The Witch Hunter Chronicles 1

by Stuart Daly

  ‘Assumed?’ I ask, leaning forward in my seat, looking at Dietrich askance. ‘What do you mean? Is there a chance that my father is still alive?’

  Dietrich shrugs uncertainly. ‘I don’t know. Nobody knows, in fact. He had been performing a rearguard action, commanding a troop of dragoons defending a bridge leading into the town. Although his troop had been overwhelmed by superior French numbers, he refused to abandon his position. The last I ever saw of him, he was standing in the middle of the bridge, bloodied and wounded, preparing to face a cavalry charge by the enemy’s advance vanguard. It was a suicidal last stand, and as none of the dragoons returned to a designated rendezvous point later that day, it was assumed that the entire company – including Tobias – had died on the bridge.’

  I study Dietrich’s face intently. ‘But you never actually saw my father fall, did you?’

  Dietrich shakes his head. ‘No. But I was consumed by a desire to discover what fate had befallen Tobias, and returned to the site of the skirmish the following day, before the dead had been buried. I could not find his body, however, and could only assume that he had been killed and fallen into the river. If he had survived, then surely he would have returned to his command, to the soldiers he considered his brothers-in-arms. But in the weeks that passed I learned that a handful of dragoons had survived the skirmish, only to be taken captive and transported deep into Dutch territory, where they were sent to rot in the rat-infested prisons of Rotterdam. These were being run by a former Dutch commander, who held a deep grudge against the Spanish and their German mercenary allies, having fought alongside the French for many years in the Low Countries, during which time the commander had lost an eye to a German musket. To be sent to these prisons was to suffer a fate worse than death.’

  My heart fills with hope. ‘So there is a possibility, albeit very slim, that my father is still alive – that he was not killed during the skirmish at Breda,’ I say.

  Dietrich gives me a glum look, as if to caution me that I should not get my hopes too high. ‘The fact that Tobias has not been seen since that day can only mean that, even if he did manage to survive the skirmish, he was taken captive.’

  ‘And so for the past twelve years he may have been shackled to some prison wall in Rotterdam.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Dietrich says. ‘But from what I’ve heard, you are lucky if you can survive a month or two in Rotterdam’s infamous gaols, let alone twelve years.’

  But I hardly hear Dietrich’s last few words. Looking through the window, I picture my father, scarred from years of fighting in the Spanish Netherlands, lying manacled in some gaol. And I know that I will not rest until I can discover the truth of what happened to my father on the bridge at Breda. I may have joined the Hexenjäger, and I intend to remain with this order for as long as I have the strength in my arms to wield a blade. But I make a solemn pledge that I will discover the truth of what happened at Breda, even if it means venturing into the Low Countries and breaking into the dankest, darkest gaols of Rotterdam.

  At length, Dietrich and I resume our discussion, and for the next three hours I listen intently to all that he tells me concerning my father. The sun is setting by the time we finish. Through the window in Dietrich’s quarters I notice that heavy shadows have lengthened across the courtyard, and the windows on the opposite side of the castle are illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight.

  I’m amazed at how quickly the time has passed. But I have learned things this afternoon that had remained hidden for over a decade. Dietrich has blown the dust off the mystery concerning my father’s identity and life. For the first time in my life, I feel complete. My father is no longer a hazy figure, an elusive ghost, for he has now taken solid form – been given flesh and blood by Dietrich’s information.

  ‘I cannot thank you enough for what you have told me,’ I say, extending a hand in gratitude. ‘And I’m sorry to have taken so much of your time. I didn’t realise it was so late.’

  ‘Please, do not apologise,’ Dietrich says. ‘It was nice to wander down the misty trails of the past, reminiscing about the times I shared with Tobias. Should you ever wish to talk of your father again, I will be more than willing to sit down with you.’

  Having thanked Dietrich again, I leave his quarters. I make my way over to the mess hall, eager for some dinner, my mind distant, pondering over all that I have just learned. It’s only when I am halfway across the central courtyard I remember that Armand had invited me to his quarters for dinner to celebrate my forthcoming induction as a witch hunter.

