The Most Valuable Prize of the Battle of Rethel

When night fell, Louis made a point of visiting the Queen Mother's chambers. He wished to thank her—for the potatoes—and apologize as well. After all, his stubbornness during their earlier quarrel had hurt her deeply.

But just as the past and the future, a mother would never hate her own child. Queen Mother Anne had argued with the King only because she could not bear to see her child in danger, not for power or anything else. The moment Louis knelt beside her knees and leaned into her embrace, her heart melted and grew hot like ice and snow meeting fire—Louis had not done this for several years, after all. There was an adult soul inside his body, and people of this era scarcely had any notion of childhood; it all depended on what the mother or child themselves thought.

"Mazarin has sent me a letter," Anne said. "Thank heaven, we have found a place to settle here. Louis, you will soon come of age, my dear. I shall hold a grand ceremony and banquet for you."

Louis raised his head from his mother's knees, only then suddenly remembering that he was indeed nearly fourteen. But under the present circumstances, there was truly nothing to make a fuss over. According to Mazarin's arrangements, he would have to wait until he was twenty, sufficiently mature, before he could involve himself in state affairs. Nor was he in any hurry to grasp power—he had not even managed to establish his own court, the people around him might not be trustworthy, and the inhuman creatures that prowled in darkness came and went through the royal palace as though it were unguarded—being King was no reason not to die. At present, everyone's eyes were on the Queen Mother and Mazarin, which was a good thing for him as well.

"I would rather have a victory," Louis murmured. "To celebrate my coming of age."

"What could be easier?" the Queen Mother said at once, generously. "I shall directly order General Schomberg to give battle when he encounters the enemy."

"I fear he has already encountered them," the King said. "On my way here, I met a messenger. He told me that an army led by Viscount of Turenne is not far from us."

Those words made the Queen Mother's eyes fly wide open. That was why the King had not told her the news as soon as he entered. Even so, she drew out her smelling salts with trembling hands and inhaled sharply several times. A powerful scent of ammonia mixed with perfume filled the air, making even Mali, standing beside the Queen Mother, unable to resist pulling a face. The King pressed down the Queen Mother's hand. "I told you not to use too much of that," he said in an affectionate, reproachful tone. "It is very harmful to your health."

"But without it," the Queen Mother said, "I shall faint away." She put the smelling salts back into the little pouch at her belt. "Viscount of Turenne... ah, I know the man. It is no surprise that he would commit such a sin."

"I have never heard of him," Louis said. "What sort of man is he?"

"He is the second son of the Duke of Sedan. By tradition, his elder brother inherited the title and lands, while he entered the army to serve the King."

"Then he ought to be loyal to us."

"He once was," the Queen Mother said irritably. "In 1642, his elder brother, the Duke of Sedan, was thrown into prison for opposing Richelieu. To redeem his name and honor, he surrendered the Duchy of Sedan. As his brother, Viscount of Turenne naturally could not escape some implication in the matter. But after you ascended the throne, Mazarin nevertheless granted him a marshal's baton and a reward worth ten thousand livres, in order to ease the tensions between us."

Louis did not argue. This was the way those in high places thought. Yet in France—or at least in the case of this Viscount of Turenne—such a gesture had not achieved the intended result. Then a possibility occurred to him. "What is his relationship with Prince of Condé?"

The Queen Mother looked somewhat unwilling, but she still answered, "He and Prince of Condé served in the army together."

That explained it, Louis thought. Nothing was more worthy of respect and trust than a friend who had fought at one's side. Viscount of Turenne's choice to stand in Prince of Condé's camp was likely driven not only by the royal house's seizure of the Duchy of Sedan; his friendship with Prince of Condé must have been the weightiest counterweight of all. "If I can meet this general," Louis said, "I will speak with him. Perhaps he will change his mind."

That made the Queen Mother laugh. Louis was still only a child; he did not understand politics, Anne thought. "If it can be arranged," she said, as though promising him a toy, "I shall have him brought to see you." With that, she kissed Louis on the cheek and sent him from her chambers. As soon as Louis left, the Queen Mother summoned Schomberg. At first, General Schomberg had wondered why Bontemps, the King's attendant, had brought him such a verbal message. Once he saw the Queen Mother, he understood. He respectfully accepted her orders, of course, and then set them aside. The King's command came first—and as a general, he did not believe blindly obeying the Queen Mother's orders was right.

At the very least, he would not lead his army charging out to fight Viscount of Turenne.

Interestingly, before the battle began, Viscount of Turenne's envoy came to seek an audience with the Queen Mother and the King, delivering Turenne's letter. In it, he earnestly urged them to surrender, lest they suffer some unforeseen misfortune. Viscount of Turenne was willing to guarantee their safety and treat them with the consideration due a King and Queen Mother. The Queen Mother naturally consigned the letter to the flames. The King, on the other hand, told the envoy pleasantly that if Viscount of Turenne was willing to surrender, he too would grant him the treatment due a viscount.

The tender veil, perhaps not entirely hypocritical, was ripped apart by real battle at dawn the following day.

