by A L Berridge
I yelled ‘Go back!’ but he was already disappearing below me, then the gate was shut and it was too late. I smacked my fist into the bar, and it actually gave a little, which pissed me off because if I’d known it was that feeble I could have knocked it out and thrown myself after it, then none of this would be happening. I ought to have known it wouldn’t be that strong, it wasn’t likely to be part of the building itself, I mean I couldn’t see Le Soleil Splendide sticking bars in its guest rooms just to stop people sneaking out without paying. But of course I didn’t think of that before, I never thought of anything till it was far too late.
They came for me a few minutes later, and took me all the way down to d’Estrada’s office. There were soldiers sort of bulging round the doorway in order to see inside, but they parted to let me through, the guards shoved me in, and there was d’Estrada with André beside him. They both turned to look at me, and the boy actually smiled. I tried to smile back, but couldn’t.
‘Are you satisfied, Chevalier?’ asked d’Estrada.
‘Quite, thank you,’ said André, and bowed. I felt like they were gentlemen playing a card game, and I was the thing they’d wagered. Everything about what was happening felt unreal. The candles were twinkling in bright, shiny candlesticks, and d’Estrada’s desk even had a vase with red and blue flowers in it like we were in someone’s drawing room. The guards lining the walls looked sort of out of place against the tapestries, and there was a bottle of wine with glasses on an oak chest, like we were all going to be offered a drink.
We weren’t, of course, because now it was André’s turn to pay. He stepped back from the desk, drew his sword, and broke it formally over his knee. I saw at once it wasn’t his own sword, and felt stupidly glad. He dropped the pieces on the floor, let his hands fall to his sides, and stood in front of them unarmed.
D’Estrada made a gesture, and two men stepped forward to search him. They were just finishing when there was a stir at the door, and in swept that fat bastard Don Francisco. He’d never bothered to visit me, but obviously couldn’t wait to see the boy. He’d got one of his magnificent cloaks on, but underneath he was wearing a huge white nightshirt that looked like a ship’s sail.
‘Ah, Chevalier,’ he said politely. ‘How nice to make your acquaintance at last.’
André bowed stiffly and said something about it being an honour, which was a flat lie, but I suppose it doesn’t count if it’s manners. Don Francisco inspected him carefully, and I noticed for the first time the boy had dressed himself up. They were the same smart breeches from last night, but he’d gone and put his new shirt on, a really fancy one Jeanette had made for when we went to Paris.
‘I see you’ve made an effort for our benefit, Chevalier,’ said Don Francisco. ‘You will make a very creditable appearance on our gibbet.’
‘One tries,’ said André. He didn’t seem to be scared at all, but maybe people aren’t when they’re doing something for honour.
Don Francisco smiled. ‘Quite right. Do you know, I have given a little thought to the subject myself?’
He said something I didn’t catch to one of the soldiers, who bowed and left the room. André’s face tightened and he made a quick movement, but the men who’d been searching him grabbed his arms to restrain him. He didn’t struggle, he could see it was hopeless, he just stood still and very dignified, and I wondered desperately what it was I’d missed.
‘Is this really necessary, Señor?’ asked d’Estrada with some distaste.
Don Francisco nodded absent-mindedly, and continued studying the boy’s face. He said ‘We must be careful not to give the wrong impression. This is not a hero dying for France, but a citizen of Artois rebelling against his lawful masters. People need to see him as a common felon.’
He spoke like the boy wasn’t standing there in front of him, and I suddenly understood something of what made him so powerful. I don’t think other people were actually real to him, it’s like he didn’t believe we existed.
The soldier came back in with a pair of shears, went behind André, took a handful of his hair, looked questioningly at Don Francisco, then lopped it right off. I nearly cried out with the shock of it. They were cutting his hair, that long black hair that was just like his father’s, nobleman’s hair, they were making him look like nobody. The soldier brought the shears right up to the boy’s neck, and just went on chopping, hacking the whole length of it off. I couldn’t bear to watch. I listened to each cut, that long tearing sound ending in the clack of the shears, I stared at the floor as the hair fluttered down, great soft waves of it, the soldier’s boot trampling it as he moved along to reach the other side. Someone in the room sniggered, some bastard laughed, and d’Estrada snapped an order for silence. The hair stopped falling, the shears went silent, then I had to look up, and it was awful, I could almost have cried. His hair didn’t even reach his shoulders any more, I could actually see the back of his neck, all white and naked where the sun had never been. His head looked smaller, he didn’t look noble any more, how could he, you never see a nobleman with short hair. I couldn’t look at his face.
