Captain Fantom

by Reginald Hill

  ‘What? Because of … why so?’ I was amazed.

  ‘Well, D’Amblève has said he canna wed her. It’s understandable, would ye no’ say? She’s been packed off to some Saxon nunnery that a cousin of hers is Superior of and it’s my belief that one way or inither, she’ll bide there for ever.’

  ‘Oh God’s turds and scrotum!’ I shouted. (This was another half forgotten childhood oath.) ‘Will the villainies of this creature D’Amblève never cease?’

  For some reason Lauder was amused. He laughed till he coughed and had to take a long pull at a flask of brandy which he produced from under the blanket. I wondered what else the huge Bible concealed.

  ‘The boy has scoured the countryside for ye these past days,’ continued Lauder. ‘I was able to send him a wee bittee astray and my talk of a band of Croats put off his men, though the reward money has put them on again.’

  ‘But the house is not watched,’ I said in surprise. ‘At least I saw no one.’

  Lauder nodded in agreement with both my statement and my surprise.

  ‘I have looked for myself,’ he said, ‘and seen no one. Perhaps they reckon ye’ll nae dare to return here.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said. But it bothered me a little. Other matters bothered me more, however. I would have to travel fast and I would have to travel far. My first instinct was to head west. France, Spain, the Netherlands, there was always something going on there. Perhaps I could get a job with the Swede, Gustavus Adolphus, whose reputation as a cavalry tactician was already firmly established. The last alternative was to rejoin Mansfeld. I would be welcome there despite my desertion, I was sure of that. And it would be pleasant to be sure of a welcome. But I didn’t fancy his chances against this man Wallenstein, so it looked as if my best hope lay in the west.

  These thoughts ran through my mind as I said farewell to Lauder and made my way back to the ash grove where Osman was waiting.

  It was my preoccupation with my future which almost robbed me of it. Osman neighed softly as I approached and I took this as a welcome as indeed it would have been from Laura. But Osman was Turkish trained to stand in absolute quiet in such conditions as these and a neigh from him meant that something was disturbing him very much. This struck me just as I was about to step out of the shelter of the trees into the clearing where Osman stood. I froze, pressed hard against a tree to break down my silhouette and quietly drew my pistol.

  My night sight was good and I had grown accustomed even to this darkness. I sank cautiously down on all fours and edged my way forward till I could see what was happening.

  A man was crouched behind my pony trying to hobble his hind legs. In a trice I grasped what must have happened. D’Amblève with more wit than I gave him credit for had realized that a guard on the house would just frighten me off. Therefore he had probably detailed a couple of his troopers to check from time to time the places near by where I might possibly leave my horse. The hoofbeats I had heard earlier had been those of the man who discovered Osman riding off to tell D’Amblève who must be camped close by. I must have just missed the party he had certainly despatched to cover the house, while up here in the grove I had arrived just as the ambush was being set. Someone, recognizing that a man could with a bit of luck wriggle his way out of almost any trap on such a dark and misty night, had decided that at least I wasn’t going anywhere on horseback. Hence the attempt to hobble Osman.

  Fortunately the little pony wasn’t making things easy and the man cursed as Osman lashed out with his hind legs and caught him a glancing blow on the hip. Someone hissed a command at him from the dark and he abandoned his attempt and limped towards the trees, concealing himself not above six feet from me.

  I crouched quite still, doubtful what to do. Now that Osman had reassured himself that the interloper had gone, he was settling down to chew the grass once more and everything was perfectly still. His activities had held the attention of the ambushers before, and the noise had covered my own careless approach. But now the case was altered. It was going to be difficult for me to withdraw without attracting attention. And in any case, I was reluctant to be afoot with the countryside full of mounted pursuers.

  But I had to act. Taking a deep, slow breath, I began to retreat an inch at a time. Now fully alert, I sensed the presence of many men, perhaps a dozen, in the grove, and I prayed that I did not back into one of them. I didn’t, but what I did back into was a thick briar whose thorns penetrated my leather riding pants with contemptuous ease. I moved forward again. The thorns clung. I kept going very gently, reaching my hand round to pluck the clinging branch free. But it sprang away before I could touch it and the whole bush seemed to shake in warning of my presence. Everywhere I heard the sound of flintlocks being cocked. To lie still or to run for it, that was the question.

