In the Name of the King

by A L Berridge

  ‘We must retreat, Señor,’ shouts our alférez. ‘We must fall back, or be cut off.’

  ‘And leave the guns?’ says my Capitán. ‘Get them spiked, Salbador, if we can’t hold them we must disable them.’

  The alférez calls our infantry to the guns, but there’s a horse already leaping right over the screen, gabions and wicker fence flying to either side, and the man on its back is de Roland. No helmet, no armour, André de Roland as we remember him from the Dax Gate, and his sword smashing down as he lands. Left, right, and two of our men down before we’ve so much as blinked.

  My Capitán’s straight at him, but de Roland blocks the blow without looking and forges on past. It’s the helmet, that’s what it is, he can’t have recognized my Capitán, but what he does see is infantry round the cannon and one’s already found a hammer.

  ‘The guns!’ he calls behind him. ‘To me, quick, they’re spiking the guns!’

  He cuts down at the man with the hammer, but our infantry leap at him, one seizes his bridle and two more reach up to drag him down. He kicks one clean in the face and whirls his blade round on the other, but he’s sliding out the saddle for all that, and our pike leaping forward to impale him on the ground. He’d have died right there but for more horsemen pouring through the gap after him, a great wedge of them rallying to the Chevalier like his own private army and routing our infantry as they come. There’s one huge great brute, really scarcely natural, he spits one of our pikemen so hard he lifts the man clean off his feet.

  ‘The guns!’ cries my Capitán. ‘Protect the infantry, they must spike the guns!’

  We turn to fight off the newcomers. I’m finding quite a pleasure in it too, seeing as the first man I’m up against is that traitor d’Arsy. There he is fighting bold-faced with the enemy, riding past me like dirt because I’m nothing more than a servant. Well, I have him, Señor, I get both hands to my sword and chop right across his middle as he passes. Off he rolls, sprawling on his back over one of the cannon, dead as he deserves.

  Even Bouchard joins in. He’s striking about him like a lion at jackals, driving the enemy back and away from the cannon so our men can do their duty. And they’re trying their best, Señor, working right in between the guns to keep out of reach. It’s the gun carriages, if you understand me, yards of wood sticking out the back and tangling up in the horses’ legs, making it tricky for a rider to get deep enough in for the strike.

  But your Chevalier’s up to that little problem, and next thing he’s leaping on one of the cannon his own self, right on the barrel, and hacking down at the men beside it. It’s a wonder he doesn’t slip, it is really, but my Capitán always said fencing taught a man balance better than ballet. Still, there’s one little thing escaped his notice, and no doubt you see it as well as I did. He’s stuck up higher than any other man on the field and a more promising target you never saw.

  Bouchard takes his time. He draws his pistol and wipes it on his sleeve, watching your Chevalier all the while. Then he levels the barrel across his elbow, narrows his eyes, and fires.

  Jacques de Roland

  The boy jerked to the impact and the sword dropped out of his hand. He stamped down hard but slipped and thumped sideways against Charlot’s horse. Charlot stooped to clamp him to its flank, but André was still swaying, his hand crossing to grasp his arm below the shoulder, and between his fingers was oozing thick, red blood.

  Some bastard Spaniard got in front of me, I belted him away backhanded and saw Charlot helping André to the ground. Another soldier in my way, I struck at him, but he ducked and shot past, and I was dimly aware of a Spanish voice calling a retreat. Horsemen were crossing in front of me, I saw Corvacho, even d’Estrada galloping at the rear, but they were going and irrelevant, I just wanted them out of the way so I could get to the boy.

  I urged Tonnerre through the bodies and fallen horses, but the first thing I saw was Gaspard, propped up against a cannon wheel with a horribly white face, hands clenched tight round his thigh. He said ‘It’s an awful bore, Jacquot, these were my best breeches,’ but the words were hissing through his teeth and I knew it was bad. Crespin was already dismounting to help him, so I just reached down to pat his shoulder, said ‘I never liked them anyway,’ then hurried past to André.

