Young Bloods [Wellington and Napoleon Quartet - Book I] by Simon Scarrow

In the years that followed Carlos Buona Parte had not been able to believe his good fortune. Not only had his amnesty been confirmed by the government in Paris, but he had secured a position as a court assistant in Ajaccio on a salary of nine hundred livres. No fortune by any stretch of the imagination but it allowed him to feed and clothe his family and maintain the large house he had inherited in the heart of the town. With another child on the way, Carlos needed the money. The new governor of Corsica, the Compte de Marbeuf, had taken to the charming young lawyer and was now acting as Carlos’s patron, as part of his mission to cement relations between France and her newly acquired province. Not only had Marbeuf secured the court appointment for Carlos, but he had also promised to support Carlos’s petition to the French Court to acknowledge his claim for the title of nobility held by his father. At present there were many such petitions as the Corsican aristocracy attempted to have their traditions included within the French system. But now his petition was being delayed, and each time that Carlos raised the matter with Marbeuf, the old man gently patted his hand and smiled thinly as he assured his young protégé that it would be dealt with in good time.

Why the delay? Carlos asked himself. Only days before, the lawyer Emilio Bagnioli had had his petition approved, despite it being lodged a good six months after that of Carlos. With heavy heart he returned to his house one afternoon and made for the stairs to the first floor. Letizia’s uncle, Luciano, the Archdeacon of Ajaccio, lived on the ground floor. He rarely left the house any more, claiming he was too infirm. But the real reason, the family knew, was that he did not dare part from the money chest he had hidden in his room. Carlos had little time for the dour man and merely nodded a greeting as he passed the archdeacon, leaning against the doorpost. Carlos hurried up the creaking steps to the first floor and entered his family’s rooms, quickly closing the door behind him. From the kitchen, down the corridor, he heard the sounds of his children at the dinner table, together with the scrape and clatter of plates and cutlery as Letizia prepared the settings.

Letizia looked up with a warm smile, which faded as she saw his weary expression.

‘Carlos? What’s wrong?’

‘There’s still no news about my petition,’ Carlos replied as he pulled out a chair and sat down.

‘I’m sure it’ll be dealt with soon enough.’ She moved behind him and stroked his neck. ‘Be patient.’

He did not answer her, but turned his attention to his children, who stared at him with their mother’s intense eyes. Then, as Giuseppe continued to gaze at his father, the younger boy deftly removed a thick slice of sausage from Giuseppe’s plate. As soon as Giuseppe noticed the theft, he snatched at the meat. Naboleone was too quick for him and smashed his fist down on Giuseppe’s fingers before they reached his plate. His older brother yelped and jumped up in his chair, upsetting his cup of water so that the contents spilled across the table. Carlos felt his temper snap and he slammed his fists down on the table.

‘Go to your room!’ he ordered. ‘Both of you.’

‘But, Father,’ the younger boy cried out indignantly, ’it's dinner time. I’m hungry!’

‘Silence, Naboleone! Do as you are told!’

Letizia set down the bowl she was holding and hurried over to her sons. ‘Don’t argue with your father. Go. You will be sent for when we have spoken.’

‘But I’m hungry!’ Naboleone protested and crossed his arms. His mother hissed angrily and slapped him across the face, hard. ‘You’ll do as you are told! Now go!’

Giuseppe was already out of his chair and nervously crept past his father in the doorway, then ran down the corridor towards the room shared by the boys. His brother had been stunned by the blow, and had started to cry, then bit back on his tears and, with eyes blazing, scraped his chair away and rose to his feet. He shot a defiant look at each parent before striding from the room on his short legs. As he marched away, the door was closed behind him, but not before he heard his father say in a low voice, 'One day that brat must be taught some lessons …’Then his voice dropped and only muted discussion issued unintelligibly from the kitchen.

Naboleone quickly got bored of trying to eavesdrop and padded softly away. But instead of joining Giuseppe in their room, he crept downstairs and out of the house. The sun was low in the west, casting long shadows over the street, and the boy turned towards it and made for the harbour front of Ajaccio. With a swagger that did not sit well on his small, skinny frame, he strolled down the cobbled avenue, thumbs tucked into his culottes, whistling happily to himself.

Emerging on to the road that passed along the harbour, Naboleone made for the cluster of fishermen squatting over their nets as they carefully checked them for signs of wear before folding them up ready for the next morning’s fishing. The smells of the sea and rotting fish guts assaulted the young boy’s nostrils but he had long since grown used to the stench and nodded a greeting as he strode up and stood in the middle of the group of men.

‘What’s the news?’ he piped up.

An old man, Pedro, looked up and cracked a nearly toothless smile. ‘Naboleone! On the run from that mother of yours again?’

The boy nodded, and flashed a brilliant grin as he approached the fisherman.

Pedro shook his head. ‘What is it today? Skipping chores? Stealing cakes? Bullying that poor brother of yours?’

Naboleone grinned and squatted down beside the old man.

‘Pedro. Tell me a story.’

‘A story? Haven’t I told you enough stories?’

‘Hey! Small fry!’ One of the younger men winked at Naboleone. ‘Some of those stories have even been true!’ The man laughed, and the others joined in good-naturedly.

‘As long as they have nothing to do with the size of his catch!’ someone added.

‘Quiet!’ Pedro shouted. ‘Young fools! What do you know?’

‘Enough not to believe you, old man. Small fry, don’t be taken in by his tall stories.’

Naboleone glowered at the speaker. ‘I’ll believe what I choose to believe. Don’t you dare make fun of him. Or I’ll—’

‘You’ll what?’ The fisherman regarded him with surprise. ‘What will you do to me, small fry? Knock me down? Care to give it a try?’

He stood up and strode towards the small boy. Naboleone looked him over, squinting as the bulk of the man was rimmed by a bright orange hue from the setting sun. He looked formidable enough: a wide chest, thick sinewy arms and legs … and bare feet. The boy smiled as he squared up to the fisherman and raised his tiny fists. The other fishermen roared with laughter and as the man grinned at his friends Naboleone darted forward and stamped the heel of his shoe down as hard as he could on the man’s toes.

‘Owww!’ The man recoiled in pain, snatching back his foot and hopping on his other leg. ‘You little bastard!’

Naboleone stepped forward, reached up with his hands and gave a hearty shove to the top of the man’s head, overbalancing him and sending him toppling backwards into a basket of fish. The wharf exploded in laughter as the other fishermen enjoyed their comrade’s misfortune.

Pedro rested a hand on Naboleone’s shoulder. ‘Well done, lad! You may be small,’ he tapped the boy’s bony chest, 'but you’ve got heart.’

The man was struggling up from the basket, brushing the fish scales from his breeches and shirt. ‘Little bastard,’ he muttered through clenched teeth. ‘Needs a lesson.’

‘Better make yourself scarce.’ Pedro pushed Naboleone away and the boy hopped over the nets and ran for the opening of the nearest alley, little legs pumping away as the fisherman started after him. But he reached the alley before his pursuer could clear the nets, and before he disappeared from view he stuck his tongue out defiantly. Not wanting to take the risk that the man had given up his pursuit, Naboleone ran on, cut down a side alley, and re-emerged on the wharf some distance beyond the fishermen. There would be no going back there this evening.

At the end of the wharf stood the entrance to the citadel, where the Compte de Marbeuf had his official residence.

A group of French soldiers sat in the shade of a tree by the gateway. As they saw the boy they waved and shouted a greeting at the child who had become something of a mascot to them. Naboleone smiled back and joined their circle. Although he understood little French and spoke only a Corsican dialect of Italian, a few of the soldiers spoke some Italian and could more or less conduct a conversation with him. He, in turn, had picked up a few words of French, which included the kinds of curses that soldiers are inclined to teach children for the amusement it afforded them.

It seemed that they had been looking out for him and they gestured to him to sit down on a stool beside them, while one of the soldiers entered the citadel and ran across to the barracks block. Naboleone glanced round at the Frenchmen and saw them watching him with amusement and expectation. One was carving thick slices off a sausage and the boy called out to him, indicated the sausage and then pointed to his mouth. The man smiled and handed him a few slices, together with a chunk of bread torn from a freshly baked loaf. Naboleone muttered his thanks and started to cram the food into his mouth. Nailed boots clattered across cobblestones and the soldier who had gone to the barracks returned with some cloth carefully folded under one arm. In the other he held a wooden sword. Squatting down in front of the boy he laid the toy sword beside him and gently unfolded the cloth to reveal a small uniform and a child’s tricorn hat. The soldier pointed to his own uniform.

‘There,’ he spoke in Italian, with a heavy French accent. ‘The same thing.’

Naboleone’s eyes widened with excitement. He set the remaining food down hurriedly and then chewed and swallowed what was left in his mouth. Standing up, he reached out for the white coat with its neatly stitched blue facings and polished brass buttons. He slid his arms into the sleeves and let the soldier do the buttons up for him, then fastened a small belt about his waist. When he had finished the man started to button a pair of black gaiters that rose up to the hem of the coat. Another soldier carefully placed the tricorn on Naboleone’s head and then all stood round him to inspect the results.The boy reached down for the sword and stuffed it into his belt, before he stiffened his back and saluted them.

The Frenchmen roared with laughter and clapped him affectionately on the shoulder.

One of those who spoke Italian leaned over him. ‘You’re a proper soldier now. Except that you must take the oath.’ He straightened up and raised his right hand. ‘Monsieur Buona Parte, please raise your hand.’

For a moment Naboleone hesitated. These were Frenchmen, after all, and despite his mother’s friendship with the governor, she was prone to utter dark sentiments about the new rulers of Corsica. But Naboleone looked down at his beautiful uniform, with the gilt-painted handle of the sword sticking out of his belt. Then he looked up into the smiling faces of the men gathered around him and felt a keen desire to belong amongst them. He raised his hand.

‘Bravo!’ someone cried out.

‘Now, little Corsican, repeat after me. I swear undying obedience to His Most Catholic Majesty, King Louis …’

Naboleone echoed the words thoughtlessly as he revelled in the joy of becoming a soldier and the thought of all the adventures he might have; of all the wars he might fight in; of how he would be a hero, leading his men in a gallant charge against terrible odds, and triumphing to the resounding cheers of his friends and family.

‘There! That’s it, young man,’ the French soldier was saying. ‘You are one of us now.’

But Naboleone’s thoughts remained with his family. As he glanced back towards the harbour the first lamps were already being lit along the street and in the windows of the houses.
‘I have to go,’ he muttered, gesturing in the direction of his home.

‘Oh!’ the soldier laughed. ‘Deserting already!’

Naboleone started to undo his buttons, but the soldier stayed his hand. ‘No. The uniform’s for you. Keep it. Anyway, you’re a King’s man now, and we’ll be expecting to see you on duty again soon.’

Naboleone surveyed the coat with a look of disbelief. ‘It’s mine? To keep?’

‘But, of course! Now run along.’

The boy’s eyes met the soldier’s. ‘Thank you,’ he said softly, little fingers closing around the hilt of the toy sword. 'Thank you.’

As he moved towards the edge of the small group of soldiers they parted before him, as if he were a general and when he turned back someone shouted an order and they all shuffled to attention with wide grins and saluted. Naboleone, stern-faced, returned the salute, then turned about and marched down the street towards his home, feeling as tall as a man and as grand as any king.

Behind him the Frenchmen settled back to their evening ration of sausage, bread and wine. The soldier who had dressed Naboleone watched the little boy strutting down the road and he smiled in satisfaction before he re-joined his comrades.

