The Ways of Honour

By Judith Thomson

1685 is a turbulent year.

England has another ruler on the throne, James 11, but not everyone is content with the new order and the threat of rebellion is in the air. Philip Devalle knows he will never prosper during James' reign and, when he finds himself caught up in the events unfolding around him, he begins to wonder if an old enemy might not, after all, prove to be a friend, whilst his brother-in-law, Giles, who is exiled from his native land, is considering whether to risk all and return to England at the side of King James' nephew, the rebel Duke of Monmouth.

Meanwhile, in France, Philip's army comrade, Armand, unintentionally becomes involved in the fate of the French Huguenots and, for the first time in his life, begins to question the laws of his country and the fairness of his own king, the powerful Louis XlV.

All three soldiers must make a difficult decision if they are to do what is best for themselves, for their countries - and for their honour!

Another Philip Devalle adventure, set in England and France.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Judith Thomson
• Release date: Apr 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224397259

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Judith Thomson resides in Sussex, England. She enjoys walking her dog over the local Downs, gardening and visits to France. Judith’s fascination with life in the 17th century started when she visited Versailles many years ago and, as a result of this, she has written six previous historical novels. These books are based on the adventures of her main character Philip Devalle and the part he plays in the thrilling events that unfold in 17th century England and France.

Judith is also an internet radio show presenter and co-owner of The Feelgood Station www.thefeelgoodstation.uk

To discover more about her books, visit her website www.judiththomson.com

You can also follow her on Facebook: Judith Thomson Books and on Instagram: Judith Thomson Books

ALSO BY THE AUTHOR:

Designs of a Gentleman: The Early Years

Designs of a Gentleman: The Darker Years

High Heatherton

The Orange Autumn

The Distant Hills

Flowers of Languedoc

Copyright © 2024 Judith Thomson

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

PROLOGUE

August 1674

Philip was weary.

He had been summoned at four that morning to receive his orders, along with the rest of the cavalry officers serving in the French army under General Condé. It was midday now and they had just won a fierce battle at the village of Seneff, against the allied troops commanded by Prince William of Orange. Philip felt ready for a rest now and a little respite from the hot sun.

Ferrion, the fiery black stallion he had trained for war, was plainly tired from his own exertions and Philip led him from the field, accompanied by Morgan, his Welsh servant, who had fought beside him. Philip looked around for his friend, Armand, amongst all the confusion. Armand was a major, like himself and they always searched for one another directly a fight was over. He was relieved to see that Armand, too, had escaped unscathed. Philip carried a flask of brandy in his saddlebags and, after they had wiped down their lathered mounts, they sat down together and he shared it with Armand and Morgan.

Philip Devalle was English but he had been fighting in the French army under Condé for six years. From where they were sitting, he saw that the General was addressing Chevalier Fourilles, their cavalry commander. After a few moments they heard Condé’s voice raised. They could not hear the conversation but it was not the first time on this campaign that the Condé had lost his temper. Everyone knew that he was suffering agonies from the gout, so much so that, at times, he could not even bear to wear his boots and had to ride in slippers, but that had not stopped his determination to take the fight to the enemy. Not even today, when he had already had one horse killed under him.

Philip groaned and stretched his stiff back. That doesn’t bode well.

And he was right.

When Fourilles came over to where they were sitting his face was grim. They all stood and Philip, without a word, offered him what remained of the brandy. Fourilles took it gratefully.

We are to ride again, he told them.

So soon? Philip felt as though he had barely recovered his strength.

I fear so. Prince William is in the Priory of St. Nicholas-des-Bois awaiting reinforcements and we are to attack him before they arrive.

Exhausted though they were, Philip and Armand were soldiers, and soldiers obeyed their orders. Death was a possibility they both faced every day, and this day was no different. They would live or they would die – for King Louis and for France.

***

It was October before the French army returned home. The campaign defending the French border against the allied troops of Holland, Spain and Austria had been acclaimed as a victory but at such a high cost that there was little rejoicing amongst those who had survived it.

I can’t say I’ll be sorry to be back in Paris, Philip said to Armand as they rode into the city side by side. I’ve had my fill of that damn Dutchman for a while.

Philip had plenty of reason to dislike Prince William, having come close to death whilst he was defending his garrison against William and his Dutch forces the year before. Morgan riding behind them muttered something in his own Welsh language and Philip laughed.

I think Morgan feels the same.

