by A L Berridge
The boy’s head was down, he couldn’t say another word.
I thought I’d better do it for him. ‘We can’t make any promises, it could take ages, and of course the Chevalier’s not properly recovered yet, it could be months.’
She turned towards me, and I felt those shrewd little eyes on my face. Then she smiled, and I knew she recognized me in just the same way I recognized her.
‘Of course, Monsieur,’ she said. ‘But it’s having that little bit of hope to give her, do you see? She’s had precious little of that all this time, my Mlle Anne.’ Her eyes seemed to become brighter, then suddenly there were tears spilling out and running down her face, washing pale little tracks in the paint.
I felt ashamed suddenly. I’d been making sure the boy could back out, I’d never thought about giving the hostages hope that was bound to be disappointed. I couldn’t blame Jeanette for it either, she was just fighting for that girl the same way I was fighting for André.
She was also better at it. The boy saw her tears, and his whole face froze up with shock, his jaw went all tight. I knew what he was going to do, I felt it coming, I wanted to clamp my hand over his mouth to stop the words coming out, anything to stop him saying what would either break his heart or get him killed.
‘She has now, Mademoiselle,’ he said firmly. ‘We’ll get her out for you. I give you my word.’
Stefan Ravel
Of all the stupid, insane, irresponsible things.
I hoped Marcel might talk them out of it, but no, he’d always been desperate to atone for his failure to protect those children, and his eyes were positively glowing with heroic ardour. I tried to appeal to his professionalism, I reminded him he’d said himself we couldn’t tackle the Château, but he only said ‘We’re much stronger now, Stefan, surely we can at least try?’ Honour doesn’t just kill people, Abbé, it rots their brains as well.
But I didn’t give up, I tend not to when it’s my skin at stake. It was New Year’s Eve, so when the others were rounding up wine and cider for the celebrations I stayed behind in the Hermitage for a friendly little chat with André. He used to listen to me in those days, strange as it may seem, and I thought I might get him to see sense.
He didn’t seem very receptive. As soon as the door closed behind the others he started bundling away the blankets and scraping out the candle-holders, making things nice for the party, bustling about all round me as if I wasn’t there at all.
I said ‘Hold on a minute, little general, don’t you think we ought to talk about this?’
‘Don’t call me that,’ he said, grabbing an armful of fresh candles from the basket.
It wasn’t the most promising of starts. I said ‘No real general would even consider what you’re doing, you know that, don’t you?’
‘I’m not considering it, I’m going to do it. I’ve given my word.’
This was more serious than I’d thought. I said ‘You’d no fucking business doing that, you’ve no right to commit the army.’
‘And you’ve no fucking business treating me like a child.’
That seemed rather excessive. I said ‘I’m only trying to help you make a proper decision.’
‘Yes, now you are,’ he retorted. ‘But what about the last two years? Jacques told me you’ve kept everything about the hostages away from me.’
That was a nice little hypocrisy I hadn’t anticipated. I said pleasantly ‘Did he now?’
‘Yes he bloody did,’ he said. ‘Those are friends of mine, Stefan, they’ve been living like convicts all this time and I never knew. I’ve been free and doing what I like while they haven’t even got enough to eat. What the hell must they have thought of me?’
‘Vanity, little general,’ I said. ‘You want to watch that.’
That was possibly a mistake. He threw the candles down so hard they bounced and rolled all over the straw. ‘Don’t you dare judge me, you’ve got no right. I know how selfish I am, all this time I’ve only thought about me, and she, she’s been crying for me, Stefan, can’t you see how that makes me feel?’
I said ‘You can’t help them, you’ll only get yourself killed, what was the point in letting you suffer?’
‘Because it’s my choice!’
The sound of raucous singing outside suggested Pinhead had found the barrels in the outhouse and the party was starting already. I was running out of time.
‘This isn’t a choice,’ I said brutally. ‘You haven’t thought about it, you haven’t even looked at the problems, you’ve just started chucking promises around without the smallest idea how you’re going to honour them. I’m ashamed of you.’
