In the Name of the King

by A L Berridge

  The pistol was primed and loaded, but I left the musket, a matchlock’s no good in a point-and-shoot, and judging by the horses we’d four against us somewhere. We heard voices ahead, two at least in the public room and one laughing, time to stop and use the old brain, but not André, he was kicking that door open and bang through it before I could stop him.

  I’d no choice now, nothing but in and after him. First thing to do’s check the room, but André sees two men struggling with a naked girl and he’s straightway charging at them, blade out and screaming ‘Get away from her!’ in a voice I don’t hardly recognize. For a second he might be a little boy.

  They spring round at once, and ah Christ, that’s a horror of a thing that’s pawing at Bernadette. He’s off and yanking out a great broadsword, but André’s stopping for nothing, he’s bashing it aside like it’s no more than a stick and thrusting forward with his rapier, down to one knee as he lunges after the man and spits him clean through the middle.

  The plump one’s snatching for his own sword, so I punch the pistol wallop in his gut and hook his legs out from under with my boot, but there’s another out my reach, a well-set-up blond fellow who’s already drawn, he’s straight after André while the laddie’s still trying to wrench his blade out the monster, striking to skewer him where he stands.

  I yell the warning, André twists side-on to dodge the lunge and pulls desperate fast to get his sword out the thug’s guts. Too late, the blond’s already turned and whipping in at his face, but then a flash of something gold, a loud clang, André’s snatched a candlestick and smashed the blade back with it like a second sword. That’s as much as I see before something comes leaping at me from across the room, and here’s the fourth man come to play.

  I’ve nothing to swing but that pistol, but it knocks his blade wide a whole half second before it comes whizzing back in. Blue light in front of my face, then white in my mind as the shock of the cold blade opens up my neck. I’m buckling, waving wild with the pistol to keep the blade back, but something else blocks it, a rapier’s whistling past my face, André’s left the blond to come for me.

  The man backs away, but André stabs deep in his arm and I hear the cry and clatter as the sword falls. There’s blood sprayed in my eyes, but I hear the man scraping up a chair as defence and backing off, thank you, Mary and the rest of them, I hear him backing right off, then André’s hand’s on my arm and his voice says ‘Grimauld!’ and I say ‘I’m fine as Friday, now watch your fucking back.’

  He’s already doing it, already turning and swiping for the blond, but he’s not there, is he, the bastard’s used the time to back himself cosy to the wall with Bernadette, and when he sees André coming he whirls her smack in front of him, blade tight under her throat.

  André stops dead to the line, and I get ahold of myself quick. I whack my handkerchief to my neck, give a kick to the plump man on the floor to keep him down, snarl the pistol round to the one behind the chair to make sure he ruddy stays there, whirl it round again like what I should have done when I first come in, and see we’re all clear but for the blond.

  But there’s someone else down the far end and that’s my Martine, slumped in a chair with a face like dark cloud and a body not moving at all. André sees her too, and if I’d thought he couldn’t look grimmer, well I was a lot wrong. He looks back at the blond, and everything’s suddenly very quiet, nothing but the fire flickering in the hearth, and everyone staying right where they are. It’s maybe one minute since we walked in the room.

  The blond looks back at André, or I think he does, it’s hard to be sure with eyes that crooked, but either way he don’t move his blade from Bernadette’s throat.

  ‘Hello, Chevalier,’ he says pleasantly. ‘They hanged you in effigy, did you know? Your brother cried.’

  I gather this is an old friend we’ve got here, but I’m keeping my eyes on my own chicks. That rough one with the nightmare face, he’s flat on his back and the blood stopped pumping, he’s as dead as I like them. The plump man’s crouching feeble as an old maid and I think he’s safe enough. The dark one’s still behind his chair, trying to bandage up his arm, but I don’t trust the look in his eye. That’s two of the buggers I’ve to watch with one gun and one ball.

  ‘Drop your sword, Chevalier,’ says that blond, twitching his blade under Bernadette’s chin. ‘Drop your sword or I’ll slit her throat.’

