by A L Berridge
We turned on them, all of us. They were too high to reach, even on horseback, but André fired one of his pistols into them, I did the same, then Bettremieu snatched a pike from an infantryman, stood up in his stirrups and swung it like a scythe, sweeping half the men back across the roof in a struggling mass, back to where our infantry were climbing up behind. The bastards stopped even thinking about reloading, they just tried to get the hell out before our infantry tore into them. Some jumped off the roof, but André was waiting with his sword drawn and bloody, he was half hanging off his stirrups to reach more of them, slashing about as if to cut them all into shreds. I didn’t blame him. I could see the mess of flesh and bone that had been our men on the stable roof, there was blood trickling down the whitewashed walls into the dust.
I took the last one myself, then turned to ride back through the men who’d got past us. There weren’t many left now, but d’Estrada was nearly at the open Gate and a handful of men with him. Stefan and the infantry screen moved forward to meet them, I saw Dom thrust his pike at one, his face savage as I’d never seen it, and Pinhead faced up to d’Estrada himself, swinging that great sledgehammer he’d been using for the spikes. D’Estrada whirled on his feet and whipped down with his blade, and there was Pinhead falling across the barrel of the cannon, his neck gaping open in one huge red gash, but the sledgehammer struck as he fell, and d’Estrada was down too, rolling over like a rabbit, then lying still. The rest of his men scattered at sight of us, running blindly for the Square, where Jacob’s muskets picked them off from Les Étoiles.
Edouard’s voice was calling down from the firing step. He was looking out of the embrasure towards the fields, but we heard him shout ‘They’re moving, André. Our troops are starting to advance.’
The boy turned at once to the Square and yelled out ‘They’re coming, we can see them, our troops are on the way!’
A great cheer went up from the people by the alleys, by the courtyard gates, on the roofs, all over Dax people were cheering and throwing their hats in the air. André’s head came back to mine, the smile still fixed on his face, but his eyes were anguished. He was doing his best, but he knew as well as I did it could be another ten minutes before our army got here, more if they waited for the infantry.
‘We’ll hold,’ I said desperately. ‘André, don’t worry, we’ll hold.’
There came another crash of gunfire from the Dax-Verdâme Road.
‘Cavalry to the barricade!’ cried André. ‘Come on, we’re finished here.’ He turned to rally our horsemen down the road, then hesitated by the remains of the infantry screen.
‘Take them,’ said Stefan. He was struggling to wedge a chock under the first leaf of the Gate, but seemed calmer than he had. ‘Take them, it’s all quiet here.’
André nodded gratefully and sent the last of our infantry charging after the cavalry. Even Edouard jumped down from the Wall to join them. But Marcel was already running up from the barricade, grazed and dusty with being unhorsed. He panted ‘We need more shot. Roger’s down, there’s only Margot holding them together. The middle wagon’s gone, we’ve no time between charges to push it back, I’ve got to have more shot or we can’t hold.’
‘Take Jacob’s marksmen,’ said André desperately. ‘I’ll hold it till you’re back.’
Marcel ran on towards the Square, and we wheeled again to ride down the Dax-Verdâme Road, but we’d only got as far as the corner when firing broke out from the woods, a shot cracked past my face, and a horse screamed. Tempête was rearing and stamping, André jerked up in the air, flopped back, slipped clear out of the saddle and crashed down heavily on the stones. Behind me I heard M. Lefebvre and Bernard calling their bowmen and realized soldiers were trying to break through the trees.
I threw myself down off Tonnerre, then crumpled to my knees as the shock opened up my leg, but the boy was rolling clear and Tempête collapsing harmlessly next to him, kicking and screaming in agony. André scrabbled in the holster for his pistol and tried to bring it up to the poor beast’s head, but Tempête was thrashing to and fro, and the boy’s hands were shaking, he was still half stunned, and it was hard to do it, to kill this horse that had saved his life on this same road three years ago. I crawled over, grabbed Tempête’s mane, put my own last pistol against his forehead, and pulled the trigger. The gelding shuddered, and was still.
