Chapter 1
1618—Pilsen, Bohemia
The cavernous void of silence engulfed him. Jack was aware of movement everywhere around him, yet his ears registered nothing—as if he lay in a soundless vacuum. It was more of an irritation, like bumbling his way around a dark and unfamiliar room, than a distressing concern. Jack was an experienced officer and battle-hardened physician; as such, a sober nature that was immune to panic, and optimism owned his mind and soul like the marrow trapped within his bones. He believed his deafness was temporary and would pass. Raising his eyes to the dust that hung in the stillness like a translucent layer of fog, Jack was reminded of the frequent damp mists that cowled the country roads back home on wintry mornings—soothing, serene and just as starkly quiet as now. Through the gaping rift blown away from the crenellated battlement, he could make out cavalry soldiers cantering in orderly lines down in the distant southern valley. They were the enemy; he recognised their regimental colours despite the distortion of smoke-fogged air. Jack was distracted by a movement—visible but blurred by the dust—across the yard, inside the walls and watched with detached, mild curiosity as an old pikeman threw his pail of water to stifle flames stubbornly burning from a wooden cannon-wheel, the veteran’s pike cast temporarily aside on the cobblestones. Beyond him, a handful of musketeers fired randomly at targets hidden from view past the city walls, biting at their powder charges with blackened lips and reloading their guns in turn. He could tell from the recoil and spasmodic wisps of smoke—a scene saturated with commotion, yet eerie and cocooned in a powdery haze and confounding silence. Loath to move, Jack followed the line of ramparts further across to his left with his gaze. A soldier in a broad-brimmed hat stood taking aim from behind a merlon while his comrade—battle-dented morion strapped to his belt—struggled to push a siege-ladder away from the walls with his halberd. The deafened officer blinked, trying to clear the gritty dirt from his eyes, and realised that he had lost his hat. He felt naked without its protective shade. Damp strands of hair clung to his face like rivulets of wax running down a candle. He gazed methodically around him, taking in his immediate silent world and realised that he lay unceremoniously sprawled on a pile of rubble, head resting uncomfortably on a bent, upright musket. His neck was as taut as a bowstring and inflamed with pain. His sword was saddled on stone and half-hidden under a smoking wooden beam inches from his reach, and his pistol, still cocked, had been knocked from his hand. It lay where it had fallen, muzzle pointing safely down the temporarily abandoned parapet, its grip nestled across his forearm. He frowned as his memory tussled with what had happened. The first, distant, pockets of sound began to invade Jack’s consciousness as he started to stir. He felt as if stubborn wax was being cleansed from his ears, becoming aware of his pulse throbbing in the back of his head like a tedious pendulum. His thighs, buried under dusty planks, were sore. Jack kicked timorously, flinching with each dart of pain as he knocked some of the boards aside and sat up slowly. He leaned on his arms and surveyed the scene around him. A scowl modelled his face. He was covered with a canescent layer of dust and surrounded by litter. Broken masonry lay strewn about him like the remains of a village that had been shattered by a wild storm. The nearby pyramid of stacked cannon balls had miraculously escaped untouched, but Jack’s companion was not so fortunate. Jack’s cold smile evaporated as he recognised the fawn-gloved hand. The arm, motionless and only partially visible from above the elbow, protruded upright from under a pile of rocks and bricks like that of a puppeteer. The curled, lifeless fingers were parted, beckoning as if frozen by Medusa’s petrifying glare. “Goodbye, my friend,” Jack muttered, as much to himself as to his dead compatriot, slowly rising to his feet with a groan. Loose planks of timber slid off him. Brushing his curls from his eyes and wiping sweat and dust from his forehead, he looked around for his hat. He collecting his pistol and pulled his sword out from under the debris, struggling to wedge both into his broad belt. His head ached, and he grimaced as he loosened his left arm, pain stabbing at his shoulder, which he realised had been bruised from the fall. His elbow was throbbing misery. Tugging off his companion’s glove Jack removed his ring whilst miming a silent promise to return it to his friend’s wife in Hradec Králové when opportunity next allowed. A brief smile spread across his lips as he recalled the day of their wedding—all the joy that two young lovers could pray for bound by vows symbolised by polished bands that glinted fleetingly as he passed them to the groom. Jack dropped the golden band into his pocket and noticed his hat, dusty and crushed under a stone, yards away from where he had been thrown by the shell blast. He recalled all now—vividly. The full sounds of war struck him like rumbling echoes of thunder. Silent, chaotic activity was replaced by a frenzied, raging siege that inundated him as if swamped by a deluge. Protestant Bohemian regiments had advanced and struck the walled defences of Pilsen with a well-planned and remorseless ferocity. Inside the fortifications, the Catholic inhabitants were defending the city with equal resolve despite being significantly outnumbered by the rebels. Jack’s eyes momentarily glazed over like kitchen-window glass frosted by winter’s breath. His mind was not yet ready to accept the violence to which he had just awoken. He leaned against a massive timber post for support and allowed his mind to wander away from the chaos around him. He was once again a carefree boy of seven, assuming command of an army of noble cavalrymen and valiant musketeers scattered around the sand mound overlooking the fields that ran endlessly towards the distant unseen borders of the family’s estate. He was a fearless and seasoned commander, loved and respected by the motionless toy troops stationed about him. His father’s people, who tilled and worked in the surrounding rolling paddocks of wheat and rye, were the make-believe enemy. Safe in his puerile and perfect world, he slipped away into countless conflicts and endless hours of playful stratagems and bloodless campaigns. His silent and fiercely loyal men went where he dictated without question. The heavy, battle-scarred helmet belonging to Jack’s father covered the boy’s milky curls as he manoeuvred his troops into positions of the greatest advantage among the folds of sand in which he sat. He would adjust the helmet as it frequently slipped down over his striking blue eyes. He had never lost a single battle. He was invincible. He could not die. Nearby, oppressive musketry fire eventually shook Jack rudely and reluctantly away from his halcyon nostalgic reminiscence and dragged his mind back to brutal reality. His glassy eyes slowly focused on the scenes of war engulfing him. He smiled surreptitiously, mouthing the words he had often repeated as a young general in the sandpit: I cannot be beaten. Their first assault had come shortly after initial light. Repeated cannon shots ruthlessly battered the thick and obstinate walls, the gunners probing for weaknesses. Defending troops had been ordered to occupy the battlements, and a company was assigned to protect each of the three main gates, which had been immediately barred and heavily braced. The guns on the walls continued to return fire, but the main body of the enemy’s cavalry and infantry had been installed safely beyond range. The obdurate defenders were like granite, as dogged as Pilsen’s walls. Smoke wafted across the intervening countryside, carrying