By the time he had reached his home, night had fallen and Naboleone’s bravado had seeped away as he faced the prospect of sneaking back into his room without being caught. He waited in the entrance hall for a moment, ears straining to pick up any sounds in the house. From the first floor came the voices of Naboleone’s parents. He crept towards the stairs and then, keeping as close to the wall as possible to minimise any creaking of the boards, the boy stole upstairs. His heart was pounding at the tension in his body as he reached the top, squeezed through the door to his family’s rooms and started down the darkened corridor to the room he shared with Giuseppe. He never made it. The toy sword, jammed into his belt, suddenly scraped across a skirting board.
Before the boy could dive the last few feet to his room, the door to the kitchen was wrenched open and a dim glow spilled into the corridor.

‘Where on earth … ?’ his father began, then there was a beat before his anger gave way to surprise. ‘What are you wearing? Come here, boy!’

Naboleone warily made his way to the kitchen door, paused to remove his tricorn and look up at his father towering over him, then entered the room. His mother sat at the table. Her lips tightened as she saw the uniform.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘It - it was a present.’

‘Who from?’

‘The soldiers at the citadel.’

Letizia stood up and stabbed a finger at her son. ‘Take it off ! How dare you wear that?’

Naboleone was shocked by the venom in her voice. He hurriedly undid the belt and buttons, shuffled his arms out of the coat and laid it on the table. The gaiters followed, together with the tricorn and toy sword. All the time his parents stared at him. At length his father broke the silence.

‘Tell me you did not walk through the streets wearing that uniform.’

‘I did.’

Carlos rolled his eyes and clapped a hand to his forehead.

‘Did anyone see you?’ Letizia snapped. ‘Speak up! The truth, mind.’

Naboleone thought back. ‘It was growing dark. I passed a few people.’

‘Did they recognise you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, then,’ Letizia said bitterly, ‘word will get round that our son has been seen in French uniform. That’s an end to any reputation our family once held in this town. It’s bad enough your father is employed by the French, Naboleone. And now our own son marches round the town in a French uniform. The Paolists will drag our family name through the gutters for this.’

Carlos stepped up to the table and examined the tiny uniform. ‘You exaggerate, Letizia. This is a toy, that’s all. Dressing-up clothes. They made them for him as a joke.’

‘They were a gift,’ Naboleone piped up. ‘They’re mine.’

‘Quiet, you little idiot,’ Letizia said coldly. ‘Can’t you understand what you’ve done? What fools you have made of us?’

The little boy shook his head, bewildered by her rage.

‘Well, try to understand, before you ruin our reputation any further. Do you know, there are still bands of Corsican patriots out there in the maquis, still fighting the French? Do you know what they do to any collaborators they capture?’

Naboleone shook his head.

‘They cut their throats and leave the bodies where others can see them, as a warning. Do you want that to happen to us?’

‘N-no, Mother.’

‘Stop it!’ Carlos raised his hand. ‘Letizia, you’re scaring the child.’

‘Good! He needs to be scared. For his own sake, as well as ours.’

‘But we’re not in the maquis. We’re in the town. The garrison is here to protect us. To restore order. The Paolists are little more than brigands. They’ll be finished off before the year’s out. The French are here to stay and the sooner people accept that, the better. I have.’

She sneered. ‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Don’t think it hasn’t disgusted me that we have had to sell our birthright as Corsicans to safeguard the future of our family.’

Naboleone watched the confrontation between his parents anxiously and now he almost choked as he interrupted their exchange. ‘Mother, I was only playing with them.’

‘Well, don’t! Never again, you understand?’

He nodded.

‘As for these,’ she bundled the uniform and hat up, ‘they must be disposed of.’

‘But, Mother!’

‘Quiet! They must go. And you must never mention this to anyone.’

The boy seethed inside, but he knew he must accept her word or face a beating he would not forget in a long time. He nodded.

‘In any case,’ Carlos said in a calming tone, ‘you’ve spent too long running around the town. You’re almost feral. Look at you. Your hair needs a comb. No, better still, a cut. You need a clean-up and some discipline. It’s time you started school.’

Naboleone’s heart sank into the pit of his stomach. School? That was as bad as being sent to prison.

‘Your mother and I have talked this over. You need an education. Tomorrow I will speak with Abbot Rocco about admitting you and Giuseppe to his school. It’ll mean we have less money in the house but, given tonight’s events, I don’t think we can afford not to send you there.’

Anne poured herself a fresh cup of tea and gazed out through the doors of the orangery to where her children were playing on the lawn. The two older boys, Richard and William, were once again commanding Anne and Arthur about as they arranged a collection of drying racks and sheets into the outline of a ship. A book on pirates had gone round the nursery, being avidly devoured by each child in turn, and for the last few weeks of the summer they had played nothing else. As ever, the quiet Arthur, now four years old, said little but did as he was bid and carried out his orders with focused intensity. Anne watched him with a keen sense of pity. He had developed a sensitive face. His nose had a faint downward curve and his eyes were a brilliant light blue, the whole fringed by long fair hair that wafted in the gentle breeze as he went about his work.

Anne raised her cup and sipped delicately from the rim. On the floor beside her slept her youngest son, Gerald, born a year after Arthur, and she was expecting yet another, who was to be named Henry, if it turned out to be a boy.

On the other side of the table Garrett sat with a folio of sheet music spread across the table. He was working on a new composition and every now and then he would raise his violin and pluck at the strings as he tried out a new arrangement. Then he would suddenly lower the instrument, snatch up a quill and start scribbling alterations to the notes marked on the staves.

Anne coughed lightly. ‘Garrett, what do you think will become of him?’

‘Eh?’ Her husband grunted, frowning. He dipped his nib and irritably scratched out several notes.

‘Arthur.’

Garrett glanced up, frowning. ‘What about him?’

‘Please lower that quill before we continue this conversation.’

‘What? Oh, very well. There.’ He sat back in his chair and clasped his hands together with a smile. ‘I’m all yours.’

‘Thank you. I was wondering what you thought about Arthur.’

‘What I think of him?’ Garrett turned to gaze at the children playing in the garden, as if he had only just realised they were there at all. ‘Oh, he’ll do well enough.’

‘Really? And just what kind of future do you think he might have?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Something in the clergy, I should think.’

‘The clergy?’

‘Yes. After all, he’s displayed no signs of any intellectual mettle. Not like Richard and William. Even young Gerald there seems to have a more lively grasp of numbers and letters than Arthur. We’ll do our best for him, of course, but I dare say he’ll never go up to Oxford, or Cambridge.’

‘Well, yes. Quite.’

Just then their conversation was interrupted by a piercing cry from the garden and their heads snapped round. Arthur had fallen to his knees and was clutching his head. A wooden sword lay on the ground beside him and William was staring at his younger brother angrily.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Arthur! It was just a tap. Anyway, I told you to defend yourself.’

Garrett shook his head and glanced down at his music. Then he looked up again, struck by a sudden notion. ‘Arthur! Come here, my boy.’ As Arthur toddled in from the garden Garrett smiled. ‘I think it’s time you learned to play a musical instrument. And what better than the violin? Come here, child. Let me show you.’

As Anne watched, her husband carefully handed his full-size violin to the young boy, and named each string for him. Then he reached for the bow and began to play some notes. In a few minutes Arthur had forgotten about his sore head, and his bright eyes eagerly soaked up every detail of the instrument as he concentrated on his father’s instructions. At length Garrett drew up a chair and let the boy sit down with the violin in his lap and Arthur sawed happily away in a series of blood-curdling screeches and scrapes. Gerald was duly disturbed from his sleep on the cushions and rose quickly, alarmed by the discordant noise.

Anne smiled. ‘Time for supper, I think. Run along, boys. Arthur, put that down and get along to the kitchen. Your father and I will follow directly.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

Garrett held out his hands for the instrument. ‘Thank you. Do you want me to teach you how to play this instrument properly?’

The boy’s eyes sparkled. ‘Oh yes, Father! I should like that.’

Garrett laughed. ‘Good. And one day we shall compose music together.’

Arthur smiled brilliantly, then hurried round the table to help his brother up from the cushions. The two of them walked towards the kitchen with stiff little steps, still holding hands. Both parents watched their progress and then turned to each other and smiled.

‘A musician, I think,’ said Garrett.

‘God help us,’ Anne muttered. ‘Your charity concerts will be the ruin of us yet.’

‘Shame on you! We can afford it. Besides, it’s my Christian duty to spread culture to the less advantaged.’

‘I’d have thought your first Christian duty was to the wellbeing of your family.’

‘It is, my dear.’ He stared at her intently. ‘Now, we were talking about young Arthur. Seriously, though, I think he might be suited to a musical career.’

‘How wonderful,’ Anne replied with acid-laced irony.

‘Yes, well … Meanwhile we must find him a school. I have one in mind.’

‘Oh, yes?’

Garrett nodded. ‘The Diocesian School at Trim. You know the place. St Mary’s Abbey.’

Anne stared after her son. ‘Do you think he’s old enough?’

‘My dear, if we don’t start preparing him for life now, when will we begin? If he is not to fall behind the achievements of Richard and William we must work him hard.’

‘You’re right, of course. It’s just that he seems so … vulnerable. I fear for him.’

‘He’ll do well enough,’ Garrett said comfortingly.

‘I won’t go! I won’t go!’

Letizia shook the boy by his shoulders. 'You will, and there’s an end to it! Now get dressed.’

Outside, the first light of day was picking out the details in the houses across the street. Letizia led her son to the clothes laid out on his bed and pointed to them. ‘Now!’

‘No!’ Naboleone shouted back and crossed his arms. ‘I won’t go!’

‘You will.’ Letizia slapped his cheek. ‘You are going to school, my boy, and you will get dressed. You will come and eat your breakfast, and you will behave impeccably when you are introduced to the abbot. Or you will have the thrashing of your life. Do I make myself clear?’

Her son frowned at her, eyes blazing with defiance. Letizia crossed herself. ‘Mary, Mother of God, give me patience. Why can’t you be more like your brother there?’ She nodded across the room to where Giuseppe was just tying his bootlaces. His clothes were neat and clean, and his hair gleamed from a fresh brushing.

‘Him?’ Naboleone laughed. ‘Don’t make me laugh, Mother. Who would want to be like him? The big sissy.’

Letizia slapped him again, much harder this time, leaving an imprint of her slender fingers on his cheek. ‘Don’t you dare talk that way about your brother.’ She pointed to the clothes again. ‘Now get dressed. If you’re not ready by the time I come back you’ll have hard bread for supper tonight.’

She stormed out of the room and made for the kitchen, where Lucien - her new child - was bawling for more food.

For a moment Naboleone stood quite still, arms folded, and glared at his clothes. On the other side of the room Giuseppe finished tying his laces and stood by his bed, gazing at his younger brother.

‘Why do you do it, Naboleone?’ he said softly.

‘Sorry. Did you speak?’

‘Why do you make her so angry at you? Just for once, can’t you do as she says?’

‘But I don’t want to go to school. I want to go and play. I want to see the soldiers again.’

‘Well, you can’t!’ Giuseppe hissed. ‘You’ll come to school with me. We must learn to read and write.’

‘Why?’

The older boy shook his head. ‘You cannot be a boy all your life. You cannot be so selfish. If you want to be a success when you grow up then you must have an education. Like Father.’

‘Pah! And where’s his fine education got him? Court assistant, that’s where.’

‘Father’s job feeds us and clothes us, and now provides just enough to educate us. You should be grateful for that.’

‘Well, I’m not!’

Giuseppe shook his head. ‘Honestly, you are so ungrateful. Sometimes I can’t believe that we are brothers.’

Naboleone smiled. ‘Sometimes, neither can I. Look at you. Mother’s boy. You make me laugh.’

