‘But you can’t leave yet,’ Sebastian interrupted. ‘You haven’t told her what you’re doing.’
‘What?’
‘You know – abandoning your family, going off to get yourself killed.’
Audrien stopped dead and stared back, dumbstruck. It was partly at the shock of the words, more so that they were coming from Sebastian.
‘Don’t you think you owe her an explanation? She spent fifteen years bringing you up. She’s entitled to know why you’re throwing your life away and leaving her grandchildren to starve.’
‘Bastard.’ Rigid with fury, Audrien brandished a fist and pressed it to Sebastian’s face, the knuckle hard against the bone. He held it there a moment, struggling to control himself. Then, with a snarl of frustration, he stamped out of the door. After quickly checking on his mother, who appeared unaware of what had just taken place, Sebastian bolted down the corridor and caught his brother on the stairs.
‘What the hell did you just do? Maman’s dying and you go and tell her that? Have you lost your mind?’
‘I can’t let you do this. It’s lunacy. You’re going to die.’
‘You think I don’t know what I’m doing? You don’t understand. I haven’t got a choice. We’ve got no money, not a sou. If I stay at home, we won’t last the winter. My wife, my children . . . they’re all going to die. But if I march, there’s a chance. A small chance, I admit, but a chance nonetheless. So I don’t give a damn about your opinion. And thanks for making sure maman dies thinking of me as a selfish bastard.’
‘I can give you the money.’
Audrien grimaced and shook his head, that same expression as when they were young, trying to be polite though the embarrassment was clear on his face.
‘You’ve no idea, have you? If I can’t provide for my girls, what good am I? Just another mouth to feed. I know you’re trying to help, but you’re not my brother, not really. I haven’t seen you in six years, and before that we hardly spoke. All we’ve left in common is maman and she’ll be dead tomorrow.’ Turning his back on Sebastian, he strode down the stairs – then stopped at the bottom step. Aware of the significance of the moment, he turned round.
‘Look, if something happens, speak to Isabelle. She’ll be outside church every day at six. She’s tall … with ginger hair. Besides, it’s never difficult to spot a salt worker.’ He smiled, holding up hands that were more like claws, their skin shrivelled to bark. ‘Now go back. And if maman does wake up . . . well, tell her I was here.’ And with a nod, he turned and left.
Sebastian called him to stop, then tried to follow. But when he reached the street all he could see was a stream of anonymous faces and striding legs. Audrien had already disappeared somewhere deep inside the crowd, doubtless moving away at pace. It was an unpleasant way to part, but after calling his brother’s name a few more times, Sebastian knew it was over. In some ways, despite all the time that had gone by, he felt as if nothing had altered. Audrien was still too proud to listen and too stubborn to change, the gap between them as wide as it had ever been.
* * *
The remains of the night’s entertainment were still on the table: playing cards, half-drunk glasses of wine, a scattering of stains, crumbs and scraps. The faro players had long gone and only Gaston and Cinq-Mars were left, still drinking and gambling what money they had left playing alouette. It didn’t last long. The stakes were absurdly high, more boasts than bets, and Gaston lost after only four rounds, at which point Cinq-Mars simply returned half of the pot and they began playing again.
They were in the library, a magnificent room panelled in walnut, its walls lined with imposing titles, all in Latin with the odd smattering of Greek. The books were pristine – in perfect order, their bindings unbroken, the gold leaf inlaid and crisp. A patina of dust glittered from their covers, sheened in the twilight. How long they had sat on their shelves was unclear – maybe months, maybe decades. It didn’t matter; they had not been placed there to be read.
After spending a further hour or so displaying an aristocratic contempt for money, both men settled in armchairs and discussed nothing in particular, at least to begin with. Gaston had a butterfly mind, settling but never staying, always fluttering off course. First a story about a bet that he could ride from Paris to Metz between sunrise and sunset, then a recent female conquest and the beheading of Montmorency, followed inevitably by his opinions on the dauphin – an incident recounted with acidic distaste.
