Naturally we were there, Señor, where else would we be? Our year was up, and you wouldn’t catch my Capitán missing the start of something he’d organized his own self. We were in the Sedan even before the Baron de Lamboy arrived with his Imperial troops, and were only waiting for our own.
Now that’s just it, Señor, things were a little tricky at Aire at that time, and someone decided they couldn’t be spared. Not that it mattered, there were Spanish troops in with the Baron’s Germans and Westphalians, but my Capitán still took it hard. He said ‘It’s a matter of honour, Carlos. We promised the Duc de Bouillon troops and money, and here I am sitting at his board like a guest who can’t pay for his lodging.’
Now the money was another thing, we needed cash to take the campaign to Paris, but the Duc said ‘The Maréchal de Châtillon is our treasurer this time, d’Estrada. Our agents report he has a war chest twice the fifty thousand you offered and all we need do is take it.’
He was the best of them to my mind, the Duc de Bouillon. The Comte de Soissons now, we couldn’t do without him, he was the figurehead to open Paris, but really, Señor, the man couldn’t keep his mind steady for two minutes together. My Capitán’s offered the chance to ride beside him, but when it comes to it he decides to go with the Duc’s own cavalry instead.
Why, for the battle, Señor, what else? That little skirmish by the bridge, that was just a wee probe to see what we had facing us. I won’t say it wasn’t a blow finding Praslin supporting the King after all, and the Comte de Soissons most unhappy about it, but in the scale of things it was no more than what you’d call a gnat. We had the men and the will, we’d a year’s waiting behind us, we were ready for that battle right now.
A couple of days later it was official. A Sedanaise force billeted itself in Torcy, and for once Châtillon took decisive action to boot them out of it. We heard the warning shots back in our little mudbath at Douzy, and knew the time for pissing about was over. Border skirmishes are one thing, but once the cannon speak, it’s war.
We were ordered on to Remilly with morale down in our boots. A number of men just disappeared on that march, Abbé, deserted and slipped away, or so I thought at the time. One was appointé in our own company, a man as loyal as even the slavering Fauvel could desire, but when we got to Remilly he simply wasn’t there.
He also left me a man down on the roster. I went for Bonnier, but found him at his wife’s bedside being comforted by Grimauld. We’d a lot sick just then, cold and relentless wet tend to have that effect, but Bonnier’s wife was expecting and he’d worked himself into hysterics over it. She’d got that intriguing so-called wife of André’s nursing her, but he still said ‘Oh, come on, Ravel, I can’t leave her now.’
‘Ah, I’ll do it, sergeant,’ said Grimauld, nobly clambering up on his scrawny legs. ‘I don’t mind standing a trick for a friend.’
Well, it was all one to me, so I let him make his heroic gesture and packed him off to patrol the perimeter. I didn’t see anything wrong with him. Even when I passed André bringing in a jug of wine from Francine it never occurred to me it might not be the first. Yes, Abbé, that’s right, it’s called making a mistake.
I’ve no idea what blew it up, maybe the fresh air going to his head. The first I heard was someone bawling on the road, and by the time I’d strolled out to join them Charpentier was already hauling Grimauld in front of Fauvel. Poor Bonnier was trying to explain, a sympathetic crowd was gathering, and the situation had the makings of a nice little explosion before I even saw the one thing that would guarantee it. André was heading purposefully towards them, shirt-sleeved and barefoot, but with the gleam of suicidal chivalry in his eye.
I intercepted him in two strides. ‘Stay out of it, soldier.’
His voice rose in outrage. ‘But it’s Grimauld!’
I said patiently ‘I can see it’s fucking Grimauld, now do what you’re bloody told.’ I put him firmly aside, and shoved through the crowd to see the damage for myself.
Grimauld was managing to stand upright and say ‘M’sieur’ in the right expressionless voice, but there was a tell-tale flush of red on each cheek, and Fauvel was positively exultant at the chance to put the boot into his favourite NCO.
