In the Name of the King

by A L Berridge

  Stefan Ravel

  He’d had it. His footwork was faltering, he was gasping with effort as he fought the next man. He got him, of course, manacle to stun him, sword to cut him down, but he couldn’t disguise the tremble in his knee, it was right in front of my face.

  I said ‘Time to come down.’

  ‘Not till everyone’s out.’

  Young Michaud called across the path ‘It’s all right, Chevalier, I’ll take over,’ and started clambering up on his own wagon.

  ‘No!’ shouted André. ‘No, enseign, get back down!’

  Michaud just waved and stood gingerly upright. The fools at his wagon actually clapped him, and the kid blushed all over his freckled face.

  ‘No!’ yelled André. ‘Please, Michaud, you can’t …’

  Hooves again, more of the bastards streaming in both sides, yelling to give themselves courage. It was my turn, I shouted ‘Three!’ and fired, or rather I pulled the trigger, got a flash in the pan, then nothing. Misfire, and the riders weren’t half down, I yelled ‘One!’ and prayed they were ready. We got off maybe four shots, but there were three riders already past our sightline, pistols blazing as they came. André struck out at the first, beyond him Michaud engaged the next, but the third was loose, belting up to help his colleague with André.

  I straddled the side of the wagon and swung my musket like a club. It wasn’t my best effort, I got the horse whack across the face, but it discouraged the bastard and gave me time to yell ‘Two!’ More were coming through, but André had beaten his man’s blade and was already thrusting home.

  ‘The pistol!’ I yelled, bashing my man back again. ‘Get his fucking pistol!’

  He leaned precariously forward for the dead man’s holster. Behind him the third horseman sent poor Michaud spinning to the ground, then swerved round at André while he was still off balance. The kid swiped wildly at him and chucked me the pistol, but the barrel was warm, the fucking thing was empty and my own man stabbing in like fucking lightning – then his face cracked open in a bang of gunfire right in front of me, blood and bone spraying over his horse’s neck. Men were riding in behind us firing pistols and it seemed we’d acquired cavalry of our own.

  It wasn’t our army, of course, there were only about ten, but there suddenly wasn’t a live enemy our side of the cart. I shoved the pistol in my belt, wiped the blood from my cheek, and dragged my leg back over the side of the wagon so I could sit rather than straddle. I was soldier enough to start reloading my musket, but I’ll be honest, Abbé, my hands were shaking. André lowered himself beside me, and I doubt he’d the strength to stand another minute.

  The newcomers were fanning out, three either side of the fodder cart, while the others were already reloading their pistols. One looked round frantically as he did it, then urged his mount straight at us.

  He said ‘It’s gone quiet now, get out and we’ll cover you.’

  André swung round. ‘Don’t you tell me …’

  He stopped as suddenly as if he’d been shot. I turned to look at the rider.

  He was a handsome young bastard, but I didn’t see anything to stare at. Nobility, of course, it screamed from the manicured hands and barbered beard, then I saw the bright blue eyes and the scar on the cheek, and suddenly the man before me was unexpectedly familiar. Our erstwhile stable boy, Abbé. Jacques Gilbert.

  I said ‘And where the fuck have you been?’

  Jacques de Roland

  Sod Stefan, I didn’t know what he was doing here and didn’t care. I reached for the boy, but he backed away and said ‘I can’t, the civilians …’

  We’d saved him with less than a second to spare, I’d found him and got him back and his bloody stupid honour was going to get him killed right in front of me. I said ‘They’re all out except those in the wagons. We’ll hold here, take the musketeers and go.’

  ‘Come on, little general,’ said Stefan, actually being helpful for once. ‘They’ll need us to cover the last retreat.’

  That did it. André nodded, squeezed my hand, then turned to the musketeers. I watched him checking the fallen, helping the wounded towards the tunnel, and for a second I felt the old glamour of it, the belief that honour mattered and someone like André could make a difference. The cold steel of the pistol in my hand brought me back to reality. I finished reloading and joined Charlot by the fodder cart.