with it the smell of acrid gunpowder and sulphur. Eventually the cannon fusillade gave way to sporadic volleys of musket fire, the guns’ barrels cooling in the chilly autumn air as the attacking force advanced in preselected squares. Drummers sounded the beat, and pikemen, supported by musketeers, marched forward in lines with scaling ladders. There was clearly no point sending in a cavalry charge; the infantry units were given the responsibility of taking the city. It was now early afternoon on 20 September 1618. The attackers, beaten off repeatedly, had earlier withdrawn their main force to a safe distance to allow an initial sequence of gun bombardment to dampen the Imperialists’ spirit. Jack had been knocked senseless and his comrade crushed during the barrage. A cannon shot had clipped the roof of the corner tower on the south-eastern city wall, raining masonry and heavy timbers down around them. Jack had been taking aim at an enemy soldier on a ladder, but the exploding debris knocked the pistol from his hand and showered him with detritus, a tile hitting his shoulder and knocking him unconscious to the ground. The splintering of the disintegrating structure had temporarily deafened him. Dusting off his tunic and breeches, Jack made his way to a small group of defending musketeers intent on their fight from the battlements a short distance away. Their intermittent shooting, although deadly and accurate, had little effect in staunching the approaching enemy’s rush. Senior in rank to all of them, Jack barked at them to muster to his side. The musketeers were confused at first, but they bustled to congregate around him when he raised his rapier, holding it above his head like a rallying beacon, and repeated his intentions with a peremptory roar, his commands booming over the chaos. Checking his drawn pistol as he ran ahead, Jack led them to a section of the defences where the wall embrasure had been pounded partially away, leaving a yawning gap. He shunned complacency and always considered the impossible. This would be the perfect emplacement, he judged propitiously, to make an initial stand. Ordering the musketeers into two ranks of four, Jack directed them to reload. He pointed with his outstretched sword to a designated score of attackers advancing about thirty paces away from the base of the wall and commanded the front rank to aim and fire. Before the pungent smoke cleared away, he yelled for the front rank to move behind the second row and reload, the rear rank now taking the firing line with another effective volley at the oncoming group. Jack had no time for fear. As always, his fear quickly wore away into resolve. Although Jack’s throat was hoarse from shouting and dry from the choking smoke, his orders to fire resulted in the decimation of the advancing party. It was a simple, logical manoeuvre, yet devastatingly effective. He took aim himself at one point, firing his pistol and hitting the leading officer in the shoulder. Finally the demoralised group scattered like disorderly rabble, with only two enemy soldiers managing to escape unhurt, nursing three others with them. Yet there was more to be done. Ignoring the nagging ache in his head and buoyed by his group’s success, Jack directed his squad of eight to reload while assessing their next action and seeking the most effective striking position. Aware of sporadic enemy fire, the band took advantage of whatever cover was available. “What is your name, soldier?” Jack asked, shouting over the din at the man closest to him after studying the group. The old, craggy soldier adjusted his grey cap and turned his argentine eyes to face him. “Chauvin, sir. Corporal Alain Chauvin,” the man replied respectfully in French. “Well, Chauvin, take this fine crew of lads to where that broken wooden buttress spans the rampart,” Jack engaged the man’s attention with a pointing finger. “Scatter them into four tight pairs around that segment of wall, making sure that they remain concealed behind the merlons to maximise their cover. You may be aware that the enemy has muskets as well, and a few know how to shoot them,” he beamed with a broad, cheeky grin. “Have them fire at those who are closest and advancing towards the scaling ladders, and ensure that every shot finds its mark. I’ll go back down to the bailey and return with every available bandolier and shot pouch as soon as I can,” Jack continued, blaring above the furore and stared into the man’s face until Chauvin nodded confirmation. Still smiling, Jack added loud enough for the whole group to hear, “And Chauvin, as you’re in charge, don’t get yourself killed, or I’ll shoot you myself!” The corporal smiled back agreeably and warranted in an emphatic tone, “Yes sir. I’ll be here when you return.” “Then go!” shouted Jack, jerking his head involuntarily as a musket ball suddenly whistled within inches of his ear and struck the nearest tile above. The group members, bent to provide the smallest visible target, moved off in a single line to the nominated point with Chauvin encouraging them from the rear. Jack treaded gingerly to the nearest parapet staircase and glanced back at his little band before descending the rubble-strewn steps one at a time from the rampart to the yard below. As he looked up, he could see that the French musketeers had taken squatting positions behind the cover of the broken battlements and had begun firing carefully at menacing targets beyond the walls. He sheathed his sword while shoving his empty pistol into the back of his belt and moved methodically from one body to another with his baselard, slashing or pulling the leather bandoliers free and draping them over his shoulder. He also searched the dead for pouches containing lead shot, filling his pockets. He found an unfired musket and two pistols and pocketed a collapsible, leather telescope that he’d discovered from inside the tunic of a dead officer. His mouth was like parched sand, and his bladder pressured him although he’d emptied it minutes earlier. Calculating that he had been away long enough, Jack returned at a steady trot up the steps to his little band on the walls, the pain in his legs and shoulder now a distant memory. The group was firing progressively, although Chauvin pointed to one dead Frenchman, who had taken a lead ball in the eye, when Jack reached him. The now unrecognisable, charnel face—recently young and comely—gaped open-mouthed at nothing, fragments of bloodied brain splattered like a handprint on the bastion behind him. Jack nodded grimly in acknowledgement at the motionless soldier slumped against the stone embrasure and laid his retrieved treasure on the battlement pathway. There would be time for sentiment and reflection later tonight. “Distribute these amongst the men and move that last pair along this alure to the third crenel from the corner turret,” Jack said, pointing out the tall, stone structure to avoid ambiguity. Sweat stung his eyes. “Have them harass that advancing party over there.” Chauvin followed his gaze and confirmed with a nod, adding “aye sir,” as he moved off on his hands and knees to relay the order. Jack knelt on one knee as he surveyed the scene through drifts of smoke. Artillery balls whistled above them. The musketry group had now drawn the attention of the enemy, and with it, a more concentrated fire—a direct result of the musketeers’ diligent and effective shooting. They had clearly become a threat. Jack saw the slaughter that they had caused below and smiled broadly. Just beyond the outer curtain wall in front of their position, the Protestant gunners had set up a small number of artillery pieces. Jack peered cautiously from behind a stone bracing and scanned the line of cannons more definitively with the telescope he’d found. He could discern a gunner shielding his infant flame from the persistent