The boy gave a kind of terrified sob, then turned away to grope for his sword. I struggled to stand, though it felt like I’d got a roll of blanket instead of a leg, and I had to put all my weight on the other. Then something drew my eye back to the Wall, something was moving between the second and third cannon. Someone was getting up.
‘The barricade,’ said the boy, climbing shakily to his feet. ‘We have to help Margot. Can you take me on Tonnerre?’
D’Estrada was still alive. Pinhead’s dying blow must have glanced off him and knocked him out for a moment, because he was getting slowly to his feet, his sword still in his hand. I wasn’t totally sorry. The Gate was right next to him, and I didn’t think I’d mind if d’Estrada escaped. We owed it him, after all.
But he didn’t go for the Gate. He went for Stefan. He was totally alone, and Stefan was no threat, he was just trying to wedge the second leaf open, there was no sense in it at all, but he threw himself at Stefan with a kind of howl.
Stefan Ravel
It was lucky for me the bastard was already injured. He was half mad with rage, and that first swipe should have done for me, but his aim was off, and I got my sword up just in time. We were face to face then, the two of us, and I saw in his eyes what it was all about. That’s nobility for you, Abbé. Men dying all round him, fucking French army charging towards him across the plain, and all he’s thinking about is the man who marked his pretty face.
It was likely to prove serious enough for me. He was a swordsman, that one, I knew it right off, and what’s more he was a left-hander. I belted him off and away a couple of times, but that was as good as it was going to get, and I doubt I’d have done even that if he hadn’t got a stiff shoulder from Pinhead’s hammer. I was dead in a minute if someone didn’t settle him, but they’d all gone rattling off to the barricade and I was on my own.
But not quite. I slid my sword up guard to guard, in the hope of getting my other hand to him and throttling the bastard off, but even as he ducked and twisted away, I got a view over his shoulder, and there was André himself at the corner of the woods. He looked shaky as all hell, but he was on his feet, he’d got Jacques next to him, and more to the point he’d got a pistol in his hand.
I’ve no time for pride, Abbé, I’d rather stay alive any day. I walloped d’Estrada away again, and used the second’s respite to shout to the kid. Nothing dramatic, just the old call one soldier makes to another when he needs a hand, the way he’d called me himself that night at the Château.
I called ‘André!’
Jacques Gilbert
We couldn’t reach them in time, and there was no one else. André had the pistol, but he couldn’t use it, he was only alive at d’Estrada’s gift. He did the only possible thing. He stopped, brought his left arm up fast in a fist, bent it at the elbow, levelled the pistol across it, and shouted ‘Stop, or I shoot!’
It was all quiet around us, there even seemed to be a lull at the barricades. There were just the four of us standing there.
D’Estrada stepped back from Stefan, kept him at length with the blade of his sword, then turned his head towards us.
He shouted ‘Private matter, Chevalier! Affair of honour!’
Stefan Ravel
Oh, fuck his honour, I went straight for him when his back was turned, but he’d known I would, the bastard, he was twisting even as I lunged, then he was round again and attacking furiously, I’d never seen anything so fast. He was dancing up close, and I knew he could take me any time, he was only toying with me, I could see it in his smile.
I shouted again ‘André!’
Jacques Gilbert
&nb
sp; The boy stiffened all over, then jerked the pistol back up. He was going to shoot a man in the back, a man in the middle of a duel of honour, a man who’d spared his own life. He was ruined, he was shamed for ever, he was really going to do it.
I screamed ‘André, no!’
His face whipped round to me, desperate, hardly recognizable.
‘André, you can’t!’
He blinked, then a shock of despair passed over his face. He flung down the pistol, snatched up his sword and started to run towards d’Estrada.
I tried to follow, but my leg kept going dead, I couldn’t do much more than hobble. It didn’t matter, it was too late anyway. D’Estrada had finished playing with Stefan, he was forcing hard forward, then Stefan stumbled, falling back against the open Gate.
