In the Name of the King

by A L Berridge

  I said ‘Look, if he’s a sympathizer, fine, lots of men are. He can’t do much harm here.’

  ‘Can’t he?’

  ‘Well, if he orders us to go and stand naked in front of enemy cannon I’ll be sure to let you know.’ I finished my soup, but something in the way he watched me made me suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Have you eaten?’

  He looked away. ‘I had to see you first. Bernadette will have got me something.’

  It was dark in the corridor, but his face looked more drawn than I remembered and his cheekbones more prominent. I swore at him, went back into the room and brought out another mug. ‘Get that down you,’ I said, and thrust it at him. ‘That’s an order.’

  He drank it slowly, and I noticed the thinness of his wrists. He leaned back against the wall when he’d finished, and I realized he needed the support.

  I said ‘Jesus Christ, André.’

  He shrugged.

  I said ‘Where the fuck’s Jacques anyway, why isn’t he looking after you?’

  ‘He’s fine,’ he said, and there it was, the old soft look he always had when he talked about that thick-headed stable boy. ‘He’s in Paris, he’s fine. He’s my brother, Stefan, did you know? My grandmother’s accepting him, he’ll be Jacques de Roland by now.’

  It figured. ‘So he’s your brother and he’s in Paris. I see.’

  ‘You don’t,’ he said at once. ‘He knows I’m all right, I’ve got friends.’

  ‘I’ve seen them,’ I said. ‘Sod the beard, André, you’re the same bloody fool underneath.’

  He kept his voice expressionless. ‘Same bloody fool.’

  I took the mug back off him. ‘Well, I won’t give you away. But there aren’t going to be any more cosy little chats like this one, and I’m not getting involved.’

  He nodded. ‘I understand, caporal.’

  ‘I understand, sergeant,’ I said smugly, and went back to my room.

  It was only when I was dozing off to sleep that it finally occurred to me to wonder about the suddenness of that promotion. Looking back over the conversation, I began to wonder if there mightn’t be a reason for it I didn’t like at all.

  Bernadette Fournier

  We were in married quarters, Monsieur, for I was now Mme Thibault and must keep the pretence for my own safety.

  The other wives were older and rougher and inclined to be unfriendly, but Mme Bonnier’s husband was drinking with the NCOs so she was glad of my company and gave me much helpful advice. I had been worrying how to manage our horses, but she said our cooks would be delighted to ride like gentlemen, and since their mother Francine was our sutler, she would surely be willing to carry me in her viviandière’s wagon in recompense.

  I said ‘There will be two places then, so perhaps you would ride with me,’ but she laughed and said ‘I’m an old hand at this, my dear, I’ll not be shaming Bonnier by riding while he walks.’ I was then afraid I might shame André if I did not march, but she squeezed my hand between two strong brown ones and said ‘A pretty little thing like you? Your husband will be wanting you to save your strength for something very different.’

  She was a kind, motherly woman who meant nothing but good, but I was afraid others would share her expectation, and could not help a slight uneasiness when André returned. We had at least a palliasse to ourselves, while Grimauld had told me he must share with two others, but the nearness still concerned me. I had slept in André’s arms before, but now he must strip and I must at least undress to my chemise. Our situation was not helped by the boisterous activity of the others or the encouragement of a dreadful man with a loud voice who kept saying ‘Last night in comfort, boys and girls, there’ll be some hay made tonight.’ I looked nervously at André, but he seemed quite unembarrassed and gave me only a little conspiratorial grin as he unbuckled his belt and began to undress.

  I waited until he was under the sheet, then removed my dress and slipped quickly in beside him. He whispered ‘It’s all right, sweetheart, I won’t do anything,’ and I said at once ‘I know,’ and could not understand why a part of me felt sad. I settled beside him in my old position, with my head on his chest and my arm around his waist, but it was hard to ignore the unaccustomed warmth of his naked skin and the sensation of my breasts against his ribs, for he clearly felt the difference as much as I. After a while his body grew warmer and his breathing quicker, while a faint movement of the sheet suggested he was in discomfort below. I kept my arm steady where it was, for if I slid it any lower I knew well what I would touch.

  His whisper carried a tiny vibration of laughter. ‘I think perhaps I’d better turn over.’

