Honour and the Sword

by A L Berridge

  ‘Look,’ said the boy. ‘Look at the forest.’

  It was moving. It’s like the edges of it were spreading, the way a pool of ink does when you spill it on a table, it was sort of creeping out and towards us.

  ‘They’re coming,’ said the boy.

  There was a great body of men advancing towards us. There was one pool putting more and more distance between itself and the others every minute, and I guessed they’d be the cavalry. Behind them came the infantry, and that really sluggish sort of mass crawling along behind would be the artillery and baggage wagons and all that stuff. It was an army, a real French army, and it was coming for us.

  I reached out my hand blindly into the space on my right, and somehow the boy found it, he grabbed and squeezed it tightly. We hadn’t been forgotten. We hadn’t been abandoned after all. We stood side by side in the dark and watched as our own country came for us at last.

  Jean-Marie Mercier

  I went through the Forge into the Backs to give Giles the flag. It had taken Mother weeks to make, but it was a proper regimental one, plain white with the arms of our Colonel-in-chief in red, and we wanted it to be a surprise for André. We knew the battle would be credited to the real French army, you see, but it didn’t seem fair for some other regiment’s flag to fly over Dax when we had a proper army of our own.

  We honestly did feel like one that morning. I crossed the Backs to the south alley, went through the back gate into the Thibault farm, and found Simon and Georges already waiting. We crossed the farm to the far wall, where the rest of the team were standing by the siege ladders. There was one for my marksmen, which would take us directly on to the roof of the stables, and two next to it for the ground troops, who’d be hiding in the barn behind. We’d considered the barn for our own position, because it was bigger and a few feet higher, but the sight-lines to the Gate were no good, you see, we’d tried it.

  There was a little stir in the crowd, then Stefan strolled to the front, returned safely from his mission in Verdâme. I think we all felt a little better at the sight of him. He looked expressionlessly at me, and said ‘Fucking good bang, wasn’t it?’

  I always found it difficult to think of things to say to Stefan, but I had my team behind me, and didn’t quite like to look feeble in front of them. I said ‘And we’re going to make some fucking good bangs of our own.’

  He grinned and gave me a wink. I could see his face quite clearly. The sky was lightening, and dawn was on the way.

  Carlos Corvacho

  He broke just before dawn.

  It often happens about then, Señor, it’s a popular time, but of course my Capitán was in charge now, and he knew how to handle these things. What it is, Señor, things like the rack do a man so much damage that in the end his body’s quite mashed up, and the pain doesn’t stop even when the rack does. Now that’s no good to us, there’s no incentive to talk when it’s like that, so as soon as the Colonel left we tried a little bout of tortura del’agua instead. Now, the water torture’s much more effective, because your man goes through all the terror of drowning, then you give him a little break to think about it before you lay him back down and start pouring it in again.

  So that’s what we did here. A little after four the man fainted again, and the surgeon said the heart was in trouble, so we cleaned up the vomit, gave him wine and a priest, got a blanket over him, and let him rest. Then at maybe half past my Capitán said it was time to resume, and I took the blanket away.

  That’s what did it, Señor. He was clutching at that blanket like it was his mother, begging me not to take it, quite moving it was really. Muños comes for him, and he starts grabbing at the chaplain to protect him, and the priest gets out of it fast, but my Capitán makes us all stand back, then soothes the man and says no one will hurt him if he just tells us a few things we want to know.

  So gradually he does. He gives his name as de Chouy, and says the letter’s for de Roland himself, though he doesn’t know where to find him, says he was to wait in the church until he was approached. My Capitán asks what the letter says, and the fellow says he doesn’t know, but it’s from someone called the Comte de Gressy, and he thinks there’s a battle planned.

  ‘When are they coming?’ asks my Capitán. He’s holding the man’s hand, but he’s clutching it tightly, Señor, I see he’s on edge.

  The man lies still a moment then says faintly ‘What day is it?’

  ‘Friday,’ says my Capitán. ‘When will they come?’

