LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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