  I flicked my eyes round, and oh Christ in a carriage, André was actually hesitating. Murderous bastard in front of him, two more waiting, and he’s looking at dropping his sword. Well, not on my watch he wasn’t, I socked up my forearm, levelled the barrel over it and said ‘No, you drop yours, straw-head, or I’ll put one in your eyeball.’

  The blond didn’t doubt me, but he knew André was softer. He jerked Bernadette’s head back another inch, touched the edge up against her skin, and said ‘The sword, de Roland.’

  André looked from him to me and back again, stewed up like last week’s mutton. Something was driving him I couldn’t make sense on. Every time he looked at that poor naked girlie his eyes came over with that same madness I’d seen when he leapt in.

  I said ‘She’s dead if you drop it, laddie, raped and dead. Now stand back.’

  I don’t know what got through, seemed like that word ‘rape’, but whatever it was he heard it. He blinked like coming out of a dream and slowly stepped back.

  The blond still knew his weakness. He said ‘If I put it down you’ll murder me.’

  I said ‘Yes, if he ruddy wants, now fucking drop it.’

  They went on staring at each other, hate fizzing between them like fireworks.

  ‘I won’t murder you,’ said André. ‘Let her go.’

  The blond hesitated, then very slowly he smiled. He lowered his sword, shoved Bernadette away with his knee and stepped smart back.

  She was up in a second, never even bothering to draw the rags of her chemise round her, she was up and running to her auntie, taking her hands and trying to talk to her, but I knows a dead woman when I see one and it was giving me an anger hot as André’s own. I kept that pistol hard lined on the blond’s skull and I’d have given a year’s pay to pull that trigger. I reckon he knew it too, he gave me one quick glance and placed his rapier on the floor.

  Bernadette stands and walks over to him. He don’t look so happy now, and I can’t say as I blame him, she’s got that ball-breaking look that’s a bad sign in a female. She looks at him a moment, then reaches out and rips the cloak off his cringing shoulders. She wraps it round herself, dignified as a queen, then says ‘Thank you, Chevalier. I knew you would come.’

  Bernadette Fournier

  Grimauld went straight to my aunt, and no matter what he tells you, Monsieur, there were tears in his eyes. He touched her poor dead face with his finger and I heard him say ‘Sleep well, lass.’ He was bleeding from his neck and a drop landed on her face, but I did not think she would mind it and saw the clumsy tenderness with which he wiped it away.

  André said ‘You murdering bastards.’

  Bouchard did not like that word ‘bastard’, Monsieur, his hand twitched as if it ached for the sword that lay by his feet. He said thickly ‘Not us. Lavigne’s servant killed her.’

  I said ‘But they allowed it, these men who brought him here.’

  André said ‘Then we will see them hanged.’

  D’Arsy was inserting his bloodied arm into his baldric to create a sling, but now he looked up and gave a short laugh. ‘Go near the authorities and you’ll be the one to swing.’

  André hardly glanced at him. ‘You murdered the smith’s son, you assaulted this lady, the people of the village are free to act.’

  ‘And when we denounce them?’ said Bouchard. ‘What do you think happens to peasants who harbour the King’s enemies?’

  André’s hand tightened on his sword. ‘They knew nothing, I can explain …’

  Bouchard laughed. ‘You can explain nothing. Don’t you understand, you’re outside
the law.’ He was right, Monsieur. Grimauld and the Chevalier held the weapons, but it was this man and his friends who held the power.

  ‘All right,’ said Grimauld. He straightened and moved away from my aunt’s chair. ‘Forget the law, just kill them like the filth they are.’ He held the pistol in one hand, d’Arsy’s sword in the other, and the grooves of his wrinkled face had sharpened into dark, hard lines.

  Lavigne scrambled up in alarm, and d’Arsy’s hand fell slowly away from his sling.

  Bouchard turned to André. ‘That’s murder. You can’t kill unarmed men.’

  André hesitated, then said softly ‘You’re right.’ He stooped to pick up Bouchard’s rapier, reversed it and offered him the hilt. ‘Take it, we’ll fight fair.’

  Bouchard made no move. Outside I heard the faint rattle of the woodcutter’s cart as he drove past towards his home.