  I climb a flight of stairs that leads to the eastern wing of the fortress. A dozen or so doors span off this corridor, each giving access to a witch hunter’s private quarters, and I stop outside the door leading into Armand’s room. Hearing voices from within, I knock before entering, to find that Armand, von Frankenthal, Lieutenant Blodklutt, Robert and – much to my surprise – Sabina, my friend from the kitchen, have gathered in the room.

  Armand greets me and ushers me into his quarters. ‘What kept you so long? I was beginning to wonder if you had forgotten about our little celebration.’

  ‘I almost did,’ I confess, noting that some trays of food and a casket of claret are positioned atop a desk in a corner of the room, the walls of which are adorned with Armand’s private collection of over a dozen swords. ‘I lost track of time talking with Dietrich.’

  ‘I hope it all went well?’ Robert asks.

  ‘I’ve learned a lot about my father,’ I say, nodding. ‘But yes, it all went well.’

  I am about to inform my friends that there is a slim possibility that my father might still be alive, albeit locked in the gaols of Rotterdam, when Armand pats me on the shoulder and asks the other Hexenjäger to draw their blades in my honour. As Sabina withdraws to a corner of the room, a proud smile on her lips, the witch hunters draw their swords, form a circle, and cross their blades in a symbolic union of brotherhood.

  ‘To Jakob,’ Armand says. ‘Deo duce, ferro comitante.’

  ‘To Jakob!’ the witch hunters say, then repeat the creed of the Hexenjäger.

  ‘Congratulations, Jakob,’ Armand says as he sheathes his blade, his eyes beaming with pride, almost as if I were his younger brother. ‘It won’t be long and you will soon be wearing the crimson tabard and cape of a fully fledged Hexenjäger. Your efforts in Schloss Kriegsberg have not gone unrewarded.’

  I look down in modesty. ‘A lot of it was luck.’

  Lieutenant Blodklutt considers me with his impassive steel-grey eyes. ‘I know. And you should not forget that,’ he says, making my eyes snap back up, surprised by the brusqueness of his comment. ‘Don’t forget that it takes years to learn the art of slaying Satan’s servants. Do not let this appointment give you a false sense of confidence. You still have much to learn.’

  Shaking her head, Sabina comes over, hooks an arm under mine in a protective manner, and shoots the Lieutenant a reprimanding look. ‘You all have much to learn, especially you, Blodklutt, particularly in the art of learning how to relax. And would it hurt to allow Jakob to have a few moments to bask in the glory of his upcoming induction ceremony?’ She then looks at me. ‘The poor Lieutenant doesn’t know that he’s allowed to come off duty. I’m sure Blodklutt sleeps with one eye open and with a hand on his rapier.’

  I look apologetically at Lieutenant Blodklutt, embarrassed that Sabina – a kitchen-hand, free from the formalities of rank that govern the relationships of the Hexenjäger – has placed me in this situation. Despite the reprimand, however, the Lieutenant cannot help but smile, and pats me on the shoulder in a rare token of affection. He then wanders around the room, inspecting Armand’s collection of swords.

  ‘You’re brave,’ von Frankenthal says, looking at Sabina.

  ‘I was merely speaking the truth,’ she says, somewhat defensively.

  Armand grins, observing the way in which Sabina has hooked her arm under mine. ‘Wild horses could not have kept her away from this private celebration,�
� he tells me, receiving a glare from Sabina. ‘When I went down to the kitchen to collect some food and drink for this evening, and she overheard that I was hosting a small celebration for you, she practically pinned me against the wall, wanting to know what it was all about.’

  ‘Oh, do be quiet,’ Sabina scolds and takes a step away from me, suddenly conscious of the way in which she had been holding my arm. ‘I did no such thing.’

  ‘Behave yourself, Armand,’ von Frankenthal says, suppressing a grin and trying to put on a stern expression. ‘Leave the girl alone. Besides, should not Sabina have been the first person to be invited? It is, when all is said and done, a celebration in honour of her significant other.’

  Sabina’s eyes go wide with embarrassment, and her foot lashes out, kicking the witch hunter in the shin. ‘Hold your tongue, you great oaf!’ she says, pointing a finger at von Frankenthal in warning. ‘Or my next kick won’t be directed at your shin. And don’t you dare say that Jakob is my suitor, for he is not.’