  Then suddenly from the house came an outburst of shouting, clearly audible at this distance, followed by a single shot. It was, I hope, Lauder letting off his pistol to warn me that the house was being raided. All over the grove the waiting men shifted, someone whispered, another shushed him angrily, and I stood up, measured the distance to where the man kicked by Osman stood, then lept forward and clubbed him with my pistol butt.

  He sagged against me half-stunned.

  ‘There he is!’ I yelled. ‘Fantom’s here! Don’t let him escape.’

  And placing my boot against the man’s backside, I propelled him into the clearing. I fired first and heard my ball strike home. He shrieked and while the echoes of my shot still bounced among the trees, the whole grove was lit up by a constellation of musketry. The poor fellow in the open must have been torn apart, but others suffered too, for errant balls rattled among the trees and men shrieked in the darkness.

  Osman, unperturbed, continued to munch the herb. I ran swiftly to him, reckoning that all the ambushers’ shot must now be exhausted, mounted, and sent him plunging through the trees.

  I was wrong. A figure rose before me, a pistol exploded, I felt the ball clip my shoulder as I saw in the hectic glare of the burning powder D’Amblève’s face, convulsed with hatred. It made him look older, I thought, as I brought up my own pistol and pressed the trigger with the muzzle at his brow. That would have been the end of our quarrel had it been loaded. But of course I had emptied it into the poor devil who had just died to save me.

  So I rode him down instead and continued on my way.

  The pursuit took a little time to organize and in any case I had the advantage of having fresh horses waiting for me a few miles away. Balanced against this was the time I had to spend packing my gear, a task made the more irksome by my aching shoulder. Fortunately the flesh had not been pierced nor the bone broken but it was badly bruised and pained a great deal.

  Osman had been ridden hard so I gave him the lightest of burdens, piled most of my stuff on Laura, and rode Orfeo. Some cavalrymen will argue that it is demeaning for a battle horse to be made to carry loads, but I study to preserve a horse’s health, not its pride, and all my mounts are trained to be pack animals if the occasion demands. They don’t mind, except perhaps Orfeo who takes his turn with the others but snorts impatiently and lets me know he’s doing me a favour.

  Dawn was breaking at our backs as we set off but when we reached the crest of the hill in whose lee we had been sheltering, I knew that I must change my plans. Below in the valley it was still dark and for a mile in either direction I could see a moving line of torches burning holes in the drifting mist. D’Amblève had used his influence or his money to rouse half the army against me and I had no intention of trying to slip through that line with the sun coming up fast in the eastern sky. That way must lie my destiny after all. Mansfeld did not know it, but he had just signed on Carlo Fantom for the second time.

  1626–7

  Saxony — Silesia

  I pressed on apace for three or four days. A general pursuit was out of the question. Tilly would be reluctant to release even a small number of men to chase me, knowing that, once separate from the disciplin
e of the main army, they’d be more concerned with practising my so-called crime than punishing it. On the other hand he might permit his cousin to seek personal satisfaction for this slight to the family honour. With a bit of luck, Osman’s hoofs might have incapacitated the beautiful boy for a while, but luck is to be relied on only when all else fails. So I rode fast changing horses, direction, and identity at frequent intervals. I’m blessed with the gift of tongues and it was easy for me to leave an inn one morning as a Bavarian merchant and be transformed into a Silesian scholar when I sought shelter in the evening. No one could follow such a trail, I complimented myself, and as if to warn me against complacency Osman shed a shoe that day and I missed my road to Leipzig, ending up benighted in a boggy countryside on what promised to be a ball-crackingly cold autumn night. Fortunately I had a bit of luck as a pair of half naked fellows with clubs jumped out at me and the one I only shot through the shoulder told me of a religious house close by where I might find shelter for the night. He was a poor creature without even sense enough to think of stripping the rags off his fellow, and he was touchingly grateful when I suggested it. As I rode away I felt quite warm at the thought that I’d perhaps helped to save his life. Are we not enjoined in Holy Writ to return good for evil? With such thoughts in mind, you may imagine my disgust at the cold, suspicious welcome I received at the religious house. It was a convent and the Mother Superior later apologized fulsomely, explaining that the long war had left them very suspicious of all strangers. When I explained gently that we were not put on earth to suspect, but to trust, she nodded agreement, but I fear it was my status as a messenger from the Vatican on his way to serve a Bull on the Bishop of Crackow that impressed her, not my argument.