  ‘You can’t refuse,’ said André.

  Bouchard moistened his lips. ‘I can. You’re an outlaw.’

  ‘And what are you?’ said André. He thrust the sword again at Bouchard, his face suddenly desperate. ‘Take it, haven’t you any honour?’

  D’Arsy stepped forward, a new seriousness in his expression. ‘You must, Bouchard. We all must.’

  ‘No,’ said Bouchard furiously. ‘Don’t you understand? He’ll kill us one by one.’

  André glared in frustration. Then he laid down the sword and slapped Bouchard full across the face.

  The crack of it was shocking, and d’Arsy winced as if he had been struck himself. Bouchard stood with his cheek scarlet from the blow, then raised his hand to his mouth, looked at the tiny spot of blood, then stuck out the tip of his tongue and licked it clean away.

  He said ‘You have no idea how much you are going to regret that, Chevalier.’

  ‘Then make me,’ said André. He tried to force the hilt into Bouchard’s hand, but he only opened his fingers and let it fall. The rapier rolled noisily on the stone floor then bumped into a chair leg and was still.

  André bent to retrieve it, weighed it in both hands, then broke it savagely across his knee. He threw the pieces away from him and lowered his head in a silence of defeat.

  ‘Just stick him,’ said Grimauld wearily. ‘Make the earth cleaner and –’

  He was looking at Bouchard, Monsieur, he was looking the wrong way. Lavigne threw himself at his back, jerking the pistol from his hand so that it struck the floor and fired with a great bang. Grimauld swung round, but Lavigne was already running for the back door, d’Arsy fast after him, while in two strides Bouchard was at the front door and out of reach of André’s sword. André leapt after him, but the door was broken, Bouchard had only to kick it and slip past. They were all fled and we had not so much as the pistol to bring them down.

  André smacked his fist against the table and bowed his head. I will not repeat what Grimauld said, Monsieur, but I understood what he felt. I remember listening helplessly to the horses moving away outside.

  ‘I’m sorry, Bernadette,’ said André. ‘I’ve brought all this on you. Your aunt. Adam.’

  Grief is for later, I needed him to act. ‘Do not think of this now. Those men will bring troops, we must get away while we can.’

  He shook his head. ‘This is your home now, there’s your aunt to see to. I’ll go alone.’

  ‘She ain’t staying here, laddie,’ said Grimauld. ‘Nor me neither. They’ll say we harboured you, we’re all on the run now.’

  His roughness did what my words had not and seemed to wake André into urgency.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, straightening and ramming his sword into his belt. ‘Yes. Bernadette, do you have another dress to put on? Grimauld and I will pack saddlebags for the –’

  He stopped. He had started to be the Chevalier again, and now he stood still with a face suddenly grey. He said ‘Grimauld, when we arrived, there were guns on those horses, weren’t there?’

  Grimauld looked at him, and now his face too was becoming ash. ‘Muskets.’

  André turned quickly to the first window, looked outside, then pulled the shutters closed.

  I said ‘What are you doing? We need to go now.’

  Grimauld went to the other window and peered cautiously through.

  André said gently ‘What would you do if you were those gentlemen, Bernadette? If you knew where we were and that we would have to come out? And if you had guns?’

  Grimauld pulled the last shutters closed. The room was darkened but for the fire, and I was looking at two pale faces lit only by the flicker of flame.

  Eleven

  Bernadette Fournier

  I ran upstairs to dress, and even then I was afraid. We could not watch all places, I could not be sure a man had not entered while we talked and was now waiting in the shadows of my aunt’s room or creeping towards me up the stairs. My aunt had a long mirror, and I dressed in front of it that I might see what lay behind me as I worked. The single second while my dress was over my head seemed the longest I have ever lived.

  When I came again down the stairs the house was secured and dark, and Grimauld was holding a candle to light André’s passage to the kitchen. I thought they would barricade the back door as they had the front, but Grimauld took up guard while André pulled it open.

  I said ‘You cannot, Chevalier, they may be round this side.’

  He peered out. ‘We’ve discharged the pistol, I need the muskets and ammunition from the stable.’

