Fortunes of France: The Brethren Read online

  “Samson is my brother.”

  “Your half-brother.”

  “In that case,” I said, clenching my fists, “a half-brother is better than a whole brother.”

  “How dare you insult me!” cried François, beside himself. “How can you prefer him to me, your elder? Don’t you know Samson is a filthy bastard who’s not worth the dung I shit?”

  My will had no part in what followed: I threw myself on François and hit him so hard he bled, and then, since instead of fighting back the coward turned tail, I gave him a good kick in the arse. He fled from the room, moaning and bleeding, thoroughly deprived of honour in my eyes. I heard him shouting, on the stairs to Sauveterre’s apartments, that I had tried to kill him like Cain.

  Yes, it was certainly a memorable day in the history of Mespech, when I beat up my elder brother! And the most earnest remonstrations could not undo my feat, neither whip, nor bread and water, nor my mother’s tears, nor the furious looks of Sauveterre, nor even imprisonment for forty-eight hours in the north-east tower. I was locked in a bare room with only a broom for a companion, which I made great use of against the spiders, raging against them like a devil, so painful was the spanking administered by my uncle. But (except for my mother) all the women of the household were on my side and later Barberine, tears streaming down her plump cheeks, brought me a loaf of white bread, still warm from the oven, and a pitcher of water, which turned out to be milk. A few minutes later, I heard the key turning in the lock and looked up to see Samson—with his bright-red hair, his freckles and sky-blue eyes—place a pot of honey on the floor, smile at me and sneak away.

  My sense of shame forbade me repeat to Sauveterre what François had said about Samson, but he learnt it from la Maligou, who had heard our fight from her scullery. Entering limping into my prison to confirm this report, he caught sight of the honey, which I was spreading on my bread, and frowned.

  “What’s that?” he enquired.

  “Honey, Uncle,” I replied, rising to greet him.

  “I can see that. Who brought it to you?”

  “I cannot tell you.”

  “But I know already,” said Sauveterre. He also spied the milk, for nothing escaped his piercing, deep-set black eyes, but he didn’t say a word about it. Instead, he made me repeat precisely what François had said about Samson. Then he frowned anew and said unhappily, “Those are the words of a stable boy, low, offensive and unworthy of a Christian. François will be punished. But that does not excuse your own unfortunate behaviour. My nephew, you have too much violence in your blood. At the least provocation, you charge in like a bull! These tendencies must be corrected.”

  He then left the room without ordering my milk or honey to be removed. And, as I found out later, he called Barberine and gave her a piece of his mind.

  “I must have made a mistake,” confessed Barberine all a tremble. “The two pots look so much alike!”

  “Come, come, my poor Barberine, don’t lie to me,” shrugged Sauveterre. “Every woman thinks with her heart and you love Pierre as if he were your own!”

  “Well, he is a bit of my own,” whimpered Barberine.

  “To be sure!” conceded Sauveterre, and continued, “What a lot of trouble it is raising children! And why do men have to get married? We pay too dearly for these transient pleasures. And now I have to put the whip to Samson, who is the most amiable of the lot! For that little François has a woman’s tongue and Pierre is a violent child, quick to strike and proud as an earl.”

  “But he has a good heart,” said Barberine.

  “The heart is no excuse for the body.”

  And so Samson was whipped for stealing the pot of honey, which I deplored, but was delighted, as he was, when he was sent to the north-east tower as my companion in captivity, to suffer the same punishment. François was locked in the north-west tower for forty-eight hours of solitary confinement (since they didn’t dare to put him in with us) but got no whipping since my fist and foot were deemed sufficient corporal correction. And thus it was that my father, returning happily from the war, found his hearth in great commotion and his three sons in jail.

