Tales of the Old World (12 page)

The knight looked around too. “Yield, my brave men!” he ordered. “We are
undone. Yield.”

The squires began dropping their weapons and, although somewhere further
along the track there was still some shouting, the skirmish was over. Otto could
see Molders standing on a boulder yelling, “Round them up, you sluggards! Get
moving!” He was shaking a wheel lock in the air in his strange staccato manner,
the brandishes seeming to underline his words.

The Bretonnian knight turned back to Otto and bowed, “Sir Guillame de
Montvert. I am honoured to make your acquaintance.”

Otto smiled, somewhat surprised by the ease of his victory, “And I yours, Sir
Guillame.” Here at last was proper courtesy. Even in defeat, even as his men
were being rounded up by the ragged pistoliers, this man could observe the
proper formalities. The young nobleman continued, “I should be delighted if you
could dine with me tonight.”

The Bretonnian grinned. “I seem to find myself with time to spare,” he
shrugged modestly. “I fear you find me inconvenienced, though. I regret my
wardrobe is limited.”

“Fear not! Some arrangements will be made. Besides, my table is at present
quite simple enough.”

At that moment Molders strode up. He moved with the typical briskness which
had begun to irritate Otto so much. Molders was not a tall man and he seemed to
Otto to compensate for his short stature with an exaggerated cockiness of
movement, the jut of his chest only exceeded by the jaunt of his chin and
bristling beard.

“You are our prisoner,” he addressed the knight sharply. Then turning to one
of his men, “Take him and tie him like the rest.”

“Indeed not!” Otto protested, “This man is my prisoner and a knight of
honour. He is to dine with me this evening.”

The captain gasped and stared. His pale blue eyes seemed to protrude from his
face in an effort to out-reach the grizzled spade of a beard now thrust
accusingly at Otto. The pistolier behind him snorted as he attempted to suppress
a laugh. Molders, used only to being obeyed without question, stood silent,
glaring in astonishment at the young man before him.

Otto dared continue, “Furthermore, I have found your conduct this day most
reprehensible. We have brought dishonour on the good name of the Emperor and the
reputation of his troops.” He looked at the trooper standing behind Molders.
“You, man! Fetch my mount and obtain a horse for Sir Guillame, and be quick
about it!”

The trooper, the wiry man who had saved Otto earlier in the skirmish, had
been grinning in buck-toothed amusement but now his expression changed to one of
discomfiture. He had lost his helm; now he pulled his somewhat greasy curls in
perplexity as he glanced at Molders. The captain shrugged in rare indecision as
Otto once more turned to him. “We will ride ahead, captain. See to the rest of
the prisoners and follow as fast as you can.”

The confused pistolier had returned with Otto’s horse and another. “Sir
Guillame? Please?” Otto gestured to the second horse, smoothly vaulted into his
own saddle and, with an imperious gesture, hurled the battered arming cap off
his head and into the scrub. He turned to address Molders once more. The
captain’s face was the colour of pickled red cabbage. He was silently gesturing
for Lutyens to mount and accompany Otto. Otto was about to protest but the
captain looked up and his glare was so fierce that the young man held his
tongue.

“Lutyens will see to your needs… young sir.” Molders’ voice was clipped even
more than usual and barely audible. Without a further word he turned his back
and began issuing orders to his men.

“Well, Sir Guillame, shall we ride?” Otto said brightly, amused by what he
took as Molders’ pique at being reprimanded. “We must ride hard if we are to be
back at the forward camp by dusk.” The Bretonnian nodded and they set off
briskly, Lutyens following behind.

At first they conversed lightly, exchanging details of their family,
discussing the moor country and its prospects for falconry. Otto felt wholly at
ease with the older Bretonnian but, his heart high once more, he was aware of
his duties. Behind the bright chat, his mind was working furiously. Otto was far
too good mannered to question the knight regarding military matters, but as the
conversation went on, his prisoner, seemingly disarmed by his own good cheer,
let slip a few clues. These clues pointed to what Otto already suspected; that
Sir Guillame and his squires were scouting the route for the main Bretonnian
attack. It was the obvious route, really! The one Otto would have taken, were he
in their opponent the Duke de Boncenne’s place. A far better route than the
narrow, difficult southern pass or the long swing, deeper into the Empire to the
north. A bold, direct approach across the moors and a sharp, honourable conflict
to decide the issue.

