Young Bloods Part 9

'Clearly, Suetonius was blessed with a most precocious talent, since he would have been all of one year of age at the time of the siege of Jerusalem. Unless, of course, you are referring to a previously undiscovered historian whose translated works have only just become available in Brienne.'

Alexander blushed. 'No, sir.'

'I see.You are in error, then?'

'Yes, sir.'

'In which case it is only fair that I award you one demerit. I suggest that you pay attention in my lessons from now on.' He picked up a pen, dipped it in his inkwell, and made a note against Alexander's name in the cla.s.s record book, before looking up again. 'Come and collect your workbook.'

Alexander sc.r.a.ped his end of the bench back and walked stiffly to the front of the cla.s.s, mounted the podium to receive the book Father Dupuy held out to him, then turned and made his way back. From his desk Napoleon was delighted to see the attempt Alexander was making to hide his shame. Father Dupuy coughed.

'In contrast to de Fontaine's entertaining but inaccurate effort, I am delighted to say that at least some students have managed to write thorough accounts of the siege. Notably Louis de Bourrienne, who has a fine style; clear and succinct and neatly written. For which he is awarded a merit. Here.' He raised the next workbook and held it out. Louis beamed at Napoleon, then rose from his seat and hurried forward to fetch his workbook.

'And now we come to another cadet's work. Like de Fontaine, he seems to have had some difficulty in listening to instructions. Rather than relating the events of the siege this cadet decided instead to offer a critique of the defenders of Jerusalem.' Even though he spoke without meeting Napoleon's gaze, the latter shrank back a little behind his desk. Father Dupuy lifted the next book in the pile and weighed it in his hand as he continued. 'Of course, I had to struggle with the handwriting, which would do shame to even the youngest infant ever to hold a pen. But once I had deciphered the scrawl I am bound to admit that the a.n.a.lysis of the defence of Jerusalem was most sagacious for a cadet of his age. The prose style was not perfect, inclining as it did to a rather hectoring tone, but the argument was compelling.' Now he fixed his eyes on Napoleon. 'Cadet Buona Parte, you will make a fine staff officer one day, a.s.suming you learn to write legibly. I award you two merits for your essay, but deduct one for your presentation. Please collect your book.'

Napoleon had fully expected a tirade of criticism for his wilful departure from the task the cla.s.s had been set. It took him a moment to accept that his work had been admired instead. Not only that, but he had won a merit. That would go some way towards rescinding the bad feeling he had caused at the morning parade. He stood up and made himself walk at a sedate pace to retrieve his workbook from Father Dupuy. On the way back to his desk he pa.s.sed close by Alexander and their eyes met in a mutual glare of hostility. Napoleon realised that at least one of his fellow cadets bore him even more ill will than before. Alexander and his aristocratic cronies were going to make life very difficult indeed.

That night, as Napoleon lay on his bed, he reflected on the months since he had arrived at Brienne. Not a day had pa.s.sed without his thinking about Joseph and the rest of the family. Far from becoming used to his new life, as his father had promised he would, he had become steadily more miserable, yearning for what now seemed the carefree existence he had lived back in Ajaccio. He was far from the comfortable familiarities of home, in an alien world, surrounded by people who looked down on him as a crude provincial and treated him with haughty contempt. Only one friend, and one teacher, stood between him and a terrible isolation.

Napoleon felt his heart harden. Alexander de Fontaine needed to be taught a lesson. He needed to be knocked from that self-satisfied pedestal from which he looked down on the rest of the world. Napoleon had decided on his plan earlier in the day and refined the details in the hours since he had gone to bed, and now he waited for the tower clock to strike two, the very depth of night when all in the college would be still. Under the bedclothes he wore the garments he had brought with him from Corsica. For the task he had in mind he could not risk sullying any part of his Brienne uniform. So he lay still, his mind racing - partly from his restless temperament, and partly in order not to let sleep creep up on him. Then, as the clock struck two, he rose from his bed, carefully eased open the door to his cell and crept out into the still, silent shadows of the college.