‘How can that child, which the whole kingdom knows to be a bastard, be declared legal? And for what? To appease my brother’s pride? To spare him from what everyone already calls him behind his back?’
The marquis listened, head bowed as if in homage. Eager for every detail, he was continually nodding Gaston along, laughing or shaking his head when required, responding to every cue. Eventually Gaston seemed to tire of his own voice and lolled back in his chair, looking across at Cinq-Mars.
‘So, Henri, what brought you to court?’
‘I didn’t have a choice. After my parents died, the cardinal was my godfather. He took me in.’
Gaston’s response didn’t extend beyond a nod. Like many of his contemporaries, he was well accustomed to death.
‘And where were you born?’
‘Clermont-Ferrand in Auvergne . . . ever been there?’
‘Has anyone? Your departure must have halved the population.’
They both laughed, the drink having long removed any awkwardness. Again Gaston looked at Cinq-Mars. This time he paused, pondering a dilemma. Evidently displeased with his conclusion, he gave a moue of annoyance and cocked his head as if examining the problem from a different angle. Finally, he leaned forward.
‘So tell me, what do you really think of the cardinal?’
‘I don’t know. He’s always looked after me, introduced me to the King. I can’t speak badly of the man.’
Gaston brushed away the comment with a wave. ‘Why not? I know how difficult it is living in someone else’s shadow. I’ve done it all my life. Knowing what you could achieve yet never being given the chance – and worst of all, the endless lectures and moralising.’ Gaston shook his head then looked up at the ceiling, blowing out a sigh. ‘The King’s no more than a child, you know. He’s never had any need to grow up.’
Cinq-Mars listened, attentive to every word. It was heresy to speak ill of the King. Yet Gaston was openly insulting him and saying he was unfit for rule. This wasn’t simply an indiscretion; it verged on treason. And like any secret, it drew them together; something had been shared, a weakness shown. However, it also left Cinq-Mars with a duty to respond. Now Gaston had revealed his hand, politeness demanded he do the same.
‘You were telling me your opinion of the cardinal,’ Gaston prompted.
And, after considerable obfuscation and qualification, Cinq-Mars finally gave way – the emotion spilling out in a gush of resentment: ‘He’s nothing but a hypocrite. Whatever I do, he declares it wrong, even when he does precisely the same himself. When I spend too much, he regards it as an extravagance. Yet he has one of the biggest palaces in France, Michelangelos and Raphaels, country estates, a whole army of servants. And no matter what my opinion, he simply ignores it. I’m sure he has his reasons. After all, he is meant to be the great statesman and I am only nineteen, but surely I deserve to be listened to at least.’
‘So, what do you mean to do about it?’
‘What can I do? Without him I wouldn’t have money, couldn’t even stay at court. Anyway, he’s brought me up since I was twelve. No matter what I do, he treats me like a child.’
‘Well, if you find your master unsatisfactory, why not take up with a new one?’
‘You mean Louis?’
‘I don’t mean anybody. It’s not for me to say how you live your life. You should be free to make your own decisions, the cardinal should respect that. He should give you the same chances he had.’ Like his brother, Gaston used the regal form of argument. He didn’t have opinions. Phra
ses like I think or I suppose were not part of his vocabulary. Anything he said was simply fact.
‘But Richelieu is Chief Minister of France. He has the ear of the King.’
‘Richelieu will say nothing. He knows better than to make problems for his master. Besides, Louis doesn’t always do what the cardinal says – quite the opposite. He’ll take any chance to spite him, if only to remind everyone who’s in charge.’
Then Gaston stood up and strolled to the fireplace. On the mantelpiece stood an eighteenth-century fantasy clock. The base was a music box of ebony and silver, topped by a silver elephant with bronze tusks, which in turn supported a golden clock tower, intricately engraved. Above the four clock faces was a cupola ringed with arch windows – inside it, the desiccated husk of a fly on its back. Gaston had noticed the insect as a child, and had no idea how long it had lain inside the structure, maybe ten or even a hundred years. It seemed strange to him, thinking of this insignificant creature heading into oblivion, palaced in gold, silver and ebony, ruling its empire of one.
