by A L Berridge
I turned to look down to the track, where Marcel and André were engaged sword to sword with the other pair, but it looked all right, André was in beautiful form, he was sending his man’s blade spinning and was ready to lunge. Beside me, Mercier was furiously reloading his musket, just a little too late to be any good to anyone. Jacques looked blankly at him, then suddenly seemed to realize the significance of what Mercier was doing.
‘It was you,’ he said. ‘You shot my Father.’
Mercier fumbled the powder, and spilt it on the ground.
‘You did, didn’t you?’ said Jacques.
His voice was rising. I glanced down to the track. André’s man was down, and he and Marcel were fighting the other. He was left-handed, that one, and his blade got an unexpected slash down André’s arm before the kid twisted and stuck him through the middle.
Mercier said ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ said Jacques. He was swinging his sword and looked rather dangerous.
I said ‘Leave him alone, he was obeying orders.’
The sword stopped swinging, and he turned his head to me. His eyes were almost boiling. ‘Orders? Whose orders?’
I remembered André down there holding Jacques in his arms, and the sound of his voice.
I said ‘Mine.’
Jean-Marie Mercier
Stefan was absolutely glaring at me, so I knew I was meant to keep quiet.
He tried to explain we’d had no choice, but Jacques quite refused to believe it, and insisted his father’s gun only went off by accident when I shot him. At last Stefan said ‘Have it your own way, but it was your bloody life we were saving, remember that,’ then turned away to reload his pistol. Jacques went on staring at his back, and after a moment he said ‘I won’t forget, Stefan. I’ll never forget what you’ve done.’
I was rather relieved when André appeared through the trees, asking what the shooting had been about. Jacques turned to him at once, then stared in consternation at the long scratch down his arm.
André shrugged. ‘I’m getting old and slow. That last man was very good.’
Jacques examined it. ‘This is bad, you’ve got to be more careful.’
André opened his mouth to protest, then hesitated and said instead ‘I’m sorry, it was stupid.’
‘Got to be more careful,’ said Jacques gruffly. He ripped off the sleeve of his shirt and bent to bandage André’s arm with it.
André looked down at the top of his head and said very quietly ‘I know.’
Stefan watched them a moment, then turned away.
Jacques Gilbert
My Father would never have tried to kill me, he’d already made that clear, he only pointed the gun in self-defence. I know he did mean to kill André, obviously I know that, but anyone could understand why. We’d all survived, no harm was done. If Stefan hadn’t murdered him we could have talked it all through properly, he could have told me he loved me, and then I’d always know it deep down, instead of having stupid doubts in my head making me not sure.
I wanted at least to take his body back to Mother, but André explained there were two soldiers at the cottage, and we mustn’t do anything to implicate her. He said the soldiers would find the body, and when they’d gone I could go and explain. He even offered to come with me, but I didn’t want him hearing what I said to Mother, it was all stuff he must never know. I’d promised my Father I wouldn’t tell. It was the only thing I’d ever be able to do for him again.
We set off to collect the horses. Marcel wouldn’t let us use the track in case more soldiers came, so we climbed down the bank and walked round by the Manor itself.
I remember that walk very clearly. The grass of Ancre was still bright in the sun, but I had no father, I never had had, and it all looked black, like it did that night I came running out of the stables with a mad coachman waving a scythe. We were actually crossing the lawn where it all happened. I looked up at the window, the one where I’d seen the soldier and thought for a moment it was the Seigneur. I remembered feeling if the Seigneur was there then everything could still be all right. He wasn’t, of course, but that didn’t change the fact I’d had that feeling. I’d had it as long as I could remember.
I felt a little tingling somewhere inside.
I looked at those blackened walls, and thought of André’s burnt wooden horse, then I remembered the one the Seigneur gave me, and knew quite suddenly he’d carved it himself. They take time, things like that, it must have taken him several evenings, and every minute he put into it was for me. I remembered him putting it into my hands and saying ‘There you are, Jacques, now you’ve got a horse of your own.’
The tingling started to grow inside me. It was glowing.
I remembered other things. I remembered the Seigneur being angry at the stables the first time I’d been there with a black eye. I remembered the kind way he used to look at me, and knew that when I talked to my Mother she’d tell me my father, my real father had loved me.
The glow was all over, it was warming me. The green grass looked gold again, like a shining tapestry.
The sunlight was real. It lit up the boy’s hand in my arm, and gleamed softly in the gold of his ring with the Roland crest. It was strange to look at it, because of course I was a Roland myself now, whether anyone knew it or not. Then I remembered that someone did know, my other Father had said the Comtesse came down to sort it out. I thought of how I’d always liked her, and the way she had of really looking at me, and realized she didn’t just know, she actually cared. Of course she did, she was my grandmother.
The grass was almost humming with light. I could hear little sounds now too, there were bees in the grass, and a blackbird calling, everything was coming back to life.
I remembered I’d walked behind the biers at my father’s funeral, and knew he’d have been pleased. I hadn’t been in the vault when André took the ring, but I had one of my own, the ring on my finger that was splintering the sunlight into sparkles of bright colour. That ring had been my father’s too. He hadn’t given it to me himself, how could he? But his son had. He’d put it into my hand right here in the grounds of Ancre. His son had wanted me to have it.