He sucked in his breath. ‘And what makes you think I need your approval?’
I said evenly ‘Take that tone with me again and I’ll show you.’
He glared at me in fury, then turned hard for the door. I grabbed his arm and jerked him back. ‘Oh, come on, André …’
He shook me off like something filthy. ‘Don’t you dare touch me.’
I stared at him. He was suddenly a little nobleman again, prickling all over with outraged dignity. He brushed down his shirt, then jerked his chin up at me, and there it was, Abbé, that look again, I might have been back in the mud of La Mothe watching an officer looking down at a poor drunken devil of a private soldier.
I stepped back as if he had plague.
He said calmly ‘I’m sorry, Stefan, I understand you meant well, but please don’t ever tell me how to live my life again.’
He gave a curt little nod and walked out.
Oh, it was my own fault, Abbé, I’d been a fool to expect otherwise. I thought he was a soldier, I’d maybe even allowed myself to feel a little affection for him, but there, even I make mistakes sometimes. I should have known he’d revert to type.
They were his own kind, you see. There are people starving in this world, and others risking their lives for the sake of a flag that’s never put a crumb of bread in their bellies, but André de Roland was in a chivalrous frenzy because three children of the nobility were living in rooms bigger than my whole house and eating food some of us would probably kill for. Oh, I’ll admit they were prisoners and that’s all very sad, but really, think about it, Abbé. What could be safer than that?
Anne du Pré
Extract from her diary, dated 1 January 1639
I wished to begin the New Year by behaving better, but I’m afraid I have not done very well. The Weasel allowed loathsome Pablo to visit, which was enough to annoy me in any case, but he also brought with him the officer who shot André, whom he says is transferred here to stay.
I could not have liked him under any circumstances. He clearly considers us lowly parvenus compared to his noble self, and talked incessantly about his ancestors and their great achievements in Spanish history. He is older than Pablo and strikingly plain, but with very shiny hair which he appears to admire very much, judging by the time he spends running his hands through it. He told us we could call him ‘Luiz’, but I worked sedulously at my embroidery and paid him no attention at all. I am doing the collar about the pheasant’s neck, and only hope I have enough white silk.
Pablo seemed even more determined to show off than usual, perhaps to impress his new friend. Today he demonstrated his ability to extinguish a candle by parting the wick from the flame with one swipe of his sword. Colette clapped her hands with pleasure and said she thought Pablo must be as good a swordsman as Don Miguel. She makes her voice very breathy when she speaks to loathsome Pablo, and I do wish she wouldn’t.
Pablo smiled modestly and said ‘No one is as good as Don Miguel, Mademoiselle. He is the finest swordsman in Europe.’
I had had quite enough. I said ‘As good as André de Roland?’
They all turned to me, and I stared hard at my embroidery.
‘Hullo, little Mademoiselle,’ said Pablo affably, with that appalling boyish smile Colette likes so much. ‘You’re with us, are you? What do you know about André de Roland?’
Lui
z spoke in my direction for the first time. His voice is deeper than Pablo’s, and I do not like the way he stares. He said ‘You remember, Vasquéz, this is his little sweetheart, who was so distressed to hear we had shot him.’
Pablo laughed, and I quickly reapplied myself to my embroidery.
This evening Colette took me to task for my behaviour. She said I must be more polite to the officers, because they could make life much better for us if they chose. I said I considered she gave them quite enough politeness for all of us, but she only sniffed and told me not to be childish. I feel rather bad about it now. Poor Colette, she only does what she does for our sake, and because it is hard for her to be growing up so pretty with no one to notice.
But I do not like that Don Luiz and cannot pretend I do. Perhaps it is because Pablo’s gallantries seem even more insufferable now he is here, as if he is pretending an intimacy with Colette he does not have. Perhaps it is to do with that strange conversation he had with Carlos, in which they talked about being recognized. There was something very furtive about it that makes me feel most uneasy.
I wish he had not come.
Carlos Corvacho
Oh now, forgive me, Señor, but you’ll admit it’s all too funny. So she spoke Spanish all the time, that little girl? Oh, the joke’s on me this time, no denying that.
