In the Name of the King

by A L Berridge

  So the day comes, and up goes a whipping post right by our tents. The capitaine’s pleaded an officers’ conference, but Fauvel’s there like sodding Solomon, Ravel’s there to keep the men facing front, Bernadette’s there with her bowl of vinegar water, and André’s there, white as he’s going to puke, fists screwed into balls by his side. I’m worried he’ll do something daft, so I tip him a wink, shake off the archers, and step up to the post myself.

  The executioner ties my wrists, I turn my cheek to one side of the upright, and close my eyes. Charpentier wedges the strap of leather in my mouth, and I bite down hard. Tastes like dried shit.

  The drummer boy gives his roll. Fauvel reads the sentence, two dozen lashes, ‘Executioner, do your duty.’ Ravel’s voice behind me, steady as a priest, ‘Keep your head up, Thibault.’ I take in a half-breath and –

  Stefan Ravel

  – crack against his naked back. They never cry with the first blow, Abbé, the wind’s smashed out of their lungs. ‘One,’ said Sury. Twenty-three more to go.

  André was in trouble after four, I saw him look away. No, I didn’t yell at him, the first flogging’s bad for anyone, especially when it’s someone you know. Bonnier was looking wide too, he won’t have seen more than the executioner’s arm. Poor Michaud was trying to set an example, but his freckled face was pale and at the next crack I saw him bite his lip.

  ‘Six,’ said Sury. That’s a bad stage, the welts start to swell up scarlet, the whip’s coming down on raw flesh. Grimauld was a wiry build, strong muscular back, but the skin was beading blood and the eighth blow set it flowing. His feet shifted, he was feeling it hard. André flinched with the ninth cut and closed his fists tighter.

  ‘Dozen,’ said Sury. I saw him shift his tobacco from one cheek to the other.

  The whip came back for the thirteenth and a tiny spray of blood flew out from its tails. André squeezed his eyes tight shut, but I doubt it helped, we could still hear it. The lashing sounded duller now, heavier and wetter. The man’s back was a mess.

  ‘Fifteen,’ said Sury.

  The seventeenth must have caught just wrong, we all heard the sucking in of breath. André’s eyes snapped open, but he didn’t move out of line, just stared at Grimauld, willing him to keep going and not cry. It was a close thing now. Grimauld’s shoulders twitched with the eighteenth, and there was another sob of breath before he settled.

  ‘Nineteen,’ said Sury.

  It was bad by then, blood oozing down on to the grass. André’s face was white.

  ‘You do not attend, Ravel,’ said Fauvel.

  Flat-faced bastard. I turned away from André and prayed he’d stay sensible one minute longer.

  ‘Twenty-one,’ said Sury. We were on the last stretch, the man wouldn’t break now. There was a perceptible shift in the ranks, a relaxation of tension. Michaud lifted his head and made a dismal attempt to look more like an officer. There was no sound at all from André, and I’d have given a lot to look round.

  ‘Twenty-three,’ said Sury, the relief clear in his voice. He didn’t like brutality, never had. One last crack, a smacking loud one, and he turned to Fauvel while the sound was still heavy in the air. ‘Two dozen, M’sieur.’

  Fauvel signalled Charpentier to cut the man down. He folded at the knees, of course, it’s the relief as much as the pain, and I’ll admit to feeling much the same myself. The miracle had happened, André had behaved himself, and the danger was over.

  I said ‘Parade dismissed.’ There were the usual murmurs of ‘Well done’ and ‘Sod the bastards’ and some even applauded as Grimauld was helped to his little nurse.

  Fauvel snapped ‘Silence in the ranks!’

  I don’t know, maybe relief made me careless. I said ‘Come on, M’sieur, have a heart for once. The man’s taken punishment without a sound.’

  He reddened shockingly, but then an unpleasant gleam flared in those flat lizard’s eyes. ‘I suppose that would seem impressive to you. I heard how your brother behaved in the gauntlet.’

  I think the men were still clapping and calling out round us, but I only heard this filthy bastard insulting my dead brother. ‘What did you say?’

  His mouth stretched into a smile. ‘Begging and screaming, isn’t that right, Sury? Even the men in the line were ashamed.’

  Bernadette Fournier

  The sudden silence made me look up. M. Ravel stood still and expressionless, then his fist shot out and landed a great punch on the lieutenant’s jaw.