The old city of Rethel had originally been a sturdy military fortress. After the age of firearms began, six cannons had been mounted on its walls. Viscount of Turenne, however, had twelve. He ordered his engineers to build high earthen mounds and push the cannons up onto them, so they could exchange fire with the artillery on the walls.

Cannons roared and smoke billowed. Schomberg's advantage lay in his thick walls and high ground; Turenne's lay in his superiority in both soldiers and artillery. Under the almost unceasing bombardment of twelve cannons, the ancient walls finally revealed their frail core—this city had been founded in 940, when there had been no such thing as cannons. As time passed, the walls had peeled away layer by layer, until they finally collapsed completely and opened a breach. Turenne's soldiers cheered, but both commanders knew that the true battle had only just begun.

Schomberg directed his soldiers to erect defenses behind the wall—this had been the King's suggestion. Perhaps out of childish fancy, he had craftsmen make something resembling a wooden horse. It had wheels beneath it and could be pushed along. In Schomberg's view, it also somewhat resembled an ancient battering ram cart, for it too was triangular in shape. Beneath its wooden planks were bags packed with earth. Even two or three hundred years later, such crude defenses could shield men from machine guns several times more powerful, let alone the primitive matchlock muskets of the present day.

The royal army hid behind these defenses and fired upon the rebels. The rebels returned fire, but with meager results, while suffering deadly blows themselves. Their already flagging morale sank still lower—for they knew they were aiming their muskets at their King. Viscount of Turenne noticed this as well, but matters had reached this point; he could not retreat. He could only order his soldiers onward, to tear open the opposing line with their flesh and blood.

At that moment—around two or three in the afternoon—two three-masted ships came sailing down from upstream on the Aisne River. That was an utterly ordinary sight, but anyone familiar with ships would surely have cried out, because both three-masted vessels bore gunports. They were warships, each with twelve gunports, their shutters now open and their cannon muzzles aimed directly at the rebels outside the old city of Rethel.

Before anyone else could notice, those black, gaping muzzles erupted with dense flames that could only be seen in hell—and indeed, they carried men to hell. Viscount of Turenne's army could not advance an inch at the front, while flesh and blood flew at the rear. Soldiers wailed and ran in every direction, hoping only to escape this shrieking net. Though the officers struggled to maintain order, they soon found themselves powerless as well. Just as every rebel began to despair, the bombardment abruptly ceased.

The battlefield suddenly fell silent. At first there were still one or two musket shots, but several minutes later those too vanished. Only the wounded soldiers continued their miserable cries and groans; fires still crackled where they burned, and smoke continued to rise. Yet it was as if God had stretched out His hand and commanded them to stop, and so they all stopped, turning from beasts back into men.

Then Viscount of Turenne saw an officer emerge from the defenses only a hundred feet away. He raised one hand, lest his soldiers fire by accident in their tension. Turenne did not know this man, but he seemed younger than himself. Even before hundreds of muskets, he showed no trace of fear.

He walked toward Viscount of Turenne, and Viscount of Turenne walked toward him. Though they had never met, the moment they came face-to-face, they knew that the other was their opponent.

"A pleasure to meet you!" the younger of the two—Schomberg—called loudly. He removed his hat, waved it, and bowed to Viscount of Turenne.

"A pleasure to meet you!" Viscount of Turenne said. Though his army had just suffered a devastating blow at this man's hands, he maintained the bearing and magnanimity befitting a duke's son. Anger burned in his eyes, but did not spread into his words or actions.

"Friedrich Schomberg," said the newcomer.

"That is not a Frenchman's name," Viscount of Turenne said. "You are a foreigner."

"Yes. A foreigner is protecting the French King, while a Frenchman is attacking the King's army," Schomberg said.

"That is because the King has committed a wrong," Viscount of Turenne said. "And I have come to ask him to correct it."

"With cannon and muskets?"

"If the King had been willing to heed other forms of persuasion," Viscount of Turenne said stiffly.

Such words undoubtedly angered General Schomberg. Though he had not known Louis for long, in his view, the young King had already done everything he could at present. "Then do you know who ordered me to cease the bombardment?"

Viscount of Turenne did not wish to answer, but he knew such resistance was useless. So he said, "His Majesty."

"His Majesty, the King of France," Schomberg said, giving a respectful salute. "He asked me to inquire whether you are willing to surrender."

"I have not yet reached the end of the road," Viscount of Turenne said.

"But the King is unwilling to see another Frenchman die," Schomberg said. "No matter which side they belong to, he says, they are all his subjects. God appointed him to rule them, and so he cherishes their lives as he would those of his own children."

Viscount of Turenne said nothing. Schomberg glanced at him, then turned and walked back.

Only Viscount of Turenne knew that he had already lost—lost utterly and completely.

After Viscount of Turenne's army retreated, it made camp beside the riverbank, paying no heed at all to the two three-masted ships barely half a river's width away. Viscount of Turenne sat on a large rock, staring blankly at the black river water. An officer in whom he placed great trust brought him a cup of hot tea. He held it without drinking. "What are the soldiers saying?"

The officer did not answer him.

Viscount of Turenne had already found the answer in that silence.

Early the next morning, Viscount of Turenne came before the city gates and surrendered to the King.