In the Name of the King

by A L Berridge

  There wasn’t even a wall at the border. The farm track just stretched between Malassise fields, crossed a road in front of the first Artois farm, then went on through more fields like nothing had changed. Even the crops were the same, we rode between wheat and barley the whole way. It felt really exposed, the land was open on all sides and anyone could have seen us, but André said ‘No one’s watching, Jacques. We’re the ones who’ve been beaten, no one’s expecting us to invade.’

  We followed the track into the wood just before Ossu and settled down to wait. It was still dark among the trees, and I couldn’t make out much more than shapes. I hoped it would stay that way, I wasn’t convinced any of us looked right, but Gaspard said it didn’t much matter with all these different troops about. ‘My dear, such a mess,’ he said, stifling a yawn. ‘No one knows anyone. I assure you, I was more than once mistaken for a Walloon.’ It was easy for him to be calm about it, we’d dressed him in our best stuff and even ripped out the lining of Crespin’s cloak to make him a red sash and ribbons. We were counting on him today.

  André was all right, of course, he was completely relaxed now we were smack in enemy territory and real danger. He set the positions, sent Philibert up a tree to give us early warning, then hunkered down among the musketeers, asked for a volunteer to help carry the branch, and tried not to recoil when six voices all said ‘Me, Sieur,’ at once. He picked the biggest, a rather dim-looking gardener with the most enormous hands I’d ever seen, handed him over to Charlot, and told the rest that if he’d had a dozen more like them we’d have liberated Dax in half the time.

  The Ossu clock struck the half. Grey light was starting to filter through the trees, and above us the first birds began to twitter.

  Crespin cleared his throat. ‘I say, they’re cutting it a bit fine, aren’t they? What do we do if the du Prés come before we finish?’

  André glanced quickly at the musketeers, then put his arm round Crespin’s shoulder and began to walk him away.

  ‘They won’t,’ he said. ‘We’ve seen to it. Now let’s look at the rear, I need you and Philibert there in case anyone tries to run back that way.’

  The musketeers turned their heads to look after him, their eyes gleaming in a single movement. One pair flashed like enormous white discs, and when the man turned back I saw he was wearing eyeglasses.

  A cock crowed in the distance. The birds in our own wood were quiet again, there was only the rustling of leaves, the occasional snort from the horses, and the murmur of Stefan’s voice as he talked to our musketeers. They’d never fought before, and their voices were sort of hushed and trembly. ‘M. Ravel,’ a young one was saying, ‘M. Ravel, I don’t understand. I can’t load the musket while this bayonet is in it, I don’t see how to fire.’ ‘You’re not going to bloody fire it, are you?’ said Stefan patiently. ‘I told you, no noise. You’re going to stab them like we practised.’ There was a little pause, then ‘M. Ravel, how can we stab a man on horseback?’

  Grimauld muttered ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ but Stefan only sighed. ‘You can’t, soldier, that’s why we’re making them dismount. Leave it to the officers, they’ll see to all that.’

  I was an officer, me and André with Gaspard. I didn’t like the idea of them all depending on us.

  ‘How many will there be, M. Ravel?’ came another voice, hoarse and with a faintly German accent. I thought it was the one with eyeglasses. ‘Do we know how many?’

  It might be forty, it might be four, we’d no bloody idea at all. The musketeers weren’t the only ones craning forward to hear Stefan’s answer.

  ‘One at a time, soldier,’ he said. ‘Same as it always is. The man in front of you, then the man behind him. That’s all you ever need to know.’

  Anne du Pré

  Extract from her diary, dated 7 June 1642

  The clock struck half after five as we gathered in the courtyard. I’d hoped Bouchard would be late as usual, but today he was there even before us and determined to waste no time.

  Why André wished us delayed I did not know, but Bernadette had been definite that he did. She said he’d remained behind in the courtyard when she left it, and I wondered if he had perhaps done something to hinder our departure, but everything seemed quite as usual. The carriages were all functioning, the gates opened without incident, and we travelled through the village without anything untoward at all.