  The archers ran at once to restrain him, but M. Fauvel was already skittering backwards, landing on the grass in a heap of fine breeches and polished boots. It was chaos, Monsieur, men crowding and blocking my view, but through their legs I saw distant movement not of men but of horses. Riders were approaching down the rows of tents, and the company quietened as they saw one was our own Capitaine Desmoulins.

  M. Fauvel furiously brushed down his clothing as M. Sury bellowed the parade back to order. The men hastened to reform the ranks, for these were senior capitaines of our regiment and with them Colonel Aubéry himself. There was also a tall man I had heard called the Marquis de Praslin, but he held himself apart from the rest as if they had quarrelled.

  Desmoulins said ‘What the devil’s going on, cousin, are we now to fight each other?’

  I kept my head very low. The Chevalier had met him only twice and was anyway changed beyond recognition, but I was a different matter.

  M. Fauvel’s voice was rough as he answered, and I saw blood on his chin. ‘This animal struck me, M’sieur, and I demand he answer for it.’

  Desmoulins said ‘Dear, dear,’ then looked towards the other sergeant. ‘Was there no provocation, Sury?’

  M. Sury said ‘None, M’sieur. Ravel just went for him.’

  There was a murmur of surprise among our soldiers, while M. Ravel strained in the arms of the men who held him and yelled ‘You lying bastard!’

  Desmoulins gave a fastidious grimace. ‘Then you’d better have him taken to the provost, hadn’t you? We’ll have his hand cut off before he’s shot.’

  The Marquis turned to our colonel. ‘Very bad for morale, Aubéry. We could be asking these men to give battle tomorrow. Was there really no excuse?’

  The colonel nodded at Desmoulins, who at once addressed the parade. ‘Well? Does anyone wish to contradict my officers? Michaud?’

  The poor enseign could only mumble that he did not know, he had not heard the argument. It may even have been true, for he was a long way back.

  ‘Charpentier?’ said Desmoulins, hardly bothering to suppress a yawn.

  The caporal was quick to confirm what Sury had said, oh, very quick, for there was bad feeling between himself and M. Ravel as we all knew.

  Desmoulins bowed to the Marquis. ‘A tragedy, Monseigneur, but since no one has anything to add –’

  A voice said ‘I do.’

  All eyes turned back to the parade as a single man stepped from the ranks. I knew who it would be, and so did Grimauld, for he was struggling to his knees, muttering ‘No, laddie, Christ, no.’

  Desmoulins looked only irritated. ‘And what can you add, fellow?’

  He did not hesitate. ‘M. Ravel was deliberately provoked, and if he’s executed then it’s nothing short of murder.’

  Everything was quiet. I remember the evening breeze riffling the long grass by the hedges, and the soft ripple of the river. When the Marquis bent forward in his saddle the creak of leather seemed very loud.

  ‘You have heard your officer say there was no provocation?’

  ‘I have, Monseigneur,’ said André, still in the rough voice of Thibault. ‘And I say Lieutenant Fauvel is a liar.’

  Albert Grimauld

  Ah, Christ in a cannonball, you’d of thought he actually wanted to be killed.

  Fauvel can’t believe it neither. He turns red as a pan of lobsters and screams ‘Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?’

  André brushes his hand across his collar like to wipe away
Fauvel’s spit. ‘I think I’ve already made that clear.’

  The officers giggle like children at that one, and Fauvel goes flat mad, he’s out with his hand and whack across the laddie’s face.

  André rocks on his heels, but it’s only his head cracks round a second then turns straight back. His cheek’s stinging red, but he looks at Fauvel and smiles. That’s a touch of the old aristocrat, and maybe not so clever with Desmoulins close as he is, but like the rest of them he’s only got eyes for Fauvel.

  ‘You forget yourself, Lieutenant,’ says he, very stern. ‘You can’t strike an enlisted man.’

  Fauvel looks bewildered. ‘Monsieur, you all heard it, the man impugned my honour.’

  ‘Then take it back,’ says André, sounding more common nor what I do myself. ‘Take back your lies and let M. Ravel go.’

  ‘The démenti, by God!’ says Aubéry. ‘Who says there’s no honour in our army?’ He chuckles, bends down to the laddie and says ‘Will you fight him for it, soldier?’

  André says ‘Yes, Sieur, I will.’

  Them officers are all but pissing themselves now. Our men ain’t laughing though, and neither’s Ravel. He’s staring at André and looking tense as a bowstring.

