His reach would be long, Otto thought, but he himself had inherited his father’s bull-like physique and he reckoned that, young though he was, he himself was perhaps the stronger. They were both shieldless but the Bretonnian was well armoured while Otto had only his brigandine. Otto smoothly raised his sword and took up his stance. He felt calmer now, on familiar ground. Just like the fencing hall, he thought to himself.
“A swordsman, eh?” Was there surprise in the thin features of the Bretonnian’s face, or even hesitancy? Then the knight seemed to compose himself and took up his own stance and immediately attacked. It was not the speed of the thrust that caught Otto off guard, but its clumsiness. He parried, almost, and, had he not been so startled, could have finished the fight there and then. The knight lunged again and this time Otto was ready. Smoothly parrying and riposting, driving the knight back so quickly that he tripped, falling backwards with a grunt.
“Rise, sir,” Otto said, stepping back graciously and preparing for another bout. The knight rose slowly, but when he bent to retrieve his sword he lifted it by the blade, not the hilt.
“I yield, von Eisenkopf. You have bested me.” The knight’s words were drowned out in a sudden crashing of pistol and arquebus fire. Otto looked up. Molders must have sent men from further down the track up and over the outcrop to the north of the path. Now the pistoliers were firing down on the squires who were attacking their few, hard-pressed comrades around the track. Otto could hear the captain’s voice booming, even through the gunfire. “The horses, shoot the horses! Don’t let them away, lads.”
The knight looked around too. “Yield, my brave men!” he ordered. “We are undone. Yield.”
The squires began dropping their weapons and, although somewhere further along the track there was still some shouting, the skirmish was over. Otto could see Molders standing on a boulder yelling, “Round them up, you sluggards! Get moving!” He was shaking a wheel lock in the air in his strange staccato manner, the brandishes seeming to underline his words.
The Bretonnian knight turned back to Otto and bowed, “Sir Guillame de Montvert. I am honoured to make your acquaintance.”
Otto smiled, somewhat surprised by the ease of his victory, “And I yours, Sir Guillame.” Here at last was proper courtesy. Even in defeat, even as his men were being rounded up by the ragged pistoliers, this man could observe the proper formalities. The young nobleman continued, “I should be delighted if you could dine with me tonight.”
The Bretonnian grinned. “I seem to find myself with time to spare,” he shrugged modestly. “I fear you find me inconvenienced, though. I regret my wardrobe is limited.”
“Fear not! Some arrangements will be made. Besides, my table is at present quite simple enough.”
At that moment Molders strode up. He moved with the typical briskness which had begun to irritate Otto so much. Molders was not a tall man and he seemed to Otto to compensate for his short stature with an exaggerated cockiness of movement, the jut of his chest only exceeded by the jaunt of his chin and bristling beard.
“You are our prisoner,” he addressed the knight sharply. Then turning to one of his men, “Take him and tie him like the rest.”
“Indeed not!” Otto protested, “This man is my prisoner and a knight of honour. He is to dine with me this evening.”
The captain gasped and stared. His pale blue eyes seemed to protrude from his face in an effort to out-reach the grizzled spade of a beard now thrust accusingly at Otto. The pistolier behind him snorted as he attempted to suppress a laugh. Molders, used only to being obeyed without question, stood silent, glaring in astonishment at the young man before him.
Otto dared continue, “Furthermore, I have found your conduct this day most reprehensible. We have brought dishonour on the good name of the Emperor and the reputation of his troops.” He looked at the trooper standing behind Molders. “You, man! Fetch my mount and obtain a horse for Sir Guillame, and be quick about it!”
The trooper, the wiry man who had saved Otto earlier in the skirmish, had been grinning in buck-toothed amusement but now his expression changed to one of discomfiture. He had lost his helm; now he pulled his somewhat greasy curls in perplexity as he glanced at Molders. The captain shrugged in rare indecision as Otto once more turned to him. “We will ride ahead, captain. See to the rest of the prisoners and follow as fast as you can.”