  The Malassise Farm was less than a mile away and we were there in what seemed only minutes. Bouchard leaned across to pat my knee and said ‘Don’t worry, everything will be all right,’ and I had to smile and thank him without saying that was exactly what I feared. I pressed myself further back in my seat, but was at once thrown almost out of it as the coach juddered and slewed to one side. Our driver shouted, and the vehicle jerked to a halt.

  Bouchard thrust his head out of the window. ‘Go on, fellow, why have you stopped?’

  I heard Vincent explaining that the road was blocked, then felt the jolt of the boards as he jumped down from his place.

  Bouchard swore, wrenched the door open and leapt out. I moved to the opening to see what was happening.

  The other carriages had stopped behind us and their drivers were hurrying to join the conference. The reason was plain, for at the entrance to the farm track was a wagon loaded with branches of wood, and a great many seemed to have spilled across the road, blocking our path completely. I wondered how long it had taken André’s men to do it.

  One of the drivers was calling the servants out of their carriage to help shift the debris, and I sat back in my seat, confident that all was going as André had planned. Then Bouchard’s voice rose above the others, and with horror I heard him insisting we continue regardless.

  ‘Go round, fellow,’ he said. ‘We don’t stop for a few logs, go round over the fields.’

  D’Arsy’s driver was a brave man, I heard him protesting about the damage to the wheat. ‘It’s June, Monseigneur, a month off the harvest, we’ll do no end of damage.’

  Bouchard almost spat at him. ‘And I should care? Let them eat rye instead.’

  They will eat rye anyway, the wheat is for the flour to pay their taxes, but it would never occur to André that a man would not know that or not care even if he did. The other drivers were already walking back to their own vehicles and I knew all was lost.

  I jumped down. Bouchard said roughly ‘Get back in, we’re going on,’ but I curtsied and said ‘Forgive me, Monseigneur, but surely we can wait a few moments?’

  He shook his head. ‘Corvacho said six o’clock.’

  ‘For the escort,’ I said quickly. ‘But you cannot believe they would not wait? The Duc de Montmorency visits their country and they will not wait?’

  He stopped and looked at me. After a moment he said ‘They’re Spaniards, they may not even know who I am.’

  I forced myself to touch his hand. I said gently ‘They will know.’

  ‘I wonder,’ he said. His other hand came towards me, and his finger traced the line of my jaw. ‘By God, I wonder. But it is still my duty to show a gentleman honours his appointments. We will go on.’

  I returned to the carriage in wretched silence, having shamed myself to buy André perhaps one minute, no more.

  The carriage jerked forward. We turned sideways, and the reluctance of the horses was evident in the slowness of our progress, but Vincent urged them on to the wheat and I heard the crackle of breaking stalks beneath our wheels. The floor dipped as we encountered the first rut, there was a bumping sensation through the seat, but we cleared it and lurched on.

  The light darkened through our window as d’Arsy’s carriage pulled level, then seemed to black out completely as something smashed hard against the door, rocking us violently sideways. I grabbed the strap in panic as I slid down the seat to crush against Florian, and for a moment the whole carriage wobbled precariously before Vincent brought it safely to a stop.

  I subsided into my seat, but voices outside sounded high-pitched in alarm, people
were running, and someone yelling for help. Florian fumbled with his door, but Bouchard threw ours wide open and dropped furiously down to the field. I slid quickly to the opening to look.

  D’Arsy’s carriage had lost a wheel, and must have struck our own vehicle as it tipped. The servants were assisting the shaken occupants from the wreck, while the driver complained bitterly that it was not his fault, the field was too bumpy, it had been madness even to try. Vincent clearly agreed, for he made no attempt to resume his seat, but only took the reins of our lead horses and began to walk them purposefully back to the road.

  Jeanette hastened to make sure I was unhurt, but behind her I saw Bernadette watching the chaos with evident satisfaction. For a moment our eyes met with understanding, and we exchanged a smile.

  Albert Grimauld

  Philibert calls them at about a dozen, then slithers down his tree in a shower of leaves.

  ‘Only twelve?’ says André. ‘Hardly worth bothering.’ He’s cool as cotton, the laddie, gives no more than one little pat on his sword, then he’s straight in position, standing plumb in the track to face the enemy.