Carlos Corvacho
Your M. Gilbert was most upset, and I can’t say I wonder at it. It was a shocking thing to do to a gentleman, and in front of the men too.
When it was over the Colonel had himself a look at the final result. He took the Chevalier’s chin in his hand and turned his face to inspect it, which was a terrible indignity, terrible, then said ‘I think that will do, d’Estrada, what do you think? A little more?’
My Capitán was a kindly gentleman, and he says ‘I think that’s quite sufficient.’ Then he looks at poor M. Gilbert who’s straining at Muños’ arm like a wild dog, and says ‘I think we might let this man go now, Colonel.’ The Colonel only turns to him and says ‘Really, d’Estrada? I don’t.’
It takes a minute, Señor, even for me. My Capitán, it takes him even longer. He thinks it’s just the Colonel not quite understanding, so he says ‘I did promise the release would be immediate, Señor.’
‘And I,’ says the Colonel, ‘made no promises at all. This man is far too valuable to let go, I am sure you can see that.’
My Capitán goes quite pale with shock, but the Chevalier, he’s even madder. He turns to my gentleman and says ‘You gave me your word. Am I to understand you intend to dishonour it?’ His eyes are proper blazing, Señor, burn a hole just to look at you.
My Capitán pleads with the Colonel, he says ‘I have engaged my word of honour, Señor, you cannot ask me to break it.’
‘And I don’t, d’Estrada,’ says the Colonel, all smiles. ‘I am ordering you. You have given your word, you have done all in your power to keep it, but as senior officer I have overruled you. It’s quite simple.’
‘Señor,’ says my Capitán, and there’s a line of sweat breaking out on his brow, which was most unlike him, Señor, he was calm at all times. ‘Señor, you authorized me to go ahead with my plan. You permitted me to make this promise, you must allow me to keep it.’
Now ‘must’ isn’t a good word to use to a senior officer, and the Colonel doesn’t like it at all. He says ‘I authorized your plan, but I did not promise. I have not given my word, and am not required to do anything.’
My Capitán still doesn’t give up. He says ‘How can I possibly obtain information on the rebel army if the people cannot trust us to keep our promises?’
‘My dear d’Estrada,’ says the Colonel, yawning. ‘Do you really imagine that in twenty-four hours there will even be a rebel army? M. de Roland will tell us all we need to destroy the old one, and the example of his execution should deter anyone from starting another.’
‘I won’t tell you anything,’ says the Chevalier, outraged.
The Colonel turns round with an air of exaggerated patience. ‘I think you will, Chevalier. You will tell me whatever I want to know the moment we begin to interrogate your friend.’
I can’t say I liked the Colonel very much, Señor, he wasn’t the kind
of officer a man could warm to, but I’d have to credit him with intelligence. There wasn’t any doubt in that room where the Chevalier’s weak point lay, his very presence here told us that.
M. de Roland stares at him, breathing heavily, then with no warning at all he goes right for him, throws himself full at the Colonel and tries to get his hands on his throat. The Colonel steps back nimbly while our men grab de Roland from behind, but it takes two of them to hold him, Señor, he’s struggling that wild. M. Gilbert’s trying to spring across the room to help him, and my Capitán has to signal his guards to hold him too. He’s still fighting, though, I’m worried he’s going to have my wine glasses over, so I move the tray safely on to the desk.
The Colonel adjusts himself, and looks at the Chevalier with disdain. Your M. de Roland, he looks right back at him and says ‘You bastard.’