  I began to withdraw, but my arm brushed lightly against his belly as it passed and I heard the involuntary quiver in his breath. It was unfair, Monsieur, unfair and cruel, for he had every right to demand my body if he chose. He had lost everything through defending me, and all I gave him back was torment.

  I laid my hand on his chest, tilted up my head and whispered ‘You don’t have to.’

  His heart beat harder beneath my palm, and I knew he understood. He whispered ‘You don’t really want to, Bernadette.’

  It was true I did not. I had been granted something denied so many richer women, the chance to give my heart with my body as if I were a single whole person, and nothing less would ever content me again. For me then as now there was only Jacques. I knew he had abandoned me for his duty, I knew by now he would have forgotten me, but I knew also he was my man until he died.

  But his brother had never abandoned me, and here was a debt to be paid. I looked in his eyes and said softly ‘You can if you like.’

  ‘If I like?’ he said, and cradled my cheek with his hand. ‘Bernadette, do you really not know how beautiful you are?’

  To him I was at that moment, and I saw it in his eyes. He was seventeen and a virgin, the woman he had waited all this time for had betrayed him, and my limbs felt suddenly weak as I realized the depth of his hunger. For perhaps two breaths we looked at each other, aware of every tiny place our bodies touched, then he bowed his head and rubbed his nose gently against mine. ‘Only Jacques would never forgive me, and neither would you.’

  I drew back to see him better. ‘And perhaps you think also of Mlle du Pré?’

  He touched his finger to my lips, said ‘Good night, my darling girl,’ then turned over and laid himself as if to sleep.

  I remember lying with his back warm against me, and wishing to laugh at my earlier folly. Here I had been pitying Grimauld that he must sleep three to a bed, but it seemed to me we had four in our own.

  Albert Grimauld

  Stefan Ravel? Ah, don’t get me started. And it’s sergeant he was next day, if you please, a-swaggering round with them great long legs of his, bawling at everyone ‘Line up there, slope your pieces regular, stop that shuffling, Grimauld’, picking on men near twice his age, oh my word. André wrote his brother to say we were safe in the care of a good friend, but it didn’t look much like it to me.

  It started at the review that morning. That’s the line-up for the étapes, see, to give the intendants the numbers to feed as we march through their territory, but there’s some very funny characters among us and I know we’re doing the old business with the passe-volants. Ah, it’s common enough, most capitaines stick a few extra men in the line to pad out the numbers and pay, but I’d never seen a do like this, never. We had sutlers and cooks in the line, we had the capitaine’s bootboy, we even had one of the rejected vagabonds with a long coat to disguise him only having one arm. Our capitaine was making good and sure people thought we’d a full complement and us only half the number.

  André was muttering all through. ‘It’s not right, Grimauld. How’s the Maréchal to order a battle if he doesn’t know how many men he’s got?’ I’m trying to shush him, but it’s no good, Ravel’s already caught him at it.

  ‘Silence in the ranks!’ he bawls, waving his cane towards André.

  The laddie starts to say ‘But –’ an
d Ravel lifts the cane to point right at his face. ‘You have something to say, soldier?’

  André glares back, and you could have fired a culverin off the look burning between them. Then he lifts his chin and says ‘No, sergeant.’

  ‘No,’ says Ravel, ‘I thought not.’ And off he strolls, slapping his cane against his leg, pleased with himself as a cradle of cats.

  But the next day, that’s something else. We stopped at Ham that night, and by the time we gets there all the logements have gone. Bernadette’s all right, she sleeps snug in the wagon with Francine the viviandière, but most of our company gets put up in halls in the château itself, nothing but hard floors and a ruddy draught. Ravel requisitions sacks and straw and gets a few of us sat stuffing palliasses, nice easy work, everyone sitting round chatting, then I see that big Caporal Charpentier’s gone and wheedled himself next to André.

  Ah, trust me, I’d had him pegged from the off, but I hadn’t seen André was just the type to appeal. He was young, kept himself clean, nicely spoken, oh just what they fancy, and Charpentier’s eyeing him like a dog that’s spotted dinner. But I hadn’t seen it and hadn’t warned him, and there’s not a thing I can do now with the man right next to us. The laddie don’t know no better, see, the caporal’s speaking him nice so he speaks nice back, and I don’t like how it’s going one bit. Next thing they’re both on their feet and Charpentier telling Ravel he’s going to take young Thibault to look for more straw.