‘You know what you’ve done, Ravel?’ he said, in a voice hushed with horror. ‘You’ve put a drunk man on duty! I’ll see you broken for this.’
‘It wasn’t Ravel’s fault, M’sieur,’ said little Michaud bravely. ‘Bonnier says the man volunteered. How could Ravel know?’
‘That’s right,’ said Grimauld, with the stupidity of a man clearly drunker than he looked. ‘Volunteered, didn’t I? Nothing wrong with me. Perfectly capable. Perfectly.’
Fauvel turned away with an exclamation of disgust. ‘Michaud, take this creature to the Piémont and have the archers put him under guard.’
André had followed me through, of course, and at the mere mention of military police I saw him open his bloody mouth. I planted myself in front of him and said ‘Oh, you won’t want the provost involved, M’sieur, won’t the capitaine prefer it kept in the regiment?’
I was damn sure he would, Desmoulins seemed unusually keen to avoid outside interference, but Fauvel recoiled as if from blasphemy. ‘The man is drunk on guard at a time of war,’ he shouted. ‘How could you not notice it, Ravel? Are you blind?’
He really did have a problem with his spitting. I said mildly ‘No, M’sieur, nor deaf.’
He saw Sury only just not sniggering and turned as red as Grimauld. I braced myself for a rant, but then he seemed suddenly to gain control of himself and became ominously quiet.
‘I might have known you’d sympathize,’ he said, his slit of a mouth curving into a smile. ‘Your brother, wasn’t it, who ran the gauntlet for it? Naturally you’d defend a drunkard.’
All right, yes, that shook me. I didn’t talk a great deal about what happened to Alain, and the only people who knew were André and the men who’d been with me at La Mothe.
Fauvel laughed. ‘Nothing to say? I thought you were the man with all the answers.’
I had one for him, Abbé, I had it right in my fist, but I’d just enough sense of self-preservation to keep it there.
Fauvel nodded in satisfaction and turned back to Michaud. ‘Since Ravel seems to have no further objection, I suggest you do your duty.’ He swept triumphantly back to his tent and I was glad of it. If he’d stayed another minute I’d have dropped him.
There was the usual burst of chatter when he’d gone, but I pushed through the crowd and walked away. It’s possible I fancied a little privacy, but André followed me anyway, bleating ‘I’ve never told anyone, you must believe that.’
I did, actually, it would have upset his precious sense of honour. ‘Yes, all right, you’re spotless as usual, now fuck off and leave me alone.’
I walked on, but a second later I heard footsteps and he was pushing right in front of me.
I said ‘Get out of my way.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘You can’t have changed that much. I heard you try to help Grimauld.’
‘Self-preservation,’ I said truthfully. ‘I picked him, some of the blame’s mine.’
He shrugged that aside. ‘But you’ll stand up for him, won’t you? He did it for Bonnier, he was helping a friend.’
‘So?’ I said. ‘We’re at war. How many lives would it cost if a drunk sentry missed something? I’ll explain the circumstances, they’ll maybe just flog him.’
‘No,’ he said, visibly shocked. ‘I can’t let them …’
I said ‘You won’t just let them, you’ll stand and fucking watch.’
He shook his head violently. ‘I can’t. You can’t either, Stefan, how can you …’
I grabbed him. I snatched his collar in both fists and yanked him up to face me. ‘I’ve done it, haven’t I? What are you saying, I’m less of a man for it?’
‘No,’ he said, wrenching clear. ‘No!’ He tugged at his twisted collar and glared at me. ‘You know I didn’t mean … You know I understand.’
I was sick of it and sick of him. ‘No, you don’t, it’s the Saillie all over again. You’ll muck in the dirt with the likes of me and Grimauld, but at heart you think you’re better, don’t you? You despise the lot of us.’
A gust of wind set the tents flapping with a crack of canvas, but André didn’t move. His face was very white in the dark.
I said ‘Well, you’re wrong. We understand your finer feelings, we just can’t afford them. And right now neither can you.’
I walked away and left him, and no, Abbé, I didn’t look back.