The confused pistolier had returned with Otto’s horse and another. “Sir Guillame? Please?” Otto gestured to the second horse, smoothly vaulted into his own saddle and, with an imperious gesture, hurled the battered arming cap off his head and into the scrub. He turned to address Molders once more. The captain’s face was the colour of pickled red cabbage. He was silently gesturing for Lutyens to mount and accompany Otto. Otto was about to protest but the captain looked up and his glare was so fierce that the young man held his tongue.
“Lutyens will see to your needs… young sir.” Molders’ voice was clipped even more than usual and barely audible. Without a further word he turned his back and began issuing orders to his men.
“Well, Sir Guillame, shall we ride?” Otto said brightly, amused by what he took as Molders’ pique at being reprimanded. “We must ride hard if we are to be back at the forward camp by dusk.” The Bretonnian nodded and they set off briskly, Lutyens following behind.
At first they conversed lightly, exchanging details of their family, discussing the moor country and its prospects for falconry. Otto felt wholly at ease with the older Bretonnian but, his heart high once more, he was aware of his duties. Behind the bright chat, his mind was working furiously. Otto was far too good mannered to question the knight regarding military matters, but as the conversation went on, his prisoner, seemingly disarmed by his own good cheer, let slip a few clues. These clues pointed to what Otto already suspected; that Sir Guillame and his squires were scouting the route for the main Bretonnian attack. It was the obvious route, really! The one Otto would have taken, were he in their opponent the Duke de Boncenne’s place. A far better route than the narrow, difficult southern pass or the long swing, deeper into the Empire to the north. A bold, direct approach across the moors and a sharp, honourable conflict to decide the issue.
“You are preoccupied, young sir.” Sir Guillame’s voice broke into Otto’s thoughts.
“Yes, yes, I am sorry. Please excuse my ill manners. It is no way to treat an honoured guest.”
“Perhaps you are missing a lady?” the Bretonnian asked smiling.
Otto blushed, “I have been training hard, Sir Guillame, and hope for a commission in the Reiksguard.”
The Bretonnian laughed. “Ah, you Imperials,” he chided mockingly, “You are much too serious. A man must strive for honour, yes, but he can love too! What is life without a little romance?” Sir Guillame went on, expanding the other aspects of what he regarded as the highlights of a knightly life.
Otto nodded and occasionally added a polite word but his mind was elsewhere once more. The mention of the Reiksguard had reminded him of the opportunities which lay before him. His father would be well pleased. He had tempered the baseless actions of the pistoliers with honour, captured an important prisoner with due decorum and was now gaining valuable information. He could see the conflict unfolding. The Bretonnians would advance and be brought to battle on the moors. Otto himself would fight bravely and the whole affair would end in a most satisfactory manner. He was still vaguely worried about how reliable the pistoliers really were, but he was confident that his father would act quickly on his suspicions. Yes, all would be well. For the time being he set his concerns aside and determined to enjoy the ride, the scenery and the Bretonnian’s company.
They arrived back at the forward camp just as the dusk was deepening into night. Otto swelled with pride as they passed the pickets and he was able to declare himself and report he was returning with an honoured prisoner, Sir Guillame de Montvert. They made their way through the camp, Otto riding with head held high. He felt almost proprietorial as
he looked around, eyes scanning the activity that was revealed only in fire-lit, flickering patches. Men huddled in their tent groups, cooking, polishing weapons, binding arrow fletchings. Troops engaged in the myriad small tasks necessary when preparing for battle. Otto’s spirits soared with the thrill of it all. How he had waited for this, to serve with honour his Emperor, land and family! His ears heard the camp sounds almost as music. The subdued voices with the occasional laugh or burst of song, the clink of a ladle against a cooking pot, the heavier ringing from a distant field forge, the noises from the tethered horses. Aye, horses. Horses, not knights’ chargers!
