Читать книгу The Cavalier Club - Stanley Goldyn - Страница 10

Chapter 4

King’s regent

Much like other prominent European cities, the streets of Prague bustled and throbbed with busy movement, crowds of people seemingly preoccupied with completing their own varied tasks and reaching their many destinations. Jostling in both directions along the stone-paved roads, the chaotic collection of people contained the full cross-section of the city’s eclectic and interesting population.

The buildings, elegant in their Romanesque style and Gothic proportion, reflected wealth and order, some rising three or four storeys high. Founded in 1348, Prague was one of the most beautiful cities in Europe. With the shimmering Vltava River dividing the old town from newly-settled and expanding areas on the western bank, the steady sprawl of the capital was inevitable. The city had flourished during the reign of Charles IV, the Holy Roman Emperor and King of Bohemia almost 300 years earlier, and it was his foresight that transformed it into a resplendent imperial capital. It continued to be home to his son, King Wenceslaus IV, and then Ferdinand I of the House of Habsburg followed by King Rudolf II.

It was a prosperous age for the city, and Prague became the bourgeoning capital of European culture, attracting prominent astronomers, musicians, artists and alchemists. A thriving metropolis of over 40,000 inhabitants, Prague was a part of the world that Jack had heard much about during his years as a student, and he had sought any opportunity to visit and explore this marvellous city.

Jack had travelled through the night, and it was well into the afternoon when he arrived at the first dwellings and farms that formed the western outskirts of the city’s precinct. To his left, the royal castle of Hradčany—the residence of Bohemian princes and kings—dominated the gentle hillside that overlooked the river and town centre like Poseidon silently surveying his vast watery domain. The road began to gradually descend towards the river, and Jack dismounted, slapping Abaccus’s neck admiringly and allowing the horse to walk slowly beside him without the burden of a rider’s weight.

Following the gentle curve of Mostecká, which led him to the imposing and picturesque Karlův Most (Charles Bridge) and its two end towers, Jack crossed the sedately-flowing river and made his way along Karlová to the substantial cobblestone-laden town square. Surrounded on all four sides by stately buildings, the square reminded him of home in Kraków and absorbed by the culture and atmosphere around him, Jack felt very comfortable here. He recognised the Gothic town hall and its clock tower from earlier descriptions and made his way to the eastern perimeter, where he asked a local merchant for directions to a reasonable tavern. The burgher pointed to a rustic structure with a wide portico in the corner of the square.

A young attendant approached Jack to tend his horse as the Polish officer drew near.

“Can you ride, lad?” Jack asked the cheerful footman.

“Better than I can walk, your lordship,” the youngster replied with a broad grin that revealed three missing teeth.

“Well, take my horse and ride to the Royal Palace across the bridge and pass on this note to the guard. I’ll be waiting here at this inn.” Jack eyed the sign, bemused. Chlupate Prase—The Hairy Hog. Shows all the promise of decent lodgings, he thought unenthusiastically to himself. He flicked a coin at the youth, adding, “When you return, settle the horse into the stable, if you don’t mind. Make sure that he’s dry, fed and watered, and you might also check his hooves. I’ll be looking in on him later.”

Jack stroked his horse’s nose and mane as he passed over the reins. “Please hand me that saddle bag. I’ll be staying here a night or two. My name is Channing.”

Shouldering the bag that the boy had retrieved, Jack pulled a second coin from his pocket and handed it to him. “Here. Thank you. Take good care of him and see that he has fresh hay.” He took a moment to regard the boy’s dirty, freckled nose and uncombed hair. As an afterthought, he asked, “What’s your name, boy?”

“Pavel, sir,” the lad’s grin widened. He bit hard on both coins before sliding them deep into his trouser pocket. Perhaps that was what accounted for his missing teeth? Jack pondered momentarily with a smile.

“How old are you?” Jack had taken a liking to the sprightly young man.

“I’ll be 15 tomorrow, sir, and don’t trouble yourself about the horse; I’ll take extra special care of him. You can be sure of that.”

“Well, Pavel, thank you again. I thought you looked like a trustworthy horse handler. Have you eaten lunch today?”

“No, your highness,” the boy replied, “but I had a real good dinner last night.”

“That’s encouraging. Why don’t you join me inside when you’re finished with Abaccus?” Jack proposed, nodding towards the tavern. The boy became shy and continued to pat the horse’s chest. Jack sensed his reluctance.