wind that had arrived from the northwest as he touched the bowl of his pipe. Smoke wafted from the fired, recoiling gun many seconds before the rumble reached his ears. The ball dropped low on the wall, which the enemy gunner rectified with elevation adjustments. Further shots, however, were proving equally ineffective. Jack guessed that the calibre was inadequately light. Their cannons could splinter the merlons if they clipped the top of the battlements, but they barely grazed the main body of the wall. Their cannoneers would need to be particularly ardent with their accuracy if they were to significantly impact these robust defences. Reloading his pistol, Jack set it beside his knee, examining the field closer to the walls. He was impressed and proud of the efficiency with which Chauvin’s band had implemented his tactics. The enemy infantry’s nerve had evaporated, and eventually soldiers ceased to advance towards the deadly pocket of muskets. The main east gate, however, was now under full attack as the assailants shifted their focus there. Jack hurriedly prepared to follow Chauvin and pass on his next order. An enemy corporal had slowly crept to the right of their position and squatted at the base of a nearby ladder. Leaning on the body of a dead comrade, the soldier sat perfectly still, vigilant like an alerted stag, his eyes darting covertly along the battlements. The posture caught Jack’s attention; it was odd, unnatural—the body in an unlikely pose in an attempt to feign death. The corporal was within range, and Jack was a good free-hand shot. With a gelid smile, he mouthed the favoured question quietly to himself: Have you ever ridden beneath a Hunter’s Moon and kissed the prettiest maiden before the autumnal equinox? As a boy who initially struggled to manage the weight of a musket, or steady his outstretched hand while holding a pistol, his father had taught him to recite a short poem, hold his breath, aim and fire. This had been his first shooting lesson and he now knew from experience how the words sharpened his aim. His eyes centred in on the target in an unwavering, tunnelled focus. He snatched up and aimed his pistol, held his breath and fired. The trigger obeyed, and when the smoke cleared, the corporal lay dead, slumped on his right shoulder with blood pooling at his elbow and his foot twitching in lifeless spasms. The field below their fragment of wall was littered with many more corpses than before Jack’s systematic involvement with Chauvin’s small company of musketeers. “Fine shot, sir,” the old Frenchman praised loudly from a distance, with warm approval in his voice. He sealed those words with the open grin of a veteran who recognised the note of a true marksman as one special grain of sand on a windswept beach. “The sneaky, inimical bastard got too cocky, Chauvin,” Jack sneered, tilting his head as he yelled back over the din. “And it cost the idiot his life. They’re throwing considerable force against our main gate now and harrying the two gate towers. Their cavalry is sitting and waiting patiently on that distant hill, watching their infantrymen perform in this spectacle. They’ll cheer in unqualified support if our gate collapses.” Jack had moved up and knelt beside his corporal. He still had to shout to be heard. Somewhere in the distance, a trumpet sounded distress. Chauvin followed Jack’s gaze and solemnly nodded in agreement as they both stared in the direction of the horn. The musketeers continued firing but less frequently now as their target’s numbers thinned. “We need to move across to reinforce the gate’s defences. We’ll give them a long wait.” Jack’s grin was as infectious as a clown’s laughter at a circus. “I don’t know where your men learned their trade, but I haven’t seen such accurate shooting from French musketeers since the king was a boy.” Jack continued smiling appreciatively as he bathed the corporal’s grey eyes with approval. “Leave that last pair where you placed them with two additional bandoliers. They can continue to pick off the stragglers and any others who try to advance on this section of wall. They must continue to hold and consolidate this position—cover our flank.” He emphasised his point by separating his outstretched hands. “Tell them to join us in about half an hour, but remind them that it’s vital to make their powder count.” Searching through the shifting smoke, Jack looked around, re-appraising the scene, and added, “Gather the remainder and follow me.” After a brief pause, he asked, “Are you missing anyone?” He was momentarily confused, remembering that there had been eight in their group earlier. “Legard is dead,” Chauvin replied morosely, reminding Jack of the comrade shot earlier on the wall. Their eyes met briefly—Chauvin’s blunted with sadness and loss and Jack’s subdued, sharing sympathy for the corporal’s struggling sense of perdition. The musketeers made their way along the battlements towards the main gate, occasionally stopping to fire at easy enemy targets. Jack was a good shot with the pistol, but the group’s accuracy continued to astound him. One musketeer in particular took more difficult, longer-range shots and seldom missed. Jack simply nodded his head in amazement. They travelled slowly and hid sporadically behind cover, moving forward cautiously. Jack finally halted his little group about 50 paces from the main gate. They were breathing hard. Below, the Protestant troops had clustered their numbers in a swarm and fallen on the barbican like locusts. They were firing steadily up at the towers skirting the eastern entrance to the city. The scene was anarchy. Corpses, piled up to three bodies high in places, concealed the mammoth timbers of the lowered drawbridge. It was a quilt of limbs and lifeless torsos. Blood dripped into the moat below, where the number of floating human carcasses steadily grew as the dying fell from the embrasures above, staining the water in the fosse the colour of rust. If not for the breeze, the opaque and etiolated scene of misery would have been totally obscured in a thick fog of smoke. Splintered airborne debris rained on those below. The ground shook. The stench of blood wafted in eddies, mixed with the stink of scorched flesh and the malodorous reek of sewage, sweat and vomit. The smell of fear was unmistakable. The battle screamed in Jack’s ears. He wondered why they hadn’t brought their guns forward, recalled their men away to safe ground and bombarded the gate with their artillery. A concerted effort would have brought them a genuine opportunity to destroy the gate. A squandered chance, he mused. Nevertheless, this situation gave Jack’s marksmen the opportunity to advance on their attackers, and he ordered them to disperse once again into pairs and fire independent volleys. This time, he sent Chauvin to retrieve more ammunition from the dead whilst he took the two spare pistols and musket and fired at the advancing infantry men. As the span proved too great for the pistols, he reloaded and placed them to the side, concentrating his attention on the musket. It was close-range work for the firearm, and he just couldn’t miss. Although slow to reload, the harquebus proved to be accurate at this short distance as the enemy soldiers massed their numbers in a wide, confronting arc around the gate and missing one resulted in invariably hitting another. The musketeers’ presence assisted the other defending soldiers in stemming the attackers’ thrust, and when Chauvin returned with the additional scavenged ammunition, he helped distribute the bandoliers and lead shot to the others. In an attempt to minimise their mounting losses, the Protestants brought up two small-calibre leather cannons, which although light and manoeuvrable, were really only effective over a short distance. Although their gunners were out of musket range, both guns were