But really, Señor, being fair now, I can’t see why it’s so very important. This was all back in 1636, what happened at Ancre, all over and done with long ago, I’m not sure why you want to talk about it now. Oh no, I don’t mind telling you, I’ve nothing to hide. Yes, certainly I should have told you from the first, but you’ll understand I was a little concerned how M. Jacques would react. You won’t tell him, will you, Señor? You and me, we’re men of the world, but M. Jacques … You understand.
It was no more than an accident really, no harm intended to anyone. The Chevalier Antoine, that was quite a fight he put up, he killed five of us at the doorway, five. You know how it is, a man needs to be apasionado, yes, he must be hot-blooded to kill, and we did kill him in the end and burst through that door, ready to go on killing again and again, everything that was his. And there she was, Señor, Madame de Roland, dressed in nothing but a shift. Even then the abanderado was honourable, he merely dashed the knife from her hand and grabbed her shoulders, telling her there was no need to be afraid, she was a prisoner. She wouldn’t have it, Señor, she struggled and fought him, she called him canaille and spat in his face.
Now that’s going to be too much for any gentleman, especially this one. I’ve told you about de Castilla, Señor, very noble family but no money, had to sell their estate to nuevo rico and resenting them all the while. There’s a man like this being spat at by a woman who’s nobody, Señor, only a rich girl who married a man with a title, well, it was too much for him to take, that’s all. He said ‘You don’t know who you’re dealing with, Madame,’ and when she went to claw his face he straight and ripped down her shift, tore it right down the front, and pushed her back on the bed while he showed her.
Well, it was funny, Señor, I’m sure you can see that. One moment she’s giving it haughty French aristocrat, the next she’s on her back with her legs open and our officer giving it her hot and strong where she needs it. You’ll understand why we laughed, Señor, you’d have laughed yourself. Yes, maybe it got a little out of hand, though I took no part in it myself, you understand, never laid a finger on her, but it’s still harmless enough. There’s not a lady in the world going to tell about something like that, no, not even a French one, it’s all safe enough until the child comes in.
That’s what turned things bad, Señor, the child. Rushing in, hurling insults, slashing poor Bárba’s face, killing young Serrano stone dead, if you’ll believe me, then fighting the lot of us while Madame suicides herself, and that’s a terrible thing, Señor, that’s a mortal sin. Then it’s all very different, it’s something the Capitán mustn’t ever hear about, or de Castilla’s in real trouble. Not us, Señor, we were only obeying orders, but the officer’s another matter, and more than our lives are worth to go against him.
So you’ll understand why I kept it from my Capitán, won’t you, Señor? It’s not as if he was dangerous. No, not the nicest of men, and that’s why my gentleman had him transferred to the Château, but he only did what he did under those circumstances and because of the lady acting so foolish. It wasn’t as if he was likely to do it again.
Oh, didn’t I tell you, Señor? It was Luiz, I think. That’s right, the Don Luiz de Castilla.
Why?
PART III
The Chevalier
Eighteen
Anne du Pré
Extract from her diary, dated 3 January 1639
I knew as soon as Jeanette arrived she had something important to say, but it seemed the Slug was hanging about on purpose to prevent us. He always comes in now when Jeanette is here, he leans against the wall by Florian’s door, and simply watches. There is a dark smear coming on the wall from the grease he puts on his hair. Today he seemed to be lurking even closer than usual, but at last Françoise finished cleaning the bedroom, so I retreated inside and Jeanette followed.
She said she had seen and spoken to André himself, and he was willing to help us. I sat down rather hard on the bed, and Jeanette patted my hands and said ‘There now, Mademoiselle, I always said so, didn’t I say so?’, then Françoise came back with the empty chamber pots and we had to sit in awkward silence until she went away.
There were a hundred questions I wanted to ask, but Jeanette glanced at the open door, produced a slip of paper she had concealed inside her chignon, and pressed it into my hand.
