“He’ll never make it,” said the blood-stained trooper quietly.
I dismounted, and the others, confused and afraid, did likewise.
“Charge your pieces!” I ordered. My hands were shaking so much that I spilled a lot of my powder from the charge ere I tipped it down the muzzle of my carbine. I looked up to see the fleeing trooper’s horse stagger sideways then fall to its knees, either shot through or else fallen of a burst heart. The rider tumbled off, but, just as quickly rose again and ran, fumbling at his harness. He managed to cast off his breastplate and back even as he rushed towards us.
“Good Christ, It’s Balthazar,” said Christoph, his voice rising.
And it was. His long hair and full beard blew wildly as he struggled to gain the safety of the forest. A Croat was nearly upon him, leaning forward in the saddle, sword raised.
Christoph raised his carbine and took aim. I heard the trigger pull and the screech of the lock as it spun. The shot was good, even at this distance, and the ball struck the Croat’s horse, pulling it up short. Christoph dropped to his knee and hurriedly charged his piece anew.
Balthazar pounded onwards, staggering heavily. A second Croat closed the distance. Another of my troopers gave fire, only to miss the mark. The Croat was now only a few lengths away from Balthazar.
My arms shook so. I tried to steady my carbine over my horse’s neck and take aim at the Croat. He was now a breath away from Balthazar.
I squeezed the pull and heard the reassuring click and whirr of my lock. The charge fired and I stood up.
I had missed.
Balthazar was still loping forwards as best he could. I saw his left hand grasping the charm that hung round his neck. It came undone in his hand. His face was too far for me to see but I do believe he saw us – and knew who we were.
And then the Croat’s sword swung down as he pounded past and I saw Balthazar raise an arm to ward off the blow. The blade took him in the head, spilling his brains, and he fell forward upon the grass.
“Balthazar,” I said, a little above a whisper.
The others had already snatched at their mounts’ bridles and were trying to pull the horses into the trees. I hurriedly ripped the flag from its lance and shoved it deep into my boot top. Seizing my horse’s harness, I too, pulled him up into the trees. Christoph braced against a large beech for support and gave fire again. The Croat that had slain our comrade tumbled from his saddle, shot through the head.
The troopers, yelling at each other in their terror, tugged at the reins of their beasts, pulling them up the slope and through the underbrush and briar that tangled its way around the trees. The horses whinnied and began to buck.
We had not gone more than a few yards and we could already hear the Croats pounding up to the tree line.
“Quick! Take your arms and powder! Leave the horses!” I shouted.
Most, inspired by the wisdom that stark fear engenders, had already done so, scrambling up the slope as fast they could. I fumbled to withdraw my pistol from the saddlebow but managed to drag it out, thrusting it into my boot and cutting my leg. Then I followed. The climb became even steeper as we went upwards, and gloom enveloped us as we entered a stand of thick, dark pine. Most of the troopers had dropped their swords long back, still upon the field, though I had scabbarded mine. They pawed like dogs, climbing up the bank, dropping their pieces, or spilling cartridges in their efforts to flee up the slope. A helm rolled past me, tossed by a trooper above me who had no further use for armour, only for his legs. My slung carbine caught between two trees and jerked me backwards.
After a few moments, I could hear no sound below us. I beckoned for the others to halt their climb and to keep still. Christoph half slid, half crawled down the hillside, snatching at tree trunks to steady himself.
“Are they there?” I croaked as loudly as I dared.
Christoph disappeared below me. And I could hear nothing else but the rasping breath of the defeated men that stood or crouched around me in the weak sunbeams and dank shadows of the wood.
He reappeared in a few moments, muttering loudly as he pulled himself up the slope back to us.
“The bastards... whores’ sons!” he cursed as he clung to a pine trunk. “The goddamned Croats... They’re following us in!”
And I imagined a half-mad Croat officer with broken nose and shattered teeth, climbing up from below. And he would have my Cornet’s flag – and my head.