I suppose I must have heard the footsteps before that, but I didn’t take them in. The first I knew was a great cry, then someone rushing forward into the picture I was looking at. Marcel leapt full at d’Estrada, knocking him back with his sword, forcing himself in front of Stefan’s fallen body, then lunging out at d’Estrada’s face. D’Estrada didn’t hesitate, his blade came in fast and clean, Marcel never even saw it coming. He was as unbalanced by the left-handedness as the boy had been, he parried in the wrong place, and d’Estrada’s sword whipped in, taking him full in the chest and punching right into the Gate on the other side.
Marcel hung there a second, impaled on the blade, and he didn’t make a sound, the dreadful cry I was hearing must have been Stefan. Blood poured out of Marcel’s mouth, all down his white shirt, and I knew he was dead, he must have died instantly. D’Estrada pulled out, and Marcel’s body crumpled and collapsed on top of Stefan. The sound of gunfire rose again from the Dax-Verdâme Road.
The boy was nearly up to them, but d’Estrada took his time. He looked down at Stefan, brought the point of his sword right up to his face, then gave the tiniest flick of his wrist and stepped back. I thought he’d killed him at first, then saw the trickle of blood on Stefan’s cheek, and all at once I understood. I remembered how much d’Estrada had wanted the ‘Tanner of Verdâme’, and now I understood the whole bloody thing, and that Stefan had brought it on himself.
André came panting up, and d’Estrada faced him, blade levelled, but at that moment there came a great crash from the Dax-Verdâme Road. The shooting intensified, but there was shouting and screaming, some obviously women, then the pounding of hoofbeats getting louder as they galloped towards us. D’Estrada sketched a tiny salute with his sword, then turned and ran up the road, and I knew the barricade had broken at last.
Jean-Marie Mercier
There was something blocking my mouth and I couldn’t breathe. I tried to brush it away, but the weight was too much, I had to push out my arms and heave. I opened my eyes but had to close them again instantly, because I was looking right into Simon’s face. He was lying on top of me, and he was dead.
I rolled clear, and found I could see sky. My knee still felt as if something were lying on it, but I could see there wasn’t. I expect it was just because I’d been shot there. I could see it bleeding. It was bleeding quite a lot.
A voice said ‘Jean?’
Colin was kneeling up on the roof and obviously very much alive. His arm had a gash running along it, as if a musket ball had scored him as it passed, but otherwise he seemed unhurt.
‘Can you shoot? Georges doesn’t think he’s up to it.’
I rolled back on to my stomach. My knee made a strange kind of sensation that was a little like screaming as I rested it on the roof, but it didn’t seem much to do with me. What was real was Georges’ face next to mine, and he was alive too. His face was grey, almost pale blue, and when I looked down his body I nearly vomited. His lower back and legs were dark, dark red, and I’ve no idea how many bullets he’d taken. But he’d been at the front with me, and Colin just behind us, so I suppose the men at the back had taken the worst of the volley and we had all survived.
I said ‘I can shoot.’
‘Lots of guns,’ said Colin, passing me one. ‘No one else here needs any.’
He was very brave, Colin. He must have been every bit as upset as I was at the death of the rest of us, but honestly no one would have known. He gave the impression he was happy to be there with all those loaded muskets at his disposal.
‘Better be quick,’ he said. ‘Look.’
I focused my eyes over the parapet. The space before the Gate was curiously empty. I could see only two men standing there, and they were the two men I’d most have wanted to see, they were André and Jacques, with Stefan climbing to his feet just beyond them. But there was a tremendous crashing and firing coming from the Dax-Verdâme Road, and when I turned my head that way, I saw a mass of horsemen pouring down it. Some were our own, I could see the unmistakable figure of Bettremieu fighting on horseback, but most seemed to be the enemy, and they were all heading for the Gate.
‘Quick as you like, Col,’ I said, and fired.
He passed me another, even as my first man was toppling off his horse. But too many were through and fighting our men for possession of the first leaf of the Gate. Our own cavalry couldn’t get past them, and there was no one to defend the second except André and Jacques.