Sury was alone in the NCOs’ tent when I reached it. I gave him my best smile and said ‘You bastard.’
He lifted his hands in surrender. ‘It came up, that’s all. Fauvel was whining to the capitaine you had a problem with authority, I explained about your brother, so what? Desmoulins quite understood.’
‘That’s nice of him.’
He passed over his flask. ‘I should have guessed Fauvel would use it. He’s really got it in for you, hasn’t he?’
I drank his brandy and passed it back. ‘One way of putting it.’
He started rummaging for our bread ration. ‘You considered doing something about it? Getting rid of him?’
I looked at his back. ‘In a battle, maybe. Officer falls to a stray bullet, I’ve seen it done. But in camp?’
‘There wouldn’t be an enquiry,’ said Sury. ‘The capitaine wouldn’t care too much.’
‘His own cousin?’
He turned round with what was left of our damp loaf. ‘Let’s say the appointment isn’t working out how he hoped.’
I was tired of it suddenly, the hints, the politics, all the balls that have nothing to do with soldiering. ‘Because Fauvel’s loyal to the King and our capitaine wants rebels, you mean? People like you and me?’
‘Like you and me,’ agreed Sury, getting out his knife to cut off the mould. ‘There’s a few of us in the regiment, it’s time you belonged.’
Oh, I knew what he meant, but we were at war now. There’d been people thought Praslin was suspect, but faced with a load of dons attacking our men he’d made a choice and the right one. I’d been hoping these others would do the same.
I said ‘Not if you’re planning on anything that endangers the men.’
He passed the bread. ‘You know me better than that.’
I did, as it happened. ‘What then? Going over? Deserting?’
‘Maybe,’ he said, watching me. ‘Maybe not. You in?’
I liked him, Abbé. He cared about the men he fought alongside every day, I had a fuck sight more in common with Sury than I did with André de Roland.
I said ‘No.’
He bit off a chunk of bread. ‘Shame. I used to know a man who thought he could change the world if he stood against it passionately enough. What happened to him, do you know?’
Oh, they were all at it. I said ‘Maybe he didn’t want anyone letting dons back into France. Stupid, but I think I understand it. You don’t?’
He was still watching me. ‘I understand who my friends are.’
I said ‘You don’t need to worry about me, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
He was, I knew it, he’d still got his knife in his hand. I said ‘Come on, think about it. If I wanted to do you down I’d pretend to go along then tell the Maréchal first chance I got. I’m just not interested, Sury, I’m staying right out. Fair enough?’
I could have counted maybe to ten while we looked at each other. Then he inclined his head and slid his knife back in his belt. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Fair enough.’
You think the army would have listened? Capitaine Fabert came from the King to get our Maréchal to shove us on to the high ground at Frénois, but we just went on sitting on our arses dealing with important business like trying defaulters. André came haring straight round when he heard, fizzing with plans for whisking me out under the noses of them archers, but I wasn’t for deserting, not me, I’ve a tougher hide nor that comes to.
So the day comes, and up goes a whipping post right by our tents. The capitaine’s pleaded an officers’ conference, but Fauvel’s there like sodding Solomon, Ravel’s there to keep the men facing front, Bernadette’s there with her bowl of vinegar water, and André’s there, white as he’s going to puke, fists screwed into balls by his side. I’m worried he’ll do something daft, so I tip him a wink, shake off the archers, and step up to the post myself.
The executioner ties my wrists, I turn my cheek to one side of the upright, and close my eyes. Charpentier wedges the strap of leather in my mouth, and I bite down hard. Tastes like dried shit.
The drummer boy gives his roll. Fauvel reads the sentence, two dozen lashes, ‘Executioner, do your duty.’ Ravel’s voice behind me, steady as a priest, ‘Keep your head up, Thibault.’ I take in a half-breath and –
– crack against his naked back. They never cry with the first blow, Abbé, the wind’s smashed out of their lungs. ‘One,’ said Sury. Twenty-three more to go.