IX
Dark Earth and Ivy
August 1626
Tower Hill
Eleventh of July 1645
WILLIAM CAME TO see me again today, intent on discussing my disastrous situation. He told me that on the morrow I will be examined at the Great House on the Green. “Let us strategize what your intended words shall be,” he says to me.
“Do you remember Samuel Stone… of that family that farmed for us?” I asked my brother.
“Confound you, Richard!” he shot back, turning to me from the window grating. “Is it your intention to sit there like a bumpkin and prattle about days gone by? We have but little time to prepare your defence.”
“Surely you must remember him,” I continued. “You collected rents from them just as I did.”
William pinched the bridge of his nose. “I do recollect the family, yes. Why in God’s name do you mention this?”
“Did you know that father made assault upon Goodwife Stone… on several occasions, and had knowledge of her against her will?”
William stood silent for a moment, but when he finally spoke I knew I had not taken him by surprise. “I have not come to discuss our father’s conduct.”
“They all knew of her shame. Samuel and the cuckolded husband. Yet you and father let me go off to the wars with Samuel as my servant.”
William’s face was without emotion. “I knew of father’s baser nature. What does this matter now? They’re all are in their graves.”
“Ere he died, Samuel told me that our father held eviction over them like an executioner’s axe. That is what held their tongues. By God, Samuel did well to carry that shame for so long while waiting upon my beck and call. Did you know he tried to murder me?”
My brother now became more agitated. “What is that you serve to accomplish with this dissembling? Do you think that the Committee will suffer such diversions? What story will you tell them?”
“I know what I shall relate to the Committee,” I replied. “My own shame.”
WE CLIMBED. AS a frightened deer might hurl itself into the undergrowth to flee the hounds, so did we. Scratched and torn, the very forest clutching at us and holding us, we climbed. And the Croats followed.
Shafts of sunlight darted between the trees as we strove, and I became near as blind from the brightness and darkness that played in turn, confounding my vision. I could feel my last remaining strength running out of me. I unhooked my carbine from its swivel clasp and lay it upright against a tree, as if to retrieve it later. But I knew full well I was throwing it away for good. The sinews of my legs and arms shook as I crawled near upon all fours to escape.
So too, were the others slowing, I could tell from the sounds of their rasping breath all around me. I saw Christoph in front, his head hanging as he crouched. He was cursing himself. And when he finally halted his climb, so too did I. The other troopers looked to me for an order, for a plan of escape, but I had none to give. Surely, my face must have told them that I was as lost as they.
I turned to look from whence we had come and plumped down on my backside in the muck and moss. Rolling to one side, I pulled out my blade from the scabbard, laying it across my thighs. I could hear Christoph above me ramming a charge home down his carbine’s barrel.
Two soldiers half-crawled to my side, pleading to carry on our ascent. “I’ve lost my sword!” cried one, “We cannot fight, not here!”
“You have to lead us out, Cornet!” said the other, his eyes wide and welling with tears.
I could not bring myself to look at him
.
“I can climb no longer. I’ll rest here. Maybe they’ve given up the chase,” I replied. A soldier a few yards away swore loudly and unbuckled his armour. It fell and crashed into the brambles below him and he turned and started his climb again.
Even as the Croats appeared below us, darting from tree to tree, I sat on my arse and watched them like a lost child. Behind me, I heard Christoph’s lock winding, that rhythmic clicking as the spring wound tight. A soothing sound.
The language of the Croats is not harsh as is the German tongue. In the half-shadow, they had not yet spied us, and I could hear them speaking one to another. They hauled themselves upwards toward where we lay. I counted them, maybe ten that I could clearly see, with yet more behind. We were but eight now. Eight men without courage or arms.
A Croat shouted. He had spotted us. His comrades picked up his cry and redoubled their pace, now only yards away. I watched as one levelled his musket at me and gave fire. In an instant, a crack stung my ear and by my head a piece of tree flew apart. Behind me, I heard the report of Christoph’s carbine, and the Croat pitched forward, shot in the chest. I remember that I was praying at that moment, praying that my little rest was respite enough to fortify my arms and legs. I stood up and prepared to meet the first of them.