  Ravel hesitates and I see he knows. I wait for him to tell the caporal to bugger off up his own backside, but he only says ‘All right, off you go.’

  Now that’s not right in any language, and as soon as they’re out the door I’m up to follow them, but Ravel tells me right off to stay where I am. There’s stirring all round the hall and I’m guessing everyone knows, so I say ‘Come on, sergeant,’ and stand my ground.

  For maybe the first time Ravel looks at me like I’m not just shit on his shoe, but all he says is ‘The kid can look after himself. Now go back to your work.’

  Ah, don’t you give me that, couldn’t go against an officer, could I? It don’t make no nevermind anyhow, as two minutes later the door crash-bangs open and there’s André back all by himself, straw down his front, shirt ripped at the collar, blood on his knuckles, and murder in his eyes. Ravel glances briefly up at him, and a moment later I see he’s grinning. André stamps back to his place and starts stuffing his palliasse like he’s trying to choke it, but in a little while he slows and looks up again more thoughtful. Ravel’s watching him, and when they look back down to their work again it’s both of them with that little smile. I was smiling myself next morning when I sees Charpentier with a fat lip and eyes so swollen he can’t see beyond his own nose.

  Ravel maybe had it right that time, but it was still him the real trouble came from and I saw it brewing very early. It was our lieutenant, see, he had it in for Ravel good and proper, always putting him down in front of the ranks. So much so ordinary, but Ravel was giving it back with sugar on and what’s more he was getting away with it. When Fauvel threatened to report him to the capitaine, Ravel would just say ‘Thank you, M’sieur, shall I send to tell him now?’ And there was the rub, see, because no matter what Ravel did, the capitaine always supported him. None of us could understand it, noblemen stick together tighter than herrings in a box, but it was the same with Sury, whatever them sergeants did the capitaine was right behind them. That’s unnatural and Fauvel knows it, the man was going round in a tizzy of bewilderment, and sooner or later he was going to break.

  Something was wrong, and I’m speaking as a man who knew the army all through. Ravel was wrong, Sury was wrong, and wrongest of all was our capitaine. No one was complaining of him, all just the opposite. He give us boots to our feet and warm coats to our backs, and them things meant a lot in the worst campaign weather we’d seen in years. The streams was swollen, the roads was muddy, and when we reached Champagne we’d got half Picardie sticking to our boots, but still our little company was warm and dry. By the time we got to Rethel the men were talking of Desmoulins like a holy saint.

  It weren’t just the clothing neither. After the muster we were marched off to Douzy by the Sedan, and that was a bugger if you like. There was near seven thousand of us to camp in the fields, but our capitaine got us a nice site by the river, all the company together and others of the Aubéry nearby. We had the regiment’s sutlers and cooks right there, Mass every morning, the women doing our laundry, it was like having our own little village. Discipline was tight, but the men would have died for Desmoulins them days, he could of ordered them to war against their mothers and they’d of gone.

  We talked about it one evening, the three of us. The rain had let up for a miracle and Bernadette sat scraping mud off our boots while me and André cleaned our muskets and watched the rest of the army arrive. That was Sourdis’ lot, that was, back from their little tour in the Luxembourg, and ready to muck in with the rest of us. It was cavalry first as usual, well fed and clean, I was looking forward to them seeing the churned-up sludge that was the only free bit left of the fields.

  ‘Desmoulins is plotting something,’ says André, spitting on his handkerchief to clean round the serpentine. ‘He’s not the kind of man to treat people well with no reason.’

  ‘What can he do, Chevalier?’ asks Bernadette, banging a boot on a stone to shake the caked mud off of it. ‘He is only one man and we are an army.’

  ‘But it’s not just him, is it?’ says he. ‘The whole Aubéry are being looked after.’

  ‘A good thing too then,’ says I, and meaning it. ‘No one else is.’

  ‘No,’ says André thoughtfully, flipping open the powder pan to give it a blow. ‘Morale’s very low, isn’t it?’