André was in trouble after four, I saw him look away. No, I didn’t yell at him, the first flogging’s bad for anyone, especially when it’s someone you know. Bonnier was looking wide too, he won’t have seen more than the executioner’s arm. Poor Michaud was trying to set an example, but his freckled face was pale and at the next crack I saw him bite his lip.
‘Six,’ said Sury. That’s a bad stage, the welts start to swell up scarlet, the whip’s coming down on raw flesh. Grimauld was a wiry build, strong muscular back, but the skin was beading blood and the eighth blow set it flowing. His feet shifted, he was feeling it hard. André flinched with the ninth cut and closed his fists tighter.
‘Dozen,’ said Sury. I saw him shift his tobacco from one cheek to the other.
The whip came back for the thirteenth and a tiny spray of blood flew out from its tails. André squeezed his eyes tight shut, but I doubt it helped, we could still hear it. The lashing sounded duller now, heavier and wetter. The man’s back was a mess.
‘Fifteen,’ said Sury.
The seventeenth must have caught just wrong, we all heard the sucking in of breath. André’s eyes snapped open, but he didn’t move out of line, just stared at Grimauld, willing him to keep going and not cry. It was a close thing now. Grimauld’s shoulders twitched with the eighteenth, and there was another sob of breath before he settled.
‘Nineteen,’ said Sury.
It was bad by then, blood oozing down on to the grass. André’s face was white.
‘You do not attend, Ravel,’ said Fauvel.
Flat-faced bastard. I turned away from André and prayed he’d stay sensible one minute longer.
‘Twenty-one,’ said Sury. We were on the last stretch, the man wouldn’t break now. There was a perceptible shift in the ranks, a relaxation of tension. Michaud lifted his head and made a dismal attempt to look more like an officer. There was no sound at all from André, and I’d have given a lot to look round.
‘Twenty-three,’ said Sury, the relief clear in his voice. He didn’t like brutality, never had. One last crack, a smacking loud one, and he turned to Fauvel while the sound was still heavy in the air. ‘Two dozen, M’sieur.’
Fauvel signalled Charpentier to cut the man down. He folded at the knees, of course, it’s the relief as much as the pain, and I’ll admit to feeling much the same myself. The miracle had happened, André had behaved himself, and the danger was over.
I said ‘Parade dismissed.’ There were the usual murmurs of ‘Well done’ and ‘Sod the bastards’ and some even applauded as Grimauld was helped to his little nurse.
Fauvel snapped ‘Silence in the ranks!’
I don’t know, maybe relief made me careless. I said ‘Come on, M’sieur, have a heart for once. The man’s taken punishment without a sound.’
He reddened shockingly, but then an unpleasant gleam flared in those flat lizard’s eyes. ‘I suppose that would seem impressive to you. I heard how your brother behaved in the gauntlet.’
I think the men were still clapping and calling out round us, but I only heard this filthy bastard insulting my dead brother. ‘What did you say?’
His mouth stretched into a smile. ‘Begging and screaming, isn’t that right, Sury? Even the men in the line were ashamed.’
The sudden silence made me look up. M. Ravel stood still and expressionless, then his fist shot out and landed a great punch on the lieutenant’s jaw.
The archers ran at once to restrain him, but M. Fauvel was already skittering backwards, landing on the grass in a heap of fine breeches and polished boots. It was chaos, Monsieur, men crowding and blocking my view, but through their legs I saw distant movement not of men but of horses. Riders were approaching down the rows of tents, and the company quietened as they saw one was our own Capitaine Desmoulins.
M. Fauvel furiously brushed down his clothing as M. Sury bellowed the parade back to order. The men hastened to reform the ranks, for these were senior capitaines of our regiment and with them Colonel Aubéry himself. There was also a tall man I had heard called the Marquis de Praslin, but he held himself apart from the rest as if they had quarrelled.
Desmoulins said ‘What the devil’s going on, cousin, are we now to fight each other?’
I kept my head very low. The Chevalier had met him only twice and was anyway changed beyond recognition, but I was a different matter.
