Captain Fantom

by Reginald Hill

  So there was no cash settlement and to our delight, the disgruntled men began gathering up their weapons and moving out. I tried to get authority to offer them terms with Tilly’s army, but unfortunately the nearest I could get to the commander was D’Amblève who listened to my suggestion with disgust and commanded me back to the fighting as though I had been seeking an excuse to avoid it.

  As it happened, we managed without their help. In fact when I got back to my station, I found our cavalry had burst through the Danes’ emaciated line and were busily killing, among others, the poor devils who had withdrawn.

  After that we quickly mopped up the remaining opposition and in a surprisingly short time found we had moved from the possibility of defeat to a complete victory. God bless King Charles and his Parliament. They had done me a good turn unawares. Though twenty years later in just the same casually ignorant manner, each in turn would cause me a deal of woe.

  After the battle the victor enjoys his spoils. Unfortunately we had been around the Bishopric of Hildersheim for so long now that there was little left unspoilt. And to make matter’s worse, with Christian’s defeat all the local rulers hastily asserted their loyalty to the Emperor and suddenly we were surrounded by allies! Well, at least it meant that Tilly was able to squeeze some cash out of them and pay off some of our wage arrears. But it meant that the ambitious soldier had to ride quite a long way in search of the rewards of virtue!

  The army then settled down in quarters for a while awaiting news from Hungary of the Wallenstein-Mansfeld conflict. This Wallenstein was beginning to interest me very much. Naturally I had heard of him when he first raised his army the previous year. Any new centre of employment makes every mercenary’s nose twitch. First reports had been good, but I was happy enough where I was at that time and still enjoying the full warmth of Tilly’s favour. But that was a guttering flame now and when a couple of Wallenstein’s regiments came to reinforce us earlier in the summer, I made it my business to get to know their officers pretty well. And of course I kept a close eye on the way their units handled themselves in the fight.

  I was very impressed, and was attracted also by what I learned of Wallenstein himself. He was a Bohemian financier who very early on had recognized that Frederick and his Protestant supporters had as much chance as a straw chastity belt of keeping Ferdinand out. So he got in on the act, first by land speculation (not that there was anything very speculative about buying up confiscated Protestant land at rock bottom prices and reselling it later when things had quietened down!) next by loaning cash to the Emperor who was having to dig deep in his coffers for Tilly’s wages, and finally by raising an army at his own expense.

  He sounded just my cup of tea. Clever, powerful, with an excellent grasp of warfare and a keen eye for profit; I marked him down in my mind for a rainy day, but at the moment my life looked set fair. One or two innovations on the Swedish lines in the disposition of my troop had worked very well in the recent battle and Tilly complimented me personally and invited me to present him with a written account of my concept of cavalry tactics. Religion apart, he was a real soldier that one, no personal ambition, just a mind dedicated to moulding men into an efficient fighting machine. He would pay heed to the lowliest soldier in his service if he felt that a military advantage might be derived therefrom. To me it was a heaven-sent chance to put myself on his sunny side once more and I took great care in the setting down of my ideas, though scrivening such as this present has always been a labour to me. It took me a week, with interludes for a gentleman’s proper exercise of course, and I whistled gaily in pleasure at being finished and in anticipation of being well received as I rode into Lutter one sunny forenoon on my way to Tilly’s quarters. Nothing was further from my mind than women (in the particular rather than the general sense, I mean) and I even smiled to myself when I saw this girl and rode on as if I could ignore the trumpets. Then I found I had stopped and was looking back. One part of my mind was saying, still without too much urgency, ‘Don’t be foolish! The maid is noble. Tilly – soon to be your benefactor once more – has commanded the ultimate punishment for all transgressions in this town. Ride on and be happy!’

  But another part was asking, ‘Where’s she gone?’

  She had been a tall slender young woman, richly dressed with russet hair plaited and coiled above her crown. By her side had hobbled an elderly serving woman dressed all in black for even these Saxon clods feel that it is unseemly for ladies of quality to walk in the streets unchaperoned, and at a short distance behind, more sensible protection, had been a young man in livery, with a stave in his hand and a knife at his belt. It was this fellow who showed me the direction to take, for he lingered at a corner to exchange compliments with a wench lugging a keg of cider. The man-at-arms paused to paddle his fingers in her neck and she squealed pleasurably and threatened him with her keg. He laughed, made bold with her once more, then moved out of sight. But his amorous weakness had shown me the way to his lady. How soon will these small vices betray a man!

  He had gone through a high arched gate into a small courtyard. Here I left Orfeo loosely tethered, for the sound of the trumpet had not yet overwhelmed all the whispers of caution.

  A small blue door stood ajar. Through it I saw the moving green of a breeze-touched pear tree and heard the splash of softly falling water. Carefully I pushed the door wide and stepped through.