Giuseppe clenched his fists and paced towards his brother, but Naboleone stood his ground and laughed contemptuously. ‘What’s this? You actually want to fight me? I misjudged you. Come on then.’ He unfolded his arms and squared up to his older brother.

Giuseppe stopped, shook his head, and then walked out of the room towards the kitchen. He had fought his brother enough times to know that it was not worth it. Not that Naboleone bested him. It was just that he never knew when to give up and reduced almost every playful knockabout into a bloody scrap before an adult intervened to stop proceedings. Giuseppe could not help despairing over Naboleone’s behaviour and wishing that his mother had given birth to a more kindly, less troublesome brother. At the same time, Giuseppe had a measure of admiration for Naboleone. No one was his master and those who tried to tame him often got as good as they gave. And he was nobody’s fool, that boy. His mind was as sharp as one of those daggers the men carried around, and Naboleone was just as quick to use it. By contrast, Giuseppe felt himself to be a plodder, and too anxious to please. When his mother’s friends complimented her on the politeness of her elder son, Letizia briefly brushed the praise aside and talked incessantly of the cleverness of the younger boy, even though his mischief drove her mad.

Back in their room Naboleone stood in silence for a moment, then glanced round to make sure that he was quite alone, before he pulled off his nightshirt and started getting dressed.

The boys started school soon after the sun had risen. Although Giuseppe had been taken immediately into the hall and commenced lessons with the other pupils, his brother was taken to the abbot, from whom he learned the basics of reading and writing for an hour each morning before Naboleone was allowed to join the main class. Then, after the midday meal, Naboleone would have another hour of elementary literacy exercises before he was free to return home.

At first he returned to his old haunts the moment that school was over, but now that his curiosity had been sparked by the abbot, Naboleone spent a good deal more time with the French soldiers and made every effort to pick up the language of the new rulers of Corsica. Given his mother’s patriotic sentiment, Naboleone made sure that he did not breathe a word of the time spent with the men of the garrison, and told her that he went fishing and walking in the countryside around Ajaccio. Once in a while he actually did this, and returned home with a small catch of fish, or a snared rabbit. Even then, he had the chance to exchange a few words with the numerous French patrols still looking for any of the Paolist bands that might have ventured out of the maquis. Only once did he catch sight of the rebels; a shadowy group of men, armed with old muskets, creeping along a distant treeline. Shortly after they disappeared from view he heard the distant pop and crackle of gunfire, and considered going to have a look before his fear got the better of him and he ran home instead.

‘Poor devils,’ his father muttered after hearing the tale over the dinner table.

‘Who do you mean?’ asked Letizia. ‘Your former comrades in arms, or your new friends?’

Carlos stared at her a moment before pushing his plate to one side and turning to his sons. ‘How was school today? Giuseppe?’

While his older brother pedantically went through every detail of his timetable, Naboleone’s thoughts went back to the men he had seen that afternoon. Many of the people living in Ajaccio had come to see them as simply brigands, or deluded idealistic nuisances at best. Yet they were Corsicans - they spoke the same language as Naboleone. The French still felt like foreigners, and that he had been born a French subject felt strange to Naboleone. So what was he? Corsican or French? Whenever he considered the question the answer was always the same. He was a Corsican.

‘How about you?’

Naboleone realised his father was speaking to him and looked up quickly. ‘It’s going well, Father. In fact I have some good news for you. We’ve been reading about the Romans, and the Carthaginians, and I’ve really improved. In fact the abbot said that soon I could join the main class for the whole day.’

‘Really?’ Carlos beamed. 'That is excellent! And in such a short space of time as well. I think we’ll make a fine scholar of you yet, young man!’ He reached over and ruffled his son’s head as Naboleone tried to look pleased at the prospect of being a scholar. He already knew that he wanted to do something with his life, not spend his years studying the things that other men had done.
‘Well, now it’s my turn to be the bearer of good news,’ Carlos smiled. His family turned to him expectantly, but Carlos nodded at the empty plate he had pushed to one side. ‘That was a really good stew, my dear. Is there any more?’

Letizia lifted the heavy iron ladle from the cooking pot. 'There is. But I’ll brain you with this if you don’t stop playing games and tell us the news.’

He laughed. ‘Very well. The Royal Court in Paris has confirmed the governor’s certificate of my title of nobility. Marbeuf told me today.’

‘At last,’ Letizia muttered. ‘That’s over then.’

‘Better still, I’ve learned that we are now eligible to apply for an endowment to French schools for the boys.’

Letizia stared at him and Naboleone looked confused. ‘What does that mean, Father?’

‘It means that in a few years’ time you and Giuseppe may be attending one of the best schools in France. You’ll be getting the finest education available. Of course, you’ll have to be fluent in French before you go, but there’s plenty of time for that.’

‘Go to school in France?’ Giuseppe muttered. ‘Mother, will you and Father be coming with us?’

She shook her head, and turned to her husband. ‘I see. First they take our land. Now they’ve come for our children. They’ll take them off and turn them into proper little Frenchmen.’

Carlos shook his head. ‘It’s not like that, my dear. It’s an opportunity, a chance for them to better themselves. A chance they’ll never have if they stay here. I hoped you’d be pleased.’

‘I’m sure you did. I’ll have to think about this.’

Carlos glanced away from her and said quietly, ’I've already sent the petition to Paris. Marbeuf countersigned it the moment my eligibility was confirmed.’

‘I see.’ Letizia shook her head. ‘Merci.’

‘I always knew he had it in him!’ Letizia smiled in delight as she brandished the school report in front of her husband’s eyes when he returned from the courthouse. Carlos took the report and read it through while his family sat round the table expectantly. The two years at Abbot Rocco’s school appeared to have paid off. Two years and two more children, Carlos reflected. In addition to Giuseppe and Naboleone there were now three more mouths to feed: Lucien, Elisa and young Louis, who had yet to master the correct application of cutlery and was busy trying to stick the handle of a spoon up his nose.

Abbot Rocco was extremely complimentary about Naboleone’s progress. The boy had excelled in maths and history but as ever, his performance in arts subjects and languages was lagging well behind. His behaviour had improved too - far fewer tantrums and fights with the other boys - and while he still tended to question authority from time to time, on the whole he was causing no problems. Carlos laid the sheet of paper down and nodded slowly at his son.

‘Most respectable. Well done.’

Naboleone’s eyes sparkled with pleasure.

‘Father!’ Giuseppe piped up. ‘Read my report!’

‘Where is it?’

‘Here.’ Letizia lifted it up from the chopping board and handed it to her husband. ‘No surprises there.’

It took far less time to read about the older boy’s academic progress. Giuseppe was a kind, considerate and polite boy who was making good progress in every subject and seemed to show a particular interest in ecclesiastical matters. Carlos laid the report down on top of Naboleone’s.

‘Well done, boys. I’m proud of you both. Giuseppe, have you considered a career in the Church? It would seem to suit you.’

‘I had thought of it, Father.’

Letizia nodded. ‘A good career. You have the temperament for it.’

‘Do I?’

‘Oh, yes.’

As Giuseppe smiled at her, Carlos turned to his younger son. ‘And you, Naboleone, what do you want to be when you grow up?’

‘A soldier,’ he said without an instant’s hesitation.

Carlos smiled. ‘That’s an admirable aim, my son. I think you might make an excellent soldier, although you must realise that you will have to obey orders.’

‘But, Father, I want to give orders, not obey them.’

‘Well then, you must be prepared to do both if you are to be a good soldier.’

‘Oh …’

Letizia began to serve up the evening meal: a rich stew of goat and stewed hazelnuts - a favourite recipe of the family. When every bowl was filled she took her place and the children fell silent, closed their eyes and pressed their hands together as Carlos said grace. As the children started eating she looked down the table at her husband.

‘Has there been any word on the boys’ scholarships?’

‘No. I’ve heard nothing from the academy at Montpellier. It looks as if they’ll be going to Autun after all.’

Letizia frowned. ‘Autun?’

‘Autun will do to start with,’ Carlos said. 'They have good links with some of the military schools. If Naboleone wants to join the army it would be a good start for him until I can find a better opening. I sent an application to Brienne this morning.’

‘That’s all very well,’ Letizia said quietly, ‘but even if the boys do get the scholarships, how can we afford to pay the balance of the fees?’

‘We might not have to,’ Carlos continued. ‘The governor has promised to pay our share of the fees.’

Letizia froze for a moment, then shook her head. ‘To think we have sunk so low as to accept common charity.’

‘It’s not charity, my dear,’ Carlos said, forcing himself to keep his tone even. ‘He places great value on our service to France.’

‘Oh, I’m sure he does.’

‘Besides, he can easily afford it and we can’t. It would not be very gracious to refuse his offer.’

‘Huh!’

Letizia continued eating for a while before she addressed her husband again. ‘Do you really think it’s for the best?’

‘Yes. Their future is in France. That’s their best hope for advancement. So, that’s where they must be educated.’

‘But they’ll leave home. When will we see them again?’

‘I don’t know,’ Carlos replied. ‘When we can afford it, we can have the boys home for holidays, or travel to see them.’

‘And how will they cope without me?’

‘Ask them,’ he said firmly. ‘See what they think. Naboleone!’

‘Father?’

‘Do you want to go to school in France?’

The boy glanced quickly at his mother. ‘If I must …’

Carlos looked at him, and smiled. ‘Bravo! See, Letizia, he understands.’

‘But I don’t.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘I don’t understand what I have done that my children should want to leave me before they have even grown up. Leave home and forget me.’

‘Mother,’ Naboleone spoke earnestly, ‘I shall never forget you. I will come back as often as I can. I swear it. Giuseppe too.’ He turned to his older brother. ‘Swear it!’

‘I promise, Mother.’

She shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘We’ll see.’

The letter arrived in November. Giuseppe and Naboleone had been awarded places at the school in Autun in the new year, with generous scholarships from the French Government. The days passed in a state of nervous anticipation for Naboleone. He was eight years old, and despite his independent spirit and taste for adventure, he became more and more anxious about leaving his home. There would be no familiar shell to return to at the end of the day with the comfort of his family around him. Despite having a good command of French, his accent, he knew, would mark him as an outsider.

They set off early one morning in the middle of December. The entire family rose to bid the two boys farewell. Even Uncle Luciano, bedridden with gout, painfully made his way outside into the street and pressed a few coins into their hands for spending money. A cart and driver had been hired to drive Letizia and her two sons to the port of Bastia, where she would see them safely aboard a ship for Marseilles. With shouted farewells and much waving, the family watched the cart rumble up the street, turn the corner and disappear from view.

Carlos stayed a moment longer, feeling sick at the knowledge that he would not see his sons again for many months, and now at last doubting the decision to send them to France. It had always seemed the sensible thing to do through all the years that he had petitioned for his title of nobility and then for the scholarships, thinking only of their future. Now the time had come - the fruition of his plans - and it felt as if his heart were being torn from his body.

The cart left Ajaccio and began to climb up through the surrounding countryside as the sun rose. Giuseppe and Naboleone leaned on the back of the rear seat and stared back at Ajaccio, a jumble of houses nestling next to the azure sea, until at last the cart crested a ridge and their home was lost from view. The driver joined the military road that the French had carved across the heart of the island in the early days of their occupation of Corsica. The route wound through the hills, passing through small villages, some still in ruins after being burned down by French soldiers in reprisal raids. Small, fortified outposts remained at key points along the road, evidence that some Paolists at least were keeping the cause of Corsican independence alive.

