered him the brandy bottle. He sniffed it and looked a bit doubtfully at me, so I nodded encouragingly and he tried a little sip. Then he coughed, looked at the bottle more thoughtfully, and had another. He passed the bottle back, but when I took it he noticed my bitten hand. I tried to hide it, but it was too late.
‘Let me see,’ he commanded.
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Let me see.’
I showed him, and it was a bit of a mess actually, he’d practically gnawed it. It was throbbing too, but I didn’t feel I could complain, I mean he was the Seigneur, he could bite every peasant in the village if he wanted, even if it was a rather odd thing to want. But he tore a strip off his nightshirt, soaked it on the wet leaves, and cleaned the wound himself, then wrapped another strip round like a bandage and said ‘There!’ like it was all better.
Things felt easier after that, so I risked asking if I could make myself comfortable. He said of course, so I walked deeper into the forest and grabbed the chance to eat some bread where he wouldn’t see. I had a good belch too, and yawned and stretched and scratched my legs where the wet breeches were itching, everything I couldn’t do in front of the boy.
It had stopped raining when I got back, but the boy was still sitting against that tree, looking soggy and sullen. The bruising on his face was coming up black now, like someone had clobbered him good and hard, there was dried blood by the corner of his eye, and his ear was just a mess.
‘How did that happen?’
He ignored me, but I remembered his parents had been killed and his house burned down, and maybe it was reasonable he didn’t want to talk. So I just passed him the bottle, took the strip of linen he’d used before, and crouched down to clean his face.
At once he put up his hand to shield his cheek. ‘No, it’s all right.’
‘I’ll just clean it,’ I said, and made another dab at him, but his hand snatched up and caught my wrist, and he’d got the strongest grip I’d ever known. I felt helpless and humiliated, and maybe that’s why I said what I did, which obviously I wouldn’t if I’d thought about it. I said ‘I let you do mine.’
He stared at me in shock, and that’s when I realized I’d also
given him ‘tu’, which is about as good a way of committing suicide as I know of, I mean you don’t tutoyer your Seigneur, however young he is. I closed my eyes.
His fingers slowly relaxed and let go of my wrist. After a moment I heard him say ‘All right.’
I couldn’t understand why he was letting me off, but certainly wasn’t going to ask, I just got on and cleaned him as best I could. He didn’t flinch at all when I was doing it, not even when I wiped round his battered ear, it was like he was determined not to show any feeling at all.
He just said ‘Thank you,’ then ‘Why don’t you sit down?’
I realized he genuinely didn’t know I was waiting for permission. I sat down quickly and he passed me back the bottle, but I didn’t like to drink much because I saw he was watching me. It’s like he was expecting me to say something, but I couldn’t think what.
I began to feel uncomfortable. I’d like to have gone off again, but couldn’t keep pretending I needed to crap, he was going to start worrying there was something wrong with me. I tried suggesting he get some rest, and laid out my blanket all invitingly on a pile of bracken, but he said he didn’t think he could sleep. In the end there was only one thing for it, so I just kept passing him the bottle and waited for results. It wasn’t the real thing, that brandy, just distilled cider M. Thibault used to make on the quiet, but it was good strong stuff and I didn’t think the boy could hold out against it long.
After a bit he started to talk. He didn’t say anything about what had happened, he just talked about the future and getting the estate running again like nothing had changed.
I said ‘But the Spaniards have destroyed it all, haven’t they?’
He looked down his nose, like I was a bit of snot hanging on the end of it. ‘I can rebuild. I have resources hidden here, I don’t need to worry about money.’
I’d never heard anyone say that before, I mean you don’t, do you? But he seemed to mean it, so I asked casually if he was going to live in Dax or stay in Paris like his uncle, who used to spend all his time at court before he got the pox and lost his nose. I didn’t say that about the pox, obviously, we all had to pretend we didn’t know about that, I just said ‘like M. le Comte’, and he understood.
He said ‘I told you, we’ll have everything back the way it was before. You’ll still have your jobs, Jacques, there’s no need to worry about that.’
I tried to look like I hadn’t been, but he only nodded importantly and said everyone was safe, but us especially because his father had made him promise the groom’s job was Pierre Gilbert’s for his lifetime, and mine afterwards if I wanted it.
That was interesting. I passed the brandy and asked why.
He said ‘I don’t know. Maybe your father saved my father’s life or something?’
I didn’t think so somehow. If my Father had come across the Seigneur drowning in a river he’d have been more likely to chuck a rock at him than pull him out.
‘It doesn’t matter anyway,’ he said dismissively, ‘because now you’ve saved my life, so I’d look after you myself.’
I felt guilty for a moment, then remembered I really had saved him when I shot that soldier, so it was perfectly fair after all. I passed him the brandy and he drank my health, then I took it and drank his, and thought this was all right, actually, this could be good. I saw me telling Colin how I’d sat and drank with the Seigneur and we’d toasted each other, I could say ‘my friend, the Seigneur’. I could say that to Simone too, and maybe she’d let me kiss her again. Maybe she’d let me do more.