* * *
After worrying all night, Sebastian woke up determined to rescue his brother, only to find his mother had taken a turn for the worse. Her breath was ragged and shallow, while her skin had acquired the unmistakeable tint of jaundice. Barely conscious, she didn’t seem aware of his presence, and let nothing pass her lips beyond the occasional sip of beer. He wanted to stay with her, yet there didn’t seem any purpose to it. There was little hope of her waking or even being aware of his presence. Unless, of course, she recovered consciousness at the final moment and found herself left to die alone, spending her final hours staring at an empty wall, cursing the children who had abandoned her. But if he stayed, he would be condemning his brother to any number of potential horrors: an injury on the battlefield followed by slow death under a boiling sun, or a last minute change of heart when he was too exhausted to make his way home – or simply anonymous death and an unmarked grave. It seemed ludicrous to desert him for a woman who was already dead, and who, if she knew what was happening, would be imploring him to save her son.
He churned everything over for an hour or so, stamping his way round the field outside and swearing under his breath. Then, after changing his mind several times, he finally concluded his duty was to the living and not to the dead. He owed it to his mother to do what she would have done, to put the needs of her children before her own. And once he was on the road and in the saddle, he felt more certain of his decision – if only for having made it. After all, however deep the plunge, it’s usually better than the brink.
The innkeeper had let him take his horse for a few coins. It was a dray, so large he could only mount it using a stump and felt more as though he was astride an elephant. Nevertheless, for all its size, it was a docile thing and simple enough to ride. And although he was quite aware how ludicrous he looked upon its back, there was no one nearby to mock or jeer. Indeed, there wasn’t much of anything nearby at all. He was riding through the flatlands of Normandy. Around him the land had expended its energy and was oozing down to the sea, slow and level as an estuary. Autumn was ending and the skeleton of the world had become visible, the trees no more than bones, the land stripped of colour. All that remained was barren wood and bleached sky. He had no sense of motion, no houses or people to mark the way, not even a map or directions of any kind. But it didn’t matter. He knew there was only one way they could have travelled: towards Paris and the King.
Four hours passed by before he first caught sight of them. The woods had thinned and given way to farmland, mile upon mile of orderly fields. Then the symmetry was broken, the hedgerows mashed by the tramp of a thousand marching feet. Something had steered the army off course. After scanning the horizon for clues, he continued to follow the trail, still searching for a sign. It arrived soon enough. A corpse, its broken form mottled with blood. The right hand was holding the broken staff of a pike, evidently used as a crutch to support weakening legs.
The next people he saw were moving. Peasants also, they were stumbling forward on tired limbs. One was holding a musket and the other a sword. Both kept glancing over their shoulders, watching for pursuers. Looking at them, Sebastian felt naked by comparison. He was unarmed, and on a horse better suited to pulling carts than swift escape. Every instinct was telling him to turn around and follow them back to the safety of the road. Even so, he kept going, out of bloody-mindedness if nothing else. He’d left his dying mother to be here. There could be no turning back. More people passed by, all dressed in smocks or tunics, mostly injured: some hobbling, some bleeding, a few supporting others. None of them spoke. Only a few seemed to notice him. The rest stared into the horizon, battling forward without any thoughts where they were going, only what they were leaving behind.
The battlefield appeared as a dark blob speckled with gold. It jarred against the surrounding greenery and immediately he knew what it was. The brown was muddied soil and corpses; the gold was the King’s troops wandering among the dead. As he approached, he could see them, soldiers looting the bodies and putting the wounded out of their misery – a sword to the throat, a spurt of blood, then on to the next. Nearby, women were screaming. Wives and mothers, their wails merging into a fountain of noise. The troops appeared not to notice and continued their business, hunting for sparks of gold or silver in the dirt.