  ‘Leave her alone,’ I say, finding it impossible not to laugh at von Frankenthal as he rubs his shin in pain. ‘Or I will be forced to defend her, Revelation 6.8.’

  Hearing me call him that, von Frankenthal shoots Armand a reproachful look. The Frenchman holds up his hands in a defensive manner, and puts on a shocked expression so as to suggest that he had nothing to do with me learning the nickname.

  ‘I swear to God, I have no idea how he learned that,’ he says. ‘All I can think is that Jakob must have worked it out for himself. There is, after all, a striking similarity between you and the fourth rider of the Apocalypse.’

  I’m laughing so hard that I don’t even notice von Frankenthal cuff me playfully over the head.

  Observing all of this from a corner of the room, Lieutenant Blodklutt rolls his eyes. ‘I have a feeling this is going to be a long evening.’

  The Witch Hunter Chronicles is a mix of historical fact and the workings of my fertile imagination. Whilst I have taken care to ensure the world is authentic, I have certainly taken liberties with some of the events and military units presented in The Scourge of Jericho. No doubt there will be some readers who want to know more about the world of The Witch Hunter Chronicles, so I have included this section to provide more information on the novel’s setting, weaponry and military organisations. By no means is this intended to provide a complete history of the seventeenth century, but it will at least answer some of your questions, and hopefully whet your appetite, inspiring you to research more into what I consider to be the most fascinating period in history.

  HISTORICAL SETTING

  Seventeenth-century Germany was very different to the country we know today. The country, in fact, was not even known as ‘Germany’, but comprised several hundred independent states, principalities and cities, the borders of which were constantly changing. Referred to as the ‘German states’ or the ‘German-speaking lands’, these territories were part of the larger Holy Roman Empire. With its capital set in Vienna, and ruled by the Habsburg Holy Roman Emperor, this was a vast and cosmopolitan empire, stretching from Hungary in the east to the Netherlands in the west, and from the North Sea to parts of present-day Italy.

  During the period in which The Witch Hunter Chronicles takes place, the boundaries of the Holy Roman Empire had been established by the Treaty of Westphalia of 1648. This treaty, which effectively brought an end to the Thirty Years’ War, saw the Holy Roman Empire lose much territory and power. Of particular importance to The Witch Hunter Chronicles, this treaty saw the Netherlands gain independence from the Holy Roman Empire, resulting in the creation of the Dutch Republic. Jakob’s father was one of thousands of German soldiers who fought alongside the Spanish against the French in the Netherlands.

  ORDERS AND MILITARY UNITS

  The Hexenjäger: Is the German term for witch hunters, who were operating in every state of Germany during the seventeenth century. These members of the Catholic and Protestant Churches were responsible for sending thousands of innocent people to be burned alive at the stake. Much to many readers’ dismay, there was no specific unit called the ‘Hexenjäger’; this is purely a product of my imagination. Sadly, Burg Grimmheim and the members of the Order – yes, Jakob and Armand, too – were also given birth in the misty realm of my imagination.

  However, some witch hunters mentioned in the novel did exist. Johann Georg Fuchs von Dornheim, the Witch Bishop of Bamberg, was active in Franconia in the 1620s, sending hundreds of accused witches to their deaths. Many of his victims had been subjected to torture in his dreaded witch-prison – the Drudenhaus – the walls of which were covered with pages from the Bible. His son, the tattoo-covered Heinrich von Dornheim, is fictitious.

  The Witch Finder General Matthew Hopkins, likewise, existed. Arguably England’s most famous witch hunter, he was particularly active in East Anglia during the period of the English Civil War. The account of him hunting witches across the Yorkshire Dales is a product of my imagination.

  The Brotherhood of the Cross: This unit and its members are purely fictitious.

  The Grey Musketeers: The King’s Musketeers, immortalised by the works of Alexandre Dumas, were an elite unit of the King of France’s household guard. Regarded as one of France’s finest fighting forces, the musketeers were renowned for their martial prowess, having a reputation for acts of foolhardy valour.