Otto’s good spirits promptly vanished and he was suddenly glad that they had arrived at sundown, so Sir Guillame could not see the rag-tag composition of his father’s advanced force. He winced as he thought of it and remembered his own shock at his first sight of the troops: scruffy woodsmen from Stirland, ruffianly-looking local light horse and a large contingent of mercenary hackbut men and pistoliers. He had protested to his father that their forces were inadequate. The memory of his father’s response still made the blood flush hot under his skin. His father, nobleman of the Empire and respected general, had actually stated that pistoliers were cheaper to field than knights and were a good deal more useful. Otto’s very ears burned as he remembered his father’s curt words, “This isn’t a crusade against Araby, Otto! It’s a border squabble, provoked by the greed of that adventurer, de Boncenne. He’s using the usual territory problems as an excuse to get his hands on the coal mines by Grunwasser. You don’t call out the Reiksguard to deal with bandits!”
Otto’s worries for his father returned in a rush. How could he think such of a duke, a pillar of Bretonnian chivalry? He was obviously ill, worn out by the stress of attempting to defend this difficult border with such paltry forces and, perhaps, was subtly misled by these unreliable mercenaries in which he seemed to place such faith. Again, Otto resolved not to let his father down. He, at least, was dependable and he had the information that was so badly needed. But first he had his chivalrous duties to attend to.
He guided Sir Guillame to his own tent where he found his youthful squire busy polishing the buckles of his charger’s harness. They shone in the firelight but the sight, far from pleasing Otto, only reminded him of how distasteful he found it to ride the rough-looking, if hardy, mount he had been given to accompany the pistoliers. Young Henryk rose immediately. Even in camp, his dapper form was immaculate in the red and white Eisenkopf colours. His face seemed to shine pristine in the firelight. “Welcome home, sir! I see you have a guest.”
Otto’s irritation showed in the brusqueness with which he ordered the squire to see to his distinguished prisoner. He ordered that the Bretonnian should have the use of his own tent, while his personal effects were to be transferred to the tent of his servant. He repented almost at once when he saw how courteous the good-natured Henryk was in addressing and attending to the Bretonnian and, to try and save the servant extra labour, looked for Lutyens to order him to see to the horses, but the mercenary was nowhere to be seen.
“Typical,” Otto muttered to himself. “Uncouth, uncultured and unreliable!” He gave further instructions to Henryk, excused himself to Sir Guillame and went to wash and change, before presenting himself to his father.
Inside the cramped tent of his servant, Otto cleaned and arranged himself as best he could in the flickering lamp light. It was somewhat awkward but he was smiling to himself as he stepped outside to gain the headroom necessary to attach his plumes to his hat. He imagined receiving his father’s congratulations on the capture of Sir Guillame. He pictured the Graf’s serious face, as his beloved son explained the ill-dealings of the pistoliers and his suspicions of them. He saw in his mind’s eye his father’s pride and relief that he had such a son to count on. Still smiling, he checked briefly that his prisoner was comfortable, then made his way to his father’s quarters.
The Graf’s tent was in the very centre of the camp. It was large but made of plain leather, as tough and unpretentious as the man within.
Otto straightened himself as he saw his father’s standard hanging above the door, bloodied by the light of the great braziers in front of the tent, and his heart filled with pride as the two halberdiers on guard smartly saluted him and stepped aside to let him pass.
Immediately within was a large chamber, well lit with lanterns and furnished with a variety of folding wooden stools and tables. Otto smiled as Gunther, his father’s veteran aide-de-camp, greeted him. It was hard to tell the scars from the lines of age on the old man’s face but he still had a sprightly step as he moved to salute Otto.
“Greetings, sir,” the old soldier said warmly. “You have captured an honourable prisoner, I believe.”
Otto found it hard not to grin like a schoolboy. “I have won some very little honour,” he replied. “I must report to my father.”
“The general is in conference,” Gunther told him. “With Herr Lutyens, one of your comrades in the affray.”
“Comrade?” Otto clicked his tongue, his good humour dispelled. What was that oaf doing plaguing his father? Concocting some tale to cover the mercenaries’ reprehensible behaviour, no doubt.
“Some warm wine, sir?” The aide was offering him a somewhat battered but gleaming pewter goblet, a gently steaming flask in his other hand.