As a faint pink glow silhouetted the edge of the roof tiles, the cadets spilled out into the quadrangle to form up for the morning parade. From the end of the line Napoleon stood stiffly, trying hard to give the appearance of a model cadet. He had learned the lesson of yesterday and made sure that his uniform was clean and pressed for this morning. Beneath the cloth he felt his skin tingle with anxious antic.i.p.ation and his pulse had quickened as he casually glanced at the last few cadets emerging from their quarters. So far no one had noticed anything unusual and Napoleon forced himself to keep still, and stop staring at the last of the cadets trotting across the quadrangle.

'Where's Alexander?' he heard someone mutter.

'No idea. Haven't seen him. He's cutting it fine. He'll be the last - there he is . . .'

'Good G.o.d, what's happened to his uniform?'

As the muttering increased around Napoleon, he thought it was safe to turn and stare along with the other cadets. Crossing the quadrangle towards them was Alexander. His face was a mask of cold fury, and his uniform was covered with dark stains and smears of what looked like mud, but as he approached his cla.s.smates and the smell hit them, it was clear that his uniform had been covered with something far more distasteful. A particularly pungent application of pig-s.h.i.t, as Napoleon well knew. Not that there were any traces on him. He had sc.r.a.ped the filthy ordure from the sty belonging to a local farmer and brought it back in a wooden bucket, in which he had thrust Alexander's neatly folded uniform and stirred it around, before creeping to the water trough in the college stables by moonlight to clean the bucket and make sure that his old clothes were clear of any stains. Only when he was satisfied that no marks would betray him did Napoleon return to his cell and climb back into bed, excited and terrified by the deed he had just carried out, so that he only fell asleep a scant hour before the morning drum beat out its summons.

Around Napoleon the astonishment of the cadets was turning into a growing wave of laughter and muttered ridicule. Alexander's expression crumbled and tears glinted in the corners of his eyes as he rounded on his cla.s.smates.

'Stop laughing!' he shrieked. 'Stop it!'

But the laughter only increased in intensity and with a convulsive shudder of his chest, Napoleon joined in, for once on the side of the majority. So this was what it felt like to be part of the crowd. He winked at one of the other boys and nodded in Alexander's direction.The boy, who had exchanged no more than a few words with Napoleon since he had arrived at Brienne, nodded and smiled back.

'Who did this?' Alexander shouted, whirling round as his eyes swept over the other cadets, wildly searching out his enemy.'Who did this to me?'

Alexander stopped and thrust out his arm towards Napoleon. 'You! You did this! It must have been you!'

'Silence!' the duty teacher shouted as he hurried across the quadrangle towards their cla.s.s. 'Get in line there! Hurry up!'

For a moment Napoleon watched as Alexander's hands closed into tight fists and he seemed on the verge of charging at him. Then the larger boy became aware of the duty teacher's approach and, taking control of his anger, he went to his position. Before the duty teacher could reach them the director emerged from his office.

'Get in line there!' the duty teacher yelled. 'All of you! Form up!'

The last of the cadets' laughter died away and they hastily moved to their positions as the director strode across the quadrangle towards them, an angry expression on his face.

'What is the meaning of this?' he shouted. 'What is this? A formal parade or a d.a.m.ned fishwives' market? Silence there! Stand still for inspection.'

When all stood stiffly to attention, staring straight ahead, the director nodded grimly and began the familiar routine of striding down the ranks of each cla.s.s, scrutinising the appearance of every cadet. When he reached Napoleon's cla.s.s he had taken no more than half a dozen paces before he stopped dead and grimaced.

'What is that stench? Which one of you is responsible?' He continued along the rank until he came to Alexander, and abruptly stopped.

'Cadet de Fontaine, what on earth are you doing in that state?'

'Sir, I - I,' Alexander stammered. 'I didn't-'

'You smell like s.h.i.t!'The director's tone changed from anger to astonishment as he continued, 'My G.o.d! It is s.h.i.t.You're covered in s.h.i.t. What is the meaning of this, Cadet? Looks like you've been rolling in it. How dare you present yourself on parade in this condition? Are you a gentleman or a common swine? Well?'

Alexander opened his mouth to reply, then closed it and shook his head, as he stared straight ahead.

'Very well,' the director continued harshly. 'Three demerits for Cadet de Fontaine. And two months confined to college.'

