by A L Berridge
He sat me in one of the oak chairs, and I heard him say ‘Just one little moment, Messieurs.’ He was their host and they had to heed him, they stood back and murmured among themselves.
He lowered his voice and spoke only to me. ‘If you do not wish this marriage I may be able to stop it. I would not have harm come to a woman beneath my roof.’
There was agitation in his face, contrition in his eyes, and I had never before heard him say ‘woman’ instead of ‘lady’. I had all but opened my mouth to speak when I remembered the watchers upstairs and who must have set them there. He knew I was his enemy. Perhaps he knew everything and sought only to trap me into an admission that would endanger us all.
He said ‘We don’t have to talk here. I can have you escorted upstairs to my own room where we will be undisturbed.’
Where we would now find André. If I resisted or feigned illness the same thing would happen, they would take me upstairs and find André. I had no choice left. I must not only go through the service but also what came afterwards. André would wait for me in my room and I would never come there, I would never see him again. After tonight he would no longer want it.
Perhaps the very horror of it helped me. My feelings seemed to die like an echo until there was nothing left but listlessness and a desire to drift until it was over.
I said ‘No, I’m all right now. Let us resume.’
Jacques de Roland
We didn’t even have to kill the grumpy horse-master. He was shutting up the stables as we arrived, and simply trudged off into the billets for the night. He’d never know how lucky he really was.
There was no one else in the courtyard. We nipped into the stables, saddled up the horses and loaded the pistols in the holsters, and that was everything ready for a speedy departure. I looked back at Tonnerre as I went out and wondered how I’d feel when I next saw him. That was stupid really, I mean I might never come back here at all, but I didn’t actually believe that. You somehow never do.
Going in was even simpler than last time. We walked straight through the billets, and the married men actually nodded because they’d seen us before, we were familiar and harmless. The officers looked up and looked down again, then we were round the bend with the door to the kitchens in front of us and to our right were the spiral stairs.
No one spoke. We clustered in a group in case anyone walked by, then Stefan sat on the steps and removed his shoes. He stuck his knife in his teeth, grinned at us over the top of it, then started up the wooden stairs in his stockinged feet.
We were ready to start talking and laughing to cover the sound of a struggle, but everything was quiet. I hoped the guard hadn’t just wandered off somewhere to come back at the most inconvenient moment, but then came a soft creak of the boards and Stefan was back with us, his knife bloody in his hand.
‘Easy enough,’ he said, sticking it in his belt. ‘Poor bugger was asleep.’ He didn’t meet our eyes when he said it, and I’m not surprised. I tried not to look when we went past, but I had to climb over the guard’s legs and so of course I saw. It was the balding man who’d been here yesterday, the one who’d given us that anxious smile.
But I couldn’t think about that now, we were in new territory past this point and all we had to guide us was Jeanette’s map. We climbed past the doorway to the first floor, stopped at the second and listened. I thought I heard the faint thump of a closing door, but otherwise everything was quiet. After a moment we crept forward and looked through.
We were completely exposed. It wasn’t like downstairs, with each room leading into the next, there was a bloody great stairwell in the middle and a railed gallery all round. At the top of the staircase was a landing with an ornate wooden bench set into the wall, but the rest of the gallery was just bare boards leading past the open doors of a dozen anterooms. The only bit I liked the look of was the arched opening exactly opposite our own, which we hoped led to the stairs in the administration wing and the way out.
Stefan studied the map. ‘This is the south staircase, so Anne’s room is on the right. That’s d’Estrada’s next along with the guards in it, the one with the closed door.’
André turned to Charlot. ‘You’ll be all right, they won’t even see you going past.’
‘It won’t matter if they do, Chevalier,’ said Charlot, removing his soldier’s coat to reveal the smart grey doublet underneath. ‘I will do nothing to rouse their suspicions.’
André nodded. ‘We’ll deal with it if it happens. All that matters is you get that bottom door open and hold the stairs for our escape.’
Charlot straightened. ‘Of course, Chevalier.’