When the road crossed the bridge at Ponte Nuovo, faded memories returned to Letizia of the brave Corsicans charging the ordered white lines of the French soldiers - just there, overlooking the meadow that ran down to the tumbling stream and trestle bridge. Now goats grazed on winter pasture as their shepherd warmed his hands over a small fire. This was where she had stood, with the other women and their children as the first terrible volley tore the ranks of their husbands, their sons, their lovers to bloody shreds. Volley after volley had echoed off the sides of the surrounding hills, drowning out the cries and screams of the wounded. Then finally the shooting ended, and out of the shrouds of gunpowder smoke came wails of fear and panic. Dim shapes of men flitted into view, running back up the slope, fleeing for their lives. Their cries were taken up by the women and children around Letizia, and with a dreadful fear tearing at her insides she waited for Carlos. Thanks be to God, he was with the men that escaped from the carnage of Ponte Nuovo. But not the same Carlos. Wild-eyed and shaking and spattered with the blood of his comrades. This was where the Corsican nation had died. Letizia shivered.

Giuseppe felt her flinch on the seat next to him and took her hand. ‘Mother?’

‘It’s nothing. I’m just cold. Here, hold me for a moment.’

Bastia had greatly changed since she had last visited the port. Even then it had felt more Italian than Corsican, but now the stamp of French rule was apparent everywhere, from the off-duty soldiers milling in the streets, to the French warships in the harbour and the French names above many of the businesses in the centre of town.

Letizia made for the address of the shipping agent Carlos had told her about, and booked two berths for her sons on a cargo vessel leaving for Marseilles the next day. Then she took a room in an inn close to the harbour and had the driver of the cart unload their trunks before dismissing him for the night.

Even though it was winter the harbour was busy and it took a while to find the right ship. All the cargo was already aboard and the last few passengers were loading as Letizia and her sons carefully trod across the gangway and stepped down on to the deck. Behind them the porters struggled aboard with the trunks and were directed by a sailor to the cramped passenger quarters below. The captain checked off the names of the two boys on his manifest and turned to Letizia.

‘We’re casting off shortly, madam. I’d be obliged if you said your goodbyes quickly.’

She nodded and crouched down, opening her arms. The two boys stepped into her embrace and she could feel the shudder of sobs through the folds of their cloaks.

‘There, there,’ she managed in a strained voice. Inside Letizia felt more wretched than she had ever felt in her life, and even now wanted nothing more than to turn round, take them with her, and return home.

‘Mother,’ Naboleone mumbled into her ear, ‘Mother, please, I don’t want to go, I don’t want to leave you.’ He tightened his grip round her shoulder. ‘Please.’

She did not trust herself to reply, and felt her throat tighten unbearably as she blinked away the first tears. A short distance away the captain looked at her for a moment, before turning and looking out to sea, granting her a last moment of privacy before parting. Letizia swallowed and forced herself to assume a calm expression. She loosened her grip on her sons and eased herself back until they were face to face.

‘Hush now, Naboleone. You must be brave. Both of you. This is for the best, you’ll see. Make sure that you write as often as you can. Now wipe your eyes.’ She handed him a handkerchief and he scrunched it into his face.

‘There … Now it’s time.’

She stood up and both boys gripped her round the waist. The captain crossed the deck towards her and indicated the gangway.

‘I’m sorry, madam, but …’

She nodded and gently eased herself away from Giuseppe and Naboleone. They held her for a moment, and then the captain put his hands on their shoulders.

‘Come, lads, your mother needs to go now. She needs you to be brave for her. Don’t let her down.’

Their arms reluctantly dropped to their sides as they stood, fighting back the tears. Letizia reached down to kiss Giuseppe on the head, then turned to Naboleone, and whispered softly in his ear, ‘Coraggio.’

The abbey stood on rising ground with views over the Boyne, and beyond the river stood the huge ruins of Trim Castle. The walls and towers stood within a moat, and still looked formidable to Arthur as he stared out of the carriage window. Then the castle was lost from view as the carriage passed through the abbey gate and into the courtyard.

His first impression of the austere setting was that it looked like a prison, and his heart ached with longing for his home and his family. The feeling swelled inside him as O’Shea unloaded his meagre trunk of clothing, books and other belongings and turned the carriage back towards the gate. Then O’Shea was gone and the sound of the wheels on gravel quickly faded away. Arthur stood alone before the main entrance. All was still, but not quite silent. From somewhere within the abbey a chorus of voices conjugated a Latin verb.

‘New boy!’ a voice called out.

Arthur turned and saw a lad not much older than himself crossing the courtyard from a side building. He had a thick crop of dark hair and a robust build. Arthur swallowed nervously. ‘Me, sir?’

The boy stopped and looked round the courtyard with elaborate concentration. ‘It appears there is no other to whom I might address my remarks. You idiot.’

Arthur opened his mouth to protest, lost his nerve and blushed instead. The other boy laughed.

‘Never mind. You must be Wesley.’

‘Y-yes, sir.’

‘I’m not “sir”. My name’s Crosbie. Richard Crosbie. I’ve been told to look out for you. Here, let me help you with the trunk.’

They took hold of the straps at either end of the trunk and lifted it with some effort.

‘This way,’ Richard grunted. They heaved the chest across the courtyard, through a stone arch into a cloister beyond. A small flight of stairs led up from the far end into a low-ceilinged dormitory.

‘This is your bed.’ The older boy set the trunk down in front of a plain bed that seemed surprisingly wide to Arthur. ‘You’re sharing it with Piers Westlake. The near side is yours. Your trunk goes underneath.’

Arthur gazed at the bed. ‘Shared beds?’

‘Of course. This ain’t a palace. It’s a school.’

‘Are all schools like this?’ Arthur asked quietly.

‘How should I know?’ Richard shrugged. ‘I’ve never been anywhere else. The housemaster wants to see you now. I’ll show you the way. Come.’

He led Arthur to a short, dim corridor that ended in a thick studded oak door.

‘There,’ Richard said quietly. ‘Just knock. He’s expecting you.’

‘What’s he like?’ Arthur whispered.

‘Old Harcourt?’ Richard stifled a grin. ‘He eats new boys for breakfast. I’ll see you later, if you live.’

Richard turned and hurried away, leaving the young boy standing in front of the big door. He felt his hand trembling as he raised it towards the dark wood. Then he paused, afraid and alone. For a moment he felt the urge to turn and run. Then his resolve stiffened a little and he leaned forward and rapped twice on the door.

‘Enter!’

Arthur took a deep breath to steady his nerves, lifted the latch and pushed the door open a small way, squeezing round its thick edge. Beyond was a large room lit by light from a window high up on one wall. The fireplace was bare and the floor had no coverings on its worn flagstones. The room was dominated by a huge desk, and behind it, sitting on a high-backed chair, was a large figure in a cassock. His face was broad and ruddy, and dark eyes peered out at the newcomer from beneath bristling eyebrows.

‘You’re Wesley?’

Arthur nodded.

‘Speak up, young man!’

‘Yes, sir. I’m Arthur Wesley.’

‘That’s better.’ Father Harcourt nodded. He looked the boy up and down and did not show any sign of approval, before he turned his attention to a letter lying open on his desk. ‘It seems that your parents are concerned about your lack of academic progress. Well, we shall soon set that right. Do you do anything well, young Wesley?’

‘Please, sir. I can read music. I’m learning the violin.’

‘Really? Well, that’s nice. But no use to you here. This is a school, boy, not a concert hall. Kindly bend your efforts to learning what we will attempt to teach you in the coming years.’

‘Years?’ Arthur replied bleakly.

Father Harcourt smiled coldly. ‘Of course. How long do you imagine it takes to bring boys like you to an acceptable level of competence in all the basic subjects?’

Arthur had no idea, and could not even begin to guess, so he shrugged instead.

‘The answer depends on how diligently you apply yourself to your studies, young Wesley. Work hard, be obedient and you will do well. Failure to do so will result in a thrashing. Understand?’

Arthur shuddered and nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Those are the most important rules here. The others you will pick up soon enough. Now you must go and wait in the main hall. It will be lunch soon. You’ll be joining the class of Mr O’Hare. I’ll be along directly to point you out to him. Now off you go.’

Arthur nodded and turned for the door.

‘Young man!’

Arthur turned back with a start and saw Father Harcourt wagging a finger at him. ‘When a member of staff gives you an instruction, you will reply “Yes, sir” in future. Or face the consequences.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘That’s better. Now go.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Built on the site of Saint Mary's Abbey, the tradition of habitation in this castle stretches back to the fifteenth century and the modifications reflect the changing tastes of the various owners.

The castle played an important role in the educational history of Trim in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries when it was the Diocesan School, known as the Latin School.

It was here that the Duke of Wellington and Sir William Rowan Hamilton were educated.

The first days at the abbey were the hardest in Arthur’s life. At first none of the other boys would speak to him except Richard Crosbie, but even then the older boy seemed to delight in giving him inaccurate information about the school and its rules, and very quickly Arthur grew to trust no one, and withdrew into quiet solitude as a means of staying out of trouble and not attracting the attention of those boys with a penchant for bullying. But, as the new boy, he was the prime object of their attention and fell victim to all manner of tricks and spiteful behaviour.

Each day they rose at first light. The boys washed in cold water drawn from the abbey’s wells, and then dressed for the day. All meals were served in the hall and featured a steady diet of porridge, broth, salted meat and boiled vegetables, served with a hunk of bread. Meals were eaten in silence, and the teachers slowly patrolled the hall with short lengths of willow, ready to swish them down on any boy who spoke, or infringed any rules of precedence and propriety in the manner in which they took their places, or went up to collect their food.

Lessons were held in cells leading off the cloistered quadrangle, twenty boys to a room, seated on bare benches as they leaned across well-worn table tops and struggled with dictation, basic maths, reading exercises and the rudiments of Latin and Greek. Failure to master tasks set by the teachers was rewarded with slashes of the willow canes across the back of the legs or the palm of the hand. At first Arthur cried out, but then received an extra three blows for not controlling his pain. He learned quickly to clench his teeth hard and stare over the shoulder of the teacher at a spot on the far wall, concentrating on containing the agony. Despite such incentives to excel at the tasks set for him, Arthur resolutely remained an average student, struggling with every subject. Misery piled upon misery and his longing to return home steadily became more intense, passing from mere homesickness into a kind of dark despair that this harsh and cruel life would never end.

On Saturdays and Wednesday afternoons, the boys were allowed out of the abbey’s grounds and Arthur made straight for the bridge across the Boyne and explored the ruins of Trim Castle. Often small parties of boys would play at medieval knights, slashing away at each other with makeshift swords and spears, pulling back their blows at the last moment so as not to inflict hurt, but in their mind’s eye hacking their enemies limb from limb. When such contests began, Arthur quietly withdrew from the fray and watched from the shelter of a moss-covered wall or crumbling archway. It was not just the prospect of pain that caused him to withdraw, it was the wildness in the expressions of his peers, the relish of violence in their faces. It frightened him when he saw how easily play crossed over an ill-defined boundary into naked aggression.

Towards the end of his first term, a package arrived from home. It contained a violin in a finely decorated case, and a brief note from his father.

My dear Arthur,
Since you demonstrated such a flair for the instrument at home it would be a great shame not to persist with your lessons. I am sending you the violin I was given at your age. It may be a little on the large size for you at the moment, but won’t be for long! I have made enquiries and have found a suitable music teacher close to Trim - a Mr Buckleby - and have arranged with Father Harcourt that you might attend a private lesson in Trim once a week. I look forward to hearing of your progress when you return to Dangan.
Your loving father
PS. Please take great care of the violin.
So every Saturday, Arthur quitted the abbey and walked into Trim, outsize violin case tucked under his arm. Mr Buckleby lived in a stone cottage with a slate-tiled roof on the edge of town. Arthur found the place readily enough on his first visit and, steeling himself, he lifted the iron door knocker and thudded it home. Almost at once the door was wrenched open so suddenly that Arthur took half a step back in fright.