André de Roland
Letter to Anne du Pré, dated 31 December 1638
My dearest Mademoiselle,
I hope you will forgive this liberty, but beg you will allow me at least to thank you for the generous gift of your linen.
Your other gift touched me even more profoundly, and I keep it always by me. I am fearful of construing too much from your kindness, but its scent is all about me as I write, and I cannot help but stroke the petals and dream. At the least I hope I may take it to mean you remember the day of our first meeting, and can perhaps forgive my boorish behaviour on that occasion. Certainly this is a far lovelier present than your first, although I fear it is less well deserved.
But it will be, as our mutual friend will explain, and when that time finally comes, I shall send the finest rose at Ancre as both a token of our intentions, and a reminder of the most beautiful gift that ever a man received.
Until then, dear Mademoiselle, I beg to remain your most devoted servant,
A de R
P.S. I’m sorry this is such a poor letter, but my education has been a little disrupted. I wish there were a proper way of saying I am thinking of you all the time, because that is what I really mean.
Anne du Pré
Extract from her diary, dated 3 January 1639
I am ashamed to write that for a moment this did not seem to me an odd letter. It was almost as if he had shared the same dreams as I. Then I recollected that in reality we have not seen each other for quite three years, and truly it made no sense at all. I could do nothing but pass it to Jeanette, and hope she could explain.
She coloured a little, then confessed that when we sent the linen she had slipped a rose into the bale in the hope he would believe it came from me.
I said ‘Jeanette, O Jeanette, whatever will he think of me?’ and hid my face in my hands, almost as if André could see it himself.
‘Now don’t take on, Mademoiselle,’ said Jeanette. ‘Look at the letter, and you will see exactly what he thinks of you.’
I looked at it again, and truly it did seem kind.
‘Oh it’s ever so much better than that comes to, Mademoiselle. He was such a nice young gentleman, your M. de Roland, very sympathetic and most upset when I told him how you’ve been treated. He says he won’t rest until he’s found a way to get you all out of
this horrid place and you know what that means, Mademoiselle, you know what it means when a Roland gives his word.’
I do know. When I thought of it, it was almost as if someone had knocked a window into our bedroom and daylight came flooding in. I couldn’t allow myself to think of it properly, it was almost too frightening.
I said ‘But it isn’t fair in us, Jeanette, it’s not right to make M. de Roland think something that isn’t true.’
‘Who says it’s not true, Mademoiselle?’ said Jeanette, and her eyes were twinkling. ‘Yes, M. de Roland may imagine you have been thinking of him, I dare say he may even think you’ve harboured a romantic notion or two, but now I ask you, Mademoiselle, who says that’s not true?’
Stefan Ravel
Let’s be clear about this, Abbé. The Château Petit Arx is built like a fort. It’s a big stone block with three storeys, a crenellated roof, turrets at each corner, and a vast courtyard enclosed with iron gates. There’s a paved terrace surrounded by open lawns and square flower beds, and round the whole lot there’s a bloody great perimeter wall. Soldier that I am, I thought to myself ‘Fuck that.’ But, well, they were set on it. I was tempted to let André de Roland discover the painful consequences of his own actions, but there were good men might be dragged down with him, so I gave the poor sods the benefit of my experience, and I hope you’re impressed by my magnanimity.
Being rather short of the cannon and two regiments a frontal assault required, it didn’t take long to decide our best option was stealth. But the Château wasn’t like the barracks, Abbé, we couldn’t simply stroll up and touch it, we had to start by finding a way over that wall. On the east side it was the Dax-Verdâme Wall itself, complete with moat. On the west side we had the heavily guarded entrance, with a lodge so full of men it was a miniature barracks in itself. The north backed on to the dead land between gorge and Wall, but if the dons caught us using it with horses, they’d realize we’d a way in they didn’t know about, and that, dear Abbé, would have meant the end of the gabelle road and our whole communication with the outside world. The south wall was our only option. It bordered the orchard at the north of the Dumont farm, which at least provided the rudiments of cover, so the four of us rode to Verdâme to have a look over the top.