  I was somewhat worried lest the trumpets should sound for me that night but having acceded to the Mother Superior’s request that I should hear her flock’s confession, I rapidly came to the conclusion that I had better double bar the door of my cell, not to keep me in but to keep them out. I doled out penances with a will till the swishing of scourges became audible in the still night. I don’t know which were worse – the exotic fantasies of the older nuns or the nostalgic memories of the novices. A soldier’s life has something in common with these religious eremites’ – close confinement with your own sex, strict discipline, long periods of physical effort and sensuous deprivation – and I know what these can do to a soldier’s mind. But at least for him there’s the anticipation of relief, and his natural longings don’t fill him with a sense of sin.

  There was one young girl, the last I heard (they have their roles of precedence even in this) whose confession touched me deeply. She was but yet a postulant, of noble family, and it seemed a young friend of her family presently visiting the convent was pressing his attentions on her. At first I was delighted, thinking this young spark wished to woo her away from her marriage with Christ to a secular wedding. But as it became clear that his intentions were merely to take a soldier’s farewell of the lass, giving her something to remember through the long, cold years ahead, I became indignant. On the face of it, it was a simple act of charity. But I had heard the anguish with which the girl spoke.

  It occurred to me that in my assumed role of papal envoy, I might be able to save both these youngsters, she from a wasted life in a nunnery, he from his baser self. I do good deeds whenever I can, for I am careful to store up favours in heaven as well as on earth. It may seem a strange good deed to deprive God of a dedicated servant, but I had listened to these servants all night and reckoned there was more value in a happy wife giving thanks each Sunday for a worthy husband.

  ‘Child,’ I said. ‘Is this slip of Satan still on these holy premises?’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ she answered. ‘He is in the Stranger House.’

  ‘Go and fetch him here,’ I commanded. ‘Let none deny you. Say it is at my command.’

  Off she went and I came out of the confessional into the tiny chapel where it was situated. It was very cold and I warmed my hands on the candle at the altar till I heard footsteps approach. Then I knelt and spread my arms and kept very still.

  Behind me the footsteps entered, hesitated, went still. I kept them waiting for several minutes longer before I crossed myself and rose to my feet. With some difficulty, I lifted the heavy jewel-encrusted crucifix from the altar and, clutching it to my breast, I slowly turned.

  ‘My children,’ I said in a solemn, thrilling voice. It was a sublimely moving moment and Nature herself conspired to lend it the majesty of her touch by sending a shaft of moonlight through a narrow side window to flick my face as though with the finger of God. It was impossible for even the hardest heart to remain unmoved.

  But I had not reckoned on such a powerful effect as this !

  The girl flung back her head and screamed. It was a piercing howl which sent the echoes reeling around that tiny room with a force almost tangible.

  The youth by her side cried out in a voice almost as high-pitched and just as anguished.

  ‘Fantom!’

  And even before he advanced into the moonlight, I knew what I had done. This was D’Amblève, who, baffled in his pursuit of me, had visited this convent where his former love had sought retreat. I doubt if I’d have recognized the girl’s face even if the confessional grill had not concealed it, but clearly my features were imprinted on her mind for ever.

  The beautiful boy’s hand was plucking at where his sword would have been had he not (thank God) removed it out of piety. But piety was not going to deter him from attempting to throttle me bare handed.

  I retreated to give him an extra moment to turn back from his blasphemy. Then, as he still advanced, I hit him with the crucifix.

