Honour and the Sword

by A L Berridge

  D’Estrada nodded, like he hadn’t expected anything else. ‘Well, are you?’

  ‘Are you?’ said André.

  D’Estrada actually laughed. I noticed he’d shifted his position, like a mirror reflection of the boy’s. They were facing each other very upright, legs apart, hands hovering near their hips as if to draw a sword. I was looking at them from the side, and that was odd, I even half thought it at the time, because I could see the boy’s sword hand, but I could see d’Estrada’s too. Then d’Estrada spoke again and everything else got shot out of my mind with shock.

  ‘Are you André de Roland?’

  My last bit of hope sort of fizzled and died.

  André said nothing. He looked like d’Estrada hadn’t even spoken.

  D’Estrada sighed. He turned to the Pedros, told them to get the fuck out of it, watched them start to wind their way through the column towards the Flanders Road, then gave his attention to the boy.

  ‘Then will you tell me your name?’

  ‘Will you tell me yours?’ said André.

  D’Estrada smiled. ‘I am not ashamed of my name, Monsieur. I am the Capitán Don Miguel d’Estrada of the Spanish Netherlands’.

  André made a little bow. ‘You are a long way from home, Señor.’

  D’Estrada acknowledged the hit with a smile. ‘Where is your home, Monsieur?’

  André smiled back. ‘Where I stand.’

  ‘And your name?’

  The boy was silent.

  D’Estrada sighed. ‘Monsieur, I say your father was Antoine, Chevalier de Roland. Will you give me the lie?’

  The boy was finished. Nothing on earth would make him deny his father. He lifted his head higher and spoke in his clearest, most carrying voice.

  ‘No. I am André de Roland, Sieur of Dax. And I say to you, Don Miguel d’Estrada of the Spanish Netherlands, that you are on my land, and I demand justice for the atrocities committed against my people. I demand it before God.’

  And in the silence there came the crash of musket fire from the Flanders Road.

  D’Estrada turned at once and ordered men to investigate, but they were in an almost superstitious panic, like the boy had called for justice from God and been granted it right away. They stumbled about, bumping into each other, and took ages setting off after the two Pedros. D’Estrada turned back to André with a stunned expression.

  He said ‘This is your doing.’

  The smile on the boy’s face was lovely.

  ‘I, Señor? I have been with you the whole time.’

  Jean-Marie Mercier

  Marcel was already running back towards us, ducking in and out of cover, only just making it into the ditch before d’Estrada turned to face the woods. I think perhaps he suspected we’d been there, and wondered if we still were. His head turned slowly in a half-circle, scanning the whole area of woodland. Jacques had stayed near the road, but I saw him working his way carefully through the brambles until he’d disappeared right inside. Stefan motioned me to pick up my musket, and slung his own over his shoulder.

  Marcel reached us safely behind the tree. ‘They know who he is. And now, of course, they know he’s army.’

  Stefan closed his eyes for a second, then bent to pick up the last gun.

  Marcel said urgently ‘He mustn’t talk.’

  ‘I know,’ said Stefan, and threw him the musket.

  ‘Not here,’ said Marcel. ‘They’ll get Jacques for certain, he’s almost on top of them. They were headed for Dax, I’ll do it there.’

  Stefan nodded. ‘Take Mercier too. Make sure of it.’

  I jumped. I was being terribly slow, but simply didn’t know what they meant.

  Marcel nodded, and turned to me. ‘Come on. We’ll have to run to get there first.’

  I got up, still confused. ‘Are we going to rescue André?’

  They looked at me, and I was alarmed to see something almost sad in their expressions.

  ‘We can’t do that, Jean,’ said Marcel gently.

  ‘We’ll save him this way,’ said Stefan, and tapped my musket.

  It was only then I understood what they were asking me to do.

  Carlos Corvacho

  My Capitán sent men to check the woods, but it was only a gesture, Señor, he knew the rebels had been and gone. All we found were a handful of abandoned bandoliers.