A huge man in a brown suit filled the entrance. His stockings, once white, were now a misshapen grey and drooped over the top of the pinchbeck buckles on his scuffed shoes. A powdered wig rested at an angle above his wrinkled jowls. He wore spectacles, behind which dark brown eyes scrutinised the young boy.

‘I saw you coming up the path, young man. What can I do for you?’

‘Good day, sir,’ Arthur said quietly. ‘I’m looking for a Mr Buckleby.’

‘Dr Silas Buckleby, at your service. You must be young Wesley, Garrett’s boy. Come in, come in.’

He stood aside and Arthur squeezed past into a small hall. The space was lined with stacks of music, bound and loose, and musical instruments in various states of repair were propped up against the walls. Motes of dust twinkled in the broad shaft of light entering from the door, and abruptly disappeared as Dr Buckleby slammed it shut and turned round, gesturing to a door at the rear of the hall.

‘Through there, sir. We must begin at once!’

He brushed past and pushed the far door open, beckoning Arthur inside. The room behind the hall was in sharp contrast to the hall. It was almost bare, save for a single chair and two music stands. A leaded window looked out over a small overgrown garden and faded tapestries hung over the other three walls. They depicted scenes based on ancient myths and Arthur’s gaze was riveted to the details of a bacchanalian scene. Dr Buckleby’s keen eyes noted the boy’s expression.

‘The hangings are for acoustic purposes only. Try to ignore them.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I find that the quality of some of my students is such that I am obliged to deaden the screams of their tormented instruments as far as possible, else I should go mad.’ He smiled as he slumped his ponderous form down on the chair, which creaked in protest. ‘Now then, young Arthur, do you know who I am?’

‘No, sir.’ Arthur bit his lip. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

Dr Buckleby wave his hand. ‘No matter. Let me tell you. I am the man who taught your father to play the violin. A great talent he has. And gone on to great things. I hear that he is Professor of Music at Trinity.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well then, we must ensure that the family tradition is maintained.’ He held out his hands. 'Now let me see what you can do with that instrument of yours!’

Having already been introduced to the violin by his father Arthur quickly proved to be an excellent student with a natural talent. For his part, Dr Buckleby was a fine teacher, who coaxed the best out of the sensitive child with a firm and friendly manner. Soon, there was nothing Arthur looked forward to more than his weekly lessons in Trim.

In contrast, school life became almost unendurable, with its scant comforts and harsh disciplines. As autumn gave way to winter, the cold stone walls of the abbey were clammy every morning, and icy blasts of wind found their way through every gap in the windows and doorframes. Curled up beneath his shared blankets, Arthur shivered through each night, and rose wearily to endure day after day of learning by rote. And while his command of maths was tolerable he continued to show no aptitude for the Classics, much to the frustration, and then growing anger, of his teachers. The more he struggled, and was punished for his lack of progress, the more miserable and introverted he became, so that eventually even Dr Buckleby commented on it.

‘Arthur, your mind’s wandering. You played the last section as if you were handling a weaving loom.’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he mumbled.

Dr Buckleby saw that the little boy’s lip was trembling, and he leaned forward and gently took the violin and bow from him. ‘Tell me what ails you, child.’

For a moment Arthur was silent.

‘I - I hate school. I want to go home.’

‘We all hate school at times, boy. Even I did. It’s part of growing up. It’s what trains us to cope with later hardships.’

‘But I can’t bear it!’ Arthur looked up defiantly. ‘Sometimes I … I just want to die.’

‘Nonsense! Why would anyone want that?’ Dr Buckleby smiled. ‘It’s hard, but you will get used to it, I promise.’

‘But I won’t. I’m no good at it,’ Arthur sniffed. 'I've no friends. I’m no good at sports. And I’m not clever, like my brothers. I’m just not clever,’ he concluded miserably. ‘It’s not fair.’

‘Arthur, we all learn at our own rate. Some skills merely take more time, and application. Some things we learn faster than others. Take your ability with the violin, for example. You're like your father. It’s a rare gift you have. Take satisfaction in it.’

Arthur looked up at him. ‘But it is merely an instrument. It is of no account in the world.’

Dr Buckleby frowned and Arthur at once realised he had caused great offence. He felt ashamed that he might have hurt the feelings of this man who lived for music. It was tempting to surrender to the muse, to devote himself to music. In time he would win some recognition for his ability. But where would that lead? Would the reward be to end up in a small cottage in some provincial town earning his keep from teaching the sons of local worthies? It frightened Arthur. He wanted more from life.

Dr Buckleby sighed. ‘Is it so terrible a thing to have a gift for music? To be a master of the art that, above all others, distinguishes us from common beasts?’

Arthur stared at him, heart heavy with sorrow, weighed down by the intolerable burden of an honest nature. He swallowed. 'No, sir. It is not a terrible thing. It is, as you say, a gift.’

‘There! You see, all is not lost. Far from it. Come now, let us return to our practice. In years to come men will toast the great Arthur Wesley - maestro!’

Arthur forced himself to smile. Perhaps Dr Buckleby was right. Perhaps destiny had marked him out for such a career. Perhaps he should accept this. One day he would win some renown for his music.

In his heart of hearts he dreaded that this might be true.

At Christmas, the Wesley family were reunited at Dangan. Anne was busy arranging the social calendar for the holiday. Besides the big party to be held in the hall for all the minor landlords and their families about the estate, there was the usual round of castles and manors of relatives and friends to be visited. Food and drink had to be ordered in, guest rooms to be dusted down and prepared, clothes to be selected and packed into trunks, and temporary staff to be taken on for the holiday period. Inevitably, due to the shortage of English servants, the temporary staff would be drawn from the Irish community. The prospect of having their sullen coarse features hurrying around Dangan caused Anne some heartache. Their brogue was almost incomprehensible, their posture poor and she regarded them as little better than beasts of burden.

While she anxiously made her plans at her bureau she could hear Garrett in the music room at work composing a piece for the small concert he had insisted on arranging for the big party. Every so often a brief snatch of melody would issue from the fortepiano, then there would be dark mutterings or an exclamation of surprise, the faint rasp of quill on paper, then another turn at the keys. This, Anne knew, could go on for days at a time, and not for the first time she wished that her husband was not quite so gifted in his musical talents. Now, if he had only become a writer, that would have been far less of an imposition on the family. After all, the costs of being a writer were limited to pen and paper. A composer - as he had liked to style himself since taking that chair at Trinity - spent an inordinate amount of money on instruments, not to mention having to subsidise all the concerts he put on to air his new compositions. If only Garrett could make money from his talents, she considered. But he never would. Music was his first love in life, his true mistress, and he would go on spoiling her until he died. Or as long as the family’s fortune lasted.

The family’s finances, like those of many other fine households in Ireland, were strained at present. While the income from land remained steady, the high rents, arrears and evictions were causing considerable unrest across the land. Several land agents had been murdered in the last month and the first ripple of landowners was quitting the island for the greater security of England. So land prices were falling. Worse still, Anne reflected, the trouble brewing in the American colonies was shaking the confidence of the London financial markets. Garrett had received some worrying letters from the family’s banker in the capital, warning him that the combined income of the Wesley investments had fallen sharply and Anne knew that she must trim her household budget to suit. It was all too frustrating. Between the troublesome Irish peasants and those disloyal fools in the colonies, they would ruin the fortunes of their betters. Anne frowned. What right had they to do that? To jeopardise her future, and that of her innocent children?

Thought of which drew her attention to the faint shouts and laughter drifting up from the hall. Since it was cold and wet outside she had given the children permission to play there. The breakfast table had been dragged to one side, a net set up and the children were busy playing battledore. It should keep them busy for a few hours at least, she sighed, returning to her plans as the rain pattered against the window.

Richard stood poised, head tilted back and eyes following the arc of the shuttlecock as it reached the apex of its trajectory and fell towards him. On the other side young Arthur simply lowered his racquet in acceptance of his inevitable defeat. For a brief moment Richard considered fluffing the return shot, letting his brother take the point so that defeat would not be quite so severe. Then, before he could help himself, he flicked his racquet with perfect timing and the shuttlecock slammed on to the ground on the far side of the net.

‘Game!’ Richard cried out. ‘Who’s next?’

‘Me!’ Little Anne jumped up, ran across the hall and snatched the racquet from Arthur as he passed by on the way to the dining chairs at the side where the other children sat. Propped up on the end chair was a small blackboard taken from the nursery. Gerald was busy chalking up Richard’s latest victory. There were no marks beside Arthur’s name. Even Gerald, a year younger, had taken two games. Arthur took the seat at the far end of the line and slumped back.

Arthur regarded his eldest brother with envy. Richard was a better person than he and Arthur knew he must try to accept that. That was the hand that fate had dealt the Wesley brothers. Richard was far more intelligent, far more popular and no doubt he would carve out a glittering career for himself, while Arthur just remained an unregarded entry on the family tree.

‘I need a rest,’ Richard announced. ‘William, you and Gerald can have a game.’ Richard paused a moment before taking his seat beside Arthur.

‘Not sulking, I hope.’

‘And why would I sulk?’

Richard shrugged. 'We can’t all be good at everything, Arthur.’

‘Ah, you’ve come to offer me your pity.’

Richard couldn’t help smiling. 'You know, it’s quite churlish to sit there and try to sour the mood. Try to ruin others’ enjoyment of the game. We all have to accept defeat at some point, Arthur.’

‘At some point? Or all the time? I think I’d be quite content to have to accept victory at some point. But, of course, you wouldn’t understand that. Nor would William, nor even Gerald. You’re all so clever, so sure of yourselves. Not like me.’

‘Come now, that’s not true. I know for a fact that Father thinks you’re something of a musical prodigy. And you should know how much that means to him. You can’t spend your life feeling so sorry for yourself. It would be a criminal waste of whatever ability you have. I know that you are struggling at school. Not everyone has a facility for Latin and Greek.’

‘You do,’ Arthur shot back. ‘And William, and Gerald.’

‘True,’ Richard conceded. 'And what we find easy, you struggle with. I understand how hard that is to accept.’

‘Do you? Do you really?’

‘I think so. I may be more intelligent than most, but that is not at the expense of empathy.’

‘Well, when you’re the great statesman, or some brilliant general, as I’m sure you will be, then we’ll see the quality of your empathy.’

Richard reflected a moment before he responded, ‘I don’t deny I dream of achieving some kind of high office, and I will do all in my powers to achieve it. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t cherish such ambitions.’

‘Me?’ Arthur turned to him with raised eyebrows and laughed. ‘Me? Don’t be a fool, Richard. I know I will achieve nothing. So why bother even trying? Why waste my time aiming for success I can never have?’

‘You’re wrong. That is precisely why you should aim to achieve it. Just suppose, for a moment, that you will never become my intellectual equal—’

‘That’s easy enough.’

‘Quiet! Just suppose that it’s true. And that you did win high office one day. Through sheer resolve and hard work. Wouldn’t that eclipse any achievement of mine, with all my natural advantages?’

Arthur stared at his brother for an instant before his gaze dropped back into his lap and he shook his head. ‘Fine words, Richard, but no more than words. I may be a fool, but even I know the world is not like that. I’m the younger son of a minor aristocrat, and what I lack in social position is made worse by having no compensating talent.’

‘You have your music.’

‘Precisely. I have my music.’ Arthur stood up. 'Now if you don’t mind, I think my presence here is quite pointless. I’m going up to my room. To be with my music. Might as well get used to it.’

He left the hall and his footsteps rapidly diminished in the distance as his older brothers exchanged amused looks.

‘Now, what was that all about?’ asked William.