He rushed up at me, a cry on his lips. I dug my boot heel in; one foot wedged against a tree trunk, and swung a wicked blow down on him as he charged me. His sword met mine with a dull clatter and then I kicked him in the cods to try to roll him back down again. He lost his footing but a moment, then came at me again. His blade thrust at me twice, but I twisted behind the tree trunk to shield myself. And then, a second Croat was upon me from the other side. I turned again to face the new threat. Even as I did, I saw a carbine stock fly into the face of the first Croat, bringing forth a scream of pain. I parried the second Croat’s attack and thrust at my opponent, a jet-haired, murderous Bedlamite who toothlessly laughed as he fought.
And then an almighty blow from an unseen foe smote me full on the helm, spinning it round and nearly snapping my neck. I reeled and felt my legs disappear beneath me. The trees spun in front of my eyes and I was falling. The helm came off as I hit the soft earth, and I lay on my back, head pointing down the hill. My breastplate rode up and struck my chin and the bitter taste of my own blood filled my mouth. An arm reached down and jerked me up by the stock that I wore knotted around my neck and I raised my arm weakly to stop the blow that I knew must fall. It seemed that a giant was holding me fast in his grip, rising up above me ten feet tall. The strange language filled my ears, the Croats calling one to another.
Slowly, the giant released my scarf, and I sank back down on my back. I watched him bow gracefully to one side and crumple to the carpet of pine needles at our feet. Propped up on an elbow, blood coursing down my forehead and nose, I saw another Croat near me scream and clutch at the shaft of an arrow buried in his shoulder. He nearly tripped over my legs as he grasped at a tree, tearing its mossy coat away. Yet a moment later he arched up in agony, a second bolt through his back.
I could not hold myself up any longer and fell back again. I was near in a full swoon but somehow righted myself and pulled up my knees to my belly. Then, I dragged myself forward, trying to get as far away from this fight as I could. My ears began to ring, ring such that all the cries of the soldiers died away. Dark earth filled my clawing hands as I strove to crawl, a wounded worm seeking the cover of the earth. My eyes beheld close up the rotted vegetation, the rough gnarled trunks of the ancient trees.
And then I spied a small creature not a foot from my face: a mottled brown toad. He was joined by another of his brethren, and then another, until I was surrounded by toads. The memory of my old dream, cast in a fevered brain months ago, came to me in that moment. The dream of the beast that lay in the cavern, the monstrous toad that spat out silver at my feet, that spoke to me in a tongue I knew not. The toads stared at me. And then the shadow of another figure fell across my prone body. I cocked my bloody head to look on who it was that stood over me. In my uncertain gaze, I glimpsed roughshod feet and the skirt of a woman. And in her arms – for surely a woman it was – she cradled not a babe but a hunter’s crossbow. I felt myself falling again and then I knew no more.
WHEN I AWOKE, I was for a moment convinced of my own death. I lay in my grave, the close darkness around me giving way far above to faint light, light showing its way through the unpacked earth above me. Yet, as I drew more to consciousness, I saw that it was the roof of a bower that lay over me, weak sunlight peeking through the cracks. The strong but not unpleasant smell of the poultice that lay across my brow had brought me back to the earthly plane. My head ached as though with drink. I remembered then what had happened.
I brushed my arm along my chest as I lay there. To my shaking hand the touch was damp, of sodden cloth. My armour was gone but I was still in my bloody coat and doublet and my mud-stained breeches. The little pouch lay still upon my breast, secured by its leather necklace. My hand curled around it, the sound of the little twigs inside crackling in my grasp. The memory of Anya’s words came to me again.
“This charm will preserve you...”
I stripped the poultice from my brow and turning on my side, struggled to rise from the straw mat that I lay upon. The effort brought forth a violent retching and I fell back and held my head. I tried again though, after a bit, and my stomach complained a little less. Wobbling, I managed to get to my feet and stumbled out of the hovel and into the light of day. My eyes were yet not focused upon the scene before me but I could spy a group of people ahead and the rising plume of a cooking fire. I was in a clearing, still surrounded by forest, and around me were scattered half a dozen huts rough-fashioned of sapling trunks and topped with roofs of branches and moss.
