Page 88 of The Gathering Storm

She looked at him, wide-eyed, seeming surprised at his ignorance. It was here at the Château de Candé that the wedding was to take place, did he not know?

The wedding? he asked.

The wedding of His Royal Highness and Madame Saint-Saëns. It was very romantic. His Royal Highness was only lately arrived, but Madame Saint-Saëns had been staying here already many weeks.

She had pronounced the name in French, and her accent was strong and rustic, so it took him a moment to realise that Madame Saint-Saëns was in fact Madame Simpson, and the Royal Highness must therefore be the Duke of Windsor. So that was what Charlie wanted his help with. James had had no idea they were involved with it. They were lending them their exquisite château for les noces.

And James was to witness the wedding that had changed history, the wedding everyone would surely be talking about.

‘Good God,’ he said.

The centuria moved at last, from the high sierra north and eastwards to a plain in Aragon, where the Communists were besieging a small town that had been occupied by the Fascists since the autumn. The high plain was subject to fierce, cold winds, but there were more signs of life: this flat land had evidently been cultivated, and though it had been abandoned when the war began, Nature had reasserted itself, so that the bare sticks of the grape vines budded, the green blades of winter barley thrust through where the fields had not been trampled, and the orchards first blossomed, then came into leaf. There were unlifted potatoes in one field, which made a welcome addition to the diet, though the field was closer to the Fascist line and under observation. They had to lie flat and dig them up with their hands, and if they were spotted the machine-gun fire would throw up earth and stones all around them. But there was always somebody in the company who thought the reward worth the risk.

The new position was a couple of miles from the Fascist line, behind mud and stone parapets. To their rear a former farmhouse was much battered, and most of its roof was missing, but with its outbuildings it provided enough shelter to serve as cook-house, store and headquarters. Behind that was a swift-running stream, foaming over rocks, whirling in deep glass-green pools. Basil made use of it for the first bath since leaving Barcelona. He stripped naked, stepped in, and gasped. The water was grippingly, agonisingly cold.

On the bank, Zennor laughed. ‘Where do you think that water comes from? It’s snow-melt from the mountains.’

‘Don’t care,’ Basil replied, between clenched teeth. ‘Worth it!’

He stayed in as long as he could bear it, and rubbed himself all over with the sliver of gritty soap he had been saving. Zennor contented himself with washing face, hands and feet. ‘I’ll go in when it’s warmer,’ he promised.

The main action was on the other side of the besieged town, but there was intermittent shell fire most days. The noise at first was horrifying: not a bang or boom, Basil discovered, but a shrill, tearing, clashing noise, like metal being ripped apart by giant torturing hands. It was hard to bear, but he discovered again that you could get used to anything; and he very quickly learned to tell simply by the pitch of the noise how close the shell was likely to fall. Quite often the shells did not explode – the Fascist ammunition was almost as bad as theirs – so the dud would be picked up and fired back at the enemy.

The only military activity they had was going out on night patrol, into no man’s land. Creeping about the fields among the remains of abandoned crops and inching along drainage ditches was at least different from the rocky places they had been used to, and occasionally they would find something fit to eat – a brick-like ear of corn, or a wizened piece of fruit. Once they were required to make a feint to draw the enemy’s attention from an attack going in from the other side. They advanced, firing and yelling, until told to retreat, and whether it did any good they never found out. But that night a file of ambulances came down from the main action, jolting on the terrible roads. Basil wondered how the injured inside could bear it. If their wounds didn’t kill them, the ambulance journey might well.

‘I don’t understand what we’re doing here,’ he complained to Zennor one evening. The nights were still cold, but the daytime temperature was rising, and enough heat lingered in the evening to smoke a cigarette outside after the meal.

Zennor thought about it. ‘Well, I suppose if we weren’t here, there wouldn’t be a siege and the Fascists could just go where they wanted.’

‘That’s it? We’re just a fence across the road?’

‘If it wasn’t us, it would be some other soldiers. Maybe they’re more needed in battle than we are.’

Basil poked moodily at the ground with a stick. ‘It’s not that I really want a battle – I mean, when you think about being wounded or killed. But—’

‘I know. I’ve heard the men say the same thing: when are we going into action?’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s our nature, as men.’

‘You’re a philosopher,’ Basil said. It wasn’t a compliment.

Charlie greeted James with cheerful warmth. Tall, elegant Fern kissed him on both cheeks in the French manner.

‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ Charlie said. ‘There’s still a heap to do, and I need someone I can trust, someone who knows how I work. Just one thing. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, but not one word to any journalist – in fact, not to anyone outside these walls, because they’re cunning devils and they’ll try anything to get a story. They’re camped outside the front gates, have been for days. That’s why we go in and out by the back entrance. They haven’t found that yet. I send my motor out of the main gates every now and then as a decoy to keep them focused.’

‘I saw your armed guard,’ James said.

‘He’s meant to be seen.’

‘But he wouldn’t really shoot at people, would he?’

Charlie hesitated for a telling second. ‘Only into the air. Although,’ he added, ‘a peppering of shotgun pellets in the backside is a pretty good deterrent.’

‘Charlie!’ Fern said warningly.

‘The threat of a peppering, is what I mean, of course,’ he added hastily.

It turned out that the Bedauxs were staying in the staff quarters too. ‘We’ve given our bedrooms to the happy couple. And it’s more convenient to be over here,’ Fern said, as they went into the small parlour where they breakfasted. The smell of coffee and new bread was torturing James.

‘We can come and go more easily, and don’t get sucked in,’ Charlie agreed.