  De Chouy actually gave us a little smile. ‘Monday,’ he said. Then he’s gasping again, and his face turning blue, and the surgeon says we’d better have the priest back fast.

  The Capitán swore like one of our own troopers, which was most unlike him, most. Then he’s striding back fast to his office, snapping out orders on the way. He sends a cabo to Verdâme to alert the Colonel, and a clerk to prepare a dispatch for Béthune, then orders the whole barracks on to full alert immediately.

  ‘It’s not till Monday, Señor,’ I point out.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ says the Capitán. ‘If it were Monday, why the devil didn’t he tell us before, and save himself the agony? It’s sooner, Carlos, I’m sure of it. Get me that letter.’

  I couldn’t see the point in it myself, Señor, they’d already tried the cipher and got nowhere, but I fetched it for him, and he sat down at his desk to decode it.

  ‘We know a lot more now,’ he said. ‘Now we’ll crack it. See this first word? Nine letters. If the letter’s for de Roland then that could be ‘Chevalier’, and if it is – oh, look here, Carlos, here’s those same two ‘Ch’ letters again in a five-letter word. The man’s name was de Chouy, wasn’t it? If that’s his name, and it looks like it, the ‘e’ matches for ‘de’, then we’ve got all the vowels, we’ve got the ‘y’, the ‘l’, the ‘r’, the ‘v’ and the ‘d’. Then there’s a single letter here, we know it’s not ‘a’, it’s not ‘y’, it’ll be ‘M’ for Monsieur. We’re off.’

  He didn’t say another word, just sat scribbling as if our lives depended on it, which perhaps in a way they did.

  Philippe d’Argenson, Comte de Gressy

  Plain text of letter to André de Roland, dated 6 June 1640

  Chevalier,

  Forgive the extreme lateness of this message, but M. le Maréchal has expressed further concern as to how we might guarantee the safety of our troops. I therefore desire that just before the hour of our final advance your men should dip the flag in order to show beyond doubt that your assault has commenced and it is safe for our cavalry to proceed.

  Should there be any serious obstacle to this, please return de Chouy to us immediately, instructing him to ride hard through the night to ensure he reaches us before the appointed hour of our departure. Should we hear nothing, we will assume all is well and wait on your signal before the advance.

  May God prosper us in our venture!

  D’Argenson

  Carlos Corvacho

  I see you’ve got the letter, Señor, you know what it said. It didn’t make a lot of sense at the time, but what troubled my Capitán was this de Gressy saying de Chouy needed to ride hard to reach them in time. Now that needn’t mean much, because if the army was in Paris the attack might be days away. But, says my Capitán, what if they’re in Doullens, what then? It could be this very morning.

  Then this business about ‘dipping the flag’, that threw us completely. We couldn’t think where the rebels would find to fly a flag that would be visible outside the Wall. The Capitán sent men off right away to look at the church towers, but those were the only places we could think of that could possibly be high enough.

  ‘Unless,’ says my Capitán suddenly. ‘Unless …’

  Jacques Gilbert

  The army came to a halt at quarter to five, and we knew that must be the mile mark. It looked a lot further to me, but André said they must know what they were doing, and what mattered was they were in position for our attack to start at five. We were
free to leave now. No one was due up to the tower again till eight, and Giles would be joining us on the roof in ten minutes.

  We peeled ourselves away from the windows, then André started backwards down the ladder. I’d only gone a couple of rungs after him when I heard footsteps behind me, and twisted to see a soldier coming down the tunnel ahead of us, and the bastard already drawing his sword. Behind him was d’Estrada himself.

  They’d been forewarned, of course, they’d have seen there were no guards in the anteroom, they didn’t need to recognize us to guess we were the enemy. That servant of d’Estrada’s, Corvacho, his sword was already clear of his belt, his arm starting back for the lunge.