  I was in a garden. These men of wealth know better than to display their luxury to an envious and covetous public. The little courtyard behind me held no promise of such an Eden as this. The garden though not large was laid out with a skill and taste which must have been imported. Some journeying artist of the soil from Italy perhaps. Or even from England whose climate suits so well all growing things. Except man. Beside the pear tree there were a couple of apples, a nectarine and a low-stooping plum all laden with ripening fruit, while all along the walls ran a torrent of roses. A smooth-razed lawn bore a shell of marble in which knelt a small sea-nymph exquisitely carved so the delicate veins of the stone looked like her own. She held an urn before her, from which ran a stream of water whose sound mingled with the piping of birds.

  But I had no eyes for beauties of stone, no matter how soft and round art made their form appear, nor ear for any sound save that of my inner trumpets. Seated on a three-legged joint-stool alongside the fountain was the young woman. Her eyes were closed and she might have been part of some sublimely lovely group sculpted by Michaelangelo.

  I wasted little time admiring the scene however. When battle is inevitable, the wise cavalryman never delays the charge. My weapon was ready primed. I took it from its holster and set off across the lawn at a steady canter.

  She had no more defence than a troop of drowsy Frenchmen at first light. And I fear her reveries must have been just as carnal, so easily did I melt into them. It wasn’t till her bum subsided into the pool that she began to struggle and scream as though the shock had awoken her. But by then it was too late. The walls had been undermined and all that her struggles did was explode my charge the sooner.

  ‘Servant, ma’am,’ I gasped and prepared to withdraw.

  Unfortunately at that moment the young man-at-arms appeared on the scene. For a second the sight of his mistress with her behind, in the water and her legs splayed wide over the edge of the stone shell had the same affect on him as his daughter in the pigeon pie had on the burgermeister. Taking advantage of his momentary petrification, I dashed by him towards the blue door, but the stupid lad with more luck than skill cast his stave between my legs and brought me down. While I lay winded, he leapt on my back and to my great relief began to belabour me with his fists, whereas a mature fighting man would have slit my jugular with his dagger and left me kicking there like a Yuletide goose.

  I pushed myself upright with the youth still clinging to my back, then ran backwards with all my strength till we crashed into the pear tree. He screamed, branches cracked, and the hard green fruit showered down on our heads. But still
he clung on. Three times I had to repeat the process so that the tree was almost uprooted and not a pear remained on it before I persuaded him to loose his hold.

  Had there been time I would have drawn my sword and slit his belly for his impudence, but the garden was full of screaming – the girl’s, the youth’s and now the newly arrived old chaperone’s, and there was no time for luxuries.

  I sprinted through the blue door, sprung on to Orfeo who looked as if he would have been disappointed had I approached at a normal pace, and before I could dig in my heels, he was off through the gate.

  But as we galloped away I knew I was likely to need more than Orfeo’s speed and my own fighting skill to escape this predicament.

  In order to avoid dangerous temptation I had found quarters in a small hamlet some miles outside the town, or rather these had been found by Lauder, who always chose to mess apart from his brother officers except in the field. While he was careful to keep on good terms with his superiors, he had in his long career seen too many generals become political victims and he knew that guilt went by association or even proximity. My company he accepted because he reckoned no one was going to accuse him of complicity in my own simple failing. I accepted his because I was fond of the old bastard and besides he had an unerring instinct for comfort. But this particular comfort would almost certainly have to be abandoned, I realized as I headed for home.

  After the first mad dash I had pulled Orfeo back to a more sedate pace partly to conserve his energy for what might prove to be a long and wearisome journey, and partly to avoid drawing attention to myself. Not that I had much hope of avoiding identification. Had it been only the girl herself I might have been optimistic. But the chaperone had seen me, and the man-at-arms. And he had probably admired Orfeo in the courtyard before coming into the garden. Their descriptions of me and my horse, plus the fame my affectionate nature had won me throughout the army, would soon point the finger.

  I resolved to go into hiding till Lauder could see how the land lay. Tilly would not condemn me unheard and if the army marched in the near future, there would be no reason to condemn me at all. Or so I reasoned as I approached the red tiled farmhouse where I was lodged.

  The first sight I saw was Lauder sitting outside the stable smoking a long clay pipe. Beside him neatly packed and stacked were all my belongings. For a moment I thought that somehow news of my mishap must have prevented me here and I drew my pistol and gazed around, fearful of an ambush. But common sense told me no one could have got here before Orfeo and I addressed myself to Lauder.

  ‘Has that disgusting pipe of yours got us dispossessed at last?’ I demanded.

  ‘Your nags are fed and watered,’ he replied. ‘I’ll gie ye a hand.’

  ‘Lauder,’ I said dismounting. ‘Do you practise the dark arts?’

  ‘No witchcraft,’ he said. ‘Mon, I knew soon as you said you were for Lutter that there’d be a piece of trouble this day. Are they close behind?’

  ‘On their nags?’ I said. ‘It could come to nothing yet, but I’ll ride away for a day or so. What will you tell them if they come?’

  He thought for a while as we loaded up my two spare horses, Laura, my sweet natured grey mare, and little Osman, the sturdy black battle pony I had of the Turks. I knew that Lauder would help me as far as he could but he was not about to provide me with an alibi which, if broken, would make him an accessory to my ‘crime’.

  ‘I’ll tell them you spoke nostalgically of some of your people living in a holy brotherhood in the hills to the south and talked of a pilgrimage there.’