  He was leaning against the cannon while Charlot furiously wrapped strips of his own shirt round the wounded arm, but the white was turning red as it touched, and he had to wrap faster and faster to make it stop. André’s face was pale and glistening with sweat, but he looked up and smiled and I almost sagged in the saddle with relief. ‘Are you all right?’

  He gave a tentative waggle of his fingers. ‘It’s not broken, look.’

  Voices were shouting outside our enclosure, Sirot rallying the reserves.

  ‘Come on,’ said Stefan, reining up beside me. ‘We’re being ordered –’ He stopped at the sight of André. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, what have you done to yourself?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said André at once. He pulled his bandaged arm away from Charlot and reached his other hand to Héros’s bridle. ‘Don’t wait for us, we’re coming.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Grimauld. He was unhorsed, of course, he probably fell off in the first charge, but he was rolling up his sleeves and eyeing the two unspiked cannon with something like relish. ‘These ladies have still got a bang or two in them and I’m the man to make them.’

  Someone was shouting ‘To me, the reserves! You in the enclosure, to me!’

  ‘Go, Crespin,’ said Gaspard, pushing him away to finish his own dressing. ‘I shall stay and assist the noble Grimauld. Go and be a hero for me and Raoulet.’

  Horsemen were charging off all round us, we were going to be the only ones left behind. Crespin leapt back on his mare, and I turned to see Charlot helping André back on Héros and Grimauld passing him up his sword. But something was wrong, the boy couldn’t seem to lift it, his face sort of spasmed with pain. He turned his head quickly, thrust his bandaged arm through the loop of the reins and took the sword in his left.

  His sword arm. It was his sword arm that was wounded, he must have had a musket ball straight through it. André in a battle and he couldn’t lift his sword.

  Stefan Ravel

  No, I didn’t see it, Abbé, not till we passed d’Arsy splayed over a gun carriage. He was dead all right, and with him his chance to win back his honour, but André said sadly ‘I think he’s already done it,’ and reached down to close the staring eyes. His left hand, Abbé, and the right hardly holding him steady on the horse. I knew then all right, but it was already too late. We galloped after Sirot, and I could only hope the kid stayed in his saddle till there was time to sort him out.

  There wasn’t time for anything. By the time we caught up with the others they were already squaring up to face a charge from the enemy reserves. They looked fewer than us, but this time they were the fresh ones and we were the knackered wrecks.

  ‘Get to the rear, André,’ said Jacques, furiously loading his pistol. ‘They’ll never break through that far.’

  André didn’t budge, so I just nudged closer to his right side and saw Jacques doing the same on his left. Charlot went one better and planted his great bulk right in front. We had him corralled, and as long as we weren’t ordered to advance I thought he’d be all right.

  Pistol fire cracked into the front of our ranks, and the few of us who’d managed to load fired back. Seconds later and they were into us, more horses thrusting in our faces, more yelling, more swords waving about everywhere and mine right along with them. But there wasn’t the force in it I’d expected, they seemed as tired as we were. One young cavalier rode whooping right up to me, but when I slammed his blade aside with a snarl he skipped nimbly back and tried somewhere else. A minute later they fell back.

  I couldn’t really blame them. We’d routed the Alsatians, and d’Enghien and Gassion had seen off Albuquerque’s lot, these miserable reserves were about the only Spanish cavalry left on the field. They regroupe
d and came on again, but I can’t say I was worried. De Chouy said ‘I say, they’re not awfully good, are they?’ and André began to ease casually out of his little pen. I stuck out my arm and said ‘Don’t fucking push it.’

  They were building up speed, but we were loaded this time and picked off dozens before they were halfway over the ground. Then someone yelled, horses thrust forward behind me, and we’d been given the bloody order to advance.

  No choice, Abbé, we’d be trampled by our own cavalry if we waited, so we lurched forward with the rest. André was still up, the horse knew him and didn’t need much steering, but then we slammed into the enemy and I lost sight of him in the mêlée. Horses’ heads and men’s torsos, arms thrashing up and down with heavy sabres, it was all I could do to keep the blades out of my own space.