  And the boy hadn’t heard them. I couldn’t believe it, he was almost on the ground and still hadn’t turned round. I let go the ladder and dropped down hard just as Corvacho lunged full at André’s back. I deflected the blade all right, there was this awful, deep stabbing pain slicing into my thigh, the shock of it was frightful, my leg just crumpled under me and I crashed down hard on the floor. I heard André landing behind me, and had just enough sense to shove him back and away as I rolled aside from Corvacho’s second thrust. He was coming in again, I was furiously trying to slide backwards, then the boy’s sword flashed out from behind me and Corvacho flinched away, stepping back hastily into d’Estrada. I was huddled uselessly on the floor between them and hadn’t even been able to draw my sword.

  For a second we all stared at each other, and no one moved. André stood firm behind me, his sword levelled at the Spaniards over my body, and Corvacho didn’t dare come any nearer. I expect d’Estrada would have, but he couldn’t get past Corvacho, the space between ladder and wall was only wide enough for one man at a time. I worked myself up on to my knees, but didn’t think I could stand yet, my left leg was throbbing, and there was blood oozing thickly through my breeches. I crawled backwards another foot, forcing André towards the door to the roof.

  ‘Get out,’ I said to him. ‘The door, now!’

  Corvacho thrust forward again, but André drove him back. They were fighting over my body, and I realized that as long as I stayed there the boy was safe. Even if I died, they’d have to climb over me before they could touch him.

  ‘Get on the roof, André,’ I said. I clutched the side of the ladder above my head and hauled myself somehow to my feet. ‘I’ll hold here.’ I leant against the wall and drew my sword.

  I heard his intake of breath behind me, but felt the cold air on my back as he opened the door. I moved back towards it, my sword still directed against Corvacho, but he came on after me, and behind him d’Estrada.

  The edge of the doorway banged into my shoulder, and I knew I mustn’t go any further. André was on the roof, he could get to the ladders if I stayed here one more minute. I squared myself in the doorway and kept my blade levelled. I wasn’t very steady, to be honest, the pain was terrible, but I’d got a strange kind of elation pumping through me, I felt sort of big and heroic.

  Then there was André’s hand on my shoulder, and he jerked me right back and out on to the roof. I stumbled at the step and my leg just gave up and folded underneath me, dumping me down hard on the stone. He yanked me clear of the doorway, but Corvacho was coming through after me and the boy threw himself at him at once, the blades clashing together as Corvacho flung up a parry just in time. It was weak, though, faible to faible, and André disengaged smoothly for the lunge, but Corvacho had had enough, he was backing away in panic. I screamed at the boy to run, but he wasn’t going to leave me, he was just standing there, then d’Estrada was through the doorway with his own sword drawn and it was all too bloody late.

  D’Estrada looked at André, then took a step forward, gently guiding Corvacho out of his way with his blade. He might as well have said ‘Mine,’ and be done with it. André stepped back clear to give him more space.

  Corvacho turned on me, but d’Estrada said sharply ‘No!’ and actually gave me a little nod. Maybe it’s because I was down already, maybe he thought he owed me my life because of last time, but he obviously didn’t feel the same about André, and as he turned to follow him his eyes sort of glittered.

  André moved deeper on to the roof, and they started circling round each other like wrestlers at a fair. I pulled out my handkerchief and started binding my leg. The sword had come out clean, there was a neat flap of skin I could stick back over the wound and hold with the bandage.

  ‘In false colours, Chevalier?’ said d’Estrada.

  The boy looked down at his black coat with its red Burgundy cross, then actually lowered his sword to remove it. D’Estrada smiled, then took off his cloak and flung it carelessly to Corvacho. In their shirtsleeves, they weren’t a Spaniard and a Frenchman any more, they were just two gentlemen who were going to fight a duel to the death. Corvacho actually came and leant against the parapet to watch. He folded his arms, looked down at me, and said pleasantly ‘Now we shall see.’

  I thought ‘You’ll see all right, you smug bastard, you haven’t the smallest idea what the boy can do,’ then I looked over at André, and felt an odd flutter of panic. He still had that sort of suppressed eagerness he always had before a bout, but he looked nervous, there was a sense of alarm like he knew something I didn’t. He went ahead anyway, he saluted, tapped d’Estrada’s blade lightly with his own, and said ‘En garde.’ D’Estrada took up position, and then of course I finally saw.