“The master don’t like me in there disturbing his guests. He always reminds me that my job is out here tending to travellers and their horses and carts and the likes of gentlemen like you.”

Jack smiled at the boy’s brogue and replied, “Don’t trouble yourself about that. I’ll speak to the landlord. You just come in and report to me when you’ve done all that I’ve asked. Promise?” Bending slightly, Jack placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and stared him straight in the eye with an unrelenting look, forcing him to reply.

“Yes, your lordship. I promise, sir.” The boy was unsure but agreed. Turning towards the door, Jack called back kindly, “Well, that’s excellent. I’ll see you inside later, then. Abaccus loves apples,” and strode away.

The Chlupate Prase was a large establishment that gave first-time visitors a far better impression than its name implied. Jack stepped a few paces inside and looked around the expansive room. The tavern was warm, smoke-filled and cavernous, and its massive upright wooden posts were darkened with soot and the passage of time. Their immense size was designed to support the floor above. Many were draped with hanging coats and hats as well as the occasional sword or pistol belt, beneath which sat their owners—smoking, drinking or engaged in conversation. The low ceiling was comprised of exposed timber beams—bowed in the centre—that added to the aged, rustic charm. They had browned in the constant haze of staining smoke. Jack selected one of the numerous unoccupied tables with a view of the door and shuffled over to the serving bench after claiming a chair with his saddlebag and cassock coat.

“What can I offer?” asked the dour barman gruffly as he stepped across to where Jack stood and wiped the bench with a greasy rag.

“Do you have a lad named Pavel working for you out in the square, good sir?” Jack was polite as he inquired good-naturedly.

The swarthy, unshaven man peered at Jack with unfriendly eyes, tinged with suspicion. “Why? Has the rascal been rude? I’ll pull his bloody ear,” he countered. The bench had been wiped dry, and the surly publican leaned forward on his arms against the bar.

“Quite the opposite. You have a valuable assistant out there whom I have engaged in a number of small chores. He’ll stable my horse after riding on an errand for me to the Royal Palace. I trust that this does not pose an inconvenience,” Jack smiled and continued, “I have requested him to report here to me after completing these tasks, for which he has been paid handsomely.” Jack inflected these last words as if seeking confirmation that this was acceptable. The old man dropped his shoulders in obvious relief.

“My son is a good, hard-working boy. I’m happy that he could be of service, and he’ll come in to see you when he’s finished if that’s what you have asked of him. Sometimes I’m overly harsh with the lad, especially these last three years since his mother passed away from the fever.”

“I believe I see the family resemblance. There’ll be another copper coin for him when he returns, and a warm meal would not go astray to keep him happy against the autumn air out there. If you have a room for the night—something quiet, small and comfortable—you may add his meal to my bill.”

The taverner’s surliness disappeared as he replied, “I’m the innkeeper here, and thank you for your kind words. I’ll fetch you a key.”

Jack paid for one night’s board—a modest room with a window facing away from the square. He ordered a jug of apple cider and pointed to his table, thanking the barman. After locking the saddle bag, he descended the stairs and made himself comfortable, draining a mug of the very palatable golden drink. He soon dozed against the wall as the effect of a long, sleepless night of travel, the warm environment and the alcohol took their cumulative toll.

After what seemed to be no more than a few minutes, Jack woke with a start as a gentle shaking of his shoulder brought him back to the present. Blinking and momentarily unaware of where he was, Jack looked up and grinned openly as he recognised the man shaking him. “Vilém! My old friend, Vilém Slavata! How good it is to see you after all these months.”

The two comrades embraced warmly, swaying together like a storekeeper’s sign in the wind. Inviting him to sit down, Jack helped his companion with his coat and filled both of their mugs from the ample wicker jug. Without speaking, the two stared at each other with watery eyes, barely believing that they were once again sitting at the same table. The middle-aged man before him had gained weight, Jack noted, since their last meeting. His forehead had become more prominent, and his receding light-grey hair sat neatly combed in abundant waves. Creases radiated from the corners of the regent’s large, sky-blue eyes, giving him an aura of benevolence and bonhomie, like a child’s favourite uncle. A grey moustache, curling at the ends, veiled his upper lip with tips that caressed his pudgy cheeks, and his double-chin was hidden behind a small, manicured, greying goatee. Dressed in sumptuous breeches of pastel violet and a matching doublet, Vilém carried the bearing of an educated man of title and authority burdened by the responsibility of high office. He had aged.