  We still ground forward, but the enemy started to veer away, and the ones who’d got through the first ranks were struggling to turn and ride back. Horses neighed and stamped as riders tugged at their bridles, our formation scattered like straw, and one confused gendarme blazed his pistol right over my shoulder. André reeled in front of me half off his saddle, and one of the retreating cavalry crashed into him broadside on. I heard him cry out as I shoved up to him, then his weight smacked into my shoulder as he toppled back. I grappled an arm to pin him to my side while he kicked out to get his leg back over the horse.

  Riders were still crashing past all round, but Charlot got his mount across us like a wall, and Jacques shot up André’s other side to pull him straight in his saddle. De Chouy was turning to cover our rear when a fleeing rider stumbled into us from the other flank. My sword hand was on the reins, I could only spin sideways and didn’t really see it, just the man’s panicked face and the grey streak of a sabre, but I heard the chop and de Chouy’s cry and glimpsed him falling away as I turned.

  The soldier was past us, three more blundering after him and streaking away across the plain. André cried out again and I saw it myself, de Chouy sprawled on the ground, his back bright scarlet from the slash down his spine. Oh Christ yes, he was dead, his head was caved in from the blow of a hoof, and there was little left of it but pink pulp. Crespin de Chouy, Abbé, blond hair, innocent eyes, the man who used to sing for sheer enjoyment as he rode. I looked at the mess of blood and bone and brain on the green field and thought ‘Yes, that’s about what it comes to, that’s the size of it right there.’

  Jacques de Roland

  It was really only the horses that carried us along after that. I know we went sweeping after the fleeing reserves and drove them off the field, but I don’t remember my mind being there, everything felt numb and pointless. When we headed back to the valley I heard our guns firing again and knew that was good, but it felt like we were right back at the beginning and the battle only starting. André lifted his head and said ‘Grimauld,’ but then the greyness came back over him and his head went down. He was exhausted and in pain, he couldn’t go on much longer.

  But when we got back to the field everything had changed. The Spanish cavalry had all gone, and the infantry had trouble of their own. D’Enghien had brought his cavalry right round the field to attack them from the other side, they’d got us coming at them from where their own reserves ought to have been, and now in front they’d got artillery. The Italians were actually leaving. It was all civilized and in good order, but right in front of us were thousands of men calmly marching away, the great Italian tercios withdrawing discreetly from the field. I saw the Strozzi among them, remembered those jolly Italians in the grounds of the Château d’Escaut, and was stupidly glad they were out of it.

  Sirot was getting excited. ‘One more push, Messieurs! These last little remnants, one more push!’

  It looked a bit more than that to me, but at least we’d got infantry support. Our centre had been mangled by the Spanish cavalry, but we’d extricated some, d’Enghien had done the rest, and I saw four whole regiments drawing themselves up alongside. The Persan, the Piémont, and the Marine, then our own, the Picardie, the regiment I’d never fought with but felt part of since I was little. Red and white, the colours sparkling in the morning sun like my childish dreams of joining the army and one day being a soldier for real.

  ‘The sun,’ said André. ‘What time is it, do you think?’

  I’d forgotten about Beck. It had to be close on nine, he could have been here ages ago. Sirot obviously knew it, he was rallying the infantry to break those last remaining tercios before it was too late, but then a man in a gold cloak reined to a halt in front of him and everything sort of stopped.

  ‘De la Vallière,’ said someone behind me. ‘What’s up, I wonder?’

  Sirot was actually yelling. ‘I refuse to believe it. The Duc would never order withdrawal when victory is so close, he would never ask such a thing.’

  La Vallière shouted back. ‘You do what you like, but d’Espenan’s battalions are to withdraw. The field is lost, don’t you understand?’

  It was enough for the infantry. They’d been fighting for five solid hours and were only too glad of the chance to stop. Pike and muskets were lowered, the soldiership trickled out of them like sawdust, they turned and began to shamble away.

  ‘No,’ said André in a small voice. ‘No.’

  ‘No!’ yelled Sirot, cantering after the retreating men. ‘No, you cannot! There is only this one force to beat and the field is ours.’

  They weren’t listening. Sirot rode alongside them, crying that he’d complain to d’Enghien, he’d complain to the bloody King, their names would be mud all over France. They listened politely and a few started murmuring, but some round the sides were already drifting away. All these people killed, Gaspard wounded, André crippled, Crespin dead in the mud, everything we’d all done and they were bloody throwing it away.

