In the Name of the King

by A L Berridge

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘To get away from the battle?’

  D’Arsy’s head shot up. ‘You dare imply –’

  ‘I don’t imply anything,’ said André wearily. ‘You lied at my trial, you sat there at the amende honorable, what the hell do I know?’

  D’Arsy looked at the ground again. ‘I’ve got information. De Melo’s written to Beck, they’ll be reinforced by morning. If d’Enghien’s still here he’ll be massacred.’

  Even Jacques sat up at that. André was more cautious. He reached for the flask again and said ‘Why are you doing this?’

  D’Arsy didn’t answer for a moment, then lifted his head as if it was heavy and looked André directly in the eye. He only lasted a second then it was back to the boots, but something happened in that second or I’m a Walloon.

  He muttered ‘Maybe I’d like to go back where I belong.’

  André was silent, then bowed his own head. I heard him say to the ground ‘So would I.’

  I watched him, feeling his indecision. Distant voices came from the French lines, the clanking of water cans, the occasional burst of raucous laughter. Someone was scraping a violin nearby, and I knew we’d got Hungarians in there somewhere, making those dismally soulful noises that remind them of home.

  André’s shape blurred in the darkness in front of me, his feet scuffled on the ground, then he was up and on his feet, standing in clear view of the French sentries and waving a handkerchief to draw their eyes.

  ‘Attention, the guard!’ he called. ‘Permission to approach the line.’

  There was more consternation than attention, judging by the babble of voices, and it took a good few seconds before he got the official Qui va là?

  ‘Volunteers to join,’ he said. ‘We have a message for M. le Duc d’Enghien.’

  It was our cue, Abbé. I lifted myself out of the mud feeling about as dignified as a worm-cast, and the others followed. From the forest ahead I saw Charlot leading the others out into the open.

  Our troops didn’t seem too impressed. A voice called grudgingly ‘Advance and be recognized.’

  André strode forward. No creeping, no crawling, he fucking strode till he stood in the light of their fires, head up, legs apart, arrogance enough to smack you in the face at fifty paces.

  ‘I am André de Roland,’ he said. ‘I am André, Chevalier de Roland, and I am coming in right now.’

  Jacques de Roland

  He didn’t wait for permission, he’d spent enough years waiting as it was, he walked straight into the lines and we followed him. Excitement was building in me the way it does at gunfire, everything feeling urgent and important. I think the sentries felt it too, they gabbled to a sergeant who bowed and led us hastily towards the rear. A smart aide-de-camp escorted us for the last bit, and I realized we were being taken to the Duc d’Enghien himself.

  The aide seemed to be leading us right back into the forest, but at the foot of one of the trees sprawled the figure of a young man wrapped in a black velvet cloak, his elegantly booted legs stretched carelessly out over the field. His head rested comfortably against the tree trunk and he was fast asleep.

  The aide knelt beside him and coughed. ‘Monseigneur.’

  The man’s eyes snapped open, and I had to suppress the urge to step back. They were dark and sharp as a bird’s, and even his nose was fine and pointed like a beak. For a second he was motionless, his face tense with listening, but the night was still quiet and I sensed him relax. He lifted his head, dragged a hand through his tangled brown curls, and said ‘Oh damn you, Brunel, it’s nothing like dawn.’

  The aide murmured that the Chevalier de Roland had a message.

  The Duc sat up. ‘De Roland? I didn’t know you were with us. What’s up?’

  André told him about the musketeers in the wood. D’Enghien stood while he was doing it, slung off his cloak and roughly brushed down his breeches, but he was listening all right, he wanted estimated numbers and when he’d got them he sent at once for Gassion.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘But what were you doing in the woods anyway? Trying some heroics of your own?’

  André hesitated. ‘No, Monseigneur.’

  D’Enghien looked at him. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Bouchard, I expect. I heard he was with them. Well, don’t trouble yourself about it. You shall have him in the morning as a present.’

  André recovered himself. ‘The morning, Monseigneur, I’m afraid there’s a problem.’ He introduced d’Arsy to explain about Beck.