“I came as soon as your message was delivered, somewhat fortunate that the king is away today. Without his absence, I may not have been able to come—his industrious sense of duty and assiduousness absorb every hour of my day. When did you arrive? Ah, we have so much to talk about, Jacek; we may need a week to cover it all!”

“Not wanting to interfere with your imperial and aulic duties, I did not stop at Hradčany on my way past but sent word immediately on arriving here. I have taken a room for the night and can easily extend it to a week if that’s what we need,” Jack remarked, and the pair laughed convivially.

“How are your parents? And the king? How is King Sigismund?”

“I haven’t seen them for over four months. The king ordered me to go to Paris to seek military support from the French, but that’s another story that we can discuss a little later. There have been rumblings, especially here in Bohemia, that the situation between the Catholics and the Protestants is deteriorating rapidly every day. What is going on?”

Vilém’s manner became animated; he looked briefly around him with darting eyes before replying in a hushed tone, “The bastards nearly killed me. Can you believe it?”

“They nearly murdered the king’s regent!” the minister spat, taking another generous mouthful of cider. His face reddened with anger and incredulity, a vein appearing in the middle of his forehead. “In fact, two of us… and the secretary from the royal council,” his voice took on an angrier tone. “Three of the king’s representatives—on official business,” he hissed, raking his hair back with a hand, his face still sanguine with rage. “We may not have—” he broke off as Pavel appeared at their table, oblivious to the tone of their discussion.

Jack looked up, summoning a smile. “Well, my young master. I see that my message was delivered successfully as my companion here has arrived at its request.” He pointed at the regent with his eyes. “Vilém, this is Pavel, the innkeeper’s son and the only man in Prague to whom I would entrust my horse. How is he faring?”

Pavel’s face beamed unreservedly at the compliment and he bowed reverently to both guests.

“I have stabled your horse, my lord, and made him very comfortable with fresh fodder and water. As you asked, his hooves have been checked. I have also brushed his coat hard and inspected his legs.” Pavel paused for a moment and looked up at the ceiling for inspiration, hoping he had covered every requirement.

“He’s in excellent shape now and will rest well tonight,” the youth reported proudly, “and I have caped him against the cold,” he added as an afterthought.

“Just as I suspected, “Jack nodded, “and here’s an extra coin for your trouble.” He flipped a copper into the air with his thumb, and shifting in his seat to face the boy, he continued in a more serious tone, “I have also had a word with your father, who tells me that he loves his son very much and has a plate of something special for him at his earliest convenience. You should report to the cook and claim your meal.”

Beaming with the news and the unexpected gift of an additional coin, the stable boy bowed again, thanking Jack repeatedly and backed away to head for the kitchen. Enjoying the happy interlude, Jack and Vilém emptied the apple cider jug and called for a pitcher of mead and a generous serving of boiled lamb with roast potato. The aroma permeated throughout the table.

“Where did this attempt on your life occur, and why?” Jack finally asked with concern. Between mouthfuls of food and honey wine, Vilém explained the events that led to the assault in detail.

Emperor Matthias had returned to Vienna last year after attending the election—in Prague—of Ferdinand, the Catholic Duke of Styria, to the throne of Bohemia. In his absence, he left the duties of Bohemian government in the hands of a council of 10 regents, seven of whom were Catholic. The council was led by three senior imperial governors: Vilém Slavata of Chlum and Košumberk, Chancellor Zdenko Lobkowitz, and Jaroslav Martinitz.

Martinitz, in Emperor Matthias’s name and with the assent of King Ferdinand, instigated and pursued a vigorous anti-Protestant policy. The three ordered the cessation of the construction of various Protestant chapels on Catholic land, which together with the closure of Protestant churches, raised a contentious issue as the Protestants claimed that the lands in question belonged to the realm and not the Catholic Church. This was viewed as a violation of the right to freedom of religious expression bestowed in The Letter of Majesty announced in 1609 by Emperor Rudolf II. The Protestants feared that all their rights would eventually be repealed and totally nullified.