  I watched his tumultuous arrival one radiant morning from my tower window. After Jonas had lowered the three drawbridges, my father left Cockeyed Marsal and Coulondre Iron-arm on the island to unload the wagon, and rode into Mespech followed only by Cabusse. He galloped around the courtyard shouting triumphantly, then brought his horse to a halt in front of the main steps as my mother flew down them dressed in her most appealing low-cut gown, her blonde hair flying in the wind, looking for all the world just as my father had first seen her thirteen years before in the great hall of Castelnau.

  My father leapt from his horse and, running to meet her, reached the stairs just as she tripped and fell flying into his arms, all tears and laughter, begging his forgiveness for having so angered him on the day of his departure.

  “Shush, my sweet!” whispered my father. “Let’s speak no more of these differences!” (But, alas! they would speak of them again, and many days running, before two years had passed.) My father added in a sonorous voice: “For now, let there be rejoicing in our halls, Baronne de Siorac!”

  “Baronne!” gasped my mother. “Are you a baron, then?”

  “Indeed I am! On the recommendation of the Duc de Guise, the king has just raised the castle of Mespech to a barony, a title I shall henceforth bear, and François after me!”

  At this moment, the entire household rushed into the courtyard from every side with cries and exclamations, Faujanet from his cooper’s shop, la Maligou from her scullery and the twins from the stables; and, clambering down the spiral staircase of her tower, preceded by little Hélix, dishevelled but eyes afire, Barberine burst upon the scene, her breasts spilling generously from her half-tied petticoat and Catherine, all flushed with excitement, hanging on her red-bordered green skirt.

  “Sweet Jesus!” cried Barberine, for my father was not only her master but her hero. Finally, Sauveterre emerged, dressed entirely in black, but his deep-set eyes shining, and, forgetting his dignity, descended the final flight of steps sideways like a crab to speed his stiff-legged approach to my father’s side. As soon as he caught sight of him, Jean de Siorac left Isabelle’s side and rushed to embrace him.

  “My brother! My brother!” stammered Sauveterre, very nearly speechless and rasping his unshaven cheek against the other’s. “But what’s this I hear? You’re a baron?”

  “That’s nothing,” my father whispered, “I’ve brought things back from Calais a good deal more substantial than a title. The English were well stocked…”

  Freeing himself from Sauveterre’s embrace, he tenderly kissed first Catherine, her cheeks more flushed than ever, her eyes made bluer by all this pink, and then, in succession, little Hélix, Barberine and even la Maligou, but not Cathau, to avoid upsetting my mother. Then, going to each of his men, looking him straight in the eye and patting him several times on the shoulder, he pronounced each of their names in a way he had of making the very name itself seem a great honour: “Ah, my Siorac cousins! So, dear old Faujanet! Ah, Jonas, old man!

  “But where are my young ruffians?” he puzzled, looking around in amazement. “Why aren’t they already here? Are they still lazing in their beds when their father has come home from the wars?”

  My father conducted his tribunal with Sauveterre in their study, where on Sundays they supposedly heard Mass. My mother was not invited to join them, for they suspected that she was at once judge and interested party in this affair in which “son of a milking girl” may well have been a term François had picked up from his mother.

  Each of his sons appeared before my father in turn. Samson was reproached for stealing, I for my violent behaviour and François for his insults. Yet of these three sermons, the only one my father deemed worthy of inclusion in the Book of Reason, for the edification of his readers and future generations at Mespech, was his harangue to his eldest.

  “My son, you�
�re not lacking in intelligence, and yet you’ve acted like an idiot and justice has dictated that your pride be wounded. Your right of succession is not based on equity, but on the necessity of not weakening our domain by splitting it up. It confers on you no other right. In humiliating Pierre and treating him like a servant, in making him ashamed of his future profession, you have heaped injustice on injustice.

  “You now know the consequences of your actions. By speaking of Samson in the terms you used, you have deeply offended me. Think about this carefully. I will not tolerate such an offence again. The words you used should never pass your lips again if you value my affection. Samson’s mother is dead. It is not your business to wonder who she may have been, but only to remember who Samson’s father is, and to accord his son honour equal to your own. I ask you to remember this.”