‘Nothing.’ For a moment Richard stared at the doorway through which his brother had left the hall, hoping that Arthur would change his mind. But there was no sound of returning footsteps.

‘Forget about him. Now then, what’s the score?’

Arthur felt tears pricking at the corner of his eyes as he climbed the main staircase. He glanced round quickly but there was no one in sight, so he quickly cuffed the tears away. At the top, on each side of the landing, a corridor ran the length of the house. The rooms to the left were being prepared for guests and the muted voices of servants drifted down the corridor. Arthur turned right and headed for the family rooms. The door to the music room was open and light spilled across the floor. As he made to pass the entrance his father, still at the keys of the fortepiano, saw him.

‘Arthur, not playing with the others?’

The boy shook his head.

Garrett stared at him. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

Arthur shook his head again and made to continue towards his room.

‘Wait. Come in here.’ Garrett stood up and dragged the music stool over to another chair beside a music stand. 'I need your help.’

‘My help?’

‘Yes. Now come over here.’

Arthur slowly entered the music room and crossed to his father, who was busy sorting out some sheet music on the stand.

‘There! That’s the one. I’m including one of the pieces Buckleby has asked you to learn in our Christmas recital. Thought we could play it as a duet.’

‘A duet? Me?’

Garrett laughed. ‘Of course you. Do you think for a moment I’d trust those brothers of yours with something like this? All thumbs. Besides, I think it’s time the public was made aware of your talent.

So, I’ve taken the liberty of fetching your violin from your room. There, on the couch. Now, young man, would you do me the honour of accompanying me on this piece?’

He smiled, and Arthur could not help responding in kind.

‘There. That’s better. Now let’s be about it.’

Arthur took up his violin and bow and moved over to the stand and assumed the correct posture under his father’s approving gaze. Garrett seated himself to be on the same level as his son and readied his own instrument. He drew a deep breath, their eyes met and Garret mouthed, ‘One … two … three …’ and nodded.

As he played, Arthur’s mind cleared of all thoughts as he concentrated on his fingers, moving swiftly and precisely along the neck of the instrument. In his other hand his fingers controlled the bow in finely calculated sweeps across the four strings. He had played the piece so many times that he knew it by heart. His eyes closed and his head was filled with the melody. And not just his head. His heart as well, swelling in sympathy to the notes that carried through the air so that the sound became a feeling, a mood that filled him with delight.

The piece came to an end and his bow ceased moving. Arthur opened his eyes and found his father looking at him in surprise and admiration.

‘Why, Arthur, that was beautiful, quite beautiful. I’m so proud of you.’ Then, as if embarrassed by his admission, Garrett shuffled through the sheets on the stand. ‘Shall we play something else?’

‘If you like, Father.’

‘Yes, yes, I’d like that. Here, what about this? You know it?’

Arthur nodded.

‘Ready then?’

They began. It was a light-hearted piece, technically challenging but ultimately quite trivial, and yet it lifted the young boy’s heart. While it lasted he felt good here in the music room, playing with his father, all the time conscious of the pleasure and pride being taken in his musical ability.

It was a pity that he could not play music for ever.

The Christmas season was over, the parties had ended and once again Dangan had quietly returned to everyday life. The three older Wesley boys were busy packing for the next term at their respective schools. While Richard and William lined the bottom of their trunks with well-worn copies of the classics, Arthur filled the base of his trunk with music manuscripts, borrowed from his father.

Garrett was delighted with the progress his son had made. Buckleby had obviously not lost his touch as a teacher. Arthur would turn out to be a fine musician, that much was certain, and Garrett was already making plans for his further development. Of course, Ireland was already too small a stage for Garrett, and would be for Arthur in years to come. London would provide greater opportunities and a more appreciative audience. Better still, Paris, or even Vienna. Garrett reined in his flight of fancy with a self-deprecating smile. Whatever his talents, and whatever Arthur’s promise, they could not hope to compare with the raw talent, and technical virtuosity of the musicians of Vienna. London maybe, but not Vienna.

So the seed was planted, and after the boys had returned to school Garrett was free to indulge his fancy. The more he thought about it, the more alluring the prospect of moving to London became. The violence that simmered in Ireland was getting worse. There was the ever-present burden of grinding poverty of the peasants, while among the middle classes Irish Catholics found themselves barred from all sorts of privileges and public offices. Increasingly their resentment was finding a voice and the downtrodden were daring to denounce in public the glaring iniquities of Irish society. There were arrests, but the terrible fate of Father Sheehy, who had been hanged, drawn and quartered ten years earlier for daring to speak up for the poor, was losing its effect. Their patience was exhausted and they turned to violence with bloody vengeance in their hearts. Land agents were now travelling the island in the company of armed guards, rightly fearing for their lives. It was only a matter of time, Garrett concluded, before the rebellious spirit of these wretched Irish, translated into open attacks on the aristocracy.

Then there was his growing frustration with the sheer provincialism of the place. Already the boys were picking up accents that placed their origins quite precisely, and Garrett knew well enough that if the process continued his family would be looked down on by London society. And that would be an intolerable burden, particularly for young Arthur, who lacked the wit and sophistication of his brothers. The boys would benefit from a better education, Anne would have a more exciting social life, and he would have a much bigger audience for his compositions. With that happy thought, he set about making his initial enquiries.

Even though it was the depth of winter, the school at Trim seemed far less foreboding to Arthur on his return from Dangan. Though he had few friends, most boys seemed happy to see him again and he felt the warm glow of acceptance, of finding a place for himself in the small world of the school. But only with Dr Buckleby did he feel free to express himself more openly, and only then because what passed between them was sufficiently far removed from the school that there was no prospect of any word of their discussions filtering back. The music teacher - as music teachers must be - proved to be an excellent listener and sat quietly as the child told of his despair that he would never master his school studies and achieve anything worthy of acclaim.

‘Why do you crave acclaim so much, Arthur?’ Dr Buckleby asked him one time.

‘Why?’ Arthur stared back at him. ‘What else is there?’

‘What do you mean, young man?’

‘I have only this life. When it is done, I will look back and ask myself what I have achieved. I want to be able to give a satisfactory answer.’

‘Don’t we all?’ Dr Buckleby smiled. ‘And the question is somewhat more pressing for a man of my advanced years.’

‘I see. 'Arthur looked at him intently. 'And how will you answer it, sir?’

‘Putting aside the youthful impertinence of such a query, I should say that I have done the thing that most matters to me. Each time I pick up an instrument I create a moment of sublime order and beauty. What better thing can a man achieve in this world?’

Arthur frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

Dr Buckleby sighed. ‘I have the blood of a commoner and am therefore precluded from any hope of making my mark on the world. Faced with that, what can a man like me achieve? My talent with the violin was once the talk of London. But what was the value of that? I did not change the world. The only arenas where my class is permitted to parade its achievements are the arts and sciences. And why? Because the former provides pleasure for our rulers, and the latter sundry comforts and the tools of power. So, I have retreated from the world, and live here in Trim, where my needs are satisfied and my achievement is my own. Does that answer your question?’

Arthur considered this for a moment before replying, ‘Not entirely. How can you be sure an achievement is worthwhile unless other men agree that it is? What if you were wrong? What if you were fooling yourself that you had achieved something worthwhile when you hadn’t? How could you ever know?’

‘I know I have achieved greatness with my music. That is all a man of my background could do.’ Dr Buckleby patted him on the shoulder. ‘It’s much harder for you, Arthur. You’re an aristocrat. You have opportunities that I never had. You can choose your path to greatness. You don’t have to be a musician. But at the end of the day you will have to account for your decisions. And then live with the perpetual anxiety of making the wrong decision … All you will have to ease that anxiety is the word of other men. Now, then, are you still so sure of the value of such acclaim?’

Arthur stared at Dr Buckleby for a moment, and reflected. For the first time Arthur gained an insight into the character of his father, who had chosen to compose an ordered universe about himself from which ugliness and discordance were banished. He looked down at the rich veneer of his violin and then raised it to his shoulder and prepared his bow.

‘Can we continue the lesson now, sir?’

Dr Buckleby nodded. ‘I should be delighted to.’

Before the end of the term Arthur received a letter from his father informing him that a house had been found for the family in London. His mother was busy transferring the household from Dangan. As soon as they were settled in London they would find schools for the children and then send for them. Arthur was shocked by the news, and not certain how he felt about it. The idea of living in London was undeniably exciting. But it would mean leaving behind the house and grounds at Dangan, places he had known for as long as he remembered and which felt like a part of him. He would be leaving the school at Trim as well, a matter of some regret since he now felt comfortable there and would have to repeat the whole agonising experience of entering some new school in London. But worst of all the move would mean losing Dr Buckleby.

Arthur kept the news to himself and continued attending the violin lessons, concentrating on improving his technique as far as possible before it was time to quit Trim for the distant cosmopolitan world of London. For his part, the music teacher was bemused by the boy’s sudden intense concentration, but the rapid improvement in his skill diverted Dr Buckleby’s attention from anything that might be amiss. So, in the few months that remained to them Arthur continued to master the violin and his teacher continued to delight in the boy’s progress.

Until one day Arthur turned up at the small cottage and knocked at the door. The heavy tread of shoes announced Dr Buckleby’s approach on the far side and the door was opened. From the expressionless features on the man’s face Arthur knew at once that something was wrong. Something had changed. His teacher led him through to the music room without a word and sat heavily on his chair while Arthur took out his instrument.

Dr Buckleby coughed. 'As this will be our last lesson, I thought we might try something a little different.’

Arthur felt the blood chill in his veins. ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

‘Our last lesson, Arthur. You know what I’m talking about. I received a letter from your father yesterday. To thank me for teaching you and to settle accounts. It seems you are shortly to leave Trim for London. Of course, I shall be sad to lose such a promising student. Boys of your calibre are few and far between.’

‘I - I shan’t forget what you have taught me. Everything that you have taught me.’

‘I sincerely hope not. Now, then …’ Dr Buckleby leaned forward, removed Arthur’s sheet music and replaced it with a new composition. ‘We’ll try this.’

Arthur’s eyes scanned the sheets and at once realised the challenge that had been set for him. The fingering and timing were far more sophisticated than anything he was used to. Yet, he had read enough music to pick up the sense of the melody and was immediately struck by its melancholic tone.

‘I don’t recognise this.’

‘I’m not surprised. Come, let us see how you cope with it.’

After an hour of struggling with the composition Dr Buckleby finally relented and permitted his student to set down his instrument.

‘It would seem that there’s still much to learn.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Arthur felt he had let the man down.

‘And now our time is up. Pack up your instrument.’

Arthur placed it back in its case in silence as Dr Buckleby retrieved the new piece from the stand and stood by the door. He escorted Arthur from the room and then held the front door open. Arthur stepped outside of the cottage, then hesitantly turned round and offered Dr Buckleby his hand.

‘Farewell then, sir.’

‘Goodbye, young Wesley.’ The teacher pumped his hand. ‘Remember, keep your back straight and your scroll up.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And, er, this is for you.’ Dr Buckleby’s heavy cheeks coloured as he held the new piece of music out to his student. Arthur received it with a nod of thanks.

‘You’re very kind. May I ask who composed it, sir?’

‘I did.’ Dr Buckleby smiled. ‘I wrote it for you. Perhaps one day, when you have mastered it, you might come and play it for me.’

Arthur’s heart ached with gratitude for the man’s kindness. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Then I’ll bid you good day, sir. I must prepare for my next student.’

Both knew it was a deceit. There were no other students today. Arthur took his leave and turned down the path, hearing the door close gently behind him.

The school at Autun was a far larger institution than Abbot Rocco’s establishment in Ajaccio, and Giuseppe and Naboleone regarded it with a mixture of awe and fear as they walked through the gateway, followed by a porter carrying their trunks. He directed them to the staff room to one side of the imposing entrance hall.

