The Swedish Cavalier

by Leo Perutz

  “You aspire to fly like a falcon and have no feathers,” the thief said scornfully. “Your king will manage very well without you.”

  “Enough!” cried Tornefeld. “Do you take me for a rogue because my pockets are empty? I’m a Swede and a nobleman, and I must go to my king. I shall leave this very night.”

  He slapped his thigh as if his sword still hung there, then went to the window.

  “There’s a driving, whistling, snow-laden wind,” he said uneasily. “It’s a night to rival the jaws of hell.”

  “Yes,” said the thief, “even the wolves are confessing their sins tonight, yet you’re for the road. You’ll not get far, my friend–no farther than your tombstone.”

  “I shall travel by day in short stages,” said Tornefeld, “and sleep beside farmhouse stoves at night. A bowl of gruel and a mug of beer–the peasants will give me that much for charity’s sake. I shall leave tomorrow at daybreak.”

  “Alas, my friend,” the thief said with simulated regret, “you’ve yet to hear the worst. Those musketeers! I’d give anything to help you, but I fear you’re already on the threshold of eternity.”

  “The threshold of eternity? What musketeers? What are you saying?” Tornefeld’s voice had begun to shake and his forehead was beaded with sweat. “I implore you by the living God to tell me all you know.”

  “The imperial musketeers have condemned you, as a deserter, to forfeit life, limb, and honour.”

  “I know that,” said Tornefeld, passing a hand across his brow, “but they’re far away.”

  “No, my friend, they’re not,” lied the thief. “The imperial musketeers are billeted on the estate a company strong, and their captain . . . Jesus Christ!”

  He stared at the bench beside the stove. On it, not that either man had seen him enter, sat the miller in his red jerkin. He lolled there with his legs crossed, teeth bared and lips set in a crooked smile. Just then he began to sing in a discordant voice:

  Who rides at a trot

  ’twixt saucepan and pot

  yet stirs not an inch from the spot?

  Who dances a measure

  at Lucifer’s pleasure—

  “Enough of that, I’ve no wish to hear it!” Tornefeld shouted at the miller, his face convulsed. He turned again to the thief.

  “Is that the truth? You actually encountered the musketeers?”

  Tornefeld was beside himself with fear, the thief could clearly see, but he felt not a scrap of pity for him. His heart had turned to stone.

  “May I be hewn in pieces if what I say isn’t true,” he declared with a nervous, sidelong glance at the miller’s ghost. “I came as fast as I could to warn you. When the captain heard you were at the mill, he swore in my presence to see you hanged, and his corporals sat around the fire throwing dice for the privilege of marching you to the gallows.”

  Tornefeld cried out as if the noose were already about his neck, and drops of sweat trickled down his cheeks.

  “I must go,” he gasped. “They mustn’t find me here. Don’t abandon me, friend. Help me to escape–I’ll be grateful to you for the rest of my days.”

  The thief shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

  “The snow lies deep,” he said. “You’ll never outrun them. They’ll overtake you in the end.”

  He was still speaking when the miller broke into song once more, croaking the words like a raven and beating time with his hands:

  Who dances a measure

  at Lucifer’s pleasure?

  Who prances around

  to the sinister sound

  of Death playing the final gavotte?

  “Silence, sir, unless you mean to provoke me,” cried Tornefeld. “I won’t tolerate it, d’you hear?” Furiously, he reached for the hilt of his missing sword, but an instant later he was once more overcome with mortal fear. He called the thief his blood brother and dearest friend and implored him, with upraised hands, to help him cheat the gallows for God and His Passion’s sake.

  The thief pretended to deliberate.

  “Being as sorry for you as I am,” he said, “I’ve a mind to help you for the sake of brotherly love. You meant to join the Swedish army, but a nobleman on the road encounters many traps and pitfalls which a common man can more easily evade. Give me the arcanum you carry hidden beneath your coat and I’ll go to the Swedish army in your place.”

  “The arcanum?” Tornefeld exclaimed. “Never! I promised my father on his death-bed that I would deliver it into the king’s own hands.”

  “Do as I say or you’ll hang,” the thief said coolly. “A man can die for his king as well on the gallows as in the field. The musketeers will be here within the hour. You know yourself what the consequence will be.”