  I suspect that the Baron de Mespech, in transcribing this sermon, somewhat modified it, for his speech was not normally so Latinate. But to me this document is precious, for it put an end to the subordination my elder brother attempted to impose on me, and openly accorded to Samson equality with his brothers. As for the “violence” with which I was reproached, even today I consider it to have been as justified and useful as the barber’s knife that lances an infection to drain off the accumulated pus.

  The triple punishment was lifted, not without a ceremony inspired by our captains’ memories of the military proceedings employed to avoid a duel. We were all three brought together under their auspices and ordered to make our reciprocal apologies and express the love we each nourished for the others. I executed these orders only with the greatest difficulty, but François appeared to have none, so easily did he mould his character to whatever was expected of him. Each boy’s honour restored, we then had to embrace each other rather in the manner of the wax seals that, on the last pages of treaties, ordinarily signify the end of hostilities. François had to kiss his younger brothers on each cheek and, from the evident grace with which he accomplished this task, his long compliant face brimming with compunction, you would have thought he was wholeheartedly repentant.

  On that day, and many others during my seventh year, I listened with rapture to the stories told by my father and his three soldiers of the fall of Calais and of how we chased the English from our shores. It seemed as though this was a great advance in the fortunes of France, this seizure of a port that the English had made their own ever since the Hundred Years War, giving them the keys to the kingdom and enabling them to land their armies of invasion at will. For this reason, they thought of Calais as the most precious jewel in their crown and, after installing good English subjects within its walls, had so fortified it that they held it to be impregnable. They had even inscribed on its gates:

  The French will take Calais

  When lead floats on water

  Like cork.

  This boast proves that all peoples resemble each other and that even the English speak like Gascons when bragging about their valour. At the age of seven I was astonished at the idea that “lead could float on water”, greatly admiring my father for having taken part in this adventure, and happy indeed that the kingdom was whole again and in French hands, a circumstance that the Brethren never tired of exalting. I write this twenty-five years after the event, now grown up and of sound judgement, and yet my heart never fails to skip a beat when I hear the word “Calais”. That this city should have become ours again after having so long been a symbol of foreign occupation, I count as the most important event in the history of the kingdom in the middle of the century.

  Our neighbour, Pierre de Bourdeille, lord of Brantôme, who, though an abbot, was friendly with the Huguenots even after they occupied his abbey, told my father that the “inventor” of the battle plan for Calais was Admiral Gaspard de Coligny. It was he who had led the defence of Saint-Quentin, giving Henri II time to gather his armies to counter the Spanish invasion. I don’t need to remind my reader that the admiral met his untimely end fourteen years later on the night of the atrocious St Bartholomew’s massacre.

  The Colignys—I mean the three brothers of this illustrious family, Odet (Cardinal de Châtillon), d’Andelot (major general of the infantry) and the admiral—were held in the greatest respect and esteem at Mespech because they were the first great lords of France to be converted to the reformed religion, encouraging many lesser nobles by their example, and giving the Huguenot party a head and a sword.

  According to Brantôme, though he was merely repeating something he’d heard without naming his source, the admiral sent Monsieur de Briquemaut in disguise to spy on Calais during the Treaty of Vaucelles. Briquemaut made his report, enumerating the weaknesses of the defence, and from it the admiral drew up plans for attack, which he showed to the king. Many months later, when the war between Spain and France had broken out anew, the king recalled Briquemaut’s project, and sent for it from Madame de Coligny (the admiral having been a prisoner of war in Spain since the fall of Saint-Quentin). He passed the plans on to the Duc de Guise, who used them to great advantage.

  If this story is true, it is extremely interesting, for it reveals that the future head of the Huguenot party and the future head of the Catholic party—the former accused of involvement in the assassination of the latter; in time the son of the latter would assassinate the former—were able to collaborate, even if from a distance, the one in his design of the attack, and the other by his brilliant execution of that design in the deliverance of Calais. Proof that the French can do great things for the conservation of the kingdom when they are united.

