The Ravens’ Banquet (17 page)

As he fell back, I managed to unclip the lance from Kreb’s belt and take the standard. Like some mad acrobat, I juggled sword and lance and reins and pulled away with a sharp kick to my horse’s flanks. The beast shot forward and I raised the lance.

But who was there to see it? It was a flashing blur of riders and I could not tell who was pursuer and who was the chased. I rode straight on, took a cut to the head which, thank God, glanced off without knocking me senseless, and through and out the other side. Hazarding a glance behind me, I was amazed to see some dozen riders following me out of that maelstrom, and thank God all seemed to be from my regiment.

Even so, I know it was the moment of my undoing. The moment when Fortuna sent me down a darker and narrower path. I pounded across a stream and up the other bank and so too, the others followed. But I was leading us to the
south
and to the enemy. This I did not realise until too late. Nor could I stop, for more riders, Imperial troopers and Croats, were joining us in pursuit. The lead horsemen of the stragglers who followed my Cornet’s flag caught up and splashed across, wide-eyed with astonishment of our situation.

“We’re undone!” cried a trooper as he reined in. “We’ve got to make a run for it.”

I shook my head and tried to think of a course to safety. Others arrived and urged their mounts into the waist-deep black water of the stream. And behind them shots rang out.

“We must circle the field wide, re-cross the stream and get to the north,” I said to the three troopers closest to me.

Behind, Christoph appeared and splashed across.

“Don’t stop, you dolts! Fly! Fly!” he shouted, pounding past me.

I swore an oath and dug in my spurs, as did the others. We followed the course of the stream as it turned to the right and even further from the field of battle. Across the water I could see our pursuers, at least a full company of riders attempting to overtake us higher upstream. We were being driven ever southwards and towards the line of dark trees that began the slopes of the Harz mountains.

My arms began to shiver with exhaustion and fear as the fullness of our predicament became apparent. Still on the far side, the Croats whipped up their horses and began pulling far ahead. I watched them edge closer to the stream bank, waiting to leap across and into our path. We would not be able to outrun them now, I knew. I jerked the reins and rode hard right, straight for the line of trees that rose up in view. I could feel my mount tiring, beginning to slow in spite of my kicks. The trees seemed to grow no closer. Behind me, the others came, Christoph too.

Crossing the stream had slowed the enemy a bit, giving us a lead in our headlong flight. I reached the trees and turned my horse around. The others came in, their mounts lathered and twitching.

“Where to, now, Cornet?” pleaded a blood-stained trooper, barely holding himself up in the saddle. “How do we get back now?” He coughed and retched. “You’ve led us to our deaths!”

Christoph rode in and dismounted, leading his horse to the edge of the sloping forest.

“My horse is spent,” he called over to me, “Yours, too. We must fight here or else run on foot.”

The Croats hove into sight, but still a few hundred yards away. One rider was out in front of the others by a good distance. And the Croats were firing at him. This poor devil was without helm, and I could see him whipping his horse furiously, trying to reach us. He was one of our own, the last of us.

“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.

W
ILLIAM 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.”

W
E CLIMBED
. A
S
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.