Led by Jindřich Matyáš Thurn and Václav Budovec, angry Protestant nobles representing numerous Bohemian estates met on the 23 May 1618 to compile a strategy to remove the Catholic regents. A second meeting followed with a larger gathering of nobles at the Hradčany Castle, and from there, the incensed crowd moved into the Bohemian chancellery in the Ludwig wing. There, they confronted Slavata and Martinitz, and after a short, ill-tempered trial, found them guilty of violating the right to freedom of religion. At three in the afternoon, they seized and flung the two regents from the third-storey windows of the regents’ offices. Their secretary, Filip Fabricius, remonstrated and was thrown out after the others. As the three fell 20 yards into the dry moat below, they were taunted by the frenzied nobles, who asked if the Virgin Mary would save them. A number of pistol shots were fired at them from the windows but with little accuracy. This retaliatory gesture unmistakably signalled open resistance to Emperor Matthias.

Miraculously, all three survived with non-fatal injuries. Protestant pamphlets alleging that the governors’ survival was due to their landing in a drossy pile of horse manure were disseminated, and the Catholics counter-claimed that eye-witnesses had seen Christo Churmusian angels swoop from heaven to break their fall. Martinitz rose to his feet severely hurt, as did the secretary, and Slavata lay gravely injured. As Martinitz staggered to his rescue, he was grazed by one of the several shots from the window. Some servants quickly made their way to the fosse and carried off their masters. Fabricius fled the moat and reported the incident to Matthias after travelling to Vienna. He was later ennobled and granted the title von Hohenfall — of Highfall. Slavata, after being nursed back to health in custody, was eventually allowed to depart to the spa town of Teplice for convalescence and, from there, into Saxony. Martinitz escaped in disguise to Munich.

Jack had listened without interruption as Vilém concluded by adding, “We were most fortunate to escape with our lives. I suffered a bruised elbow and a broken collar bone, and the others complained of numerous minor scratches. Martinitz sprained an ankle and was immobilised for almost a week. The large shrubs and the incline of the ditch helped in breaking our fall—not to mention the feculent midden on which we found ourselves. You know, Jacek, that I approach my responsibilities with fervour and zealous determination, and I believe totally in our cause.”

Their plates had been cleared away, and more mead was brought to their table. The serving maid curtseyed as she wiped the stained, wooden tabletop between them and informed them that the inn master was most pleased to offer this jug with his compliments. As she departed, Jack began evenly, “There has already been a singularly emphatic, further response from the Protestants. I know not if news has reached you yet, but I had been delayed for two days in coming to Prague by Count Mansfeld’s siege of Pilsen.”

Slavata’s overt surprise was unmistakable. It was now clear to Jack that the riders destined for the capital had never arrived. He related, as briefly as he could, the Polish king’s business with Bishop Richelieu in France and his own adventures while returning from Paris. Their pensive and sombre mood deepened.

“Has Matthias been informed?” queried Vilém.

“Yes. Riders left for Munich and Vienna the same day.”

“King Ferdinand will return tomorrow. I should organise an audience for you so that he can hear firsthand of Pilsen’s plight.”

The crowd had thinned in the tavern. Slavata had spoken of his wife, Lucie, and the young envoy shared what he knew of his own family, although the news was months old. Jack was yawning now, the long day finally taking its toll, and Vilém stood to let his friend retire.

“I will send word to you tomorrow morning after making arrangements with the king. He will without a doubt wish to hear details of your current distressing news.”

“Let me walk with you to your horse,” Jack offered, summoning an attendant to fetch the chancellor’s mount. They strolled towards the portico, absorbed in conversation, and as they reached the door, Vilém pushed it against an unseen cavalier who was about to enter the tavern.

The well-dressed stranger scowled at him with blatant contempt. “You clumsy oaf! Stand aside and let me pass,” he snapped, pushing in on the pair.

Vilém, unaccustomed to this kind of treatment as a man in his position, lifted his hand and pressed against his chest to stop him, venturing emphatically, “Sir, your humour is as dark as the night that sent you here. Be so kind as to please step back and allow us to leave. Convention and etiquette dictate it.”

The fastuous stranger stood his ground and glared sullenly at them.

Jack intervened by placing a restraining hand on Vilém’s arm, offering graciously, “Our apologies, good sir. Please allow us to move aside for you.”

They parted, and the ruffian barged in only to fall forward over Jack’s intentionally extended foot. Barely containing his rage and embarrassed by his fall, the incensed aristocrat stood and turned on Jack, hand moving to the hilt of his sword. “You bloody blackguard!” he shouted, drawing the full attention of everyone in the room.