M. Fauvel’s voice was rough as he answered, and I saw blood on his chin. ‘This animal struck me, M’sieur, and I demand he answer for it.’
Desmoulins said ‘Dear, dear,’ then looked towards the other sergeant. ‘Was there no provocation, Sury?’
M. Sury said ‘None, M’sieur. Ravel just went for him.’
There was a murmur of surprise among our soldiers, while M. Ravel strained in the arms of the men who held him and yelled ‘You lying bastard!’
Desmoulins gave a fastidious grimace. ‘Then you’d better have him taken to the provost, hadn’t you? We’ll have his hand cut off before he’s shot.’
The Marquis turned to our colonel. ‘Very bad for morale, Aubéry. We could be asking these men to give battle tomorrow. Was there really no excuse?’
The colonel nodded at Desmoulins, who at once addressed the parade. ‘Well? Does anyone wish to contradict my officers? Michaud?’
The poor enseign could only mumble that he did not know, he had not heard the argument. It may even have been true, for he was a long way back.
‘Charpentier?’ said Desmoulins, hardly bothering to suppress a yawn.
The caporal was quick to confirm what Sury had said, oh, very quick, for there was bad feeling between himself and M. Ravel as we all knew.
Desmoulins bowed to the Marquis. ‘A tragedy, Monseigneur, but since no one has anything to add –’
A voice said ‘I do.’
All eyes turned back to the parade as a single man stepped from the ranks. I knew who it would be, and so did Grimauld, for he was struggling to his knees, muttering ‘No, laddie, Christ, no.’
Desmoulins looked only irritated. ‘And what can you add, fellow?’
He did not hesitate. ‘M. Ravel was deliberately provoked, and if he’s executed then it’s nothing short of murder.’
Everything was quiet. I remember the evening breeze riffling the long grass by the hedges, and the soft ripple of the river. When the Marquis bent forward in his saddle the creak of leather seemed very loud.
‘You have heard your officer say there was no provocation?’
‘I have, Monseigneur,’ said André, still in the rough voice of Thibault. ‘And I say Lieutenant Fauvel is a liar.’
Ah, Christ in a cannonball, you’d of thought he actually wanted to be killed.
Fauvel can’t believe it neither. He turns red as a pan of lobsters and screams ‘Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?’
André brushes his hand across his collar like to wipe away Fauvel’s spit. ‘I think I’ve already made that clear.’
The officers giggle like children at that one, and Fauvel goes flat mad, he’s out with his hand and whack across the laddie’s face.
André rocks on his heels, but it’s only his head cracks round a second then turns straight back. His cheek’s stinging red, but he looks at Fauvel and smiles. That’s a touch of the old aristocrat, and maybe not so clever with Desmoulins close as he is, but like the rest of them he’s only got eyes for Fauvel.
‘You forget yourself, Lieutenant,’ says he, very stern. ‘You can’t strike an enlisted man.’
Fauvel looks bewildered. ‘Monsieur, you all heard it, the man impugned my honour.’
‘Then take it back,’ says André, sounding more common nor what I do myself. ‘Take back your lies and let M. Ravel go.’
‘The démenti, by God!’ says Aubéry. ‘Who says there’s no honour in our army?’ He chuckles, bends down to the laddie and says ‘Will you fight him for it, soldier?’
André says ‘Yes, Sieur, I will.’
Them officers are all but pissing themselves now. Our men ain’t laughing though, and neither’s Ravel. He’s staring at André and looking tense as a bowstring.
The Marquis looks at the laddie thoughtful, then says ‘There’s precedent, you know, Aubéry, if your man’s up to it.’
Fauvel says thickly ‘Oh, I’m up to it, Monseigneur. Just give me the word.’
‘That is for your capitaine,’ says the Marquis coldly. ‘What do you say, Desmoulins? Your officer wins, he proves his honour and punishes the soldier as he sees fit. The soldier wins, he proves the lie, and you spare the sergeant’s life.’
Desmoulins considers Fauvel, and I know the rumours are right, he’d be happy to see his own cousin dead. ‘Very well, lieutenant, you may waive your rank for the occasion.’