‘There could be another guard,’ said Stefan. ‘You’ll have to deal with him alone.’
Charlot hardly even turned his head. ‘I think I can manage, M. Ravel.’ He flipped up the skirt of his doublet to show us the beautiful main-gauche in his belt. ‘It is just possible I have been managing these things before you were even born.’
He smoothed his hair over his shoulders, then set off round the gallery with the soft tread of the experienced servant. His head never turned as he passed the open anterooms, he was a valet about his business. He reached the opposite opening, disappeared through the arch and was gone.
‘Now us,’ said André. ‘Quiet as you can, but they won’t hear us with the door shut.’
We crept cautiously along the gallery. Grimauld’s good foot was going down with a hard thump on every step, but no one heard or bothered if they did. All the anterooms were empty, the place was deserted. We passed the stairwell, then I bumped into André as he stopped.
‘Strange,’ he whispered. ‘Look.’
There were flowers all over the stairs, pink and white petals scattered down the steps. They’d formed clumps where people had walked over them, but it was still very pretty.
‘A wedding,’ said Henne. ‘In my village it is always done so for the passage of the bride.’
Something odd was happening to André’s face, it seemed to be getting older, the skin almost sagging as his eyes widened.
‘For the groom it is different,’ said Henne. ‘For him we place briars and he has to …’
André took two strides and was into Anne’s anteroom with me hard behind him. There was no one there, nothing but an odd little streak that glimmered faintly in the darkness, and when my shoe lifted off it I heard a faint sticky tear.
André stared with terrified comprehension, then spun away and shoved open the inner door. We shot after him.
Bernadette, her hands and face streaked with blood and her dress slathered in it. Jeanette, wine slopping from a goblet in her hand as she jumped back in alarm, but that wasn’t wine on her cheek or spattered on her bodice, she reeked of the slaughterhouse as much as Bernadette. André let out a cry, and behind us Stefan had the sense to close the door.
Bernadette was babbling ‘It’s all right, Chevalier, we had to kill some guards, that is all. The way is clear, see, the balcony door is open.’
Grimauld was already hobbling purposefully towards it, Philibert after him, but André didn’t even turn. ‘Anne,’ he said. He took Bernadette by the shoulders and almost shook her. ‘Where’s Anne?’
Jeanette’s face was white under the bloody streaks. ‘She’s at dinner, Sieur, that’s all. You’re to get the treaty, she’ll be here directly.’
I grabbed André’s elbow and pulled him away from Bernadette. He looked at me dazedly and said ‘Sorry. I’m sorry, but …’ and looked helplessly back at her. To my amazement she dropped her eyes.
‘Jeanette says what she has been told to,’ she said. ‘Mlle Anne is downstairs in the chapel being married to M. Bouchard as we speak.’
André’s face almost lit up with terror and his eyes weren’t seeing anything, not me, not Bernadette, he thrust us both back and groped for the door.
‘The treaty, laddie,’ said Grimauld from the balcony window. ‘Come on, the treaty.’
‘Fuck the treaty,’ said André a
nd wrenched the door open. I grabbed his arm, I said ‘It’s too late, they’ll kill you,’ and then something crashed smack into my cheekbone, my head went bang against the wall, and when I got my eyes open again the boy was gone.
Stefan Ravel
He hit his own brother, bolted through the door, and pelted for the stairs before anyone else drew breath. No more skulking, no more disguises, he didn’t give a fuck who heard him and was drawing his sword as he ran.
Yes, I went after him. It wasn’t the easiest of journeys, those petals slipped and slithered under my feet the whole way, but André practically flew over them and landed on the floor below with a soft thump.
He swivelled this way and that, sword up and no one to kill, then saw the trail of flowers and chased it round the stairwell to the rooms behind. I skidded after him, yanking out my own sword as we went.
Jacques de Roland
I was only dazed for a minute or two, and then I knew exactly what was happening. I jerked myself upright and my mind was cold and clear.
I said ‘Grimauld, you know the plan, can you do it alone?’