“I am unarmed, as you can see,” Jack calmly raised both arms, revealing that he carried no weapons—his sword and pistol still on the hook above their table. “You need a valuable lesson in manners, sir, lamentably something you seriously lack,” he continued in a condescending tone, his tenor that of a chastising schoolmaster. “At home, we spank naughty children like you.”

The stranger, controlling his emotions with the utmost difficulty, hissed through his clenched teeth. “Well, then, I invite you to meet me at six tomorrow morning, you insolent swine, behind the church on Karmelitská across the river,” he snarled like a menacing wolf. “I’ll bring my seconds; you bring the undertaker.” His words dripped with minacious loathing.

Infuriated, the royal regent was about to intervene and threaten to throw the truculent stranger into the Daliborka Tower dungeon. Jack cut him short, not taking his eyes off the hostile cavalier for a moment. He was as calm as a monk at vespers. “I need the practice, Vilém. Let him be.” Then he added, “It will indeed be my pleasure. Six it is.”

The man stormed off, cheeks flushed with anger, while the pair stepped outside into the cool night.

“I will act as your second, Jack, if you’re serious about this. I can have this impudence quashed by the royal guard with a simple snap of my fingers. You need not involve yourself in this,” the official offered.

Recognising the look of unchallengeable resolve in Jack’s face, however, Vilém shrugged, beaten, and added simply, “How’s your sword arm?”

“Never been better. I’ve been resting it too long and welcome this diversion. What better opportunity than with this obnoxious fellow?” Jack’s eyes flared with anticipation for an instant, reflecting the flickering flames of the torches positioned along the terrace.

After the friends had parted, Jack moved to the stables to check on his horse and then returned to gather his belongings and arrange to be woken at five for a light breakfast.

The morning dawned grey and still, a heavy fog blanketing the river. A perfect cool day for a little exercise, Jack ruminated as he guided his horse at a slow walk to the appointed place. Calm, almost philosophical, he chewed on a wooden splinter as he approached the rear of the church grounds. He was the last to arrive, he realised, cheerfully bidding everyone, including his adversary, a very good morning. The sound, unbroken sleep had re-invigorated him; he felt vivacious, almost playful. Pavel had been in the stable tending to his usual chores when Jack entered that morning. Bidding the lad the very best on the anniversary of his birth, the officer handed him a shiny silver coin that he had polished over breakfast, and ruffling the boy’s hair teasingly, he mounted and left for the bridge.

Nodding to Vilém, who had brought an accompanying captain from the castle, Jack dismounted and removed his cloak, flexing his arms and shoulders as he unsheathed his sword. He donned his father’s fencing gloves, rapier under his arm. Jack quoted the capital’s motto: “Praga capot Regni” — Prague, Head of the Kingdom. “A city with that responsibility relies on its good citizens. Our unfortunate and belligerent associate over there is not one of them,” he added.

Jack’s opponent appeared to be ready and anxious to begin, cutting the air with swishing practice cuts. His second introduced him simply as Lord Caravata and announced the few, straightforward rules. As his party was the aggrieved, it had been Caravata’s choice to duel to the death or until either man could not continue through injury.

Caravata, of medium height, displayed the bearing of a self-important snob—thankfully a trait not frequently seen to this extent amongst the European nobility. Egotistical and abrasive, he was in the habit of being indulged by all around him. When not with prostitutes or playing cards for large sums of money, he frequently practised with the sword and considered himself a fencing celebrity. While physically strong, Caravata led an indulgent life that had softened the edge of his keen agility and well-honed reflexes but not his sense of self-importance. Brimming with confidence this morning, he believed that he would discard this young, detestable upstart like a soiled handkerchief and return to his estate in time to rendezvous with the neighbour’s delightful niece, who was visiting from the country.

The duelling pair took their places, facing one another in their shirtsleeves at a close but manoeuvrable distance. At the command to begin, both saluted with their weapons, and Caravata immediately lunged forward with two sharp thrusts that were parried easily away. They circled on the even ground, staring intently into each other’s eyes. Caravata advanced in short steps, swinging his blade like a scythe, from left to right and back. Jack easily countered each swing, moving his rapier like a pendulum and stepping back to maintain the distance between them. The blades sang like the strokes of a hammer on a blacksmith’s anvil echoing in the empty churchyard.