  Tornefeld buried his face in his hands and groaned.

  “Friend,” he said softly, “I’ll tell you the truth: my courage leaves much to be desired. I want to save my life–I’m devilish afraid of death and eternity. Here, take it.”

  He reached inside his coat and produced the arcanum, which proved to be a printed book. The thief took it from him with both hands and held it tight for fear he might take it back.

  “That bible belonged to Gustavus Adolphus–he had it beneath his corselet when he fell at Lützen,” said Tornefeld. “Its pages are stained with his royal blood. My father was given it by his father, who commanded the Blues in that battle. You must put it into the king’s own hands. I had hoped that it would bring me honour and advancement in the Swedish army. Perhaps it will be the making of your own good fortune.” He paused. “But what, friend, is to become of me?”

  The thief had already stowed the bible away beneath his coat.

  “Where I shall take you, no more harm can come to you,” he said. “I was promised employment in the bishop’s stamp-mill. By taking my place you’ll be safe from the musketeers, for the bishop exercises his own jurisdiction. You’ll remain in the bishop’s employ, serving him honestly, until the regiment’s case against you has been set aside and annulled.”

  “Serving him honestly–yes, indeed I will,” said Tornefeld, “and may God reward you here below and in heaven above.”

  “Is the bargain struck?” called the miller from his place beside the stove. “If so, you shall seal it with a glass or two of Strasbourg brandy wine.”

  He rose and placed a bottle and two glasses on the table, but Tornefeld shook his head.

  “I’m not in a festive mood,” he said in a subdued voice. “Ah, friend, how low I’ve fallen!”

  “Better low than aloft on the scaffold,” the thief told him. “Life is a precious but fragile possession. The wise man takes good care of it. Drink, friend! Drink to St John, and the Devil can do you no harm.”

  Tornefeld picked up his glass. “I drink,” he said stiffly, “to my king, the Lion of the North, and his future conquests. His garden boasts a flower called ‘the Crown Imperial.’ May it long and gloriously flourish. I drink, too, to the health of all brave Swedish soldiers, of whom I am one no longer.”

  He drained his glass and hurled it at the wall with such force that it shattered.

  The room had grown cold. The guttering candle-end on the table was on the point of going out. The miller rose and stretched.

  “It’s time,” he said. “Now you must come with me.”

  They walked to the door together. The wind had ceased to howl, the air was crisp and clear, and the dark woods were gilded with moonlight. Tornefeld peered out into the night, looking for musketeers on their way to arrest him, but there was no one to be seen, only snow-mantled hills and dales and ploughland and moorland and trees and bushes and rocks, and, in the far distance, the lights of a lone cottage.

  “Swear to me, friend,” he whispered to the thief, “that you’ll deliver the bible into my king’s own hands.”

  “I swear it in the sight of God, friend,” said the thief, with a sweeping gesture that embraced the night sky and everything beneath it. “I’ve always dealt honestly with you.” But to him
self he said, “The king is rich enough already–what need has he of such a sacred relic? I not only have the book, I have a use for it and mean to keep it. The Devil himself shan’t take it from me.”

  They took leave of one another at the crossroads.

  “My heartfelt thanks for your help, friend,” said Tornefeld. “Fidelity still exists in this world. Farewell, and, if things go well with you, think of me sometimes.”

  On the edge of the forest the miller gave a shrill whistle and three figures emerged from the trees–three fellows whose ferocious faces were scarred by fire. One of them laid a hairy hand on Tornefeld’s shoulder.

  “Who’s this young popinjay you’ve brought us?” he demanded of the miller, roaring with laughter. “What are we to feed him on, milk pudding?”

  “Remove your hand from my shoulder,” Tornefeld told him angrily. “I’m a nobleman, and unused to such treatment.”

  “Nobleman or no nobleman!” cried the second man, and they both set about Tornefeld with their cudgels.

  “Why beat me?” Tornefeld screamed in terror. “What harm have I done you?”

  “This is just to make you feel at home,” they told him, laughing, and proceeded to kick and thrash him through the forest to where flames licked the smelting-shed roofs and molten ore seethed in cauldrons.