  D’Enghien’s smile never faded. He let d’Arsy finish, then waved a hand to his aide. ‘Better rouse them all, Brunel, the fun’s about to start.’ Then he turned back to André. ‘Anything else? A detailed plan of the Spanish lines, perhaps?’

  ‘I regret not, Monseigneur,’ said André. ‘But we’d like to stay and fight if we may.’

  ‘May?’ said d’Enghien. ‘Tonight I’d take a convent of nuns, but you’re offering me the man who held the Dax Gate and opened the way to Arras.’

  I think I loved him for that. He spoke like the amende honorable wasn’t important any more, we were on a battlefield and all that mattered was how a man fought. That’s obvious really, but it was only him who made me see it: Louis II de Bourbon, the Duc d’Enghien, the man we know now as the Great Condé.

  Stefan Ravel

  Oh yes, Abbé, hallelujah and all that balls, but all I saw was a kid who’d been given an army before he’d properly learned to shave.

  He’d guts, though, I’ll give him that. There was none of that Châtillon havering about d’Enghien, he told his officers to stuff waiting for dawn, we’d start the battle right away.

  ‘Let Beck come,’ he said cheerfully. ‘It won’t be till morning, and by then I’ll have beaten them.’

  He was a cocky bastard, but it was the right decision. I doubt anyone but himself had really been sleeping anyway, it’s something most of us find hard to do in what might be the last hours of life.

  No one was sleeping now. The men were already rousing themselves as we were escorted back through the camp, and everywhere around us were the old familiar signs of preparation. Artillerymen were selecting their first balls, cavalry tightening their girths and climbing wearily into the saddle, musketeers were blowing patiently on their slow-matches, while pikemen looked superior and yawned. It’s the same everywhere, Abbé. Movement from the Spanish lines suggested they were already responding, and I’d guess you could have walked the two lines and not seen a straw’s difference between them.

  Not that we were part of any of the proper units, oh dear no, the army doesn’t care for that kind of irregularity. We were handed over with great ceremony to the Baron de Sirot and told we were being dumped with the reserves. André was visibly disappointed but the Baron laughed and said ‘Look at what’s against us, Chevalier. I think we’ve a better chance of action than any other men on the field.’ I thought he was probably right.

  We were all mounted except for d’Arsy, so they found him a horse and stuck us with the cavalry. I wasn’t sure that was such a good idea for Grimauld, the man was an affront to horsemanship, but when I suggested he go with the infantry he mumbled something about ‘staying together’ and I didn’t press. He was right, Abbé, a soldier fights better when he feels part of the men around him. Even d’Arsy became less morose once he was in the saddle like the rest of us, and seemed at least able to look people in the eye. We didn’t know a soul in those cavalry lines, we looked decidedly underdressed next to the sleek black armour of the gendarmes, but in a way we’d become a little unit of our own.

  The one I’d expect to feel strangest was André, since he’d never stood in the line of battle before, but I watched him going through the drill, checking his pistols, adjusting his sword, soothing the horse, I watched it all and smiled.

  ‘It’ll be all right, André,’ said de Chouy anxiously. ‘I was awfully nervous myself before La Marfée, but if we all stick together then it’s quite all right.’

&
nbsp; André thanked him gravely.

  Sirot was pacing his horse up and down our lines. He had a watch in his hands, a wonderful thing like a miniature clock on a chain, and was tilting it to the moonlight to read what it said. ‘Remember, Messieurs, wait for the orders. Our rallying cry today is “d’Enghien”.’

  ‘D’Enghien,’ repeated Jacques, as if it were something he needed to memorize. ‘D’Enghien.’

  Artillery boomed. I heard small-arms fire underneath it, and guessed the musketeers in the wood were being treated to a nice little ambush of their own. But even the guns were drowned in the shout that followed, a great roar from our right echoed again way down to our left, then the ground vibrated with the pounding of hooves. Our cavalry were going in. Sirot looked up, snapped shut his watch and tucked it inside a pouch on his saddle.

  No, he didn’t tell me what it said, Abbé, but everyone knows now. It was four o’clock in the morning of the 19th of May 1643, and the Battle of Rocroi had begun.