Jack held his sword point close to the ground, bobbing the rapier lightly in his hand like a cork on a fishing line to feel its balance. It felt comfortable and delicate between his fingers yet secure against his glove. Caravata’s sword was horizontal, stretched chest-high at arm’s length and pointing at Jack’s throat. Moving to his right in an arc, the man attacked again, this time cutting wide swathes through the air as if with a cutlass. Jack countered by lashing out to his upper right whilst stepping left. Blocking the sweeping blade, he took three swift steps forward, jabbing and driving and then slicing. His opponent retreated but not before his left sleeve was nicked and a short, thin red line appeared across his upper arm. The blood flowed freely from the wound, staining his sleeve like crimson ink spreading on blotting paper.

Profanity escaped the count’s lips. The nostrils of his falcate nose flared visibly. He glared angrily at Jack, his brow wet with perspiration. When he regained his composure, he stepped to his left and took two practice swings with his blade. He continued circling and half-heartedly stabbing at Jack a number of times, testing. His eyes were filled with pure, pompous hatred and hostility.

Jack stood still with his feet well apart, breathing measured, and only his head turned as he followed the other’s movement. Then, lifting his sword high above his damp curls, he advanced in measured strides, bringing the rapier down in mercurial sweeps and confusing his adversary, who retreated awkwardly. The onslaught continued with a frenzy of barely parried poking, feinting and cutting motions until Caravata tripped and fell backward onto the damp grass, his sword flying from his hand.

Jack paused, his rapier tip pointing an arm’s length away from the man’s heaving chest. Frozen for a brief moment, he lowered the blade and moved back to his starting position. He glanced up at Slavata and smiled briefly. Caravata picked himself up, retrieved his sword and walked slowly back to where Jack was waiting. Concern had replaced arrogance on his face.

Jack was now ready to direct the swordplay. He had allowed his antagonist time to show his cards and decided that it was time to end this. He felt calm in the cool morning, standing in the quaint but deserted churchyard surrounded by majestic trees. He breathed in the crisp air and allowed it to invigorate his surging confidence. It was not his time to die in some foreign land at the hand of this ignominious and supercilious narcissist.

Sensing the first spark of uncertainty in Caravata’s posture, Jack focused his concentration on his opponent. Flexing his rapier mischievously, he peered obdurately into the other man’s eyes and attacked. His first two sweeps were repelled awkwardly, but they were merely setting up for his third serious slash, which lacerated the full width of the nobleman’s chest. Continuing to advance, Jack waved his blade in a ‘Z’ motion and then thrust it forward into Caravata’s left arm muscle.

Withdrawing the blade, Jack blocked a sluggish stab and then drove his sword through the man’s left shoulder. Caravata groaned and winced with pain, his left arm now effectively useless as a swordsman’s counter balance. He had lost the will to fight and was stumbling backward, his left arm—losing blood liberally—pressed against his body for support. Unrelenting in his advance, Jack swept his rapier across the man’s stomach, leaving superficial cuts in a chevron pattern. With one stinging sweep, he struck the sword from Caravata’s hand and watched it pirouette in a large arc and land out of view in the long grass.

Enervated, Caravata was barely able to stand; he was swaying, his breath ragged, and saliva dribbling in a thin, ropey stream from his open mouth. Raising his right elbow above his ear and aiming his rapier like a matador, Jack drove his blade in a final unremitting thrust through Caravata’s heart to the hilt, the bloody blade protruding from the count’s back. A thin flow of blood dripped from the tip. Jack released his grip on the rapier and stepped back empty-handed.

“Adieu!” he snapped, devoid of any elation, and then turned and strode back to where Vilém and his escort were standing. Caravata stood motionless—a look of petrified disbelief on his face and his right hand holding Jack’s sword as if intent on withdrawing it—and then his eyes closed and he crumpled backward without a sound.

“Well done, my friend,” Slavata applauded as Caravata’s assistant rushed to the stricken man.

“A cutting tongue deserves a cutting blade,” Jack offered philosophically as he removed his gloves and drew an ample sleeve across his sweating face adding, “Our little splenetic acquaintance owned a long sword but a short life. His arrogant ignorance weighed a heavy purse.” He allowed his adrenalin-induced determination to slowly ebb away.

“I know little of him,” the regent volunteered, “and from now on will hear even less.”

Jack threw his cloak over his shoulders as the captain retrieved his sword. He swallowed several generous mouthfuls of cider that the regent had offered him from a goat-skin bag. Wiping his blade clean, Jack sheathed it into the scabbard hanging from his saddle and mounted his horse as the comrades agreed on their plans to meet the king.