  The third man had lingered beside the miller. He pointed to the thief, who, without a backward glance, was bounding across a moonlit expanse of snow.

  “He’s making off,” he said. “I’ve never in my life seen a man take such strides. Did he give you the slip?”

  The miller shook his head.

  “He’ll not escape me,” he said with a silent chuckle. “I’ll see him again. He says he means to join the Swedish army, but he’ll never get there. Love and gold lie in wait, for him at the roadside.”

  PART TWO

  The Desecrator

  WITH GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS’ bible under his coat, the thief made his way through forest and scrub, across rocks and moor-land, to where Black Ibitz and his men lay hidden in the so-called Fox’s Earth.

  He was not alarmed at the thought of having to steal past the dragoons on picket duty around their lair, for he had a thief’s knack of rendering himself unseen and unheard whenever danger threatened, and the fox and the marten could have learned the art of concealment from him. No, what preyed on his mind was that he had promised that fool, Tornefeld, to deliver his arcanum into the hands of the Swedish king. He had no intention of so doing: the precious book hidden beneath his coat must remain in his possession. Because his conscience pricked him, however, he began to upbraid Tornefeld as if the youth were still walking at his side.

  “Quiet, you dunderhead!” he growled angrily. “Why must you always open your mouth and wag your tongue? Catch flies with that beak of yours, but leave me in peace. I, join the Swedish army? If you’re looking for a fool, friend, help yourself–there are folk enough hereabouts who covet a cap and bells. I don’t give a fig for your king. If he wants the sacred relic, let him fetch it for himself–I’ll not wear out my shoes on his account. I value my shoes, having procured them with my own five fingers, and he’ll not present me with a new pair. Your king’s a thrifty man–they say he counts all his army’s picks and shovels for fear of losing a single one.”

  The thief paused to catch his breath, for the path led uphill. He readdressed himself to the absent Tornefeld as he walked on, but this time in a more conciliatory tone.

  “Don’t take it amiss, dear friend,” he said, “but you’ve a stubborn spirit, God knows. You wish to pack me off to the Swedish army? What awaits me there? Four kreuzers a day plus cold and hunger, kicks and blows, moil and toil, hardships and battles, insults and drudgery–a dog’s life, in other words. Well, I’ve enough pea-straw bread washed down with water soup–henceforth I mean to feast off brimming platters. My hour has struck, friend: I have the arcanum and I mean to keep it, no matter who tries to take it from me. What did you say? I swore on oath? I know nothing of that. Who heard me? Sir Nobody heard me, that’s who. Well, where are your wit-nesses? You have none? You dreamed it, friend, I know nothing of any oath. What did you call me? A blackguard and a faithless rogue? That’s enough, boy! I can see I shall have to crack your ribs before you’re satisfied. Not another word, or I’ll . . .”

  He stopped short and strained his ears in the darkness: a horse had snorted somewhere close at hand. The dragoons! Silently, he dropped to the ground and wormed his way through the undergrowth with infinite care, inch by inch. Tornefeld had ceased to occupy his thoughts: he banished him from his mind for ever.

  By daybreak he was in the Fox’s Earth. In a clearing he saw a charcoal-burner’s tumbledown hut and, standing guard outside the door with a musket in both hands, a man in a black Polish coat. A skinned hare hung from the doorpost. The two fires that burned in front of the hut cast a fitful glow over the frozen ground, and between them, sleeping wrapped in their cloaks, lay the bulk of Black Ibitz’s men, for the hut was small and could shelter only a few of them. Two members of the band, who were awake, had skewered gobbets of meat on their knives and were holding them over the flames. A broken-down old nag stood tethered to a branch, eating its fodder from a nosebag.

  For a while the thief lurked among the trees. One of the sleeping men stirred, called for brandy, and fell to cursing. The sentry on guard outside the hut propped his musket against the door and chafed his hands, which were numb with cold. The pair beside the fire had removed the gobbets of meat from their knives and were cramming them into their mouths.

  “Benedicite!” said the thief, emerging from the gloom. “Fall to, brothers. Enjoy your meal, but don’t burn your mouths!”

  They gaped at him. One of them sprang to his feet and gulped down the morsel in his throat, his eyes starting out of his head with alarm and exertion.