“You are preoccupied, young sir.” Sir Guillame’s voice broke into Otto’s
thoughts.

“Yes, yes, I am sorry. Please excuse my ill manners. It is no way to treat an
honoured guest.”

“Perhaps you are missing a lady?” the Bretonnian asked smiling.

Otto blushed, “I have been training hard, Sir Guillame, and hope for a
commission in the Reiksguard.”

The Bretonnian laughed. “Ah, you Imperials,” he chided mockingly, “You are
much too serious. A man must strive for honour, yes, but he can love too! What
is life without a little romance?” Sir Guillame went on, expanding the other
aspects of what he regarded as the highlights of a knightly life.

Otto nodded and occasionally added a polite word but his mind was elsewhere
once more. The mention of the Reiksguard had reminded him of the opportunities
which lay before him. His father would be well pleased. He had tempered the
baseless actions of the pistoliers with honour, captured an important prisoner
with due decorum and was now gaining valuable information. He could see the
conflict unfolding. The Bretonnians would advance and be brought to battle on
the moors. Otto himself would fight bravely and the whole affair would end in a
most satisfactory manner. He was still vaguely worried about how reliable the
pistoliers really were, but he was confident that his father would act quickly
on his suspicions. Yes, all would be well. For the time being he set his
concerns aside and determined to enjoy the ride, the scenery and the
Bretonnian’s company.

They arrived back at the forward camp just as the dusk was deepening into
night. Otto swelled with pride as they passed the pickets and he was able to
declare himself and report he was returning with an honoured prisoner, Sir
Guillame de Montvert. They made their way through the camp, Otto riding with
head held high. He felt almost proprietorial as he looked around, eyes scanning
the activity that was revealed only in fire-lit, flickering patches. Men huddled
in their tent groups, cooking, polishing weapons, binding arrow fletchings.
Troops engaged in the myriad small tasks necessary when preparing for battle.
Otto’s spirits soared with the thrill of it all. How he had waited for this, to
serve with honour his Emperor, land and family! His ears heard the camp sounds
almost as music. The subdued voices with the occasional laugh or burst of song,
the clink of a ladle against a cooking pot, the heavier ringing from a distant
field forge, the noises from the tethered horses. Aye, horses. Horses, not
knights’ chargers!

Otto’s good spirits promptly vanished and he was suddenly glad that they had
arrived at sundown, so Sir Guillame could not see the rag-tag composition of his
father’s advanced force. He winced as he thought of it and remembered his own
shock at his first sight of the troops: scruffy woodsmen from Stirland,
ruffianly-looking local light horse and a large contingent of mercenary hackbut
men and pistoliers. He had protested to his father that their forces were
inadequate. The memory of his father’s response still made the blood flush hot
under his skin. His father, nobleman of the Empire and respected general, had
actually stated that pistoliers were cheaper to field than knights and were a
good deal more useful. Otto’s very ears burned as he remembered his father’s
curt words, “This isn’t a crusade against Araby, Otto! It’s a border squabble,
provoked by the greed of that adventurer, de Boncenne. He’s using the usual
territory problems as an excuse to get his hands on the coal mines by
Grunwasser. You don’t call out the Reiksguard to deal with bandits!”

Otto’s worries for his father returned in a rush. How could he think such of
a duke, a pillar of Bretonnian chivalry? He was obviously ill, worn out by the
stress of attempting to defend this difficult border with such paltry forces
and, perhaps, was subtly misled by these unreliable mercenaries in which he
seemed to place such faith. Again, Otto resolved not to let his father down. He,
at least, was dependable and he had the information that was so badly needed.
But first he had his chivalrous duties to attend to.

He guided Sir Guillame to his own tent where he found his youthful squire
busy polishing the buckles of his charger’s harness. They shone in the firelight
but the sight, far from pleasing Otto, only reminded him of how distasteful he
found it to ride the rough-looking, if hardy, mount he had been given to
accompany the pistoliers. Young Henryk rose immediately. Even in camp, his
dapper form was immaculate in the red and white Eisenkopf colours. His face
seemed to shine pristine in the firelight. “Welcome home, sir! I see you have a
guest.”

