LITMIR.BIZ

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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.”

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