  Jacques and Lelièvre stroll up beside him. Ravel takes two of his so-called musketeers back towards the fields, Charlot and the big one go for their branch, the Gascon legs it to the rear with de Chouy, and the rest of us try to look like we’re shrubbery. I’m propped against a tree myself, my left foot still can’t carry no real weight, but I’ve a musket with a plug in it and I know right where it’s going.

  There’s quiet when we all stops moving, and we hear the clip-clopping of the Spaniards approaching. Lelièvre clears his throat. ‘Hem,’ he’s going, ‘hem,’ and I know his trouble, the man’s got no spit.

  Through the trees they come, officer in front, but not one of they senior ones, no big sash or plume, just a few bitty ribbons and that’s his lot. Lelièvre looks far the better man as he steps forward with his hand up, saying ‘Whoa there, whoa.’ It’s in Spanish all this, if you get me, but don’t go asking me to give it you that way. I knows the gist and that’s enough.

  The officer reins to a hard stop, and I hear them others all banging into each other behind. He starts with ‘What …?’ but Lelièvre cuts in right away.

  ‘Du Pré escort?’ says he, with authority enough to flog a regiment. ‘I need to borrow your men. The track’s blocked, the carriages can’t get through.’

  That’s the cue, and up come Charlot and his bulky musketeer, carrying a huge branch between them like they’ve lugged it off the road.

  The officer hesitates, but Lelièvre speaks him proper sharp. ‘They’re Don Miguel’s guests, man,’ says he. ‘Every consideration, those are my orders.’

  The men know that tone, oh my word they do, they’re all legs in the air as they slide off their horses and rush up to help. Not a one with a weapon ready, no armour bar a little back-and-chest, they haven’t the chance of a lark in lime.

  Or so I think. They’re going too eager-fast, see, the officer’s still in his saddle and the last ones ain’t past me when the first reach the edge of the wood and see there’s no blockage. ‘What?’ calls one. ‘Where …?’ then we all hear the gurgle as the sword goes in. That’ll be Ravel.

  ‘Now!’ shouts André, and it’s time to put the lambs to slaughter. My two musketeers step forward cautious and that’s no ruddy good. I yell ‘In you come, boys!’ and stamp down my good foot, lunging sweet into the nearest man’s guts. That does it, they’re all but trampling me in their haste to give it a go. There’s a couple turning and belting back towards Ossu, but de Chouy will have them, him and young Philibert, they’re too busy running even to draw sword. Lelièvre’s got one and Jacques another, and as for that Charlot, he’s swinging that branch like no more than a twig, knocking them down like he’s threshing wheat.

  But the officer’s the one to watch, he’s up out of reach, struggling to turn his beast to gallop the bleeding hell out of it. André’s got the bridle and lashing up with his sword, but the man’s full-armoured and the horse twisting round at every wrench of its reins. The officer slashes down like ‘get out of it’, and André can’t pull him off, not with reins in one hand and sword in the other, he’s yelling for Jacques to help. But as his head’s turned the officer’s hand whips down, he’s going for his ruddy pistol, and if he fires it we’re fucked.

  Jacques de Roland

  I struck wildly up at him, but my blade slid down his armour and only scratched the horse The gun was already clear of the holster, the man’s thumb on the dog, I flailed again uselessly, but something screamed past my head, the blue flash of metal as André swung. I heard the crunch and the howl, then blood sprayed out at me, I saw the dreadful stump of the wrist, then the hand still holding the pistol as it thumped to the ground.

  André hauled the man down and ended it with the blade in his throat. I stumbled back with the horror of warm blood on my face, but when I reached to wipe my sleeve over it André grabbed my wrist.

  ‘No,’ he said urgently. ‘Not your clothes. You need to look right, remember?’

  I’d forgotten the plan, I’d forgotten everything except the killing and the muck on my face, but André’s hand was cool on my wrist and his eyes steady on mine, and I felt my breathing start to ease. Everything was still around us. The fight was over, there were only bodies on the ground and Stefan strolling back from the field whistling.