Another officer says ‘God, yes, Desmoulins, I’ll put up twenty pistoles to see it. Who’ll give me ten on the boy?’
Ah, they’re so clever and funny, these gentlemen, betting their money on my laddie’s life. The Marquis ignores them and says ‘Just to first blood, of course.’
‘Of course, Monseigneur,’ says Fauvel proudly. ‘All by the rules.’
He bows, stands back, and snaps his fingers for Michaud and Sury to come and squire him. André’s got no one a-course, everyone standing back like he’s a leper, and I have to keep tight hold of Bernadette to stop her rushing out to help him right under Desmoulins’ nose. It’s hard though, watching the laddie standing all by himself with nowhere to put his things but the wet grass. Ravel thinks so too, he’s back struggling with the archers, saying ‘Oh, fuck off, I’m only going to hold his bloody coat.’
The colonel chuckles again and orders them to release him. ‘Rather fitting, don’t you think?’ he says to Desmoulins. ‘He is the prize, after all.’
Don’t ask. I was so torn up by that time I don’t know what I felt myself.
André didn’t seem comfortable either. He passed me the sword without meeting my eye and bent his neck to work the bandolier over his head.
‘You bloody little fool,’ I said under my breath. ‘When are you going to learn to keep your mouth shut?’
He passed me the bandolier. ‘Maybe when you learn to keep your hands to yourself.’
‘I’m not the one meant to be acting inconspicuous.’
‘It’ll be all right,’ he said, undoing his coat. ‘I won’t fight like a gentleman.’
I lifted his hair to unravel his stock. ‘I don’t give a fuck as long as you win.’
‘Worried?’
I kept on unwinding. ‘Should I be?’
He unbuttoned along his sleeves. ‘I’m a bit rusty actually. Our bastard sergeant never gave us any sword drill.’
‘Ready!’ called Sury impatiently.
I gave him a nice look, just to make sure he understood what he’d got coming if I survived. ‘One minute!’
André stripped off his coat, rolled up his shirtsleeves and reached for the sword. It was standard infantry issue, hardly what André de Roland was used to, but I gave it him anyway then stood back. His cheek was still red where Fauvel had slapped him.
He said ‘Stefan …’
I said ‘Beat the bastard for me, will you?’
He hesitated, gave me a nod, then walked past to face Fauvel.
He looked fresh from the salles, our noble lieutenant, immaculate linen, polished little shoes pointed in a perfect fencing-school square. André shambled up to take position opposite, feet stuck any old how, sword brandished in his fist as if he’d never used one in his life. I smiled to myself and went to stand by Michaud and Sury. My old friend wisely backed out of reach, but Michaud looked up at me with distress and whispered ‘I’m sorry, Ravel.’
‘What for?’ They were going through the opening moves now, Fauvel with stiff precision, André in clumsy imitation.
‘I lied,’ said Michaud. ‘I did hear the argument, I lied.’
Fifteen years old, and on his first commission. ‘Shocking,’ I said. ‘You’ll never make lieutenant that way.’
He risked a little grin, but his eyes stayed sad. ‘Thibault didn’t lie.’
I looked back at the travesty of a duel. ‘Thibault,’ I said, ‘is the biggest liar on this field.’
You’d of thought the laddie had no idea of it. He’d his sword stuck out like a pin looking for a cushion, watching Fauvel weave about like he’d never seen such a thing in his life. But I knew better. He was watching and waiting, luring Fauvel into doing it clever, and all the time he was learning what he’d got to beat.
Fauvel tires of it, he feints at the throat then drops sharp to the chest, and André just goes wallop and bashes him out of it. Fauvel shakes his wrist like to clear the jar out of it, but he can’t be beat by nothing so simple, he’s in again sliding and teasing like a snake, trying to draw out the laddie’s blade, and then whoosh André’s in, straight under and clean thrust at the body. Fauvel can’t do nothing but hit out himself, slash, slash, crash, and that’s torn it to buggery and back, his tempered steel’s gone smashing into the laddie’s sword, and broke the brittle blade clear in two.