  He looked even grimmer when Moya’s team came back from the Flanders Road with the bodies of the escorts, and told us Jiménez and Sánchez had disappeared. My Capitán didn’t like to lose men, Señor, he took it very personal. He turned to de Roland and said ‘Where have they taken them?’

  The Chevalier said only ‘I’m afraid I cannot help you.’

  He looked quite different now, Señor, really quite the gentleman, but he was still an enemy soldier, that latest escapade had proved it certain sure.

  My Capitán said ‘I will have an answer to that question, Chevalier.’

  De Roland smiled, but this time he said nothing at all.

  ‘Very well,’ said the Capitán. ‘We will resume this discussion at the barracks, when I’m afraid I shall have to insist.’

  The Chevalier bowed correctly and seemed quite unmoved, but he wasn’t really, Señor, nor was it likely. He took care to clasp his hands lightly behind his back, but not before I noticed they’d started to tremble. It was a shame of course, and him so young, but duty’s duty, we all know that. He never shirked that, my Capitán, nor could he afford to, not with the Colonel Don Francisco on the way and likely to ask a few questions if we didn’t get everything we could from our only rebel captive.

  He still felt sorry for the lad, Señor, and said in view of his rank he would take him on his own horse. Young de Roland appreciated that, and went to the animal at once, stroking its nose and murmuring to it. I’d always found it a most bothersome beast, but the lad seemed quite at home with it. He looked less happy when my Capitán explained he’d have to be bound, but he understood it, Señor, he nodded silently, and when one of the men came with the rope he held out his hands in a detached way, as if they were servants waiting on him. He never even looked at them, but gazed firmly at the woodland as if they simply weren’t there.

  Jacques Gilbert

  He was looking at me. He couldn’t possibly see me, but he knew I was there somewhere. He’d seen the soldiers search the area and report it empty, but he still knew I’d never have left him.

  A soldier lifted him on to Tempête’s back, then another raised him so they could loop his bound hands round the gelding’s neck. Finally d’Estrada himself mounted behind him and signalled the troop to move ahead. They rode off towards Dax, then the road was empty and the boy was gone.

  I fought my way out of the brambles, picked up his sword, and started the walk back. As I passed the bracken where the boy had hidden, something moved and rolled under my foot, the stupid ball he used for his exercises. I picked it up. It was the sun, of course, just the heat of the sun, but I thought I could feel the warmth of the boy’s hand still in it.

  I set off into the forest, and saw Stefan dropping out of a tree ahead of me. I half thought he might say something kind, but I didn’t want it, I didn’t want anybody to be kind.

  He wasn’t, anyway. He just said ‘Come on, for fuck’s sake, we’ve got to hurry. You’d better get your family safe, and warn the others at Ancre; it’s only Gauthier, isn’t it? I’ve got the Hermitage on standby, if we haven’t heard in an hour I’ll get them to evacuate and pass the word to Mercier’s family.’

  I didn’t understand. ‘Warn them?’

  ‘If he talks,’ said Stefan, impatiently. ‘If he bloody talks. He doesn’t know people in Verdâme except Mercier and me, but he knows just about all our people in Dax. Christ knows how we’ll warn them all if we can’t shut his mouth first.’

  I was suddenly so angry I didn’t know what to do with myself. I said ‘He won’t fucking talk, you know he won’t, he’ll die first.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Stefan
. ‘Marcel’s gone to make sure of it.’

  It took me a second, then went right through me all at once. I know I cried out.

  ‘It’s the only way,’ said Stefan, and he was suddenly gentle. ‘Better for him too, a nice clean bullet.’

  I think I was almost screaming at him. ‘You can’t. He can’t be killed by his own people, it’s wrong, we’ve got to stop them.’

  ‘Calm down and think about it, you’ll know it’s best.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say. You never bloody liked him anyway.’

  He turned on me so suddenly I didn’t see him coming, the next I knew my back was slamming into a tree so hard it smashed all the wind out of me. He had his hands on my collar, he was pressing me against the tree, and his breath was right in my face.