He asked if I did want Father’s job when he gave up, and I told him no, I was going in the army at sixteen, and he brightened because he was going to be a soldier too. He said we’d go and kill lots of Spaniards together, hundreds of them, and maybe France would actually invade Spain, then we could go and burn their homes down for them and see how they liked it. Then we’d come home to Dax to make sure the Manor was all right and the village being looked after, then we’d go and fight some more. Then he said he felt a bit funny.
I said ‘Have some more brandy.’
He took another gulp obediently, and asked if I’d enjoy a life like that. I said I wanted to get married and have children too, maybe a little girl like my sister Clare. I told him all about Clare and what it was like when she had her fits, I think perhaps I was a bit pissed too. He still listened carefully, watching my face like what I was saying was really important. I’d never had anyone listen to me like that before.
He said ‘I’ve got to get married at fourteen and have at least two sons right away. My father did say I could marry Mlle Anne, the Baron’s daughter, but Mother says I can’t because her family’s nobody.’
He’d forgotten they were dead.
‘Do you like her?’ I asked.
He started pulling up tufts of grass with his fingers. ‘Well, she’s a girl, of course, but not as silly as most of them. She doesn’t giggle.’
I said cautiously ‘She sounds all right.’
‘She was sensible,’ he said. ‘I made her sit on the grass and she got green stains on her dress, but she said it didn’t matter, the stripes would disguise it. She said a dress you couldn’t sit down in was no good at all.’
I thought of my Mother’s dresses, the light blue for day and the dark blue for Sunday. I said ‘I think she’s right.’
He threw down the tufts of grass like he didn’t know why he’d pulled them. He said ‘It doesn’t matter really, I’ve only met her once, that day when they all came, and I hid in the stables and Father … and Father …’
He tailed off and looked round, like he was expecting to see his father standing in the woods beside us and couldn’t understand why he wasn’t. I shoved the bottle at him quickly, because it looked for a moment like he might actually cry, which would have been awful. He took it like he didn’t know what it was, then drank again and looked at me.
‘She was all right,’ he said. ‘I liked her. She had pretty hair.’
Then he had to go into the bushes and be sick.
I washed his face again with water I got off the trees, and next thing I knew he was curled up in a ball in the wet leaves, fast asleep. I wrapped him up in the hairy blanket, and sat back to relax for the first time in hours.
Anne du Pré
Extract from her diary, dated 3 July 1636
There was a battle last night, and I think the Guard are all killed. When they brought us in here I saw two of our soldiers dead on the landing, and one was our nice Sergeant Lebriel who used to do the trick with the three coins. We did not see Marcel, but Florian says he was probably killed downstairs. He also says I am not to speak of him as ‘Marcel’ because that is too familiar, but if the man is dead defending us I don’t see why I can’t be allowed to say his name. And Sergeant Lebriel is really called Raymon. Florian doesn’t think I know that, but I do.
I wish I knew what had happened to the servants. The fat guard with the big lips says they are all run away except for Françoise, but the screaming was quite dreadful last night and I am not sure I believe him. Jeanette says I am not to think about it, I must stay calm and brave until Papa rescues us, but I am finding it quite difficult.
I am so grateful Jeanette came. She went to the Capitán herself to get permission, and will ask if she can come every week. She said she used to be a lady’s maid when she was a little girl, and surely the soldiers must let us have somebody. I hope she is right. I managed to dress Colette myself this morning, but she said I was clumsy and did not lace her hard enough, so I will need someone to teach me.
At least we are in Mama’s apartments, and that is comforting. Papa has had nothing changed, so everything smells of her lavender as if she is still alive and watching over us. We have things to do too. A nice elderly guard who looks like an untidy owl fetched us what we needed from our own rooms, so at least I have my embroidery. I have this book too, and am determined to keep a proper journal. Colette says nobody will read what a twelve-year-old chil
d writes, but I notice she has looked over my shoulder twice since I started. If she does it again I shall write ‘Colette is a fool’ in very large letters.
The senior officer came this afternoon, a Capitán called Don Miguel. He said it was likely we would soon be exchanged for Spanish prisoners, but whatever happened we would be protected, because neither Spain nor the Holy Roman Empire made war on children.
Perhaps it was the word ‘children’ to which my brother objected, but he certainly responded with unusual haughtiness, saying ‘It doesn’t seem to have bothered them at Ancre. We heard it was burned down.’
‘Did you?’ said the Capitán gently. ‘From whom, I wonder?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Florian quickly, for we did not wish to get Jeanette into trouble. ‘But you’ve killed André de Roland, haven’t you? How do we know you won’t kill us?’
The Capitán did not answer for a moment. He was standing at the curtain, playing with the tassel, and I thought perhaps he was angry at Florian’s directness, but he was still smiling when he turned, so I thought myself mistaken.
‘No,’ he said. ‘We haven’t killed him. Tell me, Monsieur, would he be a suitable companion for you here? Or might his age make that inappropriate for your sisters?’
Florian was amused. He said André was only twelve, and he had no fear for us in his presence. The Capitán agreed André looked young, then asked if we would say he was as dark as his father.
I realized suddenly he had not seen André at all, and was merely attempting to learn what he looked like. That must surely mean André is free and they are seeking him. I said quickly that indeed no, André was very fair, rather like a plump, blond cherub, and stared hard at Florian that he might not contradict me. I tried to catch Colette’s eye too, but she was watching the Capitán (who is rather handsome) and burst out laughing at what I had said.