The officers shout in protest, and Fauvel’s forced to step back. André drops his hilt and looks round hopelessly, but the Marquis draws his own sword, calls ‘Try this one,’ and chucks it in the air.
And André catches it. Sharp-edged steel whizzing towards him, but he times it perfect, hand up and neat through the guard as it falls. There’s a murmur among the gentlemen, and I’m thinking ‘Whoa, that’s a mistake,’ but the Marquis turns to Aubéry and says ‘I think this could be interesting.’
Fauvel scowls. I hear him say ‘Takes more than a fine sword to make a swordsman, Thibault,’ and André smiles at him loving and says ‘Oh, I believe you.’
Then they’re in. Ding-dong, bang-smash, steel against steel, the sparks are flying blue. André’s playing it canny, beating the man’s tricks the simplest way he knows how, but that’s a game he can’t play long and live. Fauvel’s coming in fast now, left hand flung out for balance, stamp and thrust, stamp and thrust, and now André’s got no choice, he sends the man back once, ting, then again, clang, then a third time, sliding his blade along Fauvel’s, hooking it out from under, forcing it up, up, up, then in like a white flash with his point, jumping back, lowering his blade, game finished, all done.
‘Fight, man!’ says one of they capitaines. ‘I’ve got money on you, go in and fight!’
André bows. ‘If Monsieur will ask the lieutenant to open his hand.’
They stare at Fauvel, who’s still waving his sword like to say ‘Come on, come on, I’m ready for you.’
‘Show your hand, Fauvel,’ says Desmoulins, so bored it’s a wonder he ain’t asleep.
Fauvel looks at him like a man betrayed, then slowly, reluctantly, he brings forward his left hand and opens the fist. And there it is, a thin line of scarlet scored down the palm.
‘First blood, by God!’ cries Aubéry, and the gentlemen give a great shout of laughter. Our own men laugh too, and in the middle of it all Fauvel stares stupidly at his own hand and flushes red to his ears. He looks up and stares first at André, who’s turning away to collect his coat, then at Ravel, who’s watching him with that sardonic look on his face, but then Ravel’s arms are dropping, his mouth’s opening, Bernadette’s crying out next to me and –
– M. Fauvel simply charged, Monsieur, he threw himself with a scream of rage straight at the Chevalier’s back. Perhaps it was M. Ravel he was after, I could not say, only that André ducked and spun round on his heel, his sword coming up so fast I did not see it, but heard only the crash as the blades met.
But M. Fauvel was like a man possessed of a devil, or perhaps one driven mad with shame, and André now needed all his skill to fight for his very life. There was no more laughter from the watchers, no sound at all but the clash of blades and the scraping of steel, the panting of their breath and stamp of their feet on the damp turf. No one called out, no one tried to stop them, for this was two men fighting to the death and that is something in which no one interferes. The Marquis dismounted indeed, but only to stand empty-handed by his horse and watch the contest with sad eyes.
It was not pretty, Monsieur. They were hacking at one another, I saw M. Fauvel’s sword slash down the Chevalier’s arm so that the blood ran, I saw André punch forward with his guard so that M. Fauvel staggered backwards with his ear bloodied. Time and again I saw M. Fauvel plunge forward with his blade, and almost I saw André spitted and dead, impaled on the driven sword.
‘Easy, my poppet,’ said Grimauld, as I wound another bandage hard about him. ‘I ain’t the ruddy enemy.’
M. Ravel was quite as distraught as I, half-stepping forward, stepping back, shaking his head, desperate with need to help a man who would not be helped. Then his face changed, and he started forward abruptly as –
– the bastard tripped him, then thrust in hard with his sword. It was aimed at his face, but André twisted even as he stumbled, sword up to swat the blow aside and in straight at the guts, which were all he could reach as he went down. Fauvel screamed in agony as the blade sheered clear, then collapsed to his knees, pressing his hands against his belly. André straightened and lowered his sword, and Sury yelled for a surgeon.