And that was a new thought that sent the whole lot dancing like bubbles in a glass of Champagne wine.
This boy walking beside me. This boy, who knew nothing of any of this, but loved me anyway, not because he was obliged to, but just because he did. This boy, who was mine to love and to tease and to teach and protect and to love, this boy.
He was my brother.
Twenty-Five
André de Roland
Extract from a letter to Elisabeth, Comtesse de Vallon, dated 20 June 1639
Dear Madame,
Forgive this hasty note, but I must not lose a moment in contradicting any reports you may have of my impending execution. These, as you can see, are slightly inaccurate. Rest assured I am quite safe, and so is my dear J.
I would be grateful if you could find an opportunity of conveying this reassurance to the family of the Baron de Verdâme, who might otherwise be alarmed at what they have heard. I am especially anxious you should see Mlle Anne, whom I hold in the highest regard. You would like her, Grandmother, truly you would. She has endured dreadful hardships with great courage, and I should tell you she saved my own life.
Perhaps, however, you will feel this no great recommendation now you have heard other accounts of my activities. It is true I have been a little reticent as to their nature, but it has not been possible to write a great deal with security in letters that must pass through enemy territory. Please believe there is considerable exaggeration in the rumours, and that I have indeed passed the Occupation in as safe and careful a manner as is consistent with my duty.
There is at least this advantage in these latest events: that now the identity of my beloved J is known to the enemy there can be no further reason to conceal it in my letters. His name is Jacques Gilbert, and he is son to the Ancre ostler, whom you may remember
from your visits here. He is grieving at present, for his father died as a result of our escape, but he remains my closest, best and dearest friend, and I know you too well to imagine you will allow the circumstances of his lowly birth to make the slightest difference to your reception of him when we join you at last …
Jacques Gilbert
He was worried she wouldn’t want me because my father was a groom, I was worried she wouldn’t want me because he wasn’t. In fact she wrote back to say she remembered me very well and was looking forward to seeing me, so I understood she was going to keep on pretending.
Mother said she wouldn’t be able to do it for ever, it was bound to come out soon. She said it wouldn’t have mattered if the Spaniards hadn’t come, I’d have gone for a soldier and probably never seen André again, but now we were together every day and sooner or later someone was going to look at us and notice. She said ‘Wouldn’t it be better to tell him yourself, my darling, before he finds out some other way?’
I didn’t think it would actually, I was dreading him knowing. His family didn’t want to acknowledge me, and it would put him in a horrid position. He’d probably go feeling guilty and wanting to do things to make up for it, and I didn’t want that, I liked him loving me when he didn’t have to. So I said we couldn’t tell him without the Comtesse agreeing, I’d wait till I saw her in Paris, and Mother accepted that in the end. I think she was disappointed though, she wanted to be done with the lying for good and all. She must have had a miserable time all these years, all those feelings squashed up inside her and no one to talk to at all.
Still, we thought we’d get away with it a bit longer. I didn’t look nearly so much like André these days, not now I’d got that scar and my hair was longer than his. No one knew about Father either, we put it about he’d been murdered by the enemy, and André allowed him to be buried in the Ancre graveyard with the others. People just accepted it, and gradually things got back to normal.
Only actually they weren’t. Nothing was the same after that June, not even André himself. Killing that officer made a big difference to him, like he was ready to put some of the horror behind him and think about other things. He said it couldn’t make up for what happened, nothing could do that, but whenever he got the memory of that awful grinning face swimming up in his mind he’d got another picture he could stick over it instead, of that same face screaming in agony, and it made the first a lot easier to bear. He certainly didn’t thrash about and talk in his sleep any more, or if he did it was about Mlle Anne and something else entirely. She was all he thought about now. He kept writing her unbelievably long letters which he couldn’t possibly send, her father would have killed him, but he said it made him feel better just to write them. One night I even found him sitting by the stream chewing one of his precious pencils, and he said he was writing poetry.
He still wanted to fight, of course, we all did, but that was maybe the biggest difference of all. We weren’t content with little hit-and-run raids any more, we’d tasted the blood of real battles and we wanted more. We wanted to go the whole way and take back the Saillie.
It felt like the right time. There were hardly any reinforcements coming out of Artois these days, and we guessed Don Francisco’s superiors had got pissed off with his lack of success. Even his own men were fed up, and I couldn’t blame them. On the morning we were supposed to be hanged, half Dax turned up just to annoy them, and the soldiers were really curling up with embarrassment. The sergeant did his best, he said ‘You want a hanging, you can have one, I’ll hang the last two people left in this Square,’ but people only ran away laughing till there was no one left but a dog and Mlle Tissot, who was about a hundred and deaf.
They were ready to fall, we just knew they were, but we still needed outside help to drive them out. André said we’d get it, he said France was bound to help now and I thought he was right. Our armies were busy in Artois already, they were still dug in at Hesdin, and it seemed likely they’d think about us next, especially when word got round what we’d achieved.