  Twenty-Nine

  Carlos Corvacho

  Straight at us. They charged straight at us screaming ‘D’Enghien!’ and the Duc his own self at their head. There was no mistaking him, Señor. He wore a great broad hat fluttering with white plumes, wore it like a flag to show the men he was there.

  Well, we knew he was there, and that’s a fact. And not only him, there’s Gassion’s lot crashing into our flank and others charging through the wood, scattering our hiding musketeers like chaff. Now that’s got to be treachery, Señor, and we all know whose. That d’Arsy disappeared in the night without so much as his baggage.

  Not that we’re bothering about that just now with the French hurtling into us. Some of our squadrons are driven right on to our second line, and there’s a few for falling back altogether. But not my Capitán, he’s shouting like a madman and wheeling us round to come back at the French cavalry while they’re scattered. Alburquerque’s doing the same and the second line steadying nicely, so round we go with never a pause, it’s round we go and at them.

  Now you know me, Señor, I’ve never pretended to be a great warrior in the saddle. I was a servant and infantry-trained, my job is to stay by my Capitán’s side and protect his back. But that’s fighting work today, we’re in the thick of the enemy cavalry, and my arm aching with cutting them out of the way. We’re downhill at first as we drive them back into the valley, but that’s not enough for my Capitán, he charges right on up the hill after them. And so do we, every one of us, Bouchard and his friends with the rest, all our spirits lifted by the best thing a soldier can ever see, the enemy cavalry scattering and fleeing before us.

  It’s no ruse, Señor, no feint, they’re fleeing for their lives and leaving their infantry exposed behind them, two whole battalions looking at us in horror like a baby when the nurse takes the blanket away. They thought they’d a nice scavenger’s job in front of them piling in after the cavalry, but they took one look at us, broke and ran. I won’t say there weren’t a few musketeers still banging away, but we charged straight at them and routed the lot.

  Albuquerque was straight after them, but my Capitán sees his chance and wheels off to the infantry centre now they’re unsupported by cavalry. There’s maybe two other squadrons following and that’s all we need, the infantry’s panicked and almost parting to let us in. My Capitán’s striking down hard all round him, the enemy dropping back either side, then in the empty space we see cannon, the gunners falling and dying with the rest. I won’t pretend it was the main battery, it was Issembourg’s cavalry took that, but it was five pieces and we took them, Señor, took them with three squadrons. The French hadn’t another cannon in the field.

  Jacques de Roland

  André was desperate. Héros must have felt it, he kept jerking forward, and the boy had to tug him hard back. He didn’t want to, he was biting his lip with frustration, but we were under orders like everyone else and couldn’t move till we were told.

  It was unbearable. As men advanced ahead of us we were allowed to inch forward on to the heights and get our first proper view of the plain. I’d never seen much at La Marfée, it was all confusion and nothing beyond the man next to you, but here it was laid out like a dinner on a table and we saw it all. We saw La Ferté’s cavalry charge on the left wing, and we saw them break. We saw d’Enghien and Gassion charge on the right wing, fight through to the Spanish lines, then there too we saw them break. We saw the infantry beaten and falling back, the battery taken, both wings in disorder and the centre breached. We saw something I’d seen before and prayed never to see again, French soldiers routed and running, and I knew it was only a matter of time before we were running too.

  ‘Not this time, Jacques,’ said André. I might have believed him if I hadn’t seen the tears on his cheeks. ‘Never again, I told you. This time we’re going to make the bastards run.’

  I’d sworn never to doubt him again, and I tried, I really did, but he was a boy in his first battle and it was hard. I looked ahead to Sirot, willing him to give us something to fight other than fear, but he was standing half upright in the saddle, his eyes fixed on the right wing of our cavalry as if that alone held the answer. I looked there myself, and then I saw.

  One man. In that whole sea of wavering cavalry, one man without a helmet but wearing a hat with white plumes that floated above the carnage like a swan. The men with him saw it too, they were rallying to his cry, turning back and fighting, crowding towards him, a great press of them turning like a tide and roaring back.