  ‘Do you want him tortured? Is that what you want? You, you couldn’t even stand seeing him get a kicking just now, what do you think they’ll do to him in there, what the hell do you think they’ll do?’

  I couldn’t think, he was banging my head against the tree, I said ‘I don’t know.’

  He seemed quieter then. ‘If you cared about him even half as much as you pretend, you’d do anything to save him from that.’

  I couldn’t make my mind work properly. I said ‘Yes, I would, anything, just tell me what I can do.’

  He slowly released me and stood back.

  He said ‘You can pray Marcel shoots straight.’

  Eleven

  Jean-Marie Mercier

  Marcel ran so fast I was struggling to keep up. Perhaps that was good, because it stopped me thinking properly. I was watching his feet pounding into the ground in front of me and ducking my head to keep clear of branches, and all the time there was a voice in the back of my mind screaming that they wanted me to kill André.

  We broke out of the woods into the graveyard behind St Sebastian’s, and paused a moment to collect ourselves. Then we wedged our muskets under our arms, adjusted each other’s cloaks to hide them as best we could, and walked across the graveyard towards the church. My heart was beating so hard I felt queasy.

  There were a few people sitting inside, but it was gloomy after the daylight so I couldn’t see if they were noticing us or not. I think honestly they must have, because the tips of our barrels were poking up like broomsticks, but perhaps people decided they didn’t really want to know. We made it safely to the steps and up to the tower, and nobody said a word.

  I went straight to the window. It was only a square hole in the stone, so I was able to look in both directions and see with relief there was no sign of the column. I expect they’d had to delay while they found out what happened at the Flanders Road, and of course we’d been able to take a much more direct route by travelling on foot.

  I turned round and saw Marcel watching me.

  He said ‘It’s all right, Jean, I’ll take the first shot myself. Just remember it’s what André would want. If he talks, half of Dax will lose a son, and he’d never want that.’

  I knew that was true. It’s why I loved him, you see.

  Jacques Gilbert

  I went to M. Gauthier’s first, but he wasn’t in. There wasn’t even Dog barking, the cottage felt as empty as a house can be, and I remember thinking I knew how it felt.

  Then I went home and broke the news to my parents. Father was good, actually, he was steaming angry, but he was much better in a crisis than Mother, who just walked about wringing her hands and getting in the way while we were trying to get bags together and lug everything over to the Home Farm.

  M. Legros was very kind. He’d always agreed we could come if this happened, so he just stopped what he was doing and helped settle us in himself. We arranged all our stuff in the Third Barn, then built a wall out of hay bales to hide it, and it actually looked quite comfortable. It wouldn’t be for long anyway. If the boy was killed, we could go straight home. If he wasn’t, Marcel would get my family out of Dax by the gabelle road. I wondered when I’d know. That’s all.

  No, I’m sorry, but what do you want me to say? Look, it was André. I’d sat and watched those bastards beat and kick him till he couldn’t stand, and now they were going to torture and kill him, and there was nothing I could do about any of it. Is that what you want to hear?

  Jesus. Don’t you ever stop writing?

  Jean-Marie Mercier

  There was a great cloud of dust approaching from the Ancre Road. Marcel took up position at the window, rested his barrel on the ledge and brought his hand ready to the trigger. There wasn’t room for two, so I stood behind him, listening to the horses clattering on to the cobbles of the Square. There seemed an awful lot of them.

  Marcel tensed his shoulders, and I knew he’d seen André. For a long moment I watched as he tracked with the barrel, then he flung back from the window and turned to me in frustration.

  ‘It’s no good, he’s buried in them. Will you try? It needs a better shot than me.’

  I took his place, and at once saw the difficulty. D’Estrada’s scarlet saddle-cloth was clearly visible towards the back of the column, but André himself was mostly hidden by the horse’s head.

  ‘I can try,’ I told him, ‘but I might hit d’Estrada.’