  He went down like a mined tower and I made for the girl. She did not try to run but fixed her eyes on me and carried on screaming. Suddenly in my mind’s eye I saw her once again seated by the fountain in that green garden with the roses, the pear and the nectarine trees, and for a moment the thought passed through my mind that war was a terrible thing which could turn that beauty into this ugliness.

  Then I had her in my arms, but before I could do anything to still those screams, the room was full of nuns and the last thing I wanted was for that girl to stop screaming and start talking.

  ‘Leave her,’ I commanded those nuns who seemed keen to offer their aid. Then to the Superior I continued. ‘The child is in a state of terror. You take but poor care of your charges here.’

  Taken aback, the Mother Superior could only ask, ‘But what has happened?’

  Recalling that she was the girl’s cousin and would probably know the full story, I pointed at the still unconscious D’Amblève and said, ‘The girl was praying at the altar after her confession when this piece of lechery came in and, thinking her alone as I had not yet issued from the confessional, he approached her with filthy and disgusting proposals. Which being rejected, he then attempted to take by force what he could not gain by consent. I came forth and remonstrated with him. So strong were his carnal appetites, that he would brook no interference, so he attacked me. But God is not mocked in His own house and I prevailed.’

  It was the best I could do in the circumstances. The revival of D’Amblève or the restoration of the girl must be imminent and when that happened I must be off. The beautiful boy would not travel absolutely alone and my masquerade as a papal envoy was in itself sufficient to have me lightly grilled.

  ‘There is much to be answered for here,’ I said sternly to the Mother Superior. ‘I shall come to your cell in thirty minutes to probe further into your management of this place. Let this felon be put in a fast place and the girl be given a sleeping potion and laid in the Infirmary. The rest meanwhile to their prayers.’

  So saying, I strode out of the chapel. If nothing else, I am expert at leaving places at speed and in less than ten minutes I was astride Laura with Orfeo and Osman close behind, riding through the gates of the convent. It wasn’t till I got outside that I realized I still had the crucifix. One of the
arms was a bit bent from contact with D’Amblève’s head, and a couple of gems had fallen from their setting but this didn’t bother me as it would be best to sell it piecemeal rather than run the risk of recognition.

  Now I abandoned all my former twists and tricks and concentrated on speed, following the line taken by the two armies deep into Silesia. It wasn’t a comfortable journey. The weather got worse and food and shelter became increasingly hard to find. But I kept up a steady progress and finally one dark, clammy evening I found myself approaching (or so my navigational calculations told me) the borders of Hungary.

  I was a little down in spirits that evening. For a couple of days I had had no one for company save ignorant peasants, surly and brutish, and I yearned for contact once more with the lively well-travelled world of the professional soldier. But it looked as if I was doomed to another night of reluctant hospitality and uncomfortable shelter. The farm I arrived at looked larger and more prosperous than the hovels I’d been sleeping in, but the brute who possessed it was of the same breed as before. He took my money readily enough, but merely grunted in reply to my efforts at conversation, while his sluttish wife served me a sludge of oatmeal probably rejected by his pigs, and his uncountable brood of children watched, rat-eyed, from the shadows.

  As always in such circumstances, I slept with my horses for our mutual protection. Left unguarded, they would certainly be stolen and I would certainly have my throat cut, so we guarded each other.

  But it was not from my host that the danger came.

  I have learned to sleep through the crowing of cocks and the awful hullabaloo with which the bird kingdom in general finds it necessary to greet the dawn. But when it is accompanied by the rattle of hoofs and the shouting of military orders, then I wake quickly enough.

  It was first light and when I rushed to the stable door and peered through one of the many cracks which had been pouring draughts of cold air over me all night, what I saw was a familiar but not altogether comforting sight. A force of about twenty mounted soldiers had descended on the farmhouse and the farmer’s family in states of dress ranging from total nudity to full cover were being pushed and pulled out into the cold morning air. With an efficiency born of long practice, small groups of men were rounding up animals and poultry and lugging fat sacks out of the granary. As I watched, two carts came lumbering into view in the distance.