I’m not saying there weren’t some of us would like to have said that about the Colonel a few times, I’d thought it myself on occasion, but it’s no way to speak to an officer, let alone one of the rank and status of our Don Francisco. For a moment I thought the Colonel was going to forget his position and give the Chevalier a good slap. But he was a gentleman, Señor, whatever else he may have been, and he keeps his control. He simply gives an order, and Muños goes and smacks your M. Gilbert across the face, good and hard too, sound like a musket shot.
The Chevalier flinches as if he’s been hit himself, and our Colonel, he just smiles. He says ‘Now then, Chevalier, what was that you just said? I don’t think I quite heard you.’
I felt quite sorry for the lad, your M. de Roland, I mean. He just stared at the Colonel, but daren’t say another word. M. Gilbert, he was game all right, he called out ‘Tell him, André!’ And with that, there’s a flicker of the old spirit across the Chevalier’s face, he sticks his head up and says ‘I called you a bastard. A filthy, stinking, evil, rotten, cowardly bastard.’
The Colonel’s smile broadens over his teeth, which was always a bad sign with him, Señor, very bad indeed. He sighs, indicates the Gilbert boy, and says to Muños ‘Beat him.’
Muños is only too happy to oblige, as he tells me afterwards it was the lad himself gave him that sword slash when they were here before. So Hernandez shoves young Gilbert against the wall, and tears his shirt down, and we’re all a little shocked at that, as the lad’s back is that scarred already it’s hard to see much point in giving him any more. We don’t do so much of that in Spain, Señor, we treat our peasantry a little better than that. Still, Muños gets his whip and lashes down hard on the lad’s back, and poor M. de Roland closes his eyes. Don Francisco raises his hand to tell Muños to stop.
‘Well, Chevalier?’ he says, and it’s that silky voice of his again. ‘Have you anything else you wish to say to me?’
The Chevalier opens his eyes and looks at him, and there’s no more calm in it, Señor, no more dignity, no pride, no honour, there’s nothing there but hate. But M. Gilbert, he’s not finished yet. He turns round against the wall and manages to say ‘Go on, André!’ It comes out a little thickly, Señor, because of the breath being beaten out of him and blood in his mouth from that first blow, but it’s clear enough, and the Chevalier ups with his chin again and young Gilbert looks back, and there’s something passes between them that’s like a shot of Madeira wine. The Chevalier’s face is lit up with pride in him, and I can understand that, Señor, because this is only a peasant when all’s said and done, but he’s showing like a gentleman.
So de Roland turns back to Don Francisco, and he’s looking relaxed now, insolent as you like, and he says – well, I can’t really repeat what he says, Señor, it’s not really fitting, but the sense of it is a little like telling the Colonel to get stuffed, if you understand me. M. Gilbert gives a snort of laughter, and I think there’s a moment my Capitán nearly does the same.
But the Colonel’s proper raging, and with him that means he goes very cold. He orders Muños again, and the beating goes on. Nasty business, Señor, I’ve never cared for flogging, and I’m worried the blood’s going to splash on our forest tapestry. The Chevalier doesn’t like it either, he starts struggling again, trying to get to his friend, and the Colonel watches with a little smile on his face.
He says ‘Would you like me to stop the beating, Chevalier?’
Young de Roland stops struggling and drags his eyes back to the Colonel, who’s affecting total unconcern, Señor, he’s even managing to look bored. Muños flexes his little whip and grins.
‘Yes,’ says the Chevalier. ‘Stop it. Now.’
The Don’s examining his fingernails, which was just an affectation of his, Señor, his nails were always perfectly groomed. He says ‘Ask me nicely.’
The Chevalier stops dead and his mouth tightens shut. He knows what he’s being asked now, Señor, and this is his honour on the line. He doesn’t say a word, and quite right too. M. Gilbert’s with him on that, Señor, he turns his head against the wall and says ‘No!’ but Muños already has his arm back for the stroke, and now it cracks right across M. Gilbert’s face. The lad can’t help a little cry, Señor, and his hand’s up to his face, but there’s blood trickling down behind it and there’s no doubt there’s a bad cut there.
De Roland’s head twitches in anguish, I think he’s about to speak, but he can’t, of course, and forces himself to silence.