  He leapt out into the yard, my view of him lost as Grimauld pushed the door half-closed behind him. I heard his footsteps pelting for the stable.

  I said ‘You should not have let him.’

  Grimauld kept his eyes fixed on the gap in the door. ‘I’d like to see anyone stopping him. There now, he’s in.’ I heard the distant thud of the stable door.

  I said ‘They might be too, that’s how they got Adam.’

  He took his hand off the sword hilt, flexed his fingers, then grasped it again. ‘They’d have had to think quick for that, my poppet. They’d got to move the horses, get the guns, come up with a plan, and they weren’t in the best of states to start with.’

  I could not see round his body to what was outside. ‘Is the gate open?’

  ‘We never closed it when we come in.’

  I stared at his shoulder, hunched and tense against the wall. ‘If they shoot him …’

  He shifted his weight to the other leg. ‘Do me a favour and shut up.’

  There came again the little thud, and Grimauld’s voice seemed lighter. ‘He’s got them.’

  I felt myself relax. ‘Perhaps we are wrong, and they –’

  He straightened so quickly his elbow struck my arm, he wrenched open the door and bellowed ‘Run!’ Evening light washed in, Grimauld thrust me back, I heard running footsteps then the bark of a musket. The pounding feet faltered but kept coming, someone shouted, then a dark shape hurtled through into the kitchen, a musket clattered across the floor, and Grimauld slammed the door shut so that the bang and the darkness came as one.

  As my eyes adjusted again to the gloom, I heard the rattle and clunk of the bolts sliding home, and then the most extraordinary sound, Monsieur, for someone was laughing. André was sitting on the floor clutching his leg and laughing like a boy, and I distinctly heard him say ‘Ow, fuck,’ before he turned and said hastily ‘Sorry, Bernadette.’

  His boot was gashed and the hose bloody, but he ran his finger over the grazed skin and showed me how slight a smear it made. ‘Look,’ he said, grinning up at me. ‘It’s nothing.’

  Grimauld retrieved the musket from the floor. ‘How much powder?’

  André tossed him a flask and sat cross-legged to load the second musket himself. ‘We can hold here for half an hour. We can’t wait longer in case one of them’s gone for the troops.’

  They seemed quite unperturbed, the two of them, soldiers performing a task that was quite routine. I said ‘Then we are trapped. We cannot go for fear of the guns, we cannot stay for fear of th
e troops.’

  ‘It’s nearly dark,’ said André. He slid out his ramrod and gave me a quick smile. ‘When the woodsmen come by for Vespers we’ll just stroll out among them. Not even Bouchard will risk picking us off in front of a dozen witnesses.’

  Albert Grimauld

  Ah, but there was other things they could do and I ought to of seen it, but I’d a few other things on my mind just then. Me and Bernadette were laying out Martine nice with flowers from the baskets, because we might not be here when they buried her but I was fucked fifty ways to Freiburg if I was having people think no one cared.

  So we lays her out and Bernadette says a little prayer, then suddenly bang there’s this ruddy great thump above our heads. Whatever it is goes rolling down the roof and bumping over the bindings, then I hear another hit overhead in the passage. Something’s crackling right above us, and a smell a man in my line knows as well as his own sweat. Naphtha, laddie, naphtha, the quickest way to make a fire there is, and that’s just what it’s doing not two feet above my head.

  I grab Bernadette out of it sharp, because that’s the weakness of thatch, see, snugger and drier by far nor slate, but not what you want to be standing under when it’s going up like a bonfire. I yank her down the stairs and there’s André calling for us, smoke oozing out the public room behind him. They’ve forced a shutter somewhere and chucked a torch inside, they’re after smoking us like so many eels.

  ‘I think we won’t wait for Vespers, Grimauld,’ says André. ‘I think we’ll go now.’

  Bernadette says ‘We can wait. People will see the smoke, someone will come.’

  He puts his hand on her arm very gentle, like closing the lids of someone dead. ‘That’s why we must go now. It won’t be a crowd, it’ll be only one or two at first, and you know what these people will do then. We don’t want another Adam.’