Naboleone stepped up to the door and rapped sharply on the gleaming varnish. The door opened and the boy was confronted by a tall, severe-looking man in a dark suit and stockings.

‘Yes?’

‘I am Naboleone Buona Parte,’ Naboleone said in his best French. ‘This is my brother Giuseppe.’

The man frowned at the grating accent. ‘I beg your pardon?’

Naboleone repeated his introduction and the man seemed to understand a bit better on the second attempt. He turned back into the staff room. 'Monsieur Chardon? I think these must be the two boys you were expecting. From Corsica?’

‘Yes,’ Naboleone nodded. ‘From Corsica.’

The man stood aside and a moment later a stocky man in a cassock was smiling down at them. 'Welcome to Autun. My name is Abbot Chardon.’ He glanced from boy to boy and nodded at the smaller, darker-featured one. ‘You must be, let me think … yes, I have it, Napoleone.’

‘Naboleone, sir.’

‘Yes, well, since your father was so adamant that the first priority was to get you speaking French like a Frenchman, we might as well start now, with the French version of your names. Giuseppe will be Joseph, and you, young man, have caused me a bit of a problem.’ He smiled kindly. 'The best approximation I can do is Napoleon.’

‘Napoleon? 'The boy repeated. He was not sure he cared for a French version of his name, but the first teacher had evidently struggled with the Corsican name and so, inevitably, would everyone else at the school. He already felt like enough of an outsider. He looked up at the abbot and shrugged. ‘As you wish, sir. I shall be Napoleon.’

‘Good! Then that’s settled. Let me take you to your dormitory.’

He led them towards a staircase at the rear of the hall and they climbed three flights to reach a corridor that stretched out under the eaves on both sides. Napoleon saw that it was lined with beds with a chest at the foot of each.

‘There’s no one about at the moment,’ the abbot explained. ‘The rest of the boys will be in lessons until supper. You will have a chance to meet them then. Since the first task is to improve your French we’ve decided to put you at opposite ends of the dormitory, beside a proper French boy, so you can correct your accent, which is still a bit thick, if I may say so.’

Napoleon coloured the moment he heard this, but his brother took his hand and when Napoleon glanced sidelong at him Joseph shook his head in warning.

The abbot wafted a hand. ‘As soon as your trunks arrive please unpack then, and then return to the staff room. I’ll take you to your teachers and introduce you to your classmates.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Joseph replied. ‘Thank you, sir.’

The abbot smiled quickly, turned away and strode back down the corridor.

When they were alone again Joseph turned to his younger brother. ‘Well, what do you think?’

‘Seems comfortable enough.’

‘I wasn’t talking about that. Napoleon - well? Makes you sound like a real Frenchman.’

‘Yes, I know,’ he replied unhappily. ‘Napoleon … and Joseph. What would Mother say if she could hear me now?’

Abbot Chardon was standing in his study overlooking the courtyard of the school at Autun. It was morning break and outside the boys were playing in the snow. Wrapped in coats, scarves and mittens, they were indulging in snowball fights as usual, shrill shrieks of excitement and surprise filling the air, and clearly audible even this side of the glass in the window. Then his attention fixed on a figure standing at the school gate and his smile faded. The stiff posture of the distant boy was unmistakable. Little Napoleon Buona Parte on his own once again.

It was over a month since the two Corsican boys had joined the school, and while Joseph had begun to settle in and make some friends, the younger child resolutely held himself apart and only associated with his brother, and only then when the latter was not playing with his new friends. It surprised Chardon that the older brother seemed so timid and obviously in awe of Napoleon. But then the young boy had a fierce and forceful personality, such as the abbot had never before encountered. Despite coming to Autun to learn French and benefit from perhaps the best education that Europe had to offer, the boy was defiantly Corsican and was more than willing to resort to a shouted tirade, or fists, if anyone impugned his native land. Which, of course, had made him the prime target for all those boys predisposed to tease or bully any of their peers who stood out from the rest.

Napoleon crossed his arms, tucking his hands under his armpits to keep them warm. He had been still long enough for his toes to start feeling numb, and now he began to slowly pace up and down in front of the gateway. He hated this numbing cold, and the clinging damp on his face and bedclothes when he rose each morning. In Corsica at this time of year the air would be cool but dry, and the winds blowing off the Mediterranean kept the skies above Ajaccio clear and blue. Thoughts of home were never far from his mind, and they tormented him terribly, especially that last moment before the ship had set sail from Bastia. He could almost smell his mother, feel her touch and the warmth of her breath on his ear as she had whispered her final word of farewell.

He clenched his hands and stiffened his lips. He would not give in to this homesickness. He would not be seen to be as weak and self-indulgent as other people.

A snowball struck him on the back of his head and a chorus of cheers filled the air. They died instantly as Napoleon whirled round, eyes blazing and gloved fists snatched out from under his arms.

‘Who did that?’ he screamed. ‘Who did that?’

Someone giggled at his fierce expression and then like a current it flowed through those boys who were staring at him until laughter rang in his ears.

‘Who did it?’ he shouted. 'Tell me! Tell me or I’ll fight you all!’

But the laughing continued, so Napoleon charged forward towards the nearest knot of boys. At once, they broke up and ran away, still laughing nervously. Kicking spurts of snow up behind him Napoleon ran after them, but he was too small and too slow, and they kept their distance easily. After a few more steps he gave up and stopped, breathing heavily as he shouted after them, ‘Come back and fight! Cowards! Cowards! Cowards …’

‘Napoleon!’

He glanced round and saw his brother warily approaching. Joseph held up his hand, a concerned expression on his face. ‘Napoleon. Calm down … Calm yourself.’

Napoleon continued breathing deeply as he lowered his fists and felt the tight tension in his chest begin to ease, flowing out of his body like a poison and leaving him feeling cold and weary.
Joseph stepped up to his side and put an arm around his brother’s shoulders.

‘You’re shivering. Come inside. We’ll go to the boot room - there’s a fire there where we can warm up. Come.’

He steered his brother towards the outbuildings behind the school, away from the boys in the courtyard. Some still jeered, hoping to provoke another explosion of rage, but quickly lost interest as Napoleon allowed himself to be led away. They entered the boot room and Joseph shut the door. Wooden boot racks stretched down one side of the room, each one numbered for one of the pupils. On the other side, flanking the fireplace, were rows of pegs. This was where wet foot ware and coats could be dried and the atmosphere was warm and humid, and smelled musty. Joseph pulled up a pair of stools, positioned them in front of the glowing grate and eased his brother down.

‘You missed breakfast. You must be hungry. Here.’ Joseph pulled a hunk of bread out of one pocket and a small lump of hard cheese from the other. He smiled. ‘I saved these for you.’

Napoleon looked at the offerings for a moment before he reluctantly accepted them with a nod of thanks. He began to eat, and soon appetite got the better of him and he gnawed hungrily on the cheese. Joseph watched him for a moment, and then reached for another log from the woodpile and placed it over the glowing embers in the grate.

‘Feeling better?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘What are brothers for?’ Joseph grinned. ‘I’m supposed to look after you.’

‘I can look after myself.’

‘Yes. I noticed. You were doing a fine job …’

Napoleon glared at him, and his brother could not help laughing as he wagged a finger at him. ‘Now don’t you start that again! I was just joking.’

For a moment the familiar wild expression burned in Napoleon’s eyes. Then he relented and turned his gaze towards the fire as Joseph continued, ‘You really must stop reacting like a madman every time someone says something. You have to control that temper. I thought you wanted to be a soldier.’

‘I do.’

‘Well, you can’t go mad in the middle of a battle. You have to have a cool head, especially if you want to be an officer.’

Napoleon considered this, and reluctantly nodded his agreement. ‘I will learn to control my feelings one day.’

‘You’d better learn sooner than that,’ Joseph said quietly.

His brother looked at him curiously. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because you’ll be leaving Autun next month.’ Joseph forced himself to smile.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Father has sent us a letter. I found it on my bed at the start of break. That’s why I came to find you outside. Just in time, it seems.’

Napoleon stiffened his back and held out his hand. 'Let me see the letter.’

Joseph’s cold fingers fumbled inside his coat for a moment, before emerging with a folded sheet of paper bearing a broken wafer seal. He passed it to Napoleon and the young boy opened the letter out and began to read, his eyes eagerly scanning the spidery lines of his father’s script.

‘Brienne.’ He looked round at Joseph and smiled. ‘A military college.’

‘Just what you wanted.’

‘Yes …’ Napoleon’s smile faded as he glanced back at the letter and read it again, quickly. ‘He doesn’t mention you.’

‘No.’ Joseph’s voice wavered. ‘It seems I’m to stay here.’

‘We’re not going together? There must be some mistake. They can’t separate us.’ Napoleon gripped his brother’s hand. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’ The sudden thought of being so far from his home and his family, and even then denied the reassuring presence of his brother’s company, filled Napoleon with dread. ‘I don’t want to be alone,’ he repeated softly.

Joseph opened his mouth to reply, but no words came at first. What comfort was there to offer? He tried to make himself sound persuasive. ‘I don’t want you to leave me either. But this is for the best. Father wants to give you a chance to become a soldier. Brienne’s the place for you. I … I’ll stay here and study for the Church.’

Napoleon felt a lump in his throat as he refolded the letter and handed it back to his brother. He coughed and then tried to speak steadily. ‘You will write to me?’

‘Of course!’ Joseph put his arm round his brother’s shoulder again, and this time he felt Napoleon lean in towards him. Soon, Napoleon realised, there would be no human comfort for either of them to ease the pain of homesickness. Each would be forced to endure life as an outsider in an unfamiliar culture. He felt a surge of fondness for his older brother and reached for his hand.

‘I want to go home.’

‘I know. Me too.’

‘Do you think, if we wrote to Father, that we could persuade him to take us home?’

Joseph was Corsican enough to wince at the prospect of being thought of as weak-spirited. ‘No. He won’t stand for it.’

Napoleon struggled to hold back the tears. He knew his brother spoke the truth and he felt torn by hatred for his father’s cold determination and by the bitter contempt he felt for himself for being prey to such unworthy emotions. If only they had never left Ajaccio.

‘Joseph? What is to become of us?’

‘I have no idea,’ the older boy replied miserably. ‘I just don’t know.’

Napoleon shut his eyes tightly and murmured, ‘I’m afraid.’

Carlos Buona Parte came to visit his sons at the end of April. At first father and sons had been overjoyed to see each other again. Then, as it quickly became apparent how miserable Joseph and Napoleon were and how much they wanted to return home, Carlos’s manner towards them cooled, and became dismissive and angry. They were ungrateful, he said. Ungrateful of all the sacrifices that he and Letizia had made in order to make sure that the two boys had futures the family could be proud of. Given all that had been done for them, the least that Joseph and Napoleon could do was make something of the opportunities that they had been given.

They stood before him, heads hung in shame and despair, and for a moment Carlos’s resolve weakened and he placed his hands on their shoulders.

‘Come now, it can’t be as bad as that.’ He forced himself to laugh. ‘When I was your age I’d have thought this would be an exciting adventure. A chance to travel, see more of the world, learn from the best teachers that can be found. You particularly, Naboleone.’

‘They call me Napoleon here,’ the small boy said softly.

‘Napoleon?’ Carlos frowned for an instant before he gave a shrug. ‘Well, why not? It sounds more French.’

‘But I’m Corsican, Father.’

‘Of course you are. And you should be proud of it.’

‘I am!’ the boy replied fiercely.