  In my father’s view, the weakness of the defence of Calais was based on the misconception the defenders had of the strength of their position. The city was almost entirely surrounded by water, on one side by the sea, and on the opposite side by the moats fed by the Hames river, on the third side by the swamps, and linked to terra firma by a single jetty defended by fortresses. In winter, these waters rose significantly, and the English, trusting in this natural obstacle, had gradually got into the habit of making a winter drawdown in the size of the garrison maintained at Calais. They relied, as well, on the assurance of prompt reinforcements from Dover, as well as on the Spanish army, which seemed so menacing to the French after the disaster at Saint-Quentin.

  “Our success,” my father began in that wonderful way he had of standing very straight, his legs spread, hands on his hips—not out of arrogance or disdain, but because his natural strength and bodily vigour were always evident, even at more relaxed moments—“our success was based on the absolute secrecy of our attack, on surprise and the enemy’s utter disarray when he spied us under his walls, and on our extremely rapid execution, which eliminated any help the English might have received from Dover.” And he added, “This secrecy, this element of surprise, this speed, we owe to the Duc de Guise.”

  “What’s he like?” asked Isabelle, her golden locks shining in the afternoon sun, which traversed the arched windows of the great hall.

  “You mean physically?”

  “Yes,” answered my mother, blushing.

  “Well then,” laughed my father, “he is tall and well built, and, when he’s not wearing his cuirass, he dons a doublet and satin slippers, coloured bright-red in honour of a certain lady, on his shoulders a black velvet cape bordered with red, and on his head a cap, also of black velvet with a handsome red feather. Are you satisfied, My Lady?” he added, half joking, half in earnest.

  “Yes, Monsieur,” replied my mother in some confusion.

  “In three days,” continued my father, “Guise stormed the fortresses of Sainte-Agathe, Nieullay and Risbank, which guarded the jetty leading to Calais. He then ordered d’Andelot—and I’ll tell you more about d’Andelot later,” he noted, turning towards Sauveterre and giving him a most telling glance. “Guise, as I said, ordered d’Andelot to cut a trench to drain off the waters of the moat surrounding the city. This was not an easy task. Cabusse and Marsal can tell you; they were there. And if Coulondre was not, it’s becaus
e his iron hook prevented him from handling a pick or shovel, which were as important to the taking of Calais as guns and cannon.”

  “And so we were!” rejoined Cabusse, after a glance at my father assured him that he was indeed free to speak. (And never was Cockeyed Marsal more rueful about his stutter than when he saw Cabusse enjoy such glory for his part in the affair.) “Indeed, there was quicksand and mire enough to muddy us right up to our moustaches!” (His audience appreciatively inspected his own impressive version.) “And for sure, we would have been swallowed up to our necks in this soup, had not Sénarpont—”

  “The governor of Boulogne,” explained my father.

  “…distributed wattles to support us while we dug, while BANG! BOOM! the English shot at us from the ramparts, BOOM! BANG!”

  “B… b… but don’t f… forget the sc… scr… screens,” put in Marsal, who always began his sentences with “but” even though it was such a difficult word for him.

  “Ah yes, the screens,” continued Cabusse. “They put up wicker shields that Sénarpont had had constructed, and were attached to posts set in the mud. The best part was that we could move them along with us as we made progress in our trench work. And there’s more than one worthy that owes ’em his life,” said Cabusse, with a glance at Cathau intended to show her that he included himself among these lucky heroes. “Anyway,” he went on, “we finished the trenches at low tide so that all the fresh water drained straightaway into the sea. Then we were given orders to occupy the drained trench works and set up our cannon—”

  “B… b… but at high t… t… tide,” said Marsal.

  “But at high tide,” Cabusse continued, “we had to abandon our cannon, which luckily were anchored well in the muck, for the sea, rushing back into the trench ways, completely inundated them. And we had to get out of there fast, because the sea comes up like a storm. ’Sblood, I’ve never in all my life wallowed in more mud and icy water.”