  André pushed out of the ranks before I could stop him. He streaked along the regiments, yelling for them to turn and listen. ‘Wait, wait, we’re not beaten! We can still win!’

  He stopped Héros right in front of them, sat upright like a proper officer and spoke in his grandest, most carrying voice. ‘Listen to the Baron. Do you want your regiments broken, dishonoured, famous for letting Spain into France? Or do you want to be the men who gave her her biggest defeat in a hundred years?’

  Stefan muttered ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’

  The infantry seemed to feel the same. ‘Defeat?’ shouted a grey-haired pikeman. ‘We’re already defeated!’

  ‘Only if you choose,’ said André. ‘Stay and fight!’

  They were turning away. One grimy-faced musketeer even shouted ‘You fight if you want to, we’ve had enough.’

  André suddenly lost his temper. He stood in the stirrups and bloody well yelled. ‘So have I, I’ve had enough of all of it. I’ve had enough of Spain trampling over our homes and villages whenever they want to.’ He’d forgotten his officer’s voice, and what was coming out was as rough as the first day we came to Paris. ‘It’s our chance, our one single bloody chance to turn things round and drive the bastards back, and if you don’t care then bloody well fuck off and leave it to the people who do.’

  Sirot was listening. His eyebrows went up at André’s language, but he must have seen the men didn’t mind, there were more of them turning to him all the time.

  André began to turn on Héros, appealing wider and wider. ‘Picardie, you know me, I’m de Roland. You remember ’36? You want that again? And again and again till somebody bloody does something and turns them round for good?’

  His voice was breaking, but it didn’t matter, he’d got them. He was one of theirs, and someone to be proud of. He’d got a bloody great bandage on his arm and was visibly struggling to control his horse, but his left hand was up and in it the sword.

  ‘I was at Corbie,’ yelled a musketeer. ‘I’m with you, de Roland.’

  He didn’t say ‘Chevalier’ or ‘Sieur’, just ‘de Roland’, but it was enough, and others started yelling too. ‘La Capelle’, I heard, ‘Le Câtelet’, a
nd others saying ‘The Saillie, the man who held the Gate.’ The Picardie began to surge back towards us.

  There was movement in the other ranks, then a sergeant stood in front of us, musket sloped like he was on parade.

  ‘La Marfée,’ he said in a great bellow that boomed round the plain. ‘Come on, Piémont, remember La Marfée? The man who saved the women at the baggage train? Piémont for de Roland!’

  He did it, that sergeant, he turned the bloody lot. They were all crowding forward and shouting, and someone was waving that great black-and-white flag back and forth, grand and beautiful against the blue sky. I remembered when I’d last seen it in the hands of the enemy on the field at La Marfée, and then I couldn’t help it, I was suddenly crying, great hard gulps that hurt my throat.

  ‘Fuck the Piémont,’ another man was shouting. ‘Don’t forget the Persan, we were there too. My wife was in that train.’

  I saw them through a blur of tears, all coming to André, the boy I’d thought was a fool. Even the Marine were coming, they didn’t know him from before, but the army’s its own family and André was one of theirs. ‘De Roland!’ they were shouting together. ‘To de Roland!’ I heard another voice close to me, muttering under its breath ‘Fuck, fuck, oh fucking bloody fuck,’ and there was Stefan with his face flushed red and his bristly cheeks glistening with the brightness of tears.

  Stefan Ravel

  Oh, come on, Abbé, do I look the kind of man to weep at a speech? I’ve heard a hundred and they’re all the same. It’s always ‘Never mind being safe and comfortable, let’s get ourselves killed instead.’

  Oh yes, it did the trick all right, they were mustered and ready just as d’Enghien came galloping up with the rest of the army to join us. Sirot was straight in to defend his refusal of an order, but we all heard d’Enghien denying ever having given it. Oh, I believed him, that man wouldn’t have known defeat if it bit him on the balls. I never did understand what went on there, Abbé, and if you ever find out I’d like to know.