He swept on, continuing the inspection, and Napoleon struggled to keep his face expressionless as the director turned the end of the line and strode towards him, pausing every so often for a closer glance at one of the cadets. When he reached Napoleon he paused, stared hard at the small Coriscan boy and nodded grudgingly. 'Much better, Cadet Buona Parte. It seems that you are learning the ways of your betters at long last. Keep it up.'

'Yes, sir.'

As soon as morning prayers were over and the cadets had been dismissed, Napoleon started towards his cla.s.sroom, but a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him round. Napoleon stared into the white face of Alexander de Fontaine.

'You little b.a.s.t.a.r.d!' Alexander hissed. 'I don't know how you did this.'

'Me?'

'I know it was you. Don't pretend it wasn't.'

Napoleon smiled sweetly. 'Prove it.'

'I don't have to.Who else would stoop to something like this?'

'I don't know,' Napoleon scratched his chin, as if considering the question seriously.Then his eyes lit up.'Someone just like you perhaps?'

The other boy's lips parted in a snarl and he started to raise his fist to strike Napoleon, in full view of the duty teacher. In a moment of pure delight Napoleon waited for his enemy to strike, a blow that would result in far greater punishment than he had received a moment earlier. But at the last instant one of Alexander's friends caught his arm and held him back.

'Not now! Not here.' He glanced at Napoleon and continued softly. 'Later, when there are no witnesses. Come on, Alexander.'

De Fontaine allowed himself to be firmly steered away and he made himself smile at Napoleon. 'Later then, Corsican.'

'Of course.' Napoleon shrugged. 'If you are man enough.'

'Man enough?' Alexander chuckled. 'Oh, yes. I'll be man enough. The question is, will you?'

'I'll be ready.'

Napoleon woke from his sleep with a start. Just for an instant he registered the presence of several dark shapes surrounding his bed. Then something dark was thrust over his head and before he could attempt to s.n.a.t.c.h it off, hands grasped his body and a fist slammed into his stomach, driving the breath from his body. As he groaned he was rolled on to his stomach and held down while someone roughly tied his hands behind his back.

Then a voice whispered close to his ear, 'Keep your tongue still, if you don't want it cut out.'

'You wouldn't dare,' Napoleon gasped.

'Quiet! Not another word from you. Or else.'

Napoleon felt something jab into the small of his back, sharp enough to puncture his skin. He yelped and was rewarded with a hard slap to his covered head.

'Next time you make a sound the blade goes in all the way.'

Then he was lifted on to his feet, dragged to the door of his cell and outside into the corridor. They moved quickly and quietly and he guessed they must be barefoot. Down the corridor they went, to the top of the stairs and then down them at speed, Napoleon's feet sc.r.a.ping painfully on the edge of each step. A door opened and he felt a faint rush of chilly air. They were outside and heading along the side of the college buildings, then across some open gra.s.s.

'Inside with him,' a voice hissed, and a door squeaked faintly on old hinges. Napoleon brushed against a rough doorpost and then he was thrown to the ground. The tang of horseflesh and manure filled his nostrils. He must be in a stable. There was the sound of a flint being struck, then the faint crackle of kindling before the flame was transferred to a candle whose wan illumination was just visible through the coa.r.s.e material of his hood. Napoleon felt his heart pounding in his chest, and his ears had to strain to pick up the sounds around him. He was terrified. For the first time since he had been wrenched from his bed he feared for his life. Who would hear him out in this stable, even if he did scream for help?

'You're to be taught a lesson tonight.You breathe one word of what happens and you'll pay for it. Do you understand?'

'Let me go.'

'In good time. After we've had our fun. Get him up, over that bench.'

He was seized again, dragged across the floor of the stable and thrust face first over a low bench. Hands held his shoulders down while someone raised the hem of his nightshirt and threw it up over his back to expose his b.u.t.tocks. Napoleon kicked out his legs and felt his foot strike home.

'Ouch! Why, you little s.h.i.t!' A moment later there was a sharp blow to the side of his head and the world went bright white for an instant. As he winced at the pain, Napoleon's chest convulsed.

'Tears won't save you now, Buona Parte . . . Shall we get started, gentlemen?'

'Wait. He's not here yet.'

'Too bad.'

'Someone's gone to wake him. He'll be here. He won't want to miss the entertainment.'

For a while no one else spoke and the only sound was the heavy breathing of the young Corsican. Then the door sc.r.a.ped open behind him.