  He was right there. There were some cavalry still owed their fifty écus bounty for a start, and if anything can make ill feeling quicker than that I’d like to see the nose on it. The little word ‘mutiny’ comes floating up into my mind, and I don’t like what it’s doing there one bit.

  ‘All right,’ says I. ‘Say the capitaine’s looking to make himself popular for a reason. But if he is, he’s not alone. What about they sergeants, eh? What about Sury and Ravel?’

  His head’s up in a second. ‘Stefan would never touch something like that.’

  ‘Whoa there,’ says I. ‘If you say so. You know who you can trust and who you can’t.’

  He glares at me a moment, then bites his lip and looks down, and I know who he’s thinking on now. So does Bernadette, she looks at me reproachful as a nun.

  ‘Ah, don’t you worry,’ I tells him. ‘What’s one regiment in all this lot? If they was thinking of making trouble, they’ve missed their chance, haven’t they?’

  He looks up at the cavalry going by, men doing his job, the place he ought to be. ‘You’re right,’ he says, something wistful in his voice. ‘We’re all here now.’

  Jacques de Roland

  I remember that evening.

  We’d taken some forts with Sourdis, none with a garrison more than fifty, and we were all desperate for proper action. Philibert kept asking when we were going to fight some real Spaniards because he’d promised Agnès he’d bring her back a helmet. By the time we rejoined Châtillon’s army to rebuild the bridge at Douzy I was starting to think war was just about mud and being bored.

  The fields were horrible, you couldn’t ask cattle to sleep in them, so we spent the night in an alehouse in Douzy. It was stuffed elbow to elbow with moaning officers, all complaining about the weather, no support from Lorraine, the King not being here, it was worse than a village at taille time. The people of the house served us like we were evil invaders, and Gaspard wouldn’t touch his wine in case someone had spat in it.

  Crespin just thought it was all jolly camaraderie, and was soon in conversation with an elegant officer he introduced as François, Chevalier de Praslin. He was really friendly actually, as soon as he heard my name he clasped both my hands and practically kis
sed me.

  ‘Got to meet my brother,’ he said. ‘Served with your father, be thrilled, really.’

  I said ‘Wonderful, where is he?’ but Charlot’s foot nudged mine and he whispered ‘Marquis de Praslin, Lieutenant-Général of Champagne, Soissons’ former deputy, be careful.’

  ‘Right here,’ said François, and swivelled on his stool. ‘Roger! Look who I’ve got!’

  I turned in panic and saw a tall, dark-haired man sitting at a table nearby. He wore a buff tunic like an ordinary soldier, but beside him sat a grandly dressed man with a white moustache and ridiculous nut-brown wig who Charlot said was the Comte d’Aubéry, Colonel of one of the new regiments. Next were a couple of officers I didn’t know, but at the end of the table sat an elegant figure I certainly did. Desmoulins, here with the army of Châtillon.

  ‘Roger!’ called François impatiently. ‘Over here!’

  The tall man rose to join us and I got the impression he was glad to move. He stood over François, tweaked his hair, and said in a deep voice ‘What is it, Bébé, is your dinner cold?’ I suddenly missed my brother so much it hurt.

  ‘Jacques de Roland,’ said François importantly. ‘Thought you’d want to know.’

  The Marquis looked at me, and I couldn’t remember when I’d seen eyes so unhappy or a face so strained. But he sat courteously on a barrel opposite and said ‘La Rochelle. Then Trèves in ’34. Your father was a fine man, Monsieur. I was sorry to hear about your brother.’

  He’d been Soissons’ deputy, he’d been sitting with Desmoulins, but I still believed him. He talked about my father and what he was like in action, then he said ‘You were at the Saillie, weren’t you? Will you tell me what it was like under Spanish occupation?’

  I tried. I was determined to be fair at first, I said how honourable d’Estrada was and how they never really burned anything except the Manor, then I got warmed up and told him the rest of it, soldiers taking all the food, people getting raped and robbed and killed, what it was like grovelling to people who’d taken over your own land. Then I told him about André, and the difference it made having someone stand up for you. I described the raid on the gibbet and how he saluted the crowd, I even sort of gestured it, and Praslin’s eyes followed the movement like he could see the sword in the air. When I’d finished he was quiet a long time.