said that he should be put on the watch because he could see around corners. Jacob, well used to his wayward orb, suffered these jests well.
And then there was Christoph. Sweet Jesus, where do I begin to tell the tale? Sullen, cruel, bold, he was all these things, and never two good words to say to a single soul. And if ever someone resembled the beast of the wild that mirrored his actions, then Christoph was a fox, made man. From his pointed chin and nose, and his narrow, hooded eyes, to his teeth set higgledy-piggledy like a rack of pikes, he lacked nought but fur.
He was quick to anger, and the quicker to move or strike. And though he was not a big man (no taller than I), others who were gave him wide passage. Yet he was our beast, for he was of our squadron. Word in camp had it that he never could set foot again in his home in Kassel without soon feeling the caress of hemp about his neck, for he had slit the throats of two men whilst at cards a year before.
But there was something else in his regard that froze my blood just the same. Something that told me he could see what thoughts my conscience held. Something that forewarned me to disdain his company, something that stank of the absence of Good. I was afraid to tell him any lie no matter how small, and I knew no man that could meet his gaze and hold it as equal. But, so too, I was curious. If I had only known more, there and then.
We all drank and gamed at night, entertaining the plump whores who were so kind as to come to our door in search of business. The house we stayed in was like an inn without an innkeeper. We did as we pleased and there was hardly a stick of furniture left to break. As days passed, I grew to become a part of this reckless crew, untried as I was.
The weeks passed, stories drifted through the camp that the enemy was close upon us, and before long I found myself out on skirmish rides with the troop, scouting for the men of Count von Tilly.
And thus, it was not long after, a warm September day, that I killed my first man.
Our army had encamped near Nienburg, its spires were still within our view, when our captain spied new quarry. A large body of Imperial horsemen was flying away towards the Weser and so we gave chase. They numbered a few score and had a good start on us. Yet their only escape was to get across the Weser from where they had come. We were now at full gallop to stop them, great gaps opening between our riders.
They looked small at a distance, but we closed fast and they became real. When they realised that there was no way to ford the river, they wasted no time milling about but instead turned to fight, meeting us on the hoof and not at a standstill. There was no harsh clash of horse and harness as I had imagined in my countless daydreams; we slowed up to just a fast trot, giving us more than a full measure of time to look the Papists in the eye as we came to swords’ distance. I singled out an opponent (or perhaps he singled out me) and bore down on him, head on. The ground between us closed fast.
At only a few paces, I looked him full in the face; his eyes were large and round. And then I swung at his head as we passed each other. His blade was there to meet mine and I felt the shock run up my arm as the steel met like the ring of a broken church bell. I jerked the reins hard to the right and kicked my mount with my right boot. My aim was to meet him again on his left so that he would have to strike me across his saddle, thus giving me the advantage.
But he was no fool, this Habsburger. We now ended up circling each other, just out of reach. Rather, it was I who played the clown. I was so intent that I had forgotten what else was going on around me. I glimpsed a movement to my left and then my head was given a blow that gave me stars before the eyes. I had narrowly missed having my neck cleaved, the blow glancing over the crown of my helm. I was staggered a moment as the second Habsburger rode on past me and instantly my
And then there was Christoph. Sweet Jesus, where do I begin to tell the tale? Sullen, cruel, bold, he was all these things, and never two good words to say to a single soul. And if ever someone resembled the beast of the wild that mirrored his actions, then Christoph was a fox, made man. From his pointed chin and nose, and his narrow, hooded eyes, to his teeth set higgledy-piggledy like a rack of pikes, he lacked nought but fur.
He was quick to anger, and the quicker to move or strike. And though he was not a big man (no taller than I), others who were gave him wide passage. Yet he was our beast, for he was of our squadron. Word in camp had it that he never could set foot again in his home in Kassel without soon feeling the caress of hemp about his neck, for he had slit the throats of two men whilst at cards a year before.
But there was something else in his regard that froze my blood just the same. Something that told me he could see what thoughts my conscience held. Something that forewarned me to disdain his company, something that stank of the absence of Good. I was afraid to tell him any lie no matter how small, and I knew no man that could meet his gaze and hold it as equal. But, so too, I was curious. If I had only known more, there and then.
We all drank and gamed at night, entertaining the plump whores who were so kind as to come to our door in search of business. The house we stayed in was like an inn without an innkeeper. We did as we pleased and there was hardly a stick of furniture left to break. As days passed, I grew to become a part of this reckless crew, untried as I was.
The weeks passed, stories drifted through the camp that the enemy was close upon us, and before long I found myself out on skirmish rides with the troop, scouting for the men of Count von Tilly.
And thus, it was not long after, a warm September day, that I killed my first man.
Our army had encamped near Nienburg, its spires were still within our view, when our captain spied new quarry. A large body of Imperial horsemen was flying away towards the Weser and so we gave chase. They numbered a few score and had a good start on us. Yet their only escape was to get across the Weser from where they had come. We were now at full gallop to stop them, great gaps opening between our riders.
They looked small at a distance, but we closed fast and they became real. When they realised that there was no way to ford the river, they wasted no time milling about but instead turned to fight, meeting us on the hoof and not at a standstill. There was no harsh clash of horse and harness as I had imagined in my countless daydreams; we slowed up to just a fast trot, giving us more than a full measure of time to look the Papists in the eye as we came to swords’ distance. I singled out an opponent (or perhaps he singled out me) and bore down on him, head on. The ground between us closed fast.
At only a few paces, I looked him full in the face; his eyes were large and round. And then I swung at his head as we passed each other. His blade was there to meet mine and I felt the shock run up my arm as the steel met like the ring of a broken church bell. I jerked the reins hard to the right and kicked my mount with my right boot. My aim was to meet him again on his left so that he would have to strike me across his saddle, thus giving me the advantage.
But he was no fool, this Habsburger. We now ended up circling each other, just out of reach. Rather, it was I who played the clown. I was so intent that I had forgotten what else was going on around me. I glimpsed a movement to my left and then my head was given a blow that gave me stars before the eyes. I had narrowly missed having my neck cleaved, the blow glancing over the crown of my helm. I was staggered a moment as the second Habsburger rode on past me and instantly my
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