  ‘Don’t do that, Jean,’ said Marcel quickly.

  None of us wanted to kill d’Estrada. Apart from the inevitable reprisals, André and Marcel always said he was the only decent Spaniard in Picardie.

  I looked again. They were slowing as they approached the Square, and I noticed the bobbing motion of the horse bringing up André’s body at a regular rhythm. If I aimed for the chest on the upbeat, then even if I mis-timed it I thought the ball could still take him in the head without touching d’Estrada. I watched him come up once, twice. I could see him quite clearly, down to the bruises on his face. He came up a third time, and I let him drop down. I couldn’t do it. I absolutely understood it had to be done, but I simply couldn’t do it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘D’Estrada’s in the way.’

  Marcel nodded, and resumed his position. ‘All right. I’ll wait till he’s going past and we get a sideways shot.’

  I went on looking over his shoulder. The horse came on towards the Square, heads turning to stare at every step. One by one people recognized André, and a dreadful silence fell. Word seemed to spread ahead of them, and little crowds started to form outside the Quatre Corbeaux, the Forge, the bakery, the alley to the mill. A rather podgy cabo lounging about by the barracks seemed suddenly to react and stand up straight. He took a hesitant pace forward, then stopped to await the Capitán’s arrival.

  We had only seconds left. D’Estrada was approaching the church. If we missed him here, he was only yards from the barracks, and the courtyard gate was already open to receive him.

  Père Gérard Benoît

  I watched the procession of soldiery with a heavy heart. However I had envisaged the return of André de Roland to his people, it had never been like this.

  The only grain of hope lay in the presence of Don Miguel, for I knew him to be the kind of man who would never misuse a child, and had found him susceptible to pleading in the past. I accordingly removed my hat as he approached, and called deferentially for his attention.

  Our Seigneur turned his head to me and smiled. Don Miguel checked his mount, paused, then urged the animal in my direction, signalling two of his men to follow.

  Jean-Marie Mercier

  Marcel swore under his breath. D’Estrada was trotting directly towards us and we’d lost the chance of the profile shot. If he came much closer I was afraid he’d be right below us and out of range completely.

  Only he was slowing, and after a moment he brought his horse to a halt, as if to speak to the priest on the steps of the church below.

  Marcel adjusted the barrel downwards. ‘That’s better. Now if only the priest can get d’Estrada to dismount, we’ll get a clear shot.’

  Père Gérard Benoît

  As Don Miguel brought his horse to a halt I perceive
d for the first time the lamentable state of our Seigneur. There were clear marks of violence on his face and body, and his clothes were in shreds.

  I demanded at once what the child had done to merit such mistreatment, but Don Miguel only smiled and shook his head.

  ‘There is no more need for pretence, mon père,’ said he. ‘Your Chevalier has admitted his identity.’

  I feared this might be a cunning trap to lure me into incautious speech, but André himself gave a little shrug and nodded sadly in concurrence.

  Don Miguel looked between us a moment, then dismounted, passed the horse’s reins to his servant, and walked across to join me.

  Jean-Marie Mercier

  It was still no good. D’Estrada and the page dismounted, but the man holding the Capitán’s reins stayed in the saddle and planted himself square between André and ourselves. I think it was his servant, Corvacho, only he wore a helmet so I never had a clear view of his face.

  He was the only one left. The rest of the troop had dismounted at the barracks, and were stretching and relieving themselves before wandering inside. If it hadn’t been for Corvacho, André would have been the only person mounted in the whole Square and it would have been the easiest shot in the world.

  The plump cabo I’d noticed before came wandering towards the church as if waiting to speak to d’Estrada. I suddenly wondered if he might have recognized André.

  ‘Pray God he hasn’t,’ said Marcel, his eyes screwed up as he stared down his barrel. ‘What if he’s seen him with Jacques or his family?’

  Père Gérard Benoît

  Don Miguel remarked upon my lack of surprise at seeing our Seigneur in so humble a disguise, and enquired lightly if I had seen it before.