Those around the fire saw me and a few came forward to greet me. I recognised my soldiers and Christoph was among them too. All were a ragged band of scarecrows, clothing fouled by weather, by earth, by sweat, and by blood. And it struck me full then, that I was looking on the defeated and broken remains of what had once been a whole company of harquebusiers.
One fellow helped me limp over to a tree stump that served as a stool. I lowered myself down and touched my scalp to feel a great bump raised on my crown. A peasant woman, hard-favoured and wizened, stirred something in the great black cook pot that lay on the flames, the tongues of which began to warm me where I sat. She glanced at me but said nothing and kept to her cooking. Other women I now spied, arms laden with faggots, walking through the clearing. They wore sad, rough spun clothing of brown skirts and leather bodices. And the woman who laboured over the stew pot wore a shirt of the coarsest linen, stained and torn.
A soldier, one who I knew was named Hartmann, proffered a cup of water to me. I clasped it, brought it to my lips, and drank it down in one. I counted five of my comrades, not including myself, and managed to spy five peasants, none of whom had taken any notice of my arrival.
“What time of day is it?” I asked.
It was Christoph who replied in his usual flat voice.
“It’s past the midday. After you were brained, you lay that day and all the last night as dead as drunk.”
“The Croats?” I asked.
“All slain. Or run off. But not by the likes of us. These womenfolk here did the business and never a thing like it have I seen afore. Not in many a season of campaigning. By Christ’s blood, these womenfolk shot them down with hunting bow like pigs in a thicket.”
“I remember now,” I said, the smell of the pot making me of a sudden very hungry. “I saw two Croats shot as I lay on the ground and I spied a woman with a crossbow just before I passed out.”
“Aye. But more than one. I think they were about six of them, all armed with bows. We lost two to the Croats as the fray started. I saw you take down your man but you were set on by two other devils. The one who charged me I took down with a shot, and then I brained one of yours with the carbine. Then the bolts were flying ab
out the wood and I thought we were being attacked from behind by more Imperials. But it was these strange creatures.” The last words were accompanied by a mistrustful look as he twisted his neck to survey the peasants that surrounded us.
I rubbed my aching eyes. “Why did they not slay us as well?”
Christoph shook his head.
“I don’t know why. After you fell, and the Croats were dispatched, they stood and stared at us for a time. One of the women spoke telling us to come away with them lest more soldiers discover us. I was about to leg it down the hill but these other cow-brained fools followed straight away like so many stray dogs.”
“You shit-mouthed liar!” shouted one of the soldiers, rushing forward to grasp at Christoph.
Christoph gripped his arm and sent him sprawling with a kick.
“Hold!” I cried out, leaping up to halt the two. My head throbbed anew and I nearly fell to my knees.
Christoph grunted and the soldier slowly got up and backed away.
“Well… aye,” grumbled Christoph, looking at the others. “There was nothing else for it, was there? We discovered you were still alive and carried you to this place.”
“How many are they?” I asked.
“Twenty,” said Hartmann.
“Bollocks,” muttered Christoph. “I’ve counted twenty and seven, all told.”
“The menfolk, where are they?” I asked.
Christoph smiled one of his ill-natured smiles while the others shook their heads.
“There be none that we’ve seen,” said Christoph. “Now that ain’t natural. There’s something amiss here, that I swear to you.”
The woman who was tending the cooking pot called over to us, speaking words I little understood.
“She’s offering us food,” said Hartmann. “They all speak like Saxons up here, talking out of their arses.”
“Tell me, Englishman, what are they doing up here?” said Christoph as he walked to the fire again.
We devoured the coney stew and in truth would have leapt at a crust so famished were we all. No one spoke as we fed our bellies but I thought on what had befallen us. I saw again in my mind’s eye poor Balthazar struck down, the Croat’s blade swinging in a flashing arc. And what of Andreas, Jacob, Tollhagen, and all the others? Had they fared any better than he?
The Ravens’ Banquet Page 13