  “Who are you?” he asked at length. “Did our sentries let you pass? Who sent you, the dragoons? Is the storm about to break?”

  The man by the door, who had snatched up his musket, called out a belated, “Halt, who goes there?”

  “Dear friend,” said the thief, “I’m not from the dragoons. I heard of your plight and came to help you.”

  The man still seated beside the fire had been studying the thief’s face intently. Now he rose.

  “I know you,” he said. “You’re the Fowl-Filcher–you roam the countryside. What right have you to come here and talk so boldly?”

  “I know you too,” the thief replied. “You go by the name of Wryneck. We were once in Magdeburg Gaol together.”

  “I’m Wryneck, true enough, and this man here is Sainted Jonas. But now tell us: what ill wind brings you here?”

  “You’re up to your neck in trouble, so I came to help you,” the thief said. “When the Bloody Baron attacks, I’ll stand by you.”

  “You’ll stand by us?” Wryneck hooted with laughter. “You fool! You’re as out of luck as a fly in hot gruel. The Bloody Baron has a hundred dragoons and we’re but twenty strong, with one horse and five muskets. We’ll all be captured within the hour, God have mercy. How do you propose to help us?”

  The thief chuckled. “What miserable, cowardly rascals you are. Even if the Bloody Baron had as many dragoons as leaves in the forest, I wouldn’t fear him. He may have dragoons, but I have hussars. Where’s your captain?”

  The other robbers were awake by now and had got to their feet. They stood in a circle, staring with suspicion and bewilderment at the man who, armed only with a cudgel, was audacious enough to tackle the Bloody Baron and his dragoons.

  “You have hussars?” exclaimed Sainted Jonas. “Fellow, you lie fit to topple the Tower of Babel. You expect us to believe that? May a thunderbolt strike you all, you and your hussars! Where are they? Where do you keep them?”

  “Believe it or not as you please, it’s all one to me,” the thief rejoined. “They’re lying hidden in the forest, waiting for me to fetch them. Where’s Black Ibitz, your captain? I’m told he�
�s a true man, a match for the Devil himself. I’d like a word with him. He’ll not take fright at a whiff of powdersmoke.”

  “Black Ibitz is bedded down on straw in his hut,” Wryneck replied. “He has the spotted fever and keeps calling for a priest. He wants to die.”

  The hut was filled with acrid smoke from a pan of smouldering pitch and juniper wood. Black Ibitz lay in the straw, breathing stertorously and tossing to and fro. Although he wore a sheepskin coat and red slippers like the king of hearts in a pack of cards, his black beard and bold, cruel cast of feature lent him a fearsome appearance even now, on the point of death.

  A red-haired girl was crouching beside him in her shift, dabbing his forehead with melted snow and vinegar. Also in the hut were the surgeon and another of the band, a renegade friar named Feuerbaum. Having vainly searched for the dying man’s gold in every nook and cranny, even to the extent of rummaging in the straw on which he lay, they were now urging him to confess and repent of his sins in the hope that he would, in his delirium, reveal where his thalers were hidden. So intent were they on their work that they failed to see the thief enter.

  “Captain, Captain,” lamented the surgeon, “you’re done for. Death has already opened its jaws to devour you. You must go before God’s throne and holy judgement seat.”

  “Your many grievous sins have aroused God’s wrath,” said Feuerbaum, raising his hands and smiting his breast like a priest intoning the Confiteor. “Receive Christ into your heart, my son, that the door of grace be opened unto you.”

  But nothing they said had any effect. Ibitz was so deaf to their entreaties that they might as well have blown on cold embers. The girl took a spoon and tried to coax a little muscatel between the dying man’s lips. Feuerbaum launched into another homily.

  “Praise the Lord that dwells in Zion,” he said. “Will no pious word escape your lips? What use is your money to you now, Captain? You must leave it behind on earth and depart with only your sins for baggage.”

  At that moment, either because of the wine he’d swallowed, or because he’d heard money mentioned, Black Ibitz briefly recovered consciousness. He opened his eyes and groped for the girl, calling her his ewe-lamb and dearest sweetheart. Then his eyes sought the surgeon’s face.