Everyone moved at once, and even our gentlemanly audience finally peeled their arses off their horses. The two capitaines were busily settling their gambling debts with Aubéry, but Praslin came straight over and stooped to examine Fauvel. Bonnier had already ripped off his stock and was furiously wadding it to stem the bleeding, but it didn’t look good to me. Fauvel’s face was ashy grey.
Praslin stood and put a hand on André’s shoulder. ‘Not your fault, soldier. A fair fight, we all saw it.’
‘Indeed we did,’ said a voice, and there was Desmoulins himself, ignoring his wounded cousin and strolling straight up to André. ‘A very fine display.’
André ducked his head, but it was no good, Abbé, I already knew it from the smile on Desmoulins’ face. He reached out a languid hand, cupped André’s chin and forced the kid to face him. ‘But then we should expect no less of the Chevalier de Roland.’
Maybe it wasn’t really that quiet around us, but it suddenly felt it. There’s no silence in the world like the one that tells you you’re utterly fucked.
‘Run,’ said Grimauld, rising shakily to his feet. ‘They’re on to the laddie, you’re next. Francine’ll hide you, now run.’
It was too late, Monsieur, for faces were already turning towards me, and Mme Messant said ‘Then who the hell is that?’ Others echoed her, and fat Mme Becquet declared in outrage that they had a whore among them, at which the eyes of the nearest soldiers gleamed with anticipation. They knew as well as I that such women are thrown to the men and followers before being driven from the camp.
Grimauld’s hand closed round my wrist. ‘Bugger off out of it, the lot of you. She’s a friend of the Chevalier de Roland, that’s who she is, now clear the bleeding road.’ His legs were tottery, but he clutched my hand and led me firmly towards André, who was now indeed my only hope of safety. He might be a fugitive but he was also a nobleman, and he and the Marquis were already exchanging respectful bows.
There was no such look on Desmoulins’ face when he recognized me. He said ‘Ah, our little Bernadette, what a pleasant surprise,’ but his eyes were like dark flint.
André reached out quickly to draw me before the Marquis. ‘Mlle Fournier is an important witness in my defence, Monseigneur, and I beg you to take her under your charge.’
The Marquis was a very great gentleman, and he did not hesitate. ‘Of course, Chevalier, she shall go with you to Paris as soon as I can arrange an escort. I regret I have no women in my entourage, but she can remain here under my protection.’
Desmoulins’ face was taut with anger as he saw his prey disappearing under the mantle of the Marquis. Nor was I the only one, for the Chevalier now reminded us of the promise that M. Ravel’s life should be spared, and Colonel Aubéry himself conceded it. Why this should matter to Desmoulins I did not know, but he gave M. Ravel a most savage glare and M. Ravel returned him an ironical bow.
Then Sergeant Sury spoke. ‘Just a minute. What about Ravel’s other crime?’
The Marquis regarded him in puzzlement. ‘Other crime?’
Sury pitched his voice that the whole parade might hear. ‘Ravel served in the Saillie, he must have recognized de Roland from the start. He’s been deliberately hiding a fugitive.’
Oh, but it was true, Monsieur, and André understood its implications all too well. He had saved his friend from one death only to commit him by his own actions to another.
He turned in desperate appeal to the Marquis. ‘You cannot punish loyalty, Monseigneur. Ravel knows I’m innocent, he’s served the King as well as I.’
The Marquis shook his head sadly. ‘That is for a Paris court to say. He may share your captivity, he will be treated well, but I’m sorry, Chevalier, the rest is out of my hands.’
There was nothing to be done. André looked at his friend in helpless apology, but M. Ravel gave him only a little shrug as if it did not greatly trouble him. They walked side by side as they were led away together, their heads held high as if they regretted nothing.
Yet perhaps not quite, for I saw André give a brief look back at the men and the tents and everything that had been his home these weeks past, as if sad this should be his very last time. And in that he was foolish, Monsieur, as you know very well. This was the last night at that camp for any of us, and as they walked away it was already growing dark.