  There seemed to be a lull back in the enclosure, and when I peered round everything looked more controlled than before. Naked women were huddled together but there was no one molesting them now, while a man in magnificent armour was calling on the troops to leave the civilians alone. A foreign-sounding horseman was doing the same, a man with an open helmet who was waving a sword in his left hand, and when he turned his head I recognized d’Estrada.

  I slammed back fast. It wouldn’t have made any difference if he’d seen me, but you don’t hide from someone for four years and react any other way. At least André hadn’t seen him, he was leading the last musketeers towards the tunnel and never turned round.

  But angry voices were rising in the enclosure, argument and recrimination. I risked another peep and saw officers gathered round a broken wagon, questioning a bunch of troopers who were shouting and gesturing, then one of them pointed our way. Horses started to turn, an officer drew his pistol and others did the same. They were gathering for another bloody charge.

  I yelled a warning to the others, levelled my pistol and waited.

  Bernadette Fournier

  The last of our unarmed people were through, and we were scrambling down to take our turn. The Chevalier himself ran back from the barricade with the remnants of our soldiers, and oh, Monsieur, out of a hundred men there were left perhaps twenty. They ranged themselves either side of the tunnel for one last stand, while M. Ravel shouted at us to move faster, for our small cavalry were holding the barricade alone.

  This was no orderly departure now, Monsieur, women dropped their guns and threw themselves over the sides of the wagons in their haste to be gone. I went to help Mme Bonnier, but she was dead, she and her poor little baby inside her, a ball must have struck her as she lay helpless and wounded. André came himself to lift down M. Fauvel, but the lieutenant struck away his hands and said he would not come. The effort of speech spattered his chin with blood and spit, but his eyes were fierce and he clenched his musket as if it were all that mattered in the world.

  ‘There’s time,’ said André. ‘Everyone’s safe, we’ve time to take you.’

  M. Fauvel said hoarsely ‘Damn you, leave me this, can’t you?’

  They stared at each other, then André took M. Fauvel’s free hand and said something so softly I could not hear. M. Fauvel pressed his hand in return and I thought his face seemed calmer.

  I snatched up our own bundles and André lifted me down, for gunfire was banging again from our barricade. M. Ravel bellowed towards it that all was clear, then smacked his palm between my shoulder blades to propel me down the tunnel between the wagons. I was almost the very last, Monsieur, with me were only the smith and Francine’s sons leading the Chevalier’s horses, which seemed unusually heavily laden. We hurried together with panicked urgency and stumbled suddenly into the startling openness of the fields outside.

  Around me was the clear space of the real world. A sky that was not grey with gunsmoke, pasture with the distant brown shapes of cattle, a village beyond, the spire of a church, and curling all about it a ribbon of white chalk I recognized as the road we had left little more than an hour ago. I remember the scarlet poppies in the grass.

  Ahead of me a dwindling line of our people was running towards the safety of the forest, but I remained outside the wagons to wait for the end. First came Grimauld waving his arms and screaming at me to get out of the way, then the ground shook to the impact of hooves as our cavalry hurtled out of the opening. Behind them came one more volley of gunfire as our musketeers discharged their final round to discourage the pursuit.

  Grimauld grabbed and
pressed me against him as the horses swept by. His bandaged chest was moist with blood and sweat, and his bony arm cold and clammy, but his nearness was a comfort and it steadied me. I said ‘Is André there yet, Grimauld? Is André there?’

  ‘Coming now, my poppet,’ his voice said above me. ‘Any minute now.’

  I saw the legs of horses shifting restlessly nearby and knew some of our cavalry were also waiting for the infantry. They were coming, I heard men running, and wrenched my head from Grimauld’s chest to see them spilling out on to the field. All but André, I did not see André, but then two more figures appeared between the wagons, and the big one was M. Ravel and the slighter was laughing as he ran.

  ‘Now!’ said Grimauld, but I heard hooves, a horseman close behind them, and my heart leapt in terror at the sound of a shot. Yet André did not fall, neither did M. Ravel, and as they emerged into the field I saw behind them a horse bolting with fright, its Sedanaise rider dead on its back. Then I remembered M. Fauvel and thanked God for him, for he was a brave man.