Posing no danger, Sebastian was ignored, free to drift among the dead and the injured. It took some time to think through the horror, and even when he finally began his search, it was the living who troubled him more than the dead. The corpses he could simply pass by, but he had to return the stare of the dying as they pleaded for help, meeting their eyes while knowing there was nothing he could do. Until, like the soldiers, he too learned to look away – better that than to give them false hope. His search might have been considerably longer if he had not remembered an old pamphlet he had once read on the searching of battlefields:
• Begin your hunt at the nearest corner of the site.
• Take the longest side, searching those bodies nearest the edge.
• Once the side is complete, move to the next row of bodies in the manner of a ploughman, walking the field in lines.
• Allow yourself rest to clear your thoughts and remember the face you are looking for.After a time, all dead bodies will look alike.
• Do not hope to recognise from the colour of the hair. Head wounds are common and the scalp will stain black.
• Do not hope to recognise from rings or weapons. Most bodies are looted upon death.
• Be wary of your emotions. Fear and hope can trick even the sharpest eyes. Always take a second look.
• If you do not find who you are looking for upon your first attempt, the body may be scattered. Consider looking for other identifying marks.
Sebastian was making his second tour of the field when he noticed the arm. It was splayed out from beneath a body. Somehow he knew it was Audrien’s without knowing why, perhaps from the withered skin or the crooked thumb. And when he rolled away the corpse on top, his fears were confirmed. The skin was white, the blood sunk to the back of the skull; not a peaceful expression but a face of lingering pain – the final blow a slash across the stomach, half-concealed by a grasping hand.
Sebastian stared at the corpse, struggling to absorb what he was looking at, and a full five minutes passed by before he reached down and attempted to drag it away. However, taking the strain, he felt deadweight and knew there was no point. Refusing to leave it behind, he spent the following half-hour scouring the field for some rope, which he then looped under his brother’s armpits before using the horse to pull him to a nearby tree. After untying the cord, he tossed it over a branch and tried to hoist Audrien onto the saddle – only to find their difference in size made this impossible. Even when hanging by his full weight, he could only lift the body to a sitting position, where it dangled in a drunken slouch, seemingly taunting him. A problem he eventually solved by knotting a sack to the free end
of the line and throwing rocks into it to make a counterbalance, until he was finally able to load the corpse and turn for home.
By the time Sebastian reached the track, the troops had already exacted punishment. A set of makeshift gallows stood by the roadside, their victims cut down and dumped in piles, leaving a row of severed cords shivering in the breeze. The executioners, now finished, were digging a mass grave. It was hard work, considering the number of the dead, and they hacked the ground, all the while cursing the toil, the bodies piled behind them. Noticing Sebastian, they stopped and stared, seemingly unaware that they appeared twice as freakish to him. Revolted, he looked away and moved on.
Sebastian was so preoccupied that he barely recalled any of the ride home. It wasn’t just his brother, but his mother too. He had been gone eight hours at least. Eight hours without food or drink in her condition – that meant death or something close to it. Despite his impatience, he couldn’t hurry the beast faster than a trot, and it wasn’t until evening that he returned the horse to its stable and rushed up to her room.
The fear is often said to be worse than the fact. This was an exception. Her body was slumped half out of bed, arms clawing and spread like pincers as she had tried to drag herself to the door, either from thirst or a desperate wish not to die alone. Her bottom half was naked, the smock rucked up during her death throes – revealing a body that was scarcely more than skeleton and loose skin, any femininity long gone. But it was her face that eclipsed all else. It was ripped apart with pain: the eyes clamped shut, the mouth contorted into a single lip-splitting scream. There was no serenity, no peace. Instead it was the expression of someone who had spent her last hours abandoned in hell, and Sebastian knew the image would never leave him. Instinctively, he turned away, until her nakedness forced him to approach the body and pull down her dress. Heaving her back up onto the bed, he tried to close her mouth. But the face was trapped in rigor mortis. Instead he was forced to wrap her in the counterpane, concealing her agony as best he could before returning downstairs to search for help.
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