soon destroyed when the defenders deployed their artillery, merging their fire on these targets. Before this, however, the eastern gate had been hit a number of times, producing two weakened gaps in the timbers that motivated the enemy to rush forward again. As they moved into musket range, the advancing infantrymen were steadily picked off from the walls. Shrieks of pain from wounded and dying men added to the cacophony of pistol shots and musket fire. The French pair that had remained behind eventually rejoined the group. They had exhausted their ammunition. Their heavy musket barrels were too hot to touch, so Jack sent them off in search of drinking water. Like the others, he had not eaten or drunk since morning, and fresh water would partially sustain them until nightfall. Chauvin had found two bags of grape shot, and they launched these simultaneously into the thickest enemy ranks, causing devastating carnage. Water was soon distributed to the men as they continued firing. It was now almost dark, and the defences, they guessed, would hold for another day. “What do you think will happen tonight, sir?” the Frenchman asked above the commotion as he fired his musket, grazing one soldier past the temple and striking the one behind him through the neck. “Tonight, it appears that we shall survive,” Jack replied with untethered optimism, ramming his rod into his musket as he and Chauvin took cover behind the battlements. “At no point in the day have the Protestants hit the city with sufficient, puissant artillery, and this ill-fated infantry attack of theirs is proving to be a minor massacre. Their men stand on open ground and continue falling like pheasants and ducks out of the sky. Death loves those brave infantry ranks. They must have a significant-sized force to squander lives this way or are building a second bridge to our portcullis with the carcasses of their dead. Their cavalry is of no use either in such a siege. They remain idle, useless unless the defenders mount their own assault. It’s possible that our defences are simply being put to the test. They may be counting our number and the strength of our guns. It’s impossible to scry. If they review and change their tactics, I doubt that we’ll be able to hold.” Jack turned, aimed and fired and then hid again to reload. His eyes were as sharp as a kestrel hawk. “Thank the Lord in heaven that it’s getting dark. I have five musket balls left,” he continued evenly after several moments. The odd enemy shot struck occasionally into the stone wall beside them, but they were well protected. “There are so many of them,” Jack added, his smile icy, “that their continued surge may eventually crush us by sheer numbers and firepower. Despite their losses, all they need is larger, well-placed cannons, and they’ll take the city in a matter of days.” His measured tone was grim, his frown cold. He was not ordinarily someone who allowed insecurity to contaminate his mind. “We’ll move away from here when it gets too dark to shoot.” Jack looked up to gauge the sky as it loured ominously. “How many shots have you left, Chauvin?” The Frenchman counted out 14 and passed half of them over, dropping them into Jack’s hand. “That’s all I have,” he coughed out a raspy reply. “These Protestants have little stomach for fighting after nightfall. I do not know who is leading Pilsen’s defence, but I expect the main regiment will stay to protect and repair this gate and brace the others overnight. I agree with you, sir, that with heavier guns, the city will ultimately fall. That only leaves the element of timing of a relief column, assuming there will be one,” he added, raising a quizzical eyebrow. They remained silent, firing until their ammunition ran out. Before complete darkness veiled the grim and bloody landscape, Jack ordered two from the group to replenish the powder and shot supply a final time. They all met at the well in the main square a short time later, and Jack led them to the steps outside the cathedral in the centre of the city, within which a large kitchen had been provisionally established to feed the defending soldiers. This place would be safe and far enough away from cannon shots and the odd sniper fire. They would all get some sleep. Chauvin formally introduced his men to Jack. They were the remnant musketeers from a French regiment that had become separated from the main force a week ago in Radčice. They were well-equipped, Jack noted, each carrying a musketeer’s sword, dagger and pistol as well as a woollen blanket. They wore excellent, above-the-knee leather boots and broad-brimmed felt hats, each one with a gaudy feather much like Jack’s and bore uniforms closely resembling those of King Louis XIII’s royal guards. The evening lapsed into tranquillity as darkness quelled the fighting, the moon having disappeared behind heavy, malevolent clouds. Other defenders, drained and smeared with powder and grime, had come to congregate at the church. Some of them sat smoking pipes while a few cleaned and polished their muskets. Others drank wine and talked quietly. Some lay asleep. Jack and Chauvin were relieved to have lost only one man today, especially as lengthy and tempestuous periods during the day had seen precarious, intense fighting. The group shambled wearily into the church, encouraged by an invitation from some of the locals to eat at the kitchen. Although tired, Jack waited patiently for Chauvin’s men to go ahead of him in a sign of respect to the seven fine, reliable, professional soldiers. As the corporal passed him and entered the church, the flinty veteran crossed himself out of habit and murmured, “The cathedral is always open to sinners and repenters alike.” Mounting the steps to follow the musketeers, Jack looked up at the dark, starless sky and turned around at the cathedral porch door to gaze back toward the myriad enemy campfires dotting the distant hills. They are indeed a large force, he appraised, suddenly feeling cold beneath his tunic. In retrospect, he could have chosen any number of different routes to travel to Prague to meet with his friend, but the small, local family breweries in Pilsen had established an excellent reputation, and he had never before been presented with such an opportunity to pass through this celebrated, ale-brewing city. Yet he could not have foreseen that this would happen. The besieging of Pilsen had caught many others unaware. With a pensive shrug, Jack turned and slowly stepped inside the cathedral.
Chapter 2 The Cathedral of St Bartholomew
Finding a couple of empty chairs by the fire in the large presbytery, Alain Chauvin and Jack settled comfortably a little way from the others. Chauvin studied Jack’s face with smiling eyes. “With all due respect, sir, you’re obviously of a higher rank than a mere corporal like me despite your youthful appearance,” he began coyly but in a tone tinged with open regard. “You took charge of my disparate band this afternoon like a natural leader, or perhaps like a non-commissioned officer? There is no mark of a rank displayed on your doublet. You carry that air of bravado.” Jack wore no uniform and, despite his grimy face and dusty clothes, looked younger than his 28 years. He was fashionably dressed in stylish breeches and a slashed tunic with paned sleeves, and his plumed, broad-brimmed hat was of the finest felt, typical of that worn by noblemen. His clothing was a lustrous, raven black in contrast to his sweeping plume, which was a stark white—the shade of Arctic snow—matching his whisk and sleeve cuffs. He was tall and slender, with attentive eyes that were intelligent and as blue as a tropical morning sky. His strong, regal nose and broad shoulders gave him the bearing of an aristocrat—handsome and elegant—and his long, masculine fingers were well-suited to gripping a blade. Curly, medium-length, sable hair