  I ran then with Grimauld, for we did not know if the pursuit would follow us even over the fields. Our horsemen seemed to fear it too, for the largest reached down a great arm and hoisted a protesting André up into the saddle before him, and as he galloped past I recognized the Comtesse’s servant Charlot. Another man rode hard behind him, and this one I knew even better, for it was Jacques, Monsieur, Jacques Gilbert himself, shouting and waving a bloodied sword like the noblest warrior I had ever seen.

  Stefan Ravel

  No one lifted me, Abbé, I ran with all the other scum, but you’ll be glad to know I made it unscathed. I heard a couple of half-hearted shots fired after us, but no one bothered to follow. A few poor devils of running infantry weren’t worth anyone’s powder, and no one was going to be arsed to hunt us through the woods.

  It was just as well as it turned out, since a good hundred of our civilians had decided to flop on the ground to wait for us rather than running sensibly for the nearest village. I knew what they were after. As André slid off his friend’s horse and started to wander through the crowd there wasn’t a single face that didn’t turn to follow him, and every one with the same dumb, trusting expression. I’d been here before, Abbé, I knew the signs. André had just acquired another hundred hostages to sling round his eighteen-year-old neck.

  He didn’t see it himself, of course, he was heading for Jacques, who was already dismounted and coming forward to meet the boy I now knew was his brother. I dug out my flask, had a good long suck, and leaned against a tree to watch.

  They didn’t say anything at first, just gazed at each other in silence. Then Jacques cleared his throat and said ‘That’s a fucking terrible beard.’

  André’s mouth quivered. ‘Better than yours.’

  Jacques gave a little smile that was almost shy, and I’d have known him then, Abbé, I’d have known him anywhere. A blink, no more, then they were hugging each other fiercely, almost bowling themselves over with the force of it. Jacques was saying something, but I didn’t really catch it, only the words ‘bloody, bloody, bloody’ over and over again.

  I strolled to the edge of the trees to take stock of our position. The sun was almost directly overhead, and I guessed we were pretty well on midday. An hour ago we’d been sat comfortably in a baggage wagon with eleven thousand King’s troops confidently marching to beat back the invaders. Now we were the battered remnants of a beaten army, and the raggedness of the distant gunfire suggested that what was happening around us resembled a hunt more than a battle. I know defeat when I hear it, and the triumphant whoops from the captured baggage train seemed to drift like smoke all over the green Champagne fields, which were maybe Sedanaise now, or Spanish, or Westphalian, or anyone’s other than ours.

  An hour, Abbé. Sometimes that’s all it takes to change the world.

  Seventeen

  Carlos Corvacho

  So he was that close, was he, Señor? Bless me, that would have amused my Capitán, he said so all along. We’d guessed the prisoners would be in the baggage train, and as soon as he saw the organized way someone was getting the civilians out he said ‘Carlos, I’ll lay you fifty pistoles that’s the Chevalier.’

  He was even more sure when we saw the voiture broken into and half the money gone. He said ‘Looting troops would just take the caisse and run. Who but de Roland would go to the trouble of shutting it up and putting the padlocks back on to delay us?’ But there was nothing to be done about it now, Señor. We weren’t going to chase after harmless women and children, not when they’d have got the money out first and halfway to Mézières by now.

  So we set off to report to Monsieur le Comte, but my Capitán was confident he’d still back our campaign. He said ‘There’s nothing like victory to ease a man’s conscience, Carlos, and I’ve never seen one more complete than this.’

  Well, I couldn’t say he wasn’t right. As we rode back to the battlefield we saw Frenchmen running all over the woods, abandoning their guns and plain running for their lives. That was the end of Châtillon’s army, Señor, and there wasn’t another between us and Paris. The road was open all the way.

  Jacques de Roland

  I remember those poor ragged women crowding round us to ask about their husbands. They were touching my sleeve and making timid little curtseys, ‘The Roussillon, Sieur, please, did you see them?’ ‘Please, Sieur, the Bussy-Rabutin?’ Charlot said ‘The Maréchal ordered a withdrawal, we’ll meet up with them soon,’ but the doubts stayed unanswered in their eyes.