‘That’s fine. But don’t let it become an excuse for others to tease you,’ he added shrewdly. ‘I spoke to Abbot Chardon before I came to find you. He says there have been some … incidents.’

‘They started it! But I paid them back.’

Carlos could not suppress a laugh. ‘I’m sure you did. As a Corsican, I applaud your spirit. But as a father, I worry for you. I don’t want you to make life hard for yourself. So behave.’ Carlos lifted his son’s chin so that their eyes met. ‘Promise me.’

Napoleon kept his silence and merely nodded.

‘I’ll take that as a promise, then.’ Carlos ruffled the boy’s lank dark hair. ‘Anyway, I’m sure you’ll appreciate the change of scene. Brienne’s one of the royal military colleges. That place will make a man of you, and if you do well you might win a place at the Royal Military School in Paris. Then one day you’ll be Colonel Buona Parte, with a regiment of fine soldiers to command. Wouldn’t that be grand?’

The boy stared at him, mind racing. It was true, he wanted everything his father had mentioned, and for a moment a small selfish part of him wanted to embrace it all. But then there was the awful prospect of being alone at Brienne. The past three months at Autun had been bad enough, so how much worse would it be without Joseph for company?

He swallowed and looked at his father nervously. ‘Can Joseph come too?’

Carlos shook his head. ‘Brienne only had one scholarship available and I was lucky to secure that for you.’

The small boy turned back to him and met his gaze in silence for a moment, before nodding faintly. Carlos smiled and cupped his hand round Napoleon’s cheek. ‘There’s a good boy. Now you must go and pack your trunk, while I talk with your brother.’

An hour later the hired cart rattled out of the school gate and on to the rutted track. While his father stared stiffly ahead Napoleon turned his head and looked back at the school, at once fixing his eyes on the solitary figure of Joseph standing to one side of the gatehouse. Joseph raised his hand and waved slowly. His younger brother returned the wave as Abbot Chardon stepped into view, laid a gentle hand on Joseph’s shoulder and led him back through the gatehouse and out of sight.

The military college was on the outskirts of the small market town of Brienne. The college was comprised of functional buildings neatly laid out around a quadrangle. It was designed, Carlos told his son, to accommodate one hundred and twenty cadets, half of whom were scholarship boys like Napoleon. So he should not feel unduly out of place. As the cart passed through the quadrangle and made for the coach house and stables at the rear of the main building, Napoleon stared keenly about him.

While one of the college grooms took charge of the cart, a porter scurried over to unload Napoleon’s trunk, then led Carlos and his son to the administrative section at the heart of the college. Inside, a hall stretched the length of the building and the varnished parquet gleamed in the light slanting through tall shuttered windows that stretched along the side of the hall opposite the offices. The tang of polish filled the air and the sound of their shoes echoed off smooth plastered walls.

‘Over here, sir.’ The porter indicated a door to one side. A neatly painted sign indicated that this was the office of the director of the institution. A plain bench ran along the wall beyond the door.

Carlos bowed his head. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll take the young gentleman’s trunk to his cell, sir.’

‘Very well.’

As the porter, burdened down by the luggage, tramped off down the corridor, Carlos and his son exchanged brief looks. Carlos flashed a quick smile and whispered, ‘Well, here we are, Napoleon.’
He raised his hand to knock on the polished wooden panel, paused to take a deep breath, then rapped sharply.

There was a muffled cough from inside and then a thin, reedy voice called out, ‘Enter!’

Carlos pressed the handle down and pushed the door open. It was heavier than he expected and resisted his efforts with a faint squeak from the hinges before it gave. Inside was a large office, lined with bookcases along which gleamed the gilded spines of books so regimented that it seemed that they were rarely, if ever, taken from their places. The office was bathed in light from a large window that looked out over the quadrangle. In front of the window was a modest walnut desk. Sitting behind it was a thin man in a plain black frock coat and powdered wig. He wore a pair of glasses that made his eyes look far larger than they really were, and Napoleon felt them bore into him as the man subjected him to intense scrutiny. There was a moment’s stillness before Carlos coughed nervously and gently pressed his son forward.

‘Carlos Buona Parte, at your service.’ He raised his eyebrows slightly. ‘You must be the director, sir?’

The man slowly swivelled his gaze away from Napoleon towards his father. He made a thin smile and replied in his weak strained tone, ‘Yes, I believe that’s what the sign outside the door says, Signor Buona Parte.’ His eyes flickered back to Napoleon. ‘And this is the new boy.’

Carlos’s expression was frigid at being addressed in the Italian fashion, but he bit back on his irritation and bowed his head. 'Yes, sir. My son, Napoleon.’

‘We were expecting you two days ago.’

‘I was delayed in Bastia, by a storm. I made up some of the time before I could fetch my son from Autun. I apologise.’

The director nodded his head briefly, as if to indicate that he could barely tolerate the apology. 'Very well, sir. I think it only fair to tell you that the boy’s entry in the college is allowed under sufferance.’

‘Sufferance, sir? What do you mean?’

‘Only that it is our custom to extend places to the sons of French nobility. This is our first application from Corsica.’

‘Which is now French, as you well know, sir.’

The director shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘So it would seem. In any event, I would rather not dilute the quality of our student body by admitting someone from outside of France.’ He paused and smiled. ‘Mainland France, at any rate.’

‘Dilute?’ Carlos felt his chest tighten in rage. ‘Did you say, “dilute”?’

‘I did, sir. But I intend no slur on your island, nor your son, naturally. I am sure that in time the inhabitants of Corsica will acclimatise to their new nationality. To their new culture. Until such time, it is my opinion that the mixing of our respective cultures can only confuse the educational ethos of the college. It is as much a concern for the wellbeing of your son as it is for the rest of the students here. And were it not for the well-meaning but misplaced representations of the Comte de Marbeuf to the Royal Court, I would be able to prevent this unfortunate state of affairs. As it is …’ He shrugged again and opened out his pale white hands.

Carlos placed a hand on Napoleon’s shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze as he responded to the director. 'But as it is, you have been instructed to accept my son into this establishment.’

‘Yes, sir. I am sure you understand the sensitivity of the situation.’

Carlos stared at the director a moment before he replied, ‘I understand.’

The director smiled in relief. ‘I am certain that the boy Napoleon will find that the continuation of his studies at Autun will be for the best.’

‘The boy stays here,’ Carlos said firmly. ‘He has been awarded a royal scholarship. You will educate him, as arranged.’

‘I see. Well, if you are adamant that you wish him to be educated here …’

‘I am.’

A sudden look of inspiration flickered across the director’s face. ‘And how does he feel about the situation, I wonder.’ He leaned forward, over the edge of the desk and fixed Napoleon with an intense stare.

‘Well, boy? Do you wish to stay here? Or return to your friends back in Autun?’

‘P-please, sir. I don’t know.’

‘Napoleon,’ his father said sternly, pulling him round so that their eyes met. ‘You will be educated here. It is your right. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Do you understand me?’

Napoleon felt his insides churn with a mixture of injured pride and a desire to quit this place and be back with his brother. But he would not let his father down. He would not back away from this arrogant Frenchman. Napoleon swallowed nervously and nodded his head. ‘I understand, Father.’

‘Good.’ Carlos patted his shoulder, and turned back to the director. ‘It is settled, then.’

‘Very well.’ The director said in a resigned tone. ‘Now, I imagine you have a long journey to make back to your home in Corsica. Please don’t let me detain you a moment longer. I’ll see that your son’ - he made a thin smile at the boy - ‘I’ll see that young Napoleon here is taken care of.’

Carlos stared at him for a moment, then nodded his head. ‘Then I’ll take my leave of you. With thanks for taking him into Brienne. I’m sure he will prove himself a worthy student.’

‘He looks like a determined enough boy. I’m sure he will try to prove himself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to complete his enrolment records. If you’ll be so kind as to take him to the quartermaster’s stores at the end of the hall he can be fitted with his uniform. Good day to you, sir.’

Carlos steered his son towards the door and back into the corridor outside. As the heavy door closed behind them with a faint squeal from the hinges, father and son looked at each other in silence.

Carlos still felt the anger surging through his veins, but the injured look in the eyes of his son pricked him with guilt.

‘Father, do I have to stay here?’

‘Yes. I know it will be difficult. But it is the best chance of a future you will ever get. Have courage, Napoleon.’

Courage, the boy thought. Yes, courage. That’s all that would protect him now. For the first time he would be cut off from all his family. He would be alone. A Corsican amongst the haughty sons of French aristocrats. Only courage would save him.

‘Come now,’ his father smiled. ‘Let’s find the quartermaster. I can’t wait to see you in that fine new uniform!’

‘There!’ Carlos straightened up and took two paces back. ‘You’re quite the young gentleman.’

Napoleon stiffened his back and smiled at his father. The uniform felt good on him. It made him feel older and wiser, and somehow a little braver. In this coat he was not so different from the other students who were passing in the hall outside the quartermaster’s door now that morning lessons had finished. At least, he would not look so different. But that, Napoleon knew, was where the similarity would end. As soon as he opened his mouth his origins would be painfully apparent. What then?

His father was still examining him with a pleased expression. ‘It suits you. I’m sure you will be a fine soldier some day. One I can be proud of.’

Napoleon felt his throat tighten and he could not trust himself to reply immediately, but nodded with a vague mumble that he would do his best.

‘I’m sure you will.’ The smile faded from Carlos’s lips. ‘Now, I must go.’

He stared down at his son, and for a moment saw only the smooth-featured child whose birth seemed only a little while ago. So short a time. Perhaps too short a time, he reflected guiltily, and for an instant he felt the urge to bundle the boy into his arms and bear him back home to his family. Then he tried to dismiss the feeling. He could not shield the boy from this world for ever. It was better that Napoleon became acquainted with its challenges as soon as possible. And what better opportunity than a scholarship in one of the most prestigious colleges in France? Carlos had done everything in his power to secure advancement for his sons. It was all for them, he told himself, and this parting was just one of the many sacrifices he had made. Carlos extended his hand formally.

‘I’ll give your love to your mother. Be good and work hard.’

Napoleon hesitated a moment before he reached out and pressed his hand into the palm of his father’s, feeling the warmth that briefly passed between their connected flesh, before his father loosened his grip.

Napoleon swallowed. ‘When will I see you again?’

Carlos frowned. He had not considered this, but he must reassure his son. ‘Soon. I’ll come and visit the moment the family affairs are in order.’

‘When will that be?’

‘Soon, Napoleon. Then I’ll see you and Joseph again. Perhaps your mother will come with me.’

‘I’d like that,’ Napoleon said quietly, wanting to commit his father to a definite time, but knowing it was impossible. ‘You will write to me?’

‘Of course I will! As often as possible.’ Carlos flashed one of his brilliant smiles. 'And I expect you to respond in kind, young man.’

‘I will. I promise.’

‘Very well … Then I must go.’

‘Yes.’

Carlos patted his son on the shoulder one last time and turned away towards the large doorway at the end of the hall that gave out on to the stables courtyard. As his father strode stiffly away Napoleon felt a desperate urge to reach out to him and his hand lifted from his side instinctively. But as soon as he was aware of the gesture he burned with shame and furiously forced the hand into a gap between the buttons of his uniform coat, trapping it against his stomach where it could not betray him.

Ten paces away his father paused and turned back. With a reassuring nod of his head he called out, ‘Remember, Napoleon. Courage!’

Napoleon nodded. Then his father strode off, amid the scurrying ranks of the other students.

The boy watched until Carlos had passed through the doorway and out of sight. Part of him wanted to run down the hall, to catch one glimpse of his father, but then he became aware that some of the boys in the hall were watching him curiously. Napoleon took a deep breath, turned round and walked, unhurriedly, to his cell.