The companies of mercenaries burst through the woods en masse, bloodied swords raised with a fierce war cry, pikes aimed at the French nobles’ hearts. The trapped knights, dressed in full armor, struggled to escape the mud sucking their horses down, the stark fear and knowledge of certain death fueling their efforts. The
Landsknechts
swarmed over them, pulling them from their horses and hacking up the finest flower of France as if they were so much meat. A force of harquebusiers joined the fight and began firing into the hoods and notches of the Frenchmen’s useless armor, which couldn’t defend against this indiscriminate instrument of war. They screamed and writhed, their injuries horrible, their attackers giving no mercy.
Günter had seen much in battle, but this carnage surprised even him. The French nobles were worth a king’s ransom, even more in political barter and trade. Their armor would bring a pretty price for even the meanest of
Landsknechts,
but the crazed warriors around him gave no heed to such matters, slashing and hacking with berserker fury.
The commander would make them all run the gauntlet for their shortsightedness when this day was done.
Günter could see the French king’s standard at a hundred paces before him. The royal
fleur-de-lis,
flecked with mud and blood, shone blue and gold in the pale sunlight filtering through the mist. The king fought fiercely, defending himself and his nobles against the attacking horde. Over the grunts and screams of dying men, Günter heard the king shout in French, “My God!
My God!
What is this?”
At the edge of the woods, Günter saw the Spanish commander Lannoy trying desperately to reach the French king, hacking through his own men to do so. “Stop, stop this at once! They must be taken alive, you sons of bitches! Stop!”
Günter’s attention became diverted by a bearded man in red and black armor, tall, wielding a sword against the
Landsknechts
clinging to his harness as he tried to protect the king’s flank.
“Get back, you filthy bastards,” the nobleman shouted. “He is your better. You will not touch him!”
Günter recognized the man’s voice even as his horse went down beneath him and he fell into the mud.
Robert!
His loyalties collided. The Frenchman had helped Alonsa return to him. If Günter did not aid him, he would die here, chopped to pieces by rabid
Landsknechts
too overcome by blood lust to abide by the rules of war where nobility was concerned. There would be no chance for quarter or ransom.
Günter hesitated only a moment, and fought his way to Robert’s side. He raised his blade, putting himself between his men and Robert. He shouted, “By order of the commander, these noblemen must live!”
The eyes of the nearest
Landsknecht
bulged with war lust. “He is mine! I will have his stinking hide!”
Günter raised his sword to flank the blade arcing its way toward Robert’s head. He and the soldier engaged in a brief but fierce brawl; the man soon joined the Frenchmen in the mud at Günter’s feet. Günter stood over Robert, who struggled to rise in his too-heavy armor, protecting him with his own body.
“By the commander’s order, he lives, or by my sword, you die!” Günter shouted to the rest of the men, the cold air searing his lungs. “Leave off!”
Lannoy had finally made his way into the midst of the clash, and, surrounded by his own guard, took up a stance around the king and the few French nobles left alive. “By my order, you stinking sons of whores! These men will not die this morn. We have use for them.”
The attacking
Landsknechts
cursed and spit but finally retreated, turning their murderous attentions elsewhere.
Lannoy, breathing hard from exertion, eyed Günter. “Are you one of von Frundsberg’s men?”
Günter nodded.
“Then you’d better fall in behind us. Grab your man there,” he indicated with a nod to Robert on the ground. “We will let you have him to ransom, since you went to such trouble to save his skin.”
Günter risked a glance at Robert, who sat with a bemused expression, hip deep in mud. “It seems we meet again.”
Günter extended his hand. “Yes, and I believe the debt is tilted back in my favor once more.”
Robert grimaced when Günter heaved him up. “How rude of you to point that out. Besides, you are wrong. My aid in returning your wife to you surely counts for something.”
Günter smiled. “Yes. I suppose you will expect me to lower my ransom demands to your family now.”
Robert’s grin dimmed. “I will pay you myself if you return me to my mother alive, Günter. She would not survive another burial of a son this year.” Robert’s face grew solemn as he gazed at the bodies of the nobles surrounding him. “Dear God. They are all dead. Are there none left?”