  Their fear made me feel almost guilty for my own miracle, my brother alive and next to me. He was insisting he’d written and I’d find the letter when I got home, but I was just taking in that it was really him. His voice was rougher than I remembered, he’d lost all the polish Charlot had rubbed into him, he even looked different. He was lean and hard, ragged and battle-stained, but he walked upright and confident, the red coat vivid against his black hair, and I realized with a jolt he was at least as tall as me. The manacle dangling off his wrist felt degrading and wrong.

  He shrugged dismissively. ‘I got caught, that’s all. Look, here’s someone else you’ll be glad to see.’ He gave me a little push then turned back to the crowd.

  I was looking at two horses tethered to trees, and when the black one tossed his head and turned out to be Tonnerre it felt like everything I’d lost was all turning up at once. It was odd though, he and Héros were stood with two depressed-looking pack mules, all laden with heavy leather bags, and when I went to pat them a brawny civilian with a hammer stepped in front of me, flanked by two lads with muskets.

  ‘He’s all right, boys,’ said a familiar voice, and there was Grimauld sitting cross-legged on the ground while a girl adjusted bandages round his chest. ‘Chevalier’s brother, this is.’

  The man with the hammer stopped swinging it, the lads with the muskets lowered them, the girl with the bandages turned her head, and I forgot all about the horses because it was Bernadette. My tongue went stiff in my mouth and I sat down beside her with a bump.

  She gave me a glorious smile over her shoulder. ‘You will dirty your breeches, Monsieur.’

  I’d forgotten how beautiful her voice was. ‘It’s still “Jacques”, Bernadette.’

  She smiled. ‘But no longer Jacques Gilbert.’

  Her face was grey with gunsmoke, her dress ripped, her skirts were splattered with blood, and I could hardly bear to look. She shouldn’t be here, André should never have allowed it. I said feebly ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘As you see.’ She continued with the dressing. ‘And you, Monsieur, you have been comfortable in Paris?’

  I said ‘It’s not like that,’ but couldn’t manage any more. She wasn’t even looking at me, she was wrapping fresh bandages round bloody Grimauld. He knew I was struggling, he even gave me a commiserating grin, and I thought ‘That’s it, that’s bloody it, how can anyone tell a woman he loves her when there’s a man with about four teeth sitting listeni
ng to every word?’

  I said ‘You knew I had to stay, you must have understood.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said softly, and tilted her head to indicate over my shoulder. ‘But hush now, André is talking.’

  I stared at her. I was ‘Monsieur’, but my brother was ‘André’. Then his voice sort of penetrated, and I forced myself to turn round.

  He was standing on a tree stump to address the crowd. I think he was trying to get rid of them actually, he said they’d have a much better chance in the villages with nothing to connect them with the army, but they weren’t having it, they wanted to find the army and their husbands. One little grey-haired woman was tapping anxiously at his boot, saying ‘I have to find my Jean, I’ve got his baggage, all his things, what’ll he do without his things?’

  He looked at her, then round at all the expectant faces, and I saw him swallow. ‘All right then. M. de Chouy will look after you while I take a party to search for the army.’

  ‘And if you don’t find it, M’sieur?’ It was a big fat woman speaking, bare arms crossed aggressively against her bulging bosom. I saw Bernadette look at her with dislike.

  ‘Then we’ll try the villages together,’ said André, smiling at her. ‘An army does not simply disappear, Madame. We’ll find them.’

  They believed him, I saw it in their faces. I wished I could feel the same, I wanted to go back to believing André had all the answers, but I knew better now and couldn’t pretend I didn’t. It didn’t stop me loving him, it’s just how he was and why he needed me to look after him, but I hadn’t bloody been there, had I, he’d had no one but Grimauld and Stefan. No wonder he’d ended up in such a bloody awful mess.

  At least I could go with him this time. Charlot was coming with us, the Comtesse would have killed him if he’d lost us both, but we’d hardly cleared the crowd when Stefan came muscling up and said ‘Bugger off, André, you’re not going near the army.’

  Charlot’s face looked like someone had set it in aspic. ‘Monsieur, I do not think you realize –’