  We’d never seen d’Estrada with a sword in his hand before, except that once when I’d watched him on the drive at Ancre. I’d known there was something odd at the time, but never understood why, it didn’t seem important back then. I’d had another chance on the Back Road two years later, when I’d seen him facing André and thought he looked like a mirror image. Of course he bloody did. André wore his sword on his left hip, but d’Estrada wore his on the right. The bastard was left-handed.

  I felt really sick. We hadn’t known, we’d never even tried fencing that way, whereas d’Estrada must have fought right-handed men every day, it’s what he was used to. All those years of the boy’s training were suddenly useless.

  Corvacho was smiling.

  Carlos Corvacho

  Oh yes, Señor, I thought it would all be over in a minute, it often was when an opponent was surprised by my gentleman’s little peculiarity. Still, my Capitán had been looking forward to this a long time, and I hoped your Chevalier wasn’t going to disappoint him.

  In fairness, I have to say he didn’t. My Capitán was gentle to start with, giving him a nice sense of security, but the Chevalier came straight in at him, fast and furious, trying to disarm my gentleman before he had time to build an attack. That’s not a bad ploy when you’re up against a better swordsman than yourself, but of course my Capitán was ready for that. Oh yes, he took a wee bit of a step back to collect himself, but that was only him thinking, Señor, he did a lot of that in a bout, he fought with his mind as well as his blade. Then he came in himself, Señor, none of that wild slashing with my Capitán, it was all in the wrist, tight into the body, quick, light jabs, but all the while he was closing distance, dancing forward inch by inch and the Chevalier backing further and further away. Then it was stamp and in, a nice clean body lunge -

  Jacques Gilbert

  – and the boy twisted away, did a full turn and his blade zipped straight at d’Estrada, touched him too, just the inside of his arm, but a real touch and close to the chest. D’Estrada’s face was quite something, and I wondered how long it had been since anyone actually did that.

  I daren’t get too hopeful. André was fencing well, but he couldn’t do his best stuff. He was fine with defence, he’d deflected left-handed angles every time he’d fought more than one man at once, but a good attack is all about forcing the other man to make a move you can predict, and the boy couldn’t predict d’Estrada at all. How could he? Every attack he’d built up was designed to work the other way round, and you can’t just switch that stuff round in your head, it’s like trying to do someth
ing by looking in the mirror. His only hope was defence, and a chance that d’Estrada’s over confidence would leave him open to a riposte like that last one. But the look on d’Estrada’s face told me there weren’t going to be any more of those.

  I took off my stocking and bound it tightly round my leg to numb the pain and slow the bleeding. I’d got to get to my feet somehow, I’d got to be ready to save the boy. Corvacho was actually licking his lips.

  D’Estrada was coming in faster now, they both were. The blades were in almost constant contact, they sounded like something rattling, and then it suddenly went quiet, and I looked up to see the boy was in there, he’d got a bind, and it doesn’t matter what hand you’re using when you’re into contact that intimate. D’Estrada looked startled, and I knew he was feeling that subtle tug that tells you the other man’s got control of your blade. He had to use all his skill to twist away, and only just got clear in time, André got the edge to him and his blade slashed d’Estrada’s sleeve. I wanted to cheer. We knew the weakness now, we only needed real blade contact and the left-handedness wouldn’t matter, another envelopment to confuse him, then maybe a turn into the flaconnade when he was off balance, we could beat him.

  D’Estrada’s mouth went all thin, and I knew he was thoroughly pissed off. He came forward again, and this time he was savage, stamping and thrusting, luring the boy’s blade forward then striking up at the face, always doing that Spanish thing of going for the eyes. André defended, but it was like looking at me all those years ago, just beating the blade back, no time to riposte, it was battement, battement, lateral parry, battement, it was all defence, he was fucked.