The mist began to thicken again, and Günter realized Lannoy’s men had gotten too far ahead of them in their retreat from the battlefield.
“Follow me if you do not wish to be among them,” Günter instructed, and the two men hastened through the fog toward Lannoy’s men. The mist obscured them completely, and Günter realized with a sickening lurch they were lost.
They ran for several minutes, pausing to get their bearings only briefly. The sounds of clashing blades and booming cannon followed them but grew dimmer as they loped along. Günter headed toward a nearby cove of trees, thinking to climb up and note the landmarks around him, and turned to tell Robert.
“I’ll go up, try to discover where they are taking your king for safekeeping—”
He heard Robert’s shout of warning too late.
At the boom of a gun, a blow threw him back, and the world went black.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A
LONSA AND
I
NÉS CROUCHED BEHIND A MERCHANT’S
cart on a gentle rise near the parklands where the battle still raged. They were two of many huddling behind the relative safety of the carts pulled together in a circle for protection, awaiting the outcome of the clash. Alonsa clutched her blade; Inés gripped one of her frying pans. Depending on how the battle went, and because of the bad blood between the opposing
Fähnleins,
the baggage train of the loser was subject to sacking. They might be called upon to defend their belongings and themselves before the day was through.
“Can you see? Can you tell what is happening?” Alonsa squinted and craned her neck, lifting her head above the cart.
Inés grasped her hand, pulling her back down. “Have a care, Señora. You will make yourself a target. Günter would be very upset to survive this battle only to discover you had perished in it instead.”
“Sí,”
Alonsa nodded and crouched down lower, still straining to see. “You, as well. Fritz will surely return soon, and I would not like to tell him you became a spoil of today’s battle.”
Inés flashed a quick smile. “Let them try. The Devil himself could not keep me from my Fritz.”
Alonsa smiled at her fortitude, yet understood it well. Nothing but death would separate her from Günter again.
However, the fog made it impossible to tell the course of the battle from their vantage point. Occasional reports came in with a wounded soldier indicating the French and Swiss troops appeared to be losing the battle. Indeed, many of the Swiss mercenaries had already fled on foot, giving up their positions to the attacking Imperialist troops.
Alonsa could hear the boom of artillery and smell the acrid gunpowder as it drifted their way. They had been at a safe distance from the battle before dawn, but it was difficult to tell anymore. The screams of dying men, the clang of blades striking armor, and the thunder of hooves pounding across the open park seemed to be growing louder. Alonsa prayed continually, her hands clasped before her, that her husband would be among the men to survive this horrible day.
The ordnance master had informed her of Günter’s decision to lead the forlorn hope, and her own hope had arisen with the sun that he might live and come back to her. He was strong—stronger than his enemy; stronger than despair; stronger, yes, than even the curse.
He must come back to her.
Suddenly, cannon shot blasted into the side of one of the carts. Its occupants shouted and fled, and pandemonium ensued.
“They are attacking the train! Run!” yelled a cobbler, and he abandoned his cart.
Alonsa and Inés exchanged horrified glances, picked up their skirts, and started running. They had gone only a few paces when another explosion blew apart the very cart they had stood behind, knocking them to the ground.
Alonsa landed hard and lay stunned, unable to move, the wind thrust from her lungs. Her ears rang from the blow. She saw Inés struggling to rise beside her, her forehead cut and bleeding. She reached for Alonsa, her face filled with concern. Behind her, Alonsa saw two men, mercenaries dressed in black, their wild eyes rimmed in red, burst through the breach. The mercenaries swung their blades, stabbing indiscriminately into the fleeing bystanders, smashing the wares of the carts in their way. Incongruously, one stopped to steal items from an abandoned cart and then turned, breathing hard, his eyes locking onto Inés.
Alonsa tried to cry out, to warn her to run, but her throat would not work. All at once, the world seemed to spin out of control, too fast, and Alonsa raised a shaking hand, trying to pull Inés toward her. The mercenary, a Swiss, locked one arm around Inés’ waist and dragged her away with him. Inés’ mouth worked in a silent scream, and she kicked and clawed as the brute pulled her from Alonsa’s grasp.