hung in waves under his hat, and his face was clean-shaven aside from a long, flowing, straight moustache. Jack was active in his military duties as an officer, and the sun had turned his complexion the colour of honey. The gorget at his neck, a gift from his maternal grandfather, was stamped prominently with the family crest and on the reverse an inscription reading, Quae Quaere Sursum Sunt—Seek the Things That Are Above. He treasured his knee-high ebony boots with broad, turned-over tops made of the finest Spanish leather—a gift from his king—and his scarlet sash, a proud memento of his graduation from university. “For a foreigner, you speak French very well,” the corporal continued. “Your accent reminds me of the genteel culture of northern France and is certainly not provincial.” “Quite right. A foreigner, indeed, and a lieutenant by rank. You have a perceptive ear.” Jack toyed with the tip of his moustache. “I was born in Kraków, actually—the former capital of Poland—and educated in medicine at the local Uniwersytet Krakowski. My mentoring professor was German and taught me his language.” Albrecht was an erudite and saintly man, and Jack’s memory of his professor hung fondly in the deep reaches of his mind like incense wafting about the heads of worshippers. “I was also tutored in French and English as a child; my father emigrated from the Scottish highlands and spoke something akin to the King’s English.” Jack’s face brightened suddenly in a broad, spontaneous grin at the recreation of the heavy, guttural, mountain brogue in his head. “Our family believed that these skills would be most useful in later life.” Jack smiled back at the Frenchman, and reaching for his belt, withdrew his rapier from its leather scabbard. He began sharpening the blade in long smooth strokes from hilt to tip and back again with a small stone partially wrapped in an oiled cloth. Chauvin studied the sword’s complex, swept hilt. Jack glanced up and noted his interest. “It’s an Italian designed, three-ringed rapier. It belonged to my father. He wanted long, stout quillons, straight and exquisite, and a wire-bound handle to afford a firm grip. Although designed for his hand, it has partnered mine most agreeably.” Jack followed each part of the rapier with his finger as he spoke as if caressing a familiar lover. “The pommel is a practical size, and the knuckle-guards are simple but discerning. It’s a most graceful yet functional weapon. I wrap my forefinger over the front quillon for greater control and flexibility, and this is protected by the three rings. The forte of the blade is almost an inch wide at the hilt, and for a rapier of this length, it has excellent balance and supple manoeuvrability.” He proffered the weapon to Chauvin for closer inspection and asked, “Tell me about your group of men. They shoot their muskets extremely well, like well-trained snipers.” Chauvin picked up his mug and swallowed a mouthful of ale. Stubborn droplets of froth lined his upper lip. Still fondly examining the sword and turning it in his hands, he began speaking. “Armand Besson, Emile Garreau and Guillaume Maguiere are seasoned professionals whom I’ve known for over 30 years. We are all from the same region in the provinces and joined the army within a few weeks of each other.” Chauvin ran his thumb lightly down the front of the blade and tested the point with his fingertip. A log crackled in the fire, scattering sparks around their boots. “We’ve seen action in campaigns at Fontaine-Française, Ivry and the Château d’Arques. Learning to shoot efficiently and accurately became a simple matter of survival at Vimory in the harsh autumn of 1587. Some of us were only boys. We became veterans overnight.” “Tristan Paillard and Guy Vasseur were neighbours,” the Frenchman continued. “They’ve carried muskets since they could lift them and honed their skill shooting at running hares and foxes on the farm.” “Julien Roberge is a loner,” the old corporal nodded in the direction of a man lying alone on the floor some distance from the others, puffing pensively on an old briar pipe. “He likes to be on his own. Roberge is an excellent marksman—easily the best in the group. He was born with a harquebus in his hand. Unique. He can consistently kill a man at 80 paces. Always aims at the head.” Chauvin leaned back in his chair and scratched at his stomach. He gently laid the rapier across his knees. “And he reloads quickly before his target can move 12 steps.” His exaggeration to prove the point was obvious. “He prepares his own charges using a slightly heavier load of powder, and I’ve seen him polishing his musket balls, filing away surface imperfections.” Jack listened intently, totally absorbed by the picture the old soldier’s description was painting. “Deadly accurate, Roberge is a pleasure to watch in action—a steady and unhurried maestro. He prefers to shoot from higher ground, more often from a turret or bell-tower than a rampart or a street. I’ve watched him dispatch 22 enemy soldiers with as many consecutive shots. The count would have been higher, but he exhausted his powder supply. There are few who can match his marksmanship, and the ungifted question what I have witnessed. They all died instantly, bleeding red stains from the skull onto the snow. Apart from that, I know little about him. He is a private man who is difficult to get close to.” Both men sat pleasantly content, bathed in the delightful warmth of the fire, as Chauvin went on. “Today we lost Jean Legard on the wall. He’s in heaven now, still killing rebels with his musket. I did not see him die but found him lifeless against the wall. At least his death came instantly. I closed his mouth and covered what remained of his face.” “Hopefully his smoking musket had found its last target,” the Frenchman spat, momentary anger flaring in his eyes and replacing the dancing flames reflected there. “I have asked that he be buried with the other defenders. We shared our valedictory on the battlements.” Jack grasped his sword as Alain handed it back. He swallowed another thin slice of cheese as he returned the rapier to its scabbard. “And finally, we come to Michel Arbois,” the corporal continued in a hushed tone, his eyes hauntingly distant. “The youngest of my men—only a mere lad, really. He joined our regiment only three years ago after his young wife took her own life. She had apparently blamed herself for a miscarriage. It was to be their first.” He cleared his throat and sipped on his beer, wiping his mouth clean with the back of his hand. His downcast eyes studied the floor at his feet. “Michel would have been 22 last week. I had tried to pair him with Roberge, but Julien wasn’t happy. The lad’s presence bothered him. He claimed that it distracted his concentration. I wanted the boy to learn from a real master.” Chauvin rubbed the middle of his tanned brow, pausing briefly. “Vasseur and Paillard taught him to fence and fire his musket, and the lad had learned quickly. He was growing into an excellent soldier. Last month we were with the regiment in Klatovy, some 12 leagues south of Pilsen. Musket shots fired by some drunken idiots had startled a draught horse pulling the munitions cart. The horse reared and trampled Michel, crushing his head. We recognised him from his uniform and ring. Most of his face was missing. Now there are only seven of us.” The two men sat in companionable silence for some time. Jack studied the corporal unobtrusively by the light of the fire. Chauvin was sinewy and of medium height, an alert and agile man with greying, wavy hair—nearing 50. A good eye with a musket, he would probably flounce like a ferret when forced into a swordfight. A short scar ran over his right eye, bisecting his eyebrow. His argentine eyes could be as hard as the metal of his blade and a match to its shade. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing deep, dark blue veins that ran like rillets of wine down his arms. He had a habit of walking slightly stooped, belying his fulgurant reflexes. A grey Monmouth cap covered his head when it was wet or cool, and a crimson scarf was knotted loosely around his neck. He was a thoroughly experienced and shrewd military man—possibly one who had known no other life. Most importantly, Jack felt that he could confide implicitly in the corporal. Jack prodded at the fire with the toe of his boot, too relaxed to reach for the poker. Chauvin finally raised his cup and whispered hoarsely with a sleepy yawn, as if each word carried the weight of an anvil, “A votre santé, monsieur. I’m off to bed.” “Na zdrowie,” Jack replied ruefully as both men drained their mugs. After his friend had shuffled away, Jack leaned back in his chair and drew out each side of his luxuriant moustache between his index finger and thumb as was his habit after eating. His eyes rose towards the dark, lofty reaches of the rafters and the vaulted roof. A decent round of direct strikes from the enemy’s heavy guns would bring this sacred church down, he mused silently to himself. Thankfully the cathedral occupied the very heart of the city, which effectively placed it beyond their normal range. He scanned the coloured glass windows, admiring the beauty of their scenes. The grand windows easily stood four or five body lengths high, each a masterful example of the artisan’s talent. The glass tiles were a mosaic of beauty, telling a compelling story of God and his creatures. He was attracted by one, in particular, that depicted a pious-looking man with white hair and beard crossing a stream with a staff in hand and carrying an infant. There were serenity and conviction captured in the old man’s face, and a bird—a sparrow, perhaps—watched him from a nearby branch just above his shoulder. Jack imagined how brilliant the window would look with daylight shining through. A spark of recognition suddenly touched him. He realised that the figure was that of St Christopher, the protector of pilgrims and patron saint of travellers. Jack was impressed. He could have seen it as a beacon of hope and safety had he been a superstitious man. Yet he was religious, and the thought crossed his mind that he had conceivably discovered a protector that night in the tranquillity of the cathedral that contradicted its own presence in this battered and beleaguered city. The stately Roman Catholic Cathedral of Saint Bartholomew was one of many Gothic cathedrals that had burgeoned across Europe between the 13th and 16th centuries. Notre Dame de Paris was arguably the most famous example of such imposing architecture. A specific innovation of Gothic structures included the pointed arch, which originated in India and was adopted in European churches around the 11th century. Unlike classic round arches, which rested their entire weight on the columns that supported them, pointed arches did not require these pillars to carry the full load as they were self-supporting to a large degree. With the added introduction of exterior flying buttresses and rib-vaulted roofing used by medieval masons, fewer and more slender supports were used in the creation of capacious Gothic churches, allowing for more uncluttered space within the buildings. Jack had learned this during his university days and recognised the Cathedral of St. Bartholomew as a magnificent example of Gothic-style edifices. He did not know exactly when he fell asleep, but the noises of general movement in the room woke him the following morning. The fire had burned itself out, leaving a pile of black and grey powder. As people bustled quietly about, the group of musketeers settled to eat at one of the few remaining tables that had been placed in the nave. There was little interest in conversation as the cavaliers concentrated on their broth and bread. Garreau had scored another block of cheese, which he passed down the table to be shared equally amongst them. It added a new perspective to the otherwise uninspiring soup. “We won’t hold this place,” volunteered Maguiere, breaking the silence. Resignation was evident in his eyes. “Their inferior cannons lack the firepower to break down the walls, but the word is that they have sent for heavier artillery. When that arrives, they’ll pound the gates and eventually raze them like the walls of Jericho in a cloud of dust and splinters.” He swallowed audibly as a number of grunts endorsed his opinion. “If it hasn’t already, word must be sent to Emperor Matthias,” retorted Jack, “and with some urgency,” he added with conviction. “Additional outside support will preclude the city’s fall.” He received nods of silent agreement around the table. The men sat in pensive silence, contemplating the fate of the city. Chauvin cut two slivers of cheese and passed one to Jack, who swallowed it with a mouthful of water. Paillard lifted the jug, offering him the local brew. “No thank you, my friend. If it was wine, it would complement the cheese, but I have no taste for beer so early in the day,” Jack explained, smiling. “We’ll celebrate properly another time. For now, eating the broth will be our penance this morning.” The rural fortress of Pilsen and its outlying settlements lay at the confluence of four rivers, the northern Mže and the Radbuza in the south, which joined to become the Berounka beyond the northeastern corner, and finally the Úslava River that flowed from the southeast. Situated some 20 leagues southwest of the Bohemian capital of Prague, Pilsen thrived commercially. It was well-known by the surrounding districts for its superb local ale brewed from recipes originating back to the 15th century. Farmers would venture into the many taverns to sample and enjoy the fermented brews before returning to their farms after selling the produce they had brought to market. The surrounding hills were mostly covered with forest. The vast, heavily-wooded areas to the north of Pilsen lay in contrast to the romantic rural character of the immediate southern precinct. Fortified by a wall surrounding the large central cluster of buildings, a secondary defence, curtain wall had been erected along the southern and western sides. A chessboard of agricultural fields occupied the intervening space between these two walls. The Radbuza River was diverted into a moat to protect the city’s northern and eastern sides and provide the inhabitants with water for drinking as well as brewing the all-important golden beverage. St Bartholomew’s church had been constructed to be the sanctifying hub of the citizens’ lives and was Pilsen’s most imposing structure. The gallows and cemetery, in stark contrast, shared prominence in the main square surrounding the church. Entry into Pilsen was through two main gates, one on the eastern wall from a bridge over the moat and the other from the south. Both entries were designed for defence, and Pilsen was regarded by many as a place where stubborn, efficacious resistance could be established against a strong assailing host. A third smaller western gate, streaked with a patina of accumulated rust, could be adequately defended by fewer guards. Its approach was much like the pass at Thermopylae, making it less vulnerable to attack. The inconsequential fourth gate facing the Mže to the north was seldom used and almost inconspicuous from outside the walls. Barely wide enough to allow a mounted horseman to pass, its massive rusty hinges supported a heavy steel portal, studded and green with age. Some four months earlier, on the 23rd of May, an event occurred in Prague that ushered in the genesis of a terrible and bloody war that would last 30 years and devastate most of central Europe. Roman Catholic King-elect Ferdinand II and Habsburg Emperor Matthias imposed significant restrictions on Protestant