  I grinned at this. Croatian mercenaries had a not altogether undeserved reputation for breaking off from the main armies and setting up as independent bandits. The story was hardly an alibi but it might at the least discourage pursuit. Not that I feared anything more than a token search from Tilly, but if the girl’s family were rich and powerful enough, they might hire a little gang of cut-throats with promise of payment by results.

  So I rode away, not too unhappy, certain that things would blow over in a day or two or certainly by the time the next campaign began. I had no desire at the moment to change my employment. By now Mansfeld and his men were half way across Silesia on their way to Hungary with Wallenstein in pursuit. It was a long way to go for a job. And nearer at hand all that offered itself was the sad remnants of Christian’s army and I knew how short of money they were.

  I gave it seven days before I rode back down to the farmhouse. It was a moonless night with a bit of mist drifting around so I was able to get up to the house without disturbing any watcher. I was, perhaps, being overcautious but I had not survived as a front-line soldier in half a dozen armies by taking even the smallest unnecessary risk. I had even ridden Osman because of his colour and his sure-footedness in the dark. I left him loosely tethered in a grove of ash trees about three hundred yardsfrom the house and covered the remaining ground on foot. I have a well developed sense of presence and I did not ‘feel’ the house was guarded, nor did I hear anything untoward, save as I prised open a window I thought I heard a distant drumming of hoofbeats. But sound travels far on these still misty nights and we were not so isolated here that no one ever passed. Besides the rider, if it were a rider, was going further away; and now it had faded completely.

  I clambered in through the window and went in search of Lauder.

  He sat in his bed reading by candle light. He wore a woollen nightcap and a pair of spectacles which he had taken from a monk he had slain while fighting under Mansfeld. For all I knew it was the same monk who had provided the Bible Lauder was studying, and probably the large altar candle which gave him his light. The roads to salvation are strange and winding.

  He was as unsurprised as ever by my appearance and I assumed from his composure that all was well. But his first words disillusioned me.

  ‘Fantom,’ he said seriously, ‘ye are a dead man.’

  ‘What!’ I said. ‘How so?’

  He reached down beneath his Bible and produced a pistol.

  ‘I could have five hundred gold marks just for the pulling of this trigger,’ he said.

  ‘Nay,’ I said alarmed. ‘But read me a passage from your book instead, and you may have six hundred.’

  ‘Faugh!’ he snorted in disgust. ‘Do ye think I would parley if my intent was to shoot?’

  This was true, of course. A soldier of Lauder’s experience bent on earning a bounty would not produce his weapon and start talking while I still stood some yards distant in an ill light. No, he would have brought me close to the bedside by some easy welcoming speech and shot me through the belly from point-blank range.

  But I was still relieved to see him replace the pistol beneath the Good Book.

  ‘The girl’s family have offered this reward?’ I exclaimed indignantly. ‘The commander will not permit it!’

  I believed it too. It is hard to prevent one of the citizenry hiring his own cut-throats to take revenge, but no general worth his salt will permit a civilian to offer a public reward for the killing of one of his officers. The temptation to the troops would be more than they could bear – which, as far as temptation went, was little enough already, in faith.

  ‘No. Not the family,’ said Lauder. ‘Tilly himself has offered the bounty.’

  The shock was so much that I swore in my native language an oath that would have had me in hair-shirts for a fortnight had my childhood confessor heard it. Not that he was likely to do so. Having, as was my childish duty, confessed to him the more than fraternal relationship with my sister which our overcrowded household had encouraged, I at first put it down to the wrath of an all-seeing God when that very same night I was dragged from her arms by our enraged father and beaten till I bled. Later it began to puzzle me that an all-seeing God had apparently not seen anything till I confessed to the priest. And when a few weeks later, having recovered from my father’s assault, I decided to go into the world in search of my fortune, I went to the priest for a final confession.


  ‘How have you sinned, my son?’ he asked.

  ‘Murder,’ I said.

  That took him aback for a second.

  ‘How many times?’ he asked finally.

  ‘Just once,’ I said, plunging my sword through the thin curtain that divided us. I left it to God to decide where I hit him and the Almighty opted for the left lung.

  All this ran through my mind as I absorbed what Lauder was telling me.

  ‘It’s D’Amblève,’ he explained. ‘He met the girl’s family three years ago when he first came to join his cousin. He and the girl are betrothed.’

  ‘Jesus!’ I exclaimed and struck my own head in anger. Not at myself, of course, but at D’Amblève. No woman I was betrothed to would be permitted to walk the streets accompanied only by a beldame and a stripling youth! I hate these men who fail in their duty to their ladies.

  ‘He arrived at the lassie’s house not long after your ain … er … visit,’ continued Lauder. ‘It seems he spoke your name before the least description was offered!’

  The unfairness of this added to my anger. The country was full of ruffians, good for nothing but to rob, burn and ravish. This rapid identification without evidence was nothing short of slander.

  ‘And he has poisoned the commander against me!’ I burst out.

  ‘Aye,’ said Lauder cautiously. ‘Ye could say so. It didna help that the girlie tried to kill hersel’, at least so they say.’