I said ‘Faster.’
Jacques Gilbert
I felt so bloody tired, and my leg was nagging at me. I leant back against our leaf of the Gate to take my weight off it.
‘Good idea,’ said André, and came and stood next to me. ‘If they want to shut this Gate, they’ll have to kill us first.’
I didn’t think in my case it would take very much, but it didn’t seem to matter any more. Even as I watched, the leading Spanish cavalry broke away from our men at the first leaf and came galloping towards us.
A shot rang out from the direction of Market Street, then seconds later another, and the cavalrymen both dropped to the stones.
André said ‘There’s men alive up there.’
I looked back to the stable, as yet another shot cracked, then another. It sounded like two men, even three, but the flashes were coming from a single position. I felt a funny kind of prickling behind my eyes.
‘Just one,’ I said. ‘And I bet I know who.’
Jean-Marie Mercier
Next to me a voice said ‘Is Bettremieu wounded yet, Jean-Marie?’
Dear Georges. I shut out the memory of what I’d seen of his lower body and kept firing. I aimed for the cavalry, because no one on foot would have a hope against them, not even André. Colin was wonderful, he had the next gun ready every time, pressing them into my hands, all I had to do was point and shoot.
Georges’ voice was very slurred now. ‘They’re coming, Je’m’rie, our army, I can see them.’
I didn’t dare stop to look. André and Jacques had three or four men on foot to deal with, I couldn’t afford to let any more reach them. Stefan could have gone to help, but he was fighting alongside our men at the other leaf, and I suppose he was too hard pressed. There was another knot of cavalry breaking through, I fired at the leading horse and reached for another musket.
It was only as I was squeezing off the next shot that I recognized the man I’d unhorsed. It was Don Francisco himself, and he was running straight for André.
Jacques Gilbert
I was pulling out from my last man when I saw Don Francisco. My sword was free, I lunged straight at him, but his guard crunched into my jaw, I spun off balance and crashed against the Gate. He was bloody strong, it wasn’t just fat in that great frame of his, there was a lot of muscle too. His sword came plunging in at my belly, but another blade shot underneath and sprang it back up, and that was André, of course, it was the boy. He thrust at the Colonel, driving him outward from the Gate, forcing him into leaving me alone and fighting with himself.
It was ridiculous, Don Francisco was huge, he was nearly a foot taller and a whole lot broader, his sword looked like a child’s toy in his hand. I kept my feet and launched myself after them, but there
was another coming in, probably the Colonel’s page, certainly not much of a swordsman, but he had to be dealt with all the same, and it drove me mad because I wanted to get to the boy.
But there was a fury about André I’d never seen before. There was no defending about him now, he was straight at the Colonel, attacking, attacking, footwork flawless, blade darting in and out so fast I could hardly even see it. Don Francisco couldn’t either, he didn’t seem to believe it was happening, he just sort of blinked and gave back, retreating, retreating, his polished boots slipping on the stones.
I finished off the page, and saw three more riders hurtling towards us, but Bettremieu shot out from behind the first leaf of the Gate and practically took the head off the nearest with his sabre, while a bolt from the woods had another. The third got nearly as far as Don Francisco before a musket shot from the stables caught him, and he toppled at André’s feet. André never even turned, he just went on driving that big bastard further and further back till his guard was all to fuck, his sword just dangling from its lanyard, he was trying to ward off the attack with his fat white hands. Then the boy started to hit him. He whipped his blade right down his chest, scoring down his red sash, then drew back and slashed down the other side, slicing right through the padded doublet, and Don Francisco was crumpling, he was falling on his knees, and still the boy was hitting him. He was saying stuff under his breath, and I couldn’t catch it, then I heard the words ‘Robert Thibault’ and knew he was saying names of all the people who’d been killed, he was making them sort of real again, then last of all he said ‘Martin Gauthier,’ and drove his sword right into Don Francisco’s throat, drove it all the way through until his guard was under that fat chin, and only then did he pull out.