parish ownership and finances, resulting in a slowly evolving situation wherein the continued existence of Protestantism was perceived to be under threat. In response, a band of Protestant burghers and nobles met at the Hradschin Royal Castle in Prague and threw two Catholic regents out of an upper window. Luckily both survived the fall. Jack, returning from France as an envoy sent by his king, Sigismund III Vasa, had inadvertently become embroiled in the situation at Pilsen on his way to meet one of those regents, his good university friend, Vilém Slavata of Chlum. As a result of the defenestration, Catholic nobles and clergy began fleeing Bohemia. Farmers and labourers, fearing for their lives, abandoned their isolated dwellings and fled for refuge into the cities. Unfortified villages and estates, together with many monasteries and abbeys, were evacuated, the fugitives converging on Pilsen. The swelling city remained loyal to the Emperor and was reportedly well-prepared to sustain a lengthy siege. The inhabitants believed that a victorious defence could be coordinated within its walls. Graf Ernst von Mansfeld had been appointed lieutenant general of the Bohemian Protestants army. The illegitimate son of the governor of the Spanish fortress in Luxembourg, he was brought up as a Catholic. Taken prisoner by the Dutch in a battle with Spain, he remained in captivity, awaiting the payment of a ransom. Receiving no offers to settle the requested sum, he gave his word that he would return to the Prince of Orange and rode to Brussels seeking the required amount. He returned empty-handed but honouring his word, he resubmitted himself to internment. This principled action earned him his release, and he joined the service of the Duke of Savoy as a mercenary and sided with the Protestants. An ambitious and mature 38-year-old when he arrived to lead the siege of Pilsen in September, Mansfeld found that his guns lacked sufficient calibre to breach the city’s walls. He disagreed with the inhabitants’ optimism and believed that the city could be broken—either its walls breached or its occupants starved into surrender. He rode to Prague himself and was reluctantly given two larger cannons in October to penetrate the city’s stubborn defences. Disinclined to advance and jeopardise his army of 20,000 men, he positioned his camp on high ground around the southeastern corner of the city’s outskirts, well past the range of the defenders’ guns. His army was steadily growing, with new volunteers arriving daily. Mansfeld decided that a siege should be instigated to starve the inhabitants of Pilsen. He would call on his large cannons later if necessary. He was a patient man. Receiving a nod from Jack, Chauvin looked down the table at his seated comrades. “Gather your weapons and load the muskets. Arnaud, you and Guillaume distribute the powder belts equally, and all of you move outside. Fill your water flasks and wait for us beside the fountain.” He looked at Jack for further orders while the group began moving out. Jack had slept well. He looked up from studying his dirty fingernails. My mother would scold me, he thought, smiling to himself. “Alain,” Jack waited for a brief moment. “A quiet, quick word if I may.” He traced a finger across an eyebrow as the pair sat alone. “In answer to your question last night, I am officially a lieutenant in the king’s guard but spend much of my time away from the Royal Palace in Warszawa with my family at home in Kraków. My primary role is to be available at any time to act as an envoy of the king. I am now returning home from such a duty.” Jack hesitated before continuing, his face unreadable. One hand rested next to his hat on the table, the other on his knee. Vacillating fingers tapped the table. He glanced at the honest, unshaven face staring back at him. He briefly reconsidered taking the wiry corporal he had so swiftly warmed to into his confidence, but the veteran’s grey eyes returned an unwavering sincerity that trumped his heartbeat of indecision. “My full name is Andrzej Hiacynt Channing. Rather an odd mixture, I know.” A mischievous smile spread slowly across Jack’s face. “Yet it all rather does make sense when I explain a little more about my family.” He looked the corporal directly in the eye. “You’re a good, honest soldier, Alain. Your men like you and more than that, they trust in you and never question your decisions. I respect you for that. You’re an old, salty, gritty bastard that gets the job done. No issues and without delay. And as none of us knows how things will go today, I wanted to share a little about myself with you. There may not be another evening together by the fire again tonight. That’s in God’s hands.” Chauvin bowed his head slightly, embarrassed by the praise, and picked at an imaginary splinter in his thumb. His face was sombre; he listened intently as his companion continued. “I am returning from a diplomatic mission in Paris and was on my way to meet an old friend in Prague when I got caught up in this. Like you, I guess, neither of us believed that Pilsen would fall under siege, trapping us here. We are in strange and troubled times. I feel increasingly uneasy. There is an atmosphere of chaos growing gloomily around us. More than that, I felt it in France, the Palatinate regions and especially here in Bohemia. Rumours of war—many believe it to be inevitable. The whole of Europe may be affected. People are worried, scared. There are provocation and mistrust between the Catholics and Protestants.” Jack scanned the vastness of the nave around them. Women were washing plates and bowls, sorting blankets, and hushing children. Most of the men had left to relieve guards on the walls. “I must meet with my dear friend, and the sooner, the better. He will be able to update me with intelligence that I need to relay to my king and his council.” The Frenchman stared back gravely, keenly listening to the officer. Jack summoned another cheeky smile, needing to lighten the topic. “My father fought in Poland as a Scottish mercenary paid to protect the king in the royal regiment. He was known as ‘Jock’ to his comrades, a common enough name in Scotland, I understand. Retired now, he stayed in Poland after meeting my mother. He was also an accomplished swordsman and eventually became the royal fencing master, teaching me—and others—many subtle skills and tricks with a sword. “I was named after my mother’s brother but was commonly called Jack, particularly as a child. And eventually it stuck, being a variation of John and, of course, my father’s name. My military colleagues referred to me as nothing else, but my university tutors preferred ‘Jacek’, the Polish version. I received my middle name when I was christened. My mother loves flowers, and the priest obliged. For obvious reasons I never use it.” Jack’s smile widened. “So now you know a little more about me. In fact, more than most, my friend,” he added jovially. The two men laughed aloud, attracting curious looks from some of the closer women. Chauvin relaxed, absorbing the trust shared in him. “I was fortunate, however, Alain, with the turn of events some years ago,” Jack continued evenly. “In the spring of 1612, the king’s trusted envoy was scheduled to meet with an ambassador from Brandenburg at an inn in Poznań, selected for being more or less equidistant between Warszawa and Berlin. The clandestine assignation had been arranged well in advance, and my father and a small group of cavalrymen travelled as an escort to protect the diplomat. “My father intervened in an attempt on the life of our ambassador, and although badly wounded, he saved the ambassador’s life. My father’s timely intercession was generously rewarded by the king, and in retirement, he received significant lands and estate plus a very comfortable and handsome pension. With my education