“What?” Otto asked, preoccupied with what the dubious Lutyens might be telling his father. “Ach, yes, why not?” he said grimly. Lutyens could have his crow but Otto would see his father got the true story! He settled himself irritably on a stool by the tapestries that curtained off his father’s inner chamber and sipped at his wine. Gunther, ever the tactful servant, busied himself quietly at the far side of the chamber.
Otto could distinguish two voices on the far side of the tapestry—the deep drone of Lutyens and his father’s terse speech. Habitually polite, the young noble was about to move to another stool out of earshot, when he again wondered what tale Lutyens might be spinning. He had best listen, he thought to himself. His father was obviously worn down by his onerous duties as warden and was already placing too much reliance on these brigands. He had better learn as much as he could if he was to help his father. Still sipping his wine, he surreptitiously leant a little closer to the tapestry.
“So they put up little fight?” the Graf was asking.
“Little enough, sir. They seemed of scant quality.”
Otto nearly choked on his wine. Scant quality! Who was this rustic to judge a knight of Bretonnia?
“And where is Captain Molders?”
“He is following with the main body, sir.”
“I expected a prompt report from him, Lutyens. Not advanced warning from you.”
“Young Master Eisenkopf was in haste to bring back the Bretonnian knight, sir.”
Otto coloured as he heard his father snort, “Not that much haste, it seems! He hasn’t reported yet! Your opinion, Lutyens: what of this Bretonnian party?”
“I’m not sure, sir, but they didn’t seem up to much to me and Captain Molders reckoned they were odd too, sir. I believe he thought them some kind of ruse.”
Otto stood up rapidly. His father was listening to nonsense, or worse, treachery. Without waiting further, he brushed aside the hanging and strode into his father’s quarters. Lutyens sat nearer, his huge bulk balanced precariously on a camp stool. Facing him across a folding table sat Otto’s father, the Graf von Eisenkopf. The Graf was a powerful man but even he looked small compared to Lutyens. Perhaps it was this that seemed, to Otto’s eyes, to lend him a shrunken air. To his anxious son, the Graf’s broad, open face looked pale even in the warm lamp light. And was there more grey in that close cropped hair and beard?
“Father,” Otto began breathlessly, “I have additional information regarding the Bretonnians’ plans.”
Lutyens swung his ice-blue eyes towards him and his father looked up coolly, fixing Otto with the same stern gaze that had met his childhood misdemeanours.
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“It must be important information, indeed, for you to have forgotten your normal courtesy,” the Graf observed, calmly.
Otto coloured but began again. “This man…” He was about to berate the pistolier as a completely untrustworthy source of information but something in the gaze of his father made him change his mind. “This man may not have all the facts. He has not spoken with our noble prisoner, Sir Guillame de Montvert.”
“I do not doubt it,” the Graf agreed. “But he has made his report promptly, as a dutiful trooper should and I myself had hoped to speak with de Montvert, at least before too long.” His voice was soft but the rebuke was not lost on Otto. The young man knew better than to try to make excuses to his father, but inside he felt a burning sense of injustice. The general was still speaking, now to Lutyens. “Thank you, trooper, for your report. You are dismissed for the present.”
The big pistolier rose and bowed somewhat awkwardly. “Yes, sir.” He was usually slow of movement but Otto thought he detected reluctance in his measured step as he departed.
On pretence of straightening the curtain, Otto checked that Lutyens had indeed left. He turned and the Graf gestured to him. “Sit down, my son. Congratulations on the capture of the prisoner. But I am surprised you have not brought him to me.”
“I… I thought it good manners to allow a man of his rank to prepare himself properly before presenting himself.”
“You are thoughtful but we are not at court, my son. We are defending our land. It is more important for me to get information quickly.”
“Sorry, father.”
“No matter. Make your report.”
Much of the fire and anger had been chastened out of Otto. He related his views to his father a great deal more quietly than he had imagined when riding back. He described the ambush, mentioning his distaste for such skulking tactics and telling how he had sprung forth and challenged the Bretonnian knight. He considered voicing his suspicions about the loyalty of Captain Molders, but the grim set of his father’s jaw made him change his mind. He would keep his fears to himself for the present, and wait and see what actions were to be taken.
Tales of the Old World Page 9