The Colonel says ‘All right, Muños, break his arm.’
And the Chevalier says ‘No.’
We all look at him. He’s scarlet with the shame of it, and well he might be, but there’s pain on my Capitán’s face too. He doesn’t approve of this, not one bit. If it’s for military information that’s one thing, Señor, that’s war, we all understand that, but this was being done to save the Colonel’s face, and that’s another matter.
The Colonel waits courteously a moment, then turns to Muños again and opens his mouth to speak, but the Chevalier’s there first. He says quickly ‘No, stop.’
He takes a deep breath, and it was that ragged we all heard it, I could feel it in my own throat.
He says ‘Stop. Please.’
Jacques Gilbert
I heard it. André de Roland saying ‘please’ to that bastard Don Francisco, the man who’d murdered M. Gauthier and tortured poor Giulio till he died. André. My mind couldn’t accept it.
Because it wasn’t his fault, any of it, and I knew that now. I’d thought he was here because of his honour, but he wasn’t, he’d just proved that, he was here because he cared about me. He was letting them break his spirit and piss on his honour, and no one in the world could have made him do that but me. All this time I’d wanted nothing more than to protect him and keep him safe, but it was me who’d brought him here, me who’d made him weak, me who’d brought him to this.
They were helping me up, someone was even wiping my face, but I didn’t care, I just wanted them all away from me so I could get to the boy. I could see him, he was standing with his head down like he wanted to die, and that bastard Don Francisco reached out and patted his cheek.
‘You see how simple, d’Estrada? I think we shall have a profitable morning.’
He swiped a candle off someone, smiled round graciously, and swept off back to bed. I wanted to go after him, I had this picture in my head of running after him, grabbing him in the corridor and smashing his head against the wall, smashing it over and over again till his eyes popped and blood came out of his mouth. But he’d gone, I heard his footsteps padding away, and we were all just left there, with even the soldiers looking embarrassed.
André wrenched himself away from the men holding him, he just tugged his wrists free and shook them off, but he didn’t go anywhere, he just stood looking at the floor, his ragged hair in his face, his shoulders bowed and defeated, his fists clenching and unclenching and no one to hit. I pulled away from my own guards, I felt them reaching for me again, but d’Estrada said ‘Let him go, for God’s sake,’ and I crossed the room and no one stopped me, I reached him, and he turned rou
nd but couldn’t speak or look at me, he just stood like something broken and whispered ‘I’m sorry.’ I looked down at the top of his head, and knew this was it, this was what M. Gauthier had been trying to say to me all those years ago, this was it, and he was right, there was nothing in the world worse than this, this was shame.
Carlos Corvacho
My Capitán was as angry as he’d ever been in his life, and quite right too, because the Colonel had done a shocking thing, dishonouring him in front of his own men, to say nothing of enemy prisoners. There’s no question but M. Gilbert’s going to be useful to us, not now we’ve seen he’s the way to break the Chevalier, but that doesn’t alter the fact he shouldn’t be here in the first place. My gentleman’s quite flushed with the shame of it and determined to do what he can to put things right.
First he gets the surgeon to see to the cut on M. Gilbert’s face, not that it was any good, Señor, anyone could see it was going to scar, but we couldn’t have him bleed to death on us, the Colonel would have had a thing or two to say if we allowed that. Then he takes the Chevalier aside and actually apologizes, he says ‘On my honour, I had no idea, I swear I had no part in this.’ The Chevalier says he never doubted it and still trusts my Capitán to do what he can to see his word honoured. We both know there’s no chance of that, Señor, but my poor gentleman says he’ll help them in any way he can.
So we escort them up to the cells personally, and we’re letting M. Gilbert back in his room, but he says ‘Please let me stay with André,’ and my Capitán looks at the two of them, both gazing up at him with the exact same expression, it’s almost like seeing double. So he says ‘Yes, of course,’ because he won’t deny them anything now, so we put them in the same room and tell the guards they’re to have wine, food, more blankets, anything they want, then we go back down to his office, and shut ourselves in.