‘Course we can,’ he said. ‘Me and the boy here.’ Philibert nodded with determination.
I turned to Henne. ‘Get the women out, both of them, do it now.’
‘Yes, M’sieur,’ he said, happy to be given an order he could follow. ‘To M. Charlot I will take them.’ He seized Jeanette’s arm as if she were a horse and reached for Bernadette.
I turned for the door. Bernadette was grabbing at me, saying ‘Jacques, no,’ but I couldn’t stop, I was out and bolting down those stairs in a second. I knew it was too late to save Anne, but I couldn’t lose my brother, not again. This time I’d got to bring him back or die.
Twenty-Six
Anne du Pré
The step was hard beneath my knees, but the service still seemed very short. Bouchard was asked for his consent and gave it. I was asked for mine and gave it. My voice faltered as if my own throat sought to stifle it, but before God I lied and said I would be his wife. His, that terrible word ‘his’, like his horse, his house, the food on his plate, his.
Père Ignace smiled archly and raised his hand to begin the ego conjungo, but the door banged open and the priest’s hand was arrested in air. I turned, we all turned, and it was André, dressed as he had been when he broke into my rooms all those years ago, a young Spanish officer with drawn sword.
He did not break step in the doorway but was already through and running, commotion all about him as chairs were pushed back in alarm. Don Miguel was leaping to his feet and Bouchard pulling at my arm, but then André’s voice spoke close to me and said ‘Please, Messieurs, I am really hoping someone will move.’ His blade was outstretched past my face and the tip was at Bouchard’s throat.
‘At the altar?’ said Don Miguel. ‘An unarmed man at the altar of God?’
André’s blade wavered and steadied. Behind him I heard another man rush in, but it was Stefan, he pushed the door shut behind him and again our world stifled into silence.
‘Come on, Mademoiselle,’ said André. His hand appeared in front of me and I grasped it. ‘I’ll take you home.’
‘You can’t,’ said Bouchard. ‘She’s my wife now. Before God.’
André said ‘Not before any God I know,’ and tightened his hand round mine.
I said ‘He has not pronounced … the priest has not …’
Bouchard shouted over me at Père Ignace. ‘Say it, man, say it now!’
The priest said ‘Ego …’ but then stopped in horror as André’s blade pressed into the soft flesh of Bouchard’s throat.
‘Say it by all means,’ he said evenly. ‘Make her a wife and I’ll make her a widow.’
The priest swallowed and was silent.
‘All right,’ said André, his eyes still steady on Bouchard. ‘Now take back your consent, sweetheart, and it will never matter again what he says.’
My voice came freely now, for my whole heart was behind it. I said ‘I do not consent to this marriage, it is forced upon me, and before God I belong only to André de Roland.’
I heard the shock rippling round the chapel but cared nothing for it, for in that one instant André turned his head and at last his eyes met mine.
Stefan Ravel
He looked at her. Jesus Christ, he looked at her. He’d done it, the stupid, lucky bastard, he’d caught them all out and got control, then he took his eyes off the target to look at a woman. Bouchard flung back in an instant dragging Anne away with him, and d’Estrada snatched out his sword.
André whipped round but d’Estrada was already coming at him and I had to wade in myself to keep the others back. I batted down the blade of the one with the scarred neck, but Corvacho was drawn too and I had to waste a second slashing him out of my way. I swivelled back to André, but now the brother was in front of me, and heaven help him, he’d a sword in his hand. I smashed it aside and yelled at him to back off, and then he knew me, he recognized the man who’d carried him out of the Château Petit Arx and saved his miserable life. His face burned scarlet with what I’d like to think was shame, his sword drooped and he stood back. Beside him the Baron stood with his mouth open in an ‘o’ of bewildered outrage, but his fashionable sword was safe in its scabbard.
D’Estrada was the only real danger, but André didn’t seem up to it, he was shocked and off balance, and even glanced over at Anne out of reach. The Don was straight in, of course, and André only saved himself by snatching at the blade with his left hand. I guess it wasn’t edged near the hilt, but the shock still woke him, he jumped back smartly and got his own sword up in at least some semblance of a guard. D’Estrada began to weave towards him, making elegant little balletic feints, and I realized the bastard was forcing a duel.