  The Marquis looks at the laddie thoughtful, then says ‘There’s precedent, you know, Aubéry, if your man’s up to it.’

  Fauvel says thickly ‘Oh, I’m up to it, Monseigneur. Just give me the word.’

  ‘That is for your capitaine,’ says the Marquis coldly. ‘What do you say, Desmoulins? Your officer wins, he proves his honour and punishes the soldier as he sees fit. The soldier wins, he proves the lie, and you spare the sergeant’s life.’

  Desmoulins considers Fauvel, and I know the rumours are right, he’d be happy to see his own cousin dead. ‘Very well, lieutenant, you may waive your rank for the occasion.’

  Another officer says ‘God, yes, Desmoulins, I’ll put up twenty pistoles to see it. Who’ll give me ten on the boy?’

  Ah, they’re so clever and funny, these gentlemen, betting their money on my laddie’s life. The Marquis ignores them and says ‘Just to first blood, of course.’

  ‘Of course, Monseigneur,’ says Fauvel proudly. ‘All by the rules.’

  He bows, stands back, and snaps his fingers for Michaud and Sury to come and squire him. André’s got no one a-course, everyone standing back like he’s a leper, and I have to keep tight hold of Bernadette to stop her rushing out to help him right under Desmoulins’ nose. It’s hard though, watching the laddie standing all by himself with nowhere to put his things but the wet grass. Ravel thinks so too, he’s back struggling with the archers, saying ‘Oh, fuck off, I’m only going to hold his bloody coat.’

  The colonel chuckles again and orders them to release him. ‘Rather fitting, don’t you think?’ he says to Desmoulins. ‘He is the prize, after all.’

  Stefan Ravel

  Don’t ask. I was so torn up by that time I don’t know what I felt myself.

  André didn’t seem comfortable either. He passed me the sword without meeting my eye and bent his neck to work the bandolier over his head.

  ‘You bloody little fool,’ I said under my breath. ‘When are you going to learn to keep your mouth shut?’

  He passed me the bandolier. ‘Maybe when you learn to keep your hands to yourself.’

  ‘I’m not the one meant to be acting inconspicuous.’

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ he said, undoing his coat. ‘I won’t fight like a gentleman.’

  I lifted his hair to unravel his stock. ‘I don’t give a fuck as long as you win.’

  ‘Worried?’

  I kept on unwinding. ‘Should I be?’

  He unbuttoned along his sleeves. ‘I’m a bit rusty actually. Our bastard sergeant never gave us any sword drill.’

  ‘Ready!’ called Sury impatiently.

  I gave him a nice look, just to make sure he understood what he’d got coming if I survived. ‘One minute!’

  André stripped off his coat, rolled up his shirtsleeves and reached for the sword. It was standard infantry issue, hardly what André de Roland was used to, but I gave it him anyway then stood back. His cheek was still red where Fauvel had slapped him.

  He said ‘Stefan …’

  I said ‘Beat the bastard for me, will you?’

  He hesitated, gave me a nod, then walked past to face Fauvel.

  He looked fresh from the salles, our noble lieutenant, immaculate linen, polished little shoes pointed in a perfect fencing-school square. André shambled up to take position opposite, feet stuck any old how, sword brandished in his fist as if he’d never used one in his life. I smiled to myself and went to stand by Michaud and Sury. My old friend wisely backed out of reach, but Michaud looked up at me with distress and whispered ‘I’m sorry, Ravel.’

  ‘What for?’ They were going through the opening moves now, Fauvel with stiff precision, André in clumsy imitation.

  ‘I lied,’ said Michaud. ‘I did hear the argument, I lied.’

  Fifteen years old, and on his first commission. ‘Shocking,’ I said. ‘You’ll never make lieutenant that way.’

  He risked a little grin, but his eyes stayed sad. ‘Thibault didn’t lie.’

  I looked back at the travesty of a duel. ‘Thibault,’ I said, ‘is the biggest liar on this field.’

  Albert Grimauld

  You’d of thought the laddie had no idea of it. He’d his sword stuck out like a pin looking for a cushion, watching Fauvel weave about like he’d never seen such a thing in his life. But I knew better. He was watching and waiting, luring Fauvel into doing it clever, and all the time he was learning what he’d got to beat.