Morgan was a rough looking man, thick set with shaggy black hair beneath which showed a mutilated ear, but Philip knew his worth. In his previous encounter with the Dutchman, Philip’s mount had been killed beneath him during a cavalry charge and he would have been trampled to death if Morgan, who had been just a common soldier at the time, had not risked his own life to drag him free. The only reward the Welshman would accept was to remain as his servant and although Philip had at first had reservations, he had quickly come to value the taciturn Morgan’s qualities as well as his friendship.

So many officers had lost their lives in the campaign including their own commander the Chevalier Fourilles, that Philip and Armand had each received field promotions to the rank of lieutenant colonel, which Condé assured them, would be confirmed, and he also said that he had recommended them to be amongst those who would be called to receive special thanks from King Louis for outstanding service. They both welcomed the promotions but they knew that the ceremony, although a great honour, would be a sad reminder of the death of Fourilles and of the many comrades they had lost in the campaign.

It will be good to see my house again, Philip said. He had bought a house in the fashionable Marais district and the cream of Paris society attended the salon he held there for a poet friend of his, Jules Gaspard, whose plays had lately become popular. You must visit me there, he told Armand, and meet Jules.

I will with pleasure, although I don›t suppose I will be able to stay in Paris for long, Armand said regretfully. I will have to go home to Brittany to see Isabelle."

Of course I tend to forget that you are married!

I tend to forget about it myself, Armand said.

Monsieur wants me to find a wife, Philip told him, but only to make sure that I stay in France.

He was a favourite of Monsieur, the King›s flamboyant brother.

Armand laughed. It surely shouldn›t be too difficult a proposition for you, women fall at your feet!

Philip attempted to look modest but failed utterly and they both laughed. With his handsome looks and blonde curls, he had always attracted the ladies of the Court.

The problem is not so much in the acquiring of a wife, my friend, but in the restrictions and responsibilities that it will impose upon me. However, since my father’s money will one day pass to my imbecile of a brother, then I suppose a rich wife might not be such a bad idea!

Philip was the younger son of an English earl and needed to make his own way in the world but he was aware that Armand St. Jean was in a very different position.

***

Armand was the Comte de Rennes and it had always been impressed upon him that it was his duty to carry on the line, so his late father had arranged his marriage before he let him join the army.

He had honoured his father’s wishes in the matter but, although Isabelle was a compliant and pleasant enough wife, he was not in love with her and never had been. Whilst he was away from her, which was often, he always managed to put her from his mind completely and this time had been no different, even though he had learned, just before he had left, that she was expecting their first child.

Now that he was about to sire an offspring, he felt that he had done what was expected of him. If the child were a boy, there would still be an heir to the title and a master for his chateau, La Fresnaye, should he be killed in battle.

But he did not have to return home right away, and Armand was a little ashamed of the relief that thought brought him. The prospect of spending some time in the city was appealing after the harshness of the last few months. He had his own share of admirers, his dark, good looks and his uniform ensured that, and Armand allowed himself to picture how grand he would appear with the insignia of a Lieutenant Colonel adorning it!

He was feeling quite happy until he arrived at the house of his sister, Hortense, where he always stayed when he was visiting the city. The news she had for him changed everything.

Isabelle had been taken sick.

You must start for Brittany tomorrow morning, she insisted. You should be there with her. After all, she is carrying your baby.

The journey west would take several days and, after the long ride back to Paris, it was the very last thing he felt like doing. Besides, it had been over two weeks since the letter had been dispatched to Hortense with the news of Isabelle’s illness and Armand was certain he would find her recovered from whatever ailed her by the time he got there. Even so, there was no doubt in his mind as to where his duty lay.

Hortense bustled into his room the following morning as he was making his preparations for the journey. She was accompanied by a pale young man. This is Eugene, she announced, pushing him forward. He is my gardener’s son and I promised that you would find him employment in the gardens of La Fresnaye. I thought he could travel in the coach with you.

Armand looked abstractedly at the youth. He was stick-thin and looked as though he had hardly the strength to lift a spade, but Armand had found in the past that it was easier not to argue with his sister and he generally let her have her way on unimportant matters. Very well.

He felt a stab of irritation all the same. Armand never took a servant with him, even upon campaigns, and he did not relish the prospect of the company of a stranger for the long trip he was facing now.

Fortunately, Eugene did not prove to be much of a talker but, after they had been upon the road for a while, Armand thought he should attempt to put him at his ease.