Otto’s irritation showed in the brusqueness with which he ordered the squire
to see to his distinguished prisoner. He ordered that the Bretonnian should have
the use of his own tent, while his personal effects were to be transferred to
the tent of his servant. He repented almost at once when he saw how courteous
the good-natured Henryk was in addressing and attending to the Bretonnian and,
to try and save the servant extra labour, looked for Lutyens to order him to see
to the horses, but the mercenary was nowhere to be seen.

“Typical,” Otto muttered to himself. “Uncouth, uncultured and unreliable!” He
gave further instructions to Henryk, excused himself to Sir Guillame and went to
wash and change, before presenting himself to his father.

Inside the cramped tent of his servant, Otto cleaned and arranged himself as
best he could in the flickering lamp light. It was somewhat awkward but he was
smiling to himself as he stepped outside to gain the headroom necessary to
attach his plumes to his hat. He imagined receiving his father’s congratulations
on the capture of Sir Guillame. He pictured the Graf’s serious face, as his
beloved son explained the ill-dealings of the pistoliers and his suspicions of
them. He saw in his mind’s eye his father’s pride and relief that he had such a
son to count on. Still smiling, he checked briefly that his prisoner was
comfortable, then made his way to his father’s quarters.

The Graf’s tent was in the very centre of the camp. It was large but made of
plain leather, as tough and unpretentious as the man within.

Otto straightened himself as he saw his father’s standard hanging above the
door, bloodied by the light of the great braziers in front of the tent, and his
heart filled with pride as the two halberdiers on guard smartly saluted him and
stepped aside to let him pass.

Immediately within was a large chamber, well lit with lanterns and furnished
with a variety of folding wooden stools and tables. Otto smiled as Gunther, his
father’s veteran aide-de-camp, greeted him. It was hard to tell the scars from
the lines of age on the old man’s face but he still had a sprightly step as he
moved to salute Otto.

“Greetings, sir,” the old soldier said warmly. “You have captured an
honourable prisoner, I believe.”

Otto found it hard not to grin like a schoolboy. “I have won some very little
honour,” he replied. “I must report to my father.”

“The general is in conference,” Gunther told him. “With Herr Lutyens, one of
your comrades in the affray.”

“Comrade?” Otto clicked his tongue, his good humour dispelled. What was that
oaf doing plaguing his father? Concocting some tale to cover the mercenaries’
reprehensible behaviour, no doubt.

“Some warm wine, sir?” The aide was offering him a somewhat battered but
gleaming pewter goblet, a gently steaming flask in his other hand.

“What?” Otto asked, preoccupied with what the dubious Lutyens might be
telling his father. “Ach, yes, why not?” he said grimly. Lutyens could have his
crow but Otto would see his father got the true story! He settled himself
irritably on a stool by the tapestries that curtained off his father’s inner
chamber and sipped at his wine. Gunther, ever the tactful servant, busied
himself quietly at the far side of the chamber.

Otto could distinguish two voices on the far side of the tapestry—the deep
drone of Lutyens and his father’s terse speech. Habitually polite, the young
noble was about to move to another stool out of earshot, when he again wondered
what tale Lutyens might be spinning. He had best listen, he thought to himself.
His father was obviously worn down by his onerous duties as warden and was
already placing too much reliance on these brigands. He had better learn as much
as he could if he was to help his father. Still sipping his wine, he
surreptitiously leant a little closer to the tapestry.

“So they put up little fight?” the Graf was asking.

“Little enough, sir. They seemed of scant quality.”

Otto nearly choked on his wine. Scant quality! Who was this rustic to judge a
knight of Bretonnia?

“And where is Captain Molders?”

“He is following with the main body, sir.”

“I expected a prompt report from him, Lutyens. Not advanced warning from
you.”

“Young Master Eisenkopf was in haste to bring back the Bretonnian knight,
sir.”

Otto coloured as he heard his father snort, “Not that much haste, it seems!
He hasn’t reported yet! Your opinion, Lutyens: what of this Bretonnian party?”