'At last. I was about to give up on you.You going to join in?'

'No,' said the newcomer, and Napoleon recognised the voice instantly. Alexander de Fontaine. 'I'll just watch.'

'As you will. Pa.s.s me that cane.'

Napoleon heard someone approach behind him. There was a swishing sound and an instant later he felt the first blow strike his b.u.t.tocks with a searing pain that stung like a burn as the cane was drawn back for the first of many more blows. As the second stroke whipped down, Napoleon screamed.

Chapter 18.

London, 1779 Early in spring Arthur and his brothers landed in Bristol and took a coach to London.When they reached Windsor they saw ahead a thick grimy haze hanging over the landscape like some sick bloom. As the coach drew ever closer to the capital they began to make out the silhouettes of St Paul's and Westminster amid the trails of smoke filtering up into still sky.The countryside gave way to the first paved streets and the boys began to get a sense of the true scale of the city and marvelled at its vastness, completely dwarfing the pretensions of Dublin. Then the buildings rose in height on either side and blocked the view as the coach weaved through increasingly heavy traffic. The noise of wheels and hoofs on the paved roads, and the confusion of shouts from pedestrians and street-criers a.s.saulted the boys' ears. But these did nothing to diminish their excitement and their keenly antic.i.p.ated reunion with the rest of the family.

At length the coach turned into a large yard close to King's Cross, where several other coaches already stood, some recently arrived and others making ready to depart. Piles of manure littered the yard, the odour mixed with the bitter tang of smoke and soot as the boys climbed down from the coach.

'Master Richard! Sir!' A voice cut through the air, and Arthur caught sight of O'Shea, waving his hand to attract their attention as he ran across the yard, weaving through the heaps of manure. He drew up, panting and then coughing in the acrid atmosphere. 'I've come to fetch you to the house. How was the journey, young masters?'

'Fine, thank you,' Richard smiled. 'It's good to see you again. Who else is at the house?'

'Oh, just misself, from old Dangan, sir. Rest of the staff was taken on in London. On a better wage than I've ever had, so it is.'

O'Shea called over some porters to take the boys' school trunks to a small cab, drawn by a single horse, and then they set off through the streets towards the address their father had leased in Knightsbridge. As the sun set there was only a gradual diminution of the light in the haze that hung over the city, and by the time they reached the steps leading up to the front door a profound gloom had closed in about them, illuminated only by the wan glow of lamps and candles in the windows of the buildings they pa.s.sed. Only a few flickering streetlamps provided further lighting in some of the wider thoroughfares.

'Here we are, young masters!' O'Shea announced, pausing before a flight of steps leading up to a pillared portico. 'Your new home.'

He led the way up the steps, knocked on the door and then stepped respectfully to one side as they waited for it to be opened. With an unfamiliar clatter of a bolt the door swung inwards and a sallow-faced footman inspected them.

'Yes, sir?' He addressed Richard, before catching sight of O'Shea and the porters. 'Ah, you must be the sons of His Lordship.'

'Indeed we are!' said Richard, leading his brothers inside. O'Shea nodded to the porters and they left the trunks in the hall, waited for the fee and tugged the brims of their caps in acknowledgement before returning to the street.The door closed behind them.

Richard looked around the attractively panelled and papered entrance hall. 'Very nice. Please inform my parents that we have arrived.'

The footman bowed his head a fraction. 'I'm sorry, sir. Lord and Lady Mornington are not at home. They are attending a function.They left instructions that you were to be fed when you arrived and a cold buffet has been prepared in the dining room.'

'When are they coming back?' asked Arthur with a concerned expression.

'Not until much later, sir. Now, if you'd allow me to take your coats, I will show you through to the dining room.'

'Cheer up, Arthur!' Richard gently squeezed his arm. 'We'll wait up for them.'

'I'm afraid that's not possible, sir,' the footman called over his shoulder as he hung the coats on pegs in a shallow cupboard by the front door. 'Her Ladyship said that you would be tired from your long journey and should get a good night's sleep as soon as dinner was over.They look forward to seeing you at breakfast, sir.'

'I see. And where are Anne, Gerald and Henry?'

'They have already been sent to bed, sir.'

'Oh . . .'

'Is that all, sir? May I take you through to the dining room now, sir?'