Have you never been out of Paris before? he asked him conversationally, for he had noticed that the boy gazed out of the window all the time as though mesmerised by what he saw.

No, never, my Lord. I had no idea France was so beautiful.

And Brittany is the loveliest part of all, Armand told him, with some pride.

Then why did you leave it, my Lord? Directly the words were out Eugene coloured, obviously realising he had spoken too boldly, but Armand did not mind the question.

Since his wild boyhood, spent in the forests and craggy rocks of the rugged Breton coastline, Armand’s life had been a constant search for excitement. Much against his father’s wishes, he had joined the army eight years ago, when he was just seventeen, and, although the life was hard, he had never regretted it. Because I wanted adventure, he said simply.

Eugene’s next words surprised him.

So do I.

Armand looked at him with fresh eyes. A wistfulness had entered Eugene’s voice when he spoke. Physically there was nothing to the boy; it seemed a strong gust of wind could blow him over, but there was character in his pallid features and he obviously had dreams of his own.

How old are you, Eugene?

I am fifteen, my Lord.

And you wish to be a gardener?

Eugene hung his head. Not particularly.

That was not the dutiful answer Armand might have expected. It was an honest answer, however, and he liked that.

Then why have I been asked to give you a position as a gardener on my estate?

Eugene seemed to have no reply to that but Armand already knew the answer.

My sister told you that was what you wanted to be, he guessed.

Eugene nodded. Yes, my Lord, but I will try to learn the job to please you.

Hortense had tried to organise Armand’s own life since they were children. Although she had not succeeded in his case, he could see that Eugene would have stood no chance against her.

He found himself warming to the lad. There must be other work at La Fresnaye. If you do not wish to be a gardener then I will see to it that you are found employment more to your liking.

That is generous of you, my Lord.

Not at all.

Eugene looked a good deal happier now but Armand feared that, whatever job the boy was given on the estate, he would find life in the country quiet after Paris, and not particularly adventurous!

La Fresnaye had the forlornness of early autumn about it when they arrived. Armand had not been home for several months, nor had he, during that time, given any thought to either it or Isabelle and, as usual, he felt a pang of remorse as his carriage turned into the drive. When she recovered, he would try to be a better husband to her, he vowed. He would spend more time with her and he would write more letters to her whilst he was away. Even that did not come easy to him, for he was essentially a truthful person and could not pretend emotions he did not feel.

He hoped that when the baby was born it would be different. He knew he would be able to love his own child and that perhaps then he and Isabelle would grow closer.

As soon as he entered the house, however, he knew with dread certainty that none of it was going to happen. The first person he saw was Father Bernard, the village priest.

Armand had known Father Bernard all his life. He had been baptised by him, guided by him in his boyhood and comforted by him when both his parents had died in a smallpox epidemic when he was only nineteen. One look at Bernard’s concerned face told him that he was about to face another tragedy.

Bernard embraced him warmly. Armand, Armand, my prayers are answered. I feared you would be too late.

Too late? Are you telling me Isabelle is dying? Armand asked disbelievingly.

Alas, my son, I doubt she will live out the night.

But Hortense gave me no indication that the situation was so grave, Armand cried, recalling how he had even been tempted to put off his return until after he had received his medal from the King.

Your sister did not know. At the time I wrote to her Isabelle was suffering from what seemed to be nothing more serious than a disorder of the stomach but I regret to say she has since miscarried your child. She lost a great deal of blood and developed an infection which the physician says she is too weak to fight.

Armand’s mind was reeling. Not only did it seem likely he would lose his wife but he had already lost the child upon which he had pinned so many hopes.

Still dazed he went to her room. The curtains were drawn, shutting out the afternoon sunshine, but even in the dimness he could see how thin and drawn she looked. He paused before he reached her bedside, realising, to his shame, that he had no notion of what to say to her.

She heard him approach and opened her eyes. There were dark shadows around them and she was obviously in pain, but she managed a smile. Armand. You came.

I would have been here sooner if I could, he said, taking the trembling hand she held out to him.

I know you would. I have read the reports of your campaign and my thoughts have been with you. You are a fine soldier, Armand.

But I have been a poor husband, he said quietly.

That was not meant as a reproach, my dear. She tried to squeeze his hand to reinforce her words but there was no strength in her grip and he felt but the lightest pressure. I want to thank you.

Thank me? he asked, confused. For what?