  I’m sure some readers will be intrigued to know that Charles de Batz-Castelmore (better known as D’Artagnan) was a real-life commander of one of the musketeer companies. Although he hasn’t been written into The Scourge of Jericho, he is one of my favourite historical personalities and will most definitely appear in later books.

  The King’s Secret: This organisation actually existed, but in the eighteenth century. It was a unit of spies controlled by the King of France. Not even the French government knew of its existence.

  The Knights Templar: A military organisation of monks formed in Jerusalem during the period of the Crusades. What had started as a knightly order governed by strict vows of abject poverty, however, accrued immense wealth and developed into an extremely powerful political and military organisation. Philip the Fair, King of France, envious of the wealth and power of the Knights Templar, orchestrated their downfall and accused the order of devil worship. And so it was, in the early fourteenth century, that the Templars, branded as heretics, were tortured and burned to death in their thousands. Even the grand master of the Templars, Jacques de Molay, was burned alive, and in 1312 the order was dissolved.

  The political structure of the Hexenjäger is modelled on that of the Knights Templar.

  The Inquisition: An institution created by the Roman Catholic Church to eradicate all forms of heresy.

  Louis XIV’s Royal Palace Cavalry: This unit, as far as I know, is fictitious. Armand, a former Captain of this prestigious unit, is based on the cavalier swordsmen who sauntered into Paris searching for employment in the military organisations of the day. The most daring of these were often from Gascony, a region of France famous for its haughty, devil-may-care swordsmen. As an interesting note, Charles de Batz-Castelmore (D’Artagnan) was a Gascon.

  WEAPONS AND DUELS

  Swords: The primary weapon favoured by the Hexenjäger is a rapier. The use of these long-bladed duelling swords became less common by the late seventeenth century, as changes in fashion impeded their effective use. The German town of Solingen was famous for the quality of its blades.

  Jakob uses a Pappenheimer rapier, a type of blade named after Count Gottfried Heinrich Graf von Pappenheim, one of the most daring cavalry officers fighting on the side of the Catholic League during the Thirty Years’ War. Fierce and reckless in combat, he was shot in the lung at the Battle of Lutzen in 1632. Lying in the back of a wagon, choking on blood, he refused to die until he had confirmation that the commander of the enemy forces, the Swedish King, Gustavus Adolphus, the Lion of the North, had been killed.

  Sabres, such as those wielded by Armand, were commonly u
sed in the time of The Witch Hunter Chronicles. Heavier than rapiers, these robust, curved-blade broadswords were often used by cavalry, the combined impetus of the charging horse and swinging blade delivering a devastating blow.

  Firearms: Contrary to popular belief, rifles existed in the seventeenth century. There are reports of them being used by hunters and gamekeepers in the English Civil War, which predates The Witch Hunter Chronicles by some twenty years. These firearms had rifled barrels – meaning that they had a spiralling groove on the inside of the barrel – which gave the ball (bullets didn’t exist back in those days) far greater distance and accuracy.

  The pistols and carbines used by the Hexenjäger are equipped with a flintlock firing mechanism. This was much more effective than the contemporary matchlock pistols and carbines, which used a lit length of cord to ignite the powder pan, and for this reason tended to malfunction when it rained. A further advantage of the flintlock pistol was that it could be preloaded; the firing pin, or cock, could be pulled back into a half-locked position. This allows Jakob to have his pistols tucked into his belt, ready to blast at the first witch to rear its head.

  Grenades: Grenades existed back in the seventeenth century. They were essentially hollow cannonballs filled with gunpowder and ignited by a lit fuse. For dramatic effect, the damage dealt by the grenade used by Kurt von Wolfenbüttel has been exaggerated. The reference to the grenade being used at Hampstead Bridge is fictitious.

  Duels: I have taken some liberties here. The Witch Hunter Chronicles depicts Europe, in particular the French capital, as besieged by duellists who draw their swords at the slightest provocation, every street corner being host to some matter of honour that could only be satisfied through drawn steel. Whilst this had certainly been the case in the early seventeenth century, edicts passed by the French monarchs had outlawed duels in France long before the 1660s. It was more than likely that duels still occurred in the French capital, but not to the extent that I present.