  Fauvel tires of it, he feints at the throat then drops sharp to the chest, and André just goes wallop and bashes him out of it. Fauvel shakes his wrist like to clear the jar out of it, but he can’t be beat by nothing so simple, he’s in again sliding and teasing like a snake, trying to draw out the laddie’s blade, and then whoosh André’s in, straight under and clean thrust at the body. Fauvel can’t do nothing but hit out himself, slash, slash, crash, and that’s torn it to buggery and back, his tempered steel’s gone smashing into the laddie’s sword, and broke the brittle blade clear in two.

  The officers shout in protest, and Fauvel’s forced to step back. André drops his hilt and looks round hopelessly, but the Marquis draws his own sword, calls ‘Try this one,’ and chucks it in the air.

  And André catches it. Sharp-edged steel whizzing towards him, but he times it perfect, hand up and neat through the guard as it falls. There’s a murmur among the gentlemen, and I’m thinking ‘Whoa, that’s a mistake,’ but the Marquis turns to Aubéry and says ‘I think this could be interesting.’

  Fauvel scowls. I hear him say ‘Takes more than a fine sword to make a swordsman, Thibault,’ and André smiles at him loving and says ‘Oh, I believe you.’

  Then they’re in. Ding-dong, bang-smash, steel against steel, the sparks are flying blue. André’s playing it canny, beating the man’s tricks the simplest way he knows how, but that’s a game he can’t play long and live. Fauvel’s coming in fast now, left hand flung out for balance, stamp and thrust, stamp and thrust, and now André’s got no choice, he sends the man back once, ting, then again, clang, then a third time, sliding his blade along Fauvel’s, hooking it out from under, forcing it up, up, up, then in like a white flash with his point, jumping back, lowering his blade, game finished, all done.

  ‘Fight, man!’ says one of they capitaines. ‘I’ve got money on you, go in and fight!’

  André bows. ‘If Monsieur will ask the lieutenant to open his hand.’

  They stare at Fauvel, who’s still waving his sword like to say ‘Come on, come on, I’m ready for you.’

  ‘Show your hand, Fauvel,’ says Desmoulins, so bored it’s a wonder he ain’t asleep.

  Fauvel looks at him like a man betrayed, then slowly, reluctantly, he brings forward his left hand and opens the fist. And there it is, a thin line o
f scarlet scored down the palm.

  ‘First blood, by God!’ cries Aubéry, and the gentlemen give a great shout of laughter. Our own men laugh too, and in the middle of it all Fauvel stares stupidly at his own hand and flushes red to his ears. He looks up and stares first at André, who’s turning away to collect his coat, then at Ravel, who’s watching him with that sardonic look on his face, but then Ravel’s arms are dropping, his mouth’s opening, Bernadette’s crying out next to me and –

  Bernadette Fournier

  – M. Fauvel simply charged, Monsieur, he threw himself with a scream of rage straight at the Chevalier’s back. Perhaps it was M. Ravel he was after, I could not say, only that André ducked and spun round on his heel, his sword coming up so fast I did not see it, but heard only the crash as the blades met.

  But M. Fauvel was like a man possessed of a devil, or perhaps one driven mad with shame, and André now needed all his skill to fight for his very life. There was no more laughter from the watchers, no sound at all but the clash of blades and the scraping of steel, the panting of their breath and stamp of their feet on the damp turf. No one called out, no one tried to stop them, for this was two men fighting to the death and that is something in which no one interferes. The Marquis dismounted indeed, but only to stand empty-handed by his horse and watch the contest with sad eyes.

  It was not pretty, Monsieur. They were hacking at one another, I saw M. Fauvel’s sword slash down the Chevalier’s arm so that the blood ran, I saw André punch forward with his guard so that M. Fauvel staggered backwards with his ear bloodied. Time and again I saw M. Fauvel plunge forward with his blade, and almost I saw André spitted and dead, impaled on the driven sword.

  ‘Easy, my poppet,’ said Grimauld, as I wound another bandage hard about him. ‘I ain’t the ruddy enemy.’

  M. Ravel was quite as distraught as I, half-stepping forward, stepping back, shaking his head, desperate with need to help a man who would not be helped. Then his face changed, and he started forward abruptly as –

  Stefan Ravel

  – the bastard tripped him, then thrust in hard with his sword. It was aimed at his face, but André twisted even as he stumbled, sword up to swat the blow aside and in straight at the guts, which were all he could reach as he went down. Fauvel screamed in agony as the blade sheered clear, then collapsed to his knees, pressing his hands against his belly. André straightened and lowered his sword, and Sury yelled for a surgeon.