For being honest with me. I have always known you did not love me, but you have never made me feel a burden to you and you never tried to fool me with empty words. No, she said, as he made to speak, do not say them now just because I am dying. There is no need. You have treated me kindly and honourably, and I am grateful for that. I used to hope that we would grow closer but I accepted in the end that it was not to be and I would have been happy just to bear your children and to grow old at your side. Alas, it seems even that has been denied me. Tears welled in her eyes.

Armand swallowed hard. You may yet recover, he said lamely. There can be other children and I promise I will do my utmost be the sort of husband that you want.

But you already are, Armand, she said, smiling weakly, at him. You are brave and strong. A hero who fights for his country. I am proud of you and I have been proud to be your wife.

They were the last words she was to speak. Armand sat with her for another hour but she was unaware of it, for she had drifted into a sleep from which she did not wake.

Father Bernard was on hand to perform the last rites and Armand’s heart was heavy as he left the room. He knew she had deserved better from him.

***

Hortense and her husband hastened from Paris to be by his side at Isabelle’s funeral and Armand was grateful to them, for the rest of the church was filled with Isabelle’s large family. He had never had too much to do with any of them but they had always been eager to ingratiate themselves with him, with the exception of her younger brother, Raphael.

Raphael was a moody individual who, unlike his sister, had a fiery temper which had already landed him in trouble. Armand had never taken to him but he was still surprised to see that when the boy looked at him across the church his expression was plainly one of resentment.

Hortense noticed it too. Did you see the way that awful boy glowered at you? she asked him afterwards, when they got home and walked together around the gardens where they had played as children.

Perhaps he was close to his sister and felt that I could have been a more attentive husband to her, Armand suggested.

Nonsense! He was probably thinking more about himself and that he will not now be able to use your name and title to advance himself, she said.

Armand smiled. Despite his sister’s bossy ways, he knew that she was fiercely loyal to him and he was very fond of her.

The sat down together by the side of a marble pond, in the centre of which a little golden cupid poured water from an ewer. Armand could not help but wonder how many times Isabelle had sat here, thinking of him, and perhaps wishing he were home with her. He put the thought determinedly from his mind. La Fresnaye had a mournful feel now, and that had nothing to do with the fast-approaching dark days of winter. It had a great deal to do with guilt, however.

Hortense knew that too. It wasn’t your fault, she reminded him. You never wanted a wife and the two of you were ill-suited.

I could have tried harder to make her happy, he said wretchedly.

She never asked more of you than you could give, Hortense reminded him. She wasn’t like you, Armand. She was quiet and mild and deeply religious. You have always been a little wild.

Hortense had been a little wild herself as a child, but she had calmed down considerably since she had been married and become a mother.

Armand managed a smile. Yes, suppose I have!

You won’t stay here, will you? she said.

Lord, no! There is even less to keep me here now. I shall return to Paris with you, he decided.

***

Philip was pleased to see Armand back in Paris. In November, they were both ordered to St. Germain, where their promotions were confirmed by the King, as Condé had predicted.

Condé was there too, at Louis’ request.

The General is looking like an old man, Philip said sadly to Armand, as Condé slowly mounted the grand staircase to meet his cousin.

Ailing and lame though he was, the great man had lost none of his dignity, or his self-possession. He had to pause partway, and he apologised for that, but Louis, waiting to greet him at the top of the staircase, only smiled.

When a man is laden with laurels he cannot walk fast, cousin, he said graciously.

Louis received him as a conquering hero, and rightly so, for Condé’s victories had successfully repelled the Allies’ invasion, but Philip and Armand knew that only those who had been part of that bloody campaign could be truly aware of the high cost of those victories.

Paris was a good place to be that Winter. Philip was a popular figure and he made sure that Armand was soon caught up in the activity around him. He introduced him, too, to his protégé, Jules Gaspard, whose newest play was being performed on the Paris stage, and Armand was a welcome guest at all the gatherings he held at his house.

In such lively company, Armand managed to lose a little of the guilt that he was feeling.

When Spring came, they received their new orders. They were to fight on the northern frontier, serving under Condé once again and, as lieutenant colonels, they had each been given a large company of men to command. This time they would be under the eyes of the King himself, for Louis was insisting upon going with them. He was allowing Condé to remain as Commander-in-Chief, although the General seemed barely fit to ride to war again, but Philip and Armand knew, from experience, that campaigning with the King was going to be a vastly different business, for a large royal train would be accompanying them.

Before he left, Armand sent for Eugene, who