I don’t know much about politics, or I’d have known that was bollocks. What made the difference in the end wasn’t anything to do with the armies or Hesdin or us. What made the difference was Mlle Anne.
Anne du Pré
Extract from her diary, dated 18 September 1639
I was dreading today, because everyone says the Comtesse de Vallon is terrifyingly eccentric, but now I know they only mean she says what she thinks. It is extraordinary, but I think I rather like it. At least I know where I stand.
The Hôtel de Roland is in the Marais and very grand. The salon must have had a hundred candles sparkling in crystal chandeliers, and the ceiling was painted to resemble a summer sky. Papa and I felt quite intimidated, but the Comtesse led us into her own apartment for a private audience, really almost in the style of a ruelle. Her bedroom is grand in a different way, intimate but beautifully furnished, and everything upholstered in pale blue or silver. I found myself wishing I had not worn yellow.
The Comtesse herself must be nearly fifty, but still looks exquisitely beautiful. Her hair is quite, quite silver, and so immaculately coiffed I could not help wondering how it stayed in place. She is very tiny, and André would tower over her if only he were here, but she has something Papa calls ‘presence’, and I certainly found her most alarming. After only two minutes of pleasantries she turned to Papa and said ‘So, Monsieur, what is this I hear about your daughter being betrothed to my grandson?’
Poor Papa was covered in confusion. He said quickly that nothing had been formally agreed, and the Comtesse said at once ‘Gracious heavens, man, I know that. I ask only because I hear rumours of an attachment, of which I am bound to say I know nothing. My servants say it is the talk of the taverns that on hearing the news of M. de Roland’s projected execution this young lady actually fainted.’
Her voice is very pretty, like the tinkling of silver bells, but I felt she mocked me, and when her eyes slid round and pierced me I knew she expected me to lie. Well, I would not. I looked her in the face and said composedly ‘That is quite true.’
She regarded me a moment, then sat back in her chair and said ‘Ah.’ I never knew so short a word could sound so long. Then she said ‘Your acquaintance was very brief. Will you tell me what occasioned such a reaction?’
I saw she thought the worst, so I explained the circumstances of our rescue as best I could. She gave a little sigh, then said ‘You will not believe this, Mademoiselle, but I had no idea of the life he was leading. I think perhaps I had better order him home.’
I remembered André saying ‘I have responsibilities here,’ and the way he looked when he said it. I said hesitantly ‘I do not think he will come.’
She laughed, a wonderfully beautiful sound, and said ‘I see you do know him after all. Perhaps your father might like to return to the company so you can share your confidences with me.’
Papa hesitated, but when she mentioned casually that Monsieur le Prince had said he might send ‘young d’Enghien’, my poor father could scarcely contain himself and rushed from the room with embarrassing haste. The Comtesse only smiled, and took up a sheaf of ragged papers from a table.
‘Now, Mademoiselle, you will wonder at my needing to hear from you about my own grandson, so let me explain. When did this happen, this bad wound you mention?’
I told her, and she flicked dextrously through the pile of letters, extracted one and read it with a smile. She said ‘He apologizes here for his long delay in writing by saying he has been rather unwell, then goes on to describe the thanksgiving service for the Dauphin. Now do you understand?’
Quite suddenly I did. She seems supremely self-possessed, but now I saw for the first time the anxiety in her blue eyes and the restlessness of her hands. He is her only grandson and she loves him. One of her sons is dead, the other might as well be. André is all she has left.
So I told her everything I could, and she was interested in every detail. She even a
sked about André’s friends, and in particular the man he had called Jacques, as if everything dear to him is now dear to her too.
When I finished she was silent a long time, then stood and paced silently about the room like a tiny doll on wheels. At length she stopped and said ‘Well, I cannot leave him there, Mademoiselle, he is our only heir. If he will not come until Dax is free, why then we must free Dax.’
I began to see the family resemblance with André. I said cautiously ‘How?’
‘It will not be easy,’ said she. ‘I have tried many times, but the Saillie is of little strategic value and no economic importance, it holds no more interest for Richelieu than my own back gardens. But he is no fool. He needs popular successes to keep the money flowing and Hesdin is exciting no one. If we can make Dax-Verdâme a popular cause, then M. le Cardinal might look on it with more favour.’
I reported eagerly that Jeanette’s stories have been well received everywhere, and the song of ‘Le Petit Oiseau’ is now to be heard in every alehouse in Paris.
The Comtesse sniffed. ‘The alehouses, yes, but we must lift it into the salons, that is where the real business is done. And that is where I hoped you might help.’
I was puzzled, and when she came and sat beside me I became also a little apprehensive, but she only laughed and patted my hand.
‘Paris loves a love story, Mademoiselle. That is how I have heard of this famous faint. It is a romantic little tale, and comes at just the right time. Paris adores L’Astrée. It goes to Le Cid and longs for a hero, it needs something to stir its passion, and we can give them that, you and I. I might, for example, take you to the Hôtel de Rambouillet tomorrow and ensure the story reaches a few of the right ears. The place is positively stuffed with poets, and we ought to inspire a sonnet or two, or perhaps a canard. What do you think, Mademoiselle? Will you play my game?’