  ‘D’Enghien,’ a voice said, and I think it was me. But others were saying it too, it was rippling down our lines, even the Swiss and Hungarians were murmuring it. D’Enghien. It grew as it went, André stood in his stirrups and shouted ‘D’Enghien!’ and others followed him, the night went white with the flash of their swords.

  More voices yelled beyond ours, and horsemen were galloping in our direction, yellow and red, yellow and orange, the Alsace cavalry broken through our lines and coming right at us. There must have been a signal but I didn’t see it, I only remember Sirot saying calmly ‘Messieurs, we are invited to join.’

  Then André was streaking by so fast he nearly ripped my foot out of the stirrup, my own heels were digging in, Tonnerre was leaping forward, and beside me the others were doing the same, Stefan, Charlot, Crespin, Gaspard, d’Arsy, even Grimauld was saying ‘Fucking hell’ and lurching after us. The reserves were in, we were part of it, and charging all together into battle at last.

  Stefan Ravel

  It was hardly a charge, Abbé, we just turned and rode smack into them. Beasts were colliding head on, armour crashing against armour, swords clashing with steel-breaking ferocity. There was a moment’s total scrimmage when I could hardly get my elbow out to wield my sword, then Lelièvre fired a pistol into the chaos, de Chouy another, the living wall of men and horses gave back a little, and we had room to swing.

  And swing we did. Jacques was almost scything his way forward, Charlot’s arm rising and falling like a woodman with an axe, and André was cleaving through their ranks like wire through rotten cheese. We halted them, we thrust into them, and by God they were giving back, faster and faster, some in such haste they were backing their horses rather than take time to turn. Oh, there was no magic in it, Abbé, the poor sods had fought through our whole left flank to get to us, they were weary and battle-sore and their pistols were empty, while we were steaming with an hour’s pent-up frustration and threw the lot at them like burning pitch. I doubt more than a handful got past us and the infantry had them, our musketeers were primed and ready and only too keen for something to shoot at.

  ‘They’re running,’ said André, almost sobbing with passion as he slashed his last opponent from his horse. ‘Look at them, Jacques, they’re bloody running.’

  More than running, they were trampling each other in their haste to fall back. Their infantry were legging it too, some belting after their cavalry, some dropping their weapons and simply scattering for the woods. We wer
e driving them clear off the field.

  Officers urged us forward, but the only trouble they’d have had was calling us back. We leapt after the Alsatians, gathering up remnants of our broken left flank as we came. La Ferté had been taken, L’Hôpital was wounded, the poor sods were dazed and leaderless, and there was André waving his sword like a banner, yelling ‘Come on, look, they’re running!’ He was hope on a fucking horse and they followed him all the way to the front of the lines.

  There were more enemy there, different colours, different units, but we weren’t fussy, we tore into them anyway. Half didn’t even have their swords up or their muskets loaded, they’d never expected a reserve as big as ours. Some had even stopped to loot the bodies, ripping the clothes off dead and dying men in their hurry to find any valuables before their fellows did. We had them, Abbé. A few may have cried for quarter, but we hacked them down and trampled them like the carrion crows they were. Even André didn’t hesitate.

  Fallen gabions were rolling about the field, we had to dodge to stop them tangling our horses’ hooves, but André swerved towards them and I saw what he was after. Wicker fencing marked our first battery emplacement, but in front of it stood a screen of cavalry carrying the yellow and black of the army of Flanders, and more of the bastards were moving inside.

  The guns, Abbé. They’d taken the bloody guns.

  Carlos Corvacho

  It was a disgrace, Señor, our flank-guard dropping their guns and looting, my Capitán could never have predicted that. They’ll have been Croats, in my opinion, it’s not what you look for in an army of Spain.

  But the damage was done and hordes of enemy cavalry thundering at us with nothing but our own horsemen out front to meet their charge. We’re in the little enclosure ourselves, Señor, with earth-filled gabions all about us and screens of wicker fence to either side, but it’s only a lashed-up field emplacement, nothing to rely on as a defence. We’ve men further back to secure the magazine, but otherwise there’s no more than twenty of us inside and only a handful of infantry.