Sound rushed in again, and Alonsa heard women screaming and saw them grab their children while Hell took shape before them. Enemy mercenaries poured through the breach in the train, most fleeing for their lives without a backward glance, but some stopped, filled with frustrated fury at having to retreat. They hacked and swung at anything in their path, racing through the camp ahead of the pursuing Imperialist troops.
Alonsa felt a surge of power flow through her, and she pushed to her knees, sighting her blade glinting on the ground only feet away. She crawled to it, grasping it just as another mercenary came towards her. When he leaned over to grab her, she swung her blade and stabbed him in the leg, hearing him scream in pain. Behind him, a market woman raised a cast iron pan and smashed it over his head. He dropped like a stone, and Alonsa withdrew her blade from his flesh.
“Inés!” Alonsa shouted to the other woman, motioning frantically over the sound of culverin fire and the women’s terrified screams. “They have Inés!”
The woman—Greta, she remembered—nodded her understanding. “I saw. That way!”
They raced toward where they had last seen Inés’ terrified face as she fought for her freedom then disappeared with her captor into the mist.
“Inés!” Alonsa cupped her hand to her mouth as she shouted, then to her ear, trying to distinguish the sounds of fright and pain around her, trying to determine if any belonged to her friend. “Inés!”
No answering shout came.
Other market women around them fought in clutches of two’s and three’s, swinging pans and axes and anything they could lay hold of at the fleeing mercenaries, while old merchants drew out their rusty blades and finished the job. Only minutes behind them, the Imperialist troops pushed through the breach in hot pursuit of the fleeing Swiss.
Before she knew it, the fierce battle for the baggage train was over. The men raced from the camp, leaving the groans of the injured and dying, and the cries of the women and children, behind them.
Smoke rose from the burning carts, choking and gagging Alonsa, who ran helpless and aimless, searching in frantic circles for her friend, her blade clutched useless in her hands. “Inés, for the love of God, answer!”
Nothing. Alonsa flung her blade to the ground and covered her face.
“No …
” she sobbed in desperation and in fear, and Greta’s arms went around her.
Her friend was gone, kidnapped by a man who had nothing to lose. Alonsa could only pray he killed her quickly, because she could not bear to think what Inés might endure at his hands if he chose to keep her alive.
“Señora!”
Alonsa heard the familiar male voice call to her, and she turned in search of its source. “Fritz! Oh,
Dios mío.”
How could she explain to him that his beloved had been taken?
Fritz leaped over a smoking plank of wood and raced up to her, his eyes full of concern.
“Señora,
are you well?” He touched her forehead, which throbbed with an ache only newly realized. “You are injured.” His blue gaze swept the baggage train, taking in the destruction all around him.
“What has happened here?” Then, more urgently, “Where is Inés?”
She grabbed his jerkin in her fists. “He took her—a man, one of the fleeing mercenaries. He took her! I don’t know where.”
Fritz blanched. “No! When? How—”
“There is no time, Fritz. We must gather a party of men to search for her. Every moment she is missing—” Alonsa bit her lower lip. She could not say it.
Fritz’s jaw firmed, and his gaze became like cold steel. “Which way did they go?”
Alonsa shook her head in denial. Fritz would be no match for an enraged mercenary fleeing for his life. “You must get help. Men, weapons. You cannot do this alone.”
“There
is
no one to help. There is a battle raging! No one will have time to search for her now. We cannot wait. Tell me which way she went, and I will find her and bring her back. I swear it on my father’s grave.”
Alonsa saw the determination in his gaze and wondered if he could do it. Nevertheless, there was no time to argue. Thinking quickly, she searched the ground nearby where the man she had felled still lay. She found his blade and, pulling it from his cold grasp, thrust it at Fritz. “Here. You will need a sword. I last saw them heading that way. Hurry!”
With a quick nod, he turned and raced in the direction she pointed, the willow pack around his waist bouncing on his hip, his blond hair flying in the wind. He disappeared into the mist like a ghost.