We had no choice. It was Anne was the problem, Anne with Bouchard on the other side of the room. We could cut our way to the door together, but we’d have to leave the woman if we did. We could go for Anne instead, but then d’Estrada would reach the door. We needed that door shut, Abbé, it was one of those big heavy ones designed to protect the pious from the noises of the worldly, but get it open and the sound of clashing swords was going to bring the world right in among us. André had to beat d’Estrada to give us any chance at all.
I couldn’t help him either. Corvacho was down and clutching his hip, but the scarred man was at me again and his swordsmanship was rather out of my league. I snatched up a chair in my left hand and walloped him sprawling to the floor, then grabbed the moment’s respite to turn again to André.
Too late. Bouchard had his sword out and was heading straight for André’s back. Anne screamed, I yelled ‘Behind!’ but André’s sword was tangled with d’Estrada’s, he hadn’t even turned when Bouchard lunged.
Carlos Corvacho
And missed, Señor, missed by a foot, because your young lady seized his sword arm and dragged it to one side. A brave little girl, your Mlle Anne, but she paid for it this time. Bouchard wrenched his arm free and struck at her, his sword on a woman and a guest of ours too. She didn’t skip back fast enough, and the blade slashed down her arm, tearing the sleeve to the flesh beneath. I saw blood gleaming on her white skin.
That’s too much for de Roland. He’s screaming with rage and trying to beat my gentleman back so he can turn and get to her. Oh, he was wild, Señor, no control at all, my Capitán could have pinned him easy, but he was torn in his own mind because of what Bouchard had done and his honour wouldn’t let him take advantage.
Bouchard was another kind of creature. He was swearing and cursing, a terrible thing in a house of God, and what’s more he was still swiping after the woman. Her brother was pleading with him no, no, and Bouchard hissing at him to stand back, but du Pré’s stiffened himself up with something and when his sister screams ‘Help me, Florian!’ he’s like a man waking out of a dream. His face clears almost sensible, and he’s in with his blade to parry Bouchard back. A feeble kind of blow it was, Señor, but it drives Bo
uchard mad to be resisted. He beats the lad’s blade away and plunges him right through the middle and out the other side.
For a second everything stops, even de Roland and my gentleman, all shocked by what’s done. Mlle Anne’s down on her knees saying ‘Florian, Florian,’ and the Baron stumbling up to them, all the dignity fallen off him like a cloak.
Bouchard stares round, teeth bared as he sees the condemnation in every face. He yells out something, telling us all to go to the bad place I think, then thrusts past my gentleman and heads for the door. Your Chevalier throws himself after him, but the priest steps in front, and de Roland can’t touch him for fear of his soul. He’s crying out with fury and trying to dodge past, but as Bouchard reaches the door it opens itself and another man charges in with upraised sword. It’s Jacques Gilbert, Señor, and I think Bouchard’s a dead man, but M. Gilbert wavers, he really does, he ducks out of the killing blow and just stabs in the side to bring the man down.
Ravel at our end bellows ‘Shut the door!’ but it’s been open long enough for the noise to reach our honour guard round the corner, and in they shoot, both of them straight for the man fighting their officer, straight for your Chevalier.
Jacques de Roland
I slammed the door and turned to charge after them, but there wasn’t an opening anywhere. André wasn’t fencing, he was just fighting wild, nothing but blade and fury. He’d got his main-gauche and was whirling both blades, slashing all round him, driving them back, no one could get within four feet. He was screaming at me too, and after a second the words made sense, he was yelling ‘Get her out, get her out, get her out!’
Anne. I saw her now, the candles lit up her hair as she huddled against the far wall by someone on the ground. Stefan was nearer, but he’d got d’Arsy coming off the floor at him, he just yelled ‘Get that bloody woman out,’ and swung back to his own fight.