and knowledge of languages, my name was forwarded to the palace as a suitable ambassadorial replacement. And here I am—a royal envoy in dusty and crumpled clothes. A shabby cavalier!” Jack leaned back with out-stretched arms and grinned like a jester. The pair laughed heartily again as they rose to gather their belongings. Jack buckled on his belt and inserted his pistol and dagger. Chauvin reached for his musket and cap. Their attention was abruptly drawn by the calling of an approaching figure, a portly man who revealed a bald pate as he pulled off his hat inside the church. He hurried to them with quick, small steps. “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” the man hastened, short of breath. “My lords, I understand from reports provided by my troops that you assisted in defending our walls yesterday. I believe that a handful of your men had made quite an effective impact against our enemy. Remarkable shooting, I’ve heard.” He stopped a few paces from the pair and looked, with mouth open, from one to the other. He had spoken in a local Slavic dialect, and Jack understood most of what he had said. He was unarmed and neatly dressed as a civilian. He did not possess the bearing of a military man. Of medium height, he was clean-shaven and carefully groomed. His small eyes blinked nervously, and his puffy cheeks moved like a bellows sucking in short breaths. He looked like an anxious butcher with an empty gambrel and no meat to sell. Jack guessed that he was a man of position due to the deference shown him by the townspeople in the nave. Reading their blank expressions, the visitor introduced himself and bowed contritely. “Hritek, Jaroslav Hritek. Burgomaster of Pilsen,” he announced formally, punctuating his words with a faint smile. “My apologies!” His ruddy cheeks glistened in the light streaking through the arched windows. Jack’s eyes danced over him. “I am honoured,” he responded and bowed slightly, with Chauvin imitating the gesture. The two waited for the burgomaster to continue. “Gentlemen, I was told that I would find you here and have come with the wish to express my gratitude, on behalf of the residents of this illustrious and fair city, for your brave actions. I fear, however, that your continued assistance may be required at, let us say, a more elevated level.” Pausing to give his words more effect, Mayor Hritek appeared to be constantly short of breath and shifted his hat fretfully between puffy fingers from one hand to the other. Jack began to translate, but Chauvin confirmed with a raised finger and a lazy nod that he understood most of what was being said. “I have just now left a meeting at my chambers in the Radnice with the captains of the guard. We have been in discussion for many hours this morning, and I have been informed that the majority of our defenders have been preferentially posted onto the three main gates leading into the city.” Hritek wheezed slightly as he spoke. “To date, artillery damage has only been slight, and we suspect that the enemy’s guns are underpowered against our walls. Repairs have been made during the night to one of the gates that sustained some minor abuse. There has been no major assault, and their inconsequential attempts have been successfully repulsed by our musketeers, and thankfully, your excellent marksmen. Gentlemen, perhaps we can sit down,” Hritek extended an arm to invite the two soldiers back to the table. “The Protestant forces, camped on the hillsides southeast of the walls, appear to totally outnumber us. Nevertheless, we have sturdy walls and sufficient food and munitions to hold adequately for five—perhaps six—weeks against a sustained siege, including a limitless supply of fresh water from the well,” he added as an afterthought. Hritek spoke quickly, again paused for breath and looked at each man in turn. His expression was grave, and he could barely shroud the fear in his eyes. His furrowed forehead glistened with beaded sweat. “We understand that Mansfeld is leading the Protestants and that their bombardment has ceased temporarily until heavier cannons arrive. Our guns are small and lack the distance to be effective at this time. We will wait, however, to hit back hard when they move in force, closer, against us.” The mayor’s mood lifted somewhat as he said this, adding, “We will wait for the Empire to send reinforcements. As Catholics, we stand together. Undoubtedly Emperor Matthias will be gathering troops to march to our aid. In the interim, we must remain strong,” he offered, his tone momentarily patriotic and vibrant. Jack looked steadily at Chauvin, expressionless. He then turned back to Hritek to respond. “Sir, we thank you for your most gracious praise. By way of introduction, this is Corporal Alain Chauvin,” Jack nodded towards his friend, “and I am Lieutenant Jack Channing. We remain at your service! We will help, of course, where we can. May I humbly suggest that we first find an appropriately high vantage point from which to accurately assess our current situation, and then we can reconvene to discuss the most appropriate ongoing defence strategy for your city?” He spoke in broken Slavic, adding Polish words where he had to. Echoing these sentiments, Chauvin added in a formal and diffident tone, “We are experienced campaigners, sir, and I am confident that we can add the odd tricky tactic or two to harass our hostile friends on the hill and stimulate further confidence amongst our defenders.” There was conviction in his voice as he made an effort to emulate Jack’s suggestion. The mayor hastened to agree, nodding his head repeatedly in rapid jerks and pleased to hear their supportive proposal. “You will have an excellent, unobstructed view spanning many leagues, gentlemen, from the spire of St Bartholomew’s. God has given us this cathedral, it seems, for more than one purpose. May I suggest that we assemble again, with my captains, here in this nave in approximately half an hour?” He dabbed at his brow with a wrinkled handkerchief. The two nodded in agreement and were led away by their nervous, corpulent guide to the staircase that would take them to the cathedral’s tower. “These stairs will lead you to the bell landing, from where you will have a clear outlook over the city and surrounding countryside. Forgive me for not accompanying you, but I am, of course, familiar with the environs and will go to gather my officers,” the mayor affirmed, still fidgeting with his now badly crumpled hat. Hritek was a man who had been born and reared in hot water. This reflected his rapid, sporadic speech and nervous disposition. The youngest of five boys, he had been raised in the shadow of his domineering brothers in the staunchly devout and comfortable croft that had belonged to his family for seven generations. Coming from a line of respected bakers, his grandfather recognised the lucrative potential in the brewing trade and abandoned his flour and ovens in favour of a cooperage that flourished on the back of the mushrooming local ale industry. While retaining the hamlet cottage, Hritek’s astute father managed the successful and thriving business with acute churlishness, moving his craftsmen and equipment into larger, newly-leased premises in Pilsen. Shrewd and parsimonious sagacity were the red platelets that coursed through his paternal forebears’ veins, augmented by a hint of avarice. Hritek’s blood contained this same inheritance. As the family gained civil recognition and provincial prominence, unlike his brothers, Hritek excelled in following his father’s mayoral footsteps. He subdued his agoraphobic demons with an ostensible show of judicious bluster, and the family business continued to prosper. The siege was simply another financial opportunity. “Half an hour, gentlemen?” the burgomaster repeated firmly with raised eyebrows as they mounted the stairs.