  Anne du Pré

  By the time the wheel was replaced and the logs moved we were afraid our escort would have abandoned us to travel through hostile country alone. It was almost a relief when we crossed the frontier and saw Spanish horsemen awaiting us in front of a small wood, though the sight of those hated helmets was still enough to make me shiver.

  The officer dismounted to approach our window and Bouchard gave him Don Miguel’s safe-conduct. He studied it, placed it inside his coat, and said ‘That’s quite in order, Monsieur, it will be our pleasure to escort you.’

  ‘I am Monseigneur,’ said Bouchard, drawing back haughtily. ‘My name is Montmorency.’

  The officer was profuse in his apologies, but I had much to do not to laugh aloud, for as Bouchard sat back I saw this officer’s face for myself and recognized him as Gaspard.

  I couldn’t understand how this could be, and was filled with a wonderful relief at being so unexpectedly among friends. As we again moved forward I leaned close to the window to see who else was there, and thought I could determine in one of the cuirassiers the great form of André’s man Charlot. My eye was quickly drawn to the young officer at his side, and though his face was shadowed by the helmet it would have taken more than that to disguise him from me. He saw me looking and smiled.

  That André himself should be here both terrified and exalted me, for he is known by sight to almost everyone of our party. I turned away in consternation, but Bouchard was sitting back as a prince among lesser men and would never compromise his dignity by paying heed to common soldiers. I saw then it was really quite safe, for the carriage was lower than the riders, it was only the more distant horsemen whose faces we could see, and André was quick to move right alongside our door.

  It was extraordinary to have him so close. After a while he dangled his hand low down his side, so I rested my arm on the window ledge and raised my hand above the opening. A second later our fingers touched. At once I was struck with my folly and snatched my hand away before the driver of the following coach should see, but above me I heard André laugh.

  I could almost have laughed myself at his audacity. He had found a way of accompanying us to our destination and was actually leading us there himself. I had no idea how he knew the way but we were travelling confidently through the little hamlet of Ossu and I knew we were safe in his hands.

  Jacques de Roland

  We hadn’t a bloody clue. Our troops had told us stuff about the fields and abbey by Honnecourt, but no one had mentioned a Château d’Escaut.

  So we asked. We met a Spanish patrol in Ossu, and André ju
st rode ahead, showed them the letter, and asked for directions. Our presence may have made the carriages look official, but theirs did the same to us. We were an escort with a proper safe-conduct signed by Don Miguel himself, the patrol sergeant not only gave directions, he even asked if he could help.

  André actually said yes. He had them bully a farmhouse into getting refreshment for our passengers, which gave us the perfect excuse to hang about and wait for Stefan and Philibert. They’d stayed behind to hide the bodies and drive the riderless horses over the border into Malassise, but they must have been quick about it, they caught up with us in minutes.

  They’d got something useful too. Stefan had rifled the baggage and found a letter in the officer’s pouch which André said were his orders. The dead man was an alférez called de Geres who’d been detached from a company on its way to the Rhineland, and his orders were to deliver the guests to d’Estrada then report to him for duty. That was good in a way, it meant we could go right to the château without anyone realizing we weren’t the same people who’d set out, but the bad bit was we’d be expected to stay.

  André wasn’t bothered. He told Gaspard to say he’d got despatches to deliver first, but if it didn’t work we’d just fight them and run. ‘They’ll still only think we’re deserters,’ he said. ‘No one would imagine a bunch of Frenchmen actually choosing to visit the headquarters of the enemy. Who’d be mad enough to do that?’

  His confidence was catching. We were in a horrid situation really, dressed up sweaty in dead men’s armour with enemies all round us, but I watched the boy springing cheerfully back on Héros like he couldn’t wait to be off, and realized actually he was right. What we were doing was amazing, we ought to feel bloody elated. As we set off again even our musketeers were grinning.

  We reached the château in less than half an hour, and that looked encouraging too. It was a good half mile away from Honnecourt in walled grounds and as private as we could possibly want. I thought how easily we’d broken into the château in Verdâme and the barracks in Dax, and knew this would be no different.