of his moustache. “I was born in Kraków, actually—the former capital of Poland—and educated in medicine at the local Uniwersytet Krakowski. My mentoring professor was German and taught me his language.”
Albrecht was an erudite and saintly man, and Jack’s memory of his professor hung fondly in the deep reaches of his mind like incense wafting about the heads of worshippers.
“I was also tutored in French and English as a child; my father emigrated from the Scottish highlands and spoke something akin to the King’s English.” Jack’s face brightened suddenly in a broad, spontaneous grin at the recreation of the heavy, guttural, mountain brogue in his head. “Our family believed that these skills would be most useful in later life.”
Jack smiled back at the Frenchman, and reaching for his belt, withdrew his rapier from its leather scabbard. He began sharpening the blade in long smooth strokes from hilt to tip and back again with a small stone partially wrapped in an oiled cloth. Chauvin studied the sword’s complex, swept hilt. Jack glanced up and noted his interest.
“It’s an Italian designed, three-ringed rapier. It belonged to my father. He wanted long, stout quillons, straight and exquisite, and a wire-bound handle to afford a firm grip. Although designed for his hand, it has partnered mine most agreeably.” Jack followed each part of the rapier with his finger as he spoke as if caressing a familiar lover. “The pommel is a practical size, and the knuckle-guards are simple but discerning. It’s a most graceful yet functional weapon. I wrap my forefinger over the front quillon for greater control and flexibility, and this is protected by the three rings. The forte of the blade is almost an inch wide at the hilt, and for a rapier of this length, it has excellent balance and supple manoeuvrability.”
He proffered the weapon to Chauvin for closer inspection and asked, “Tell me about your group of men. They shoot their muskets extremely well, like well-trained snipers.”
Chauvin picked up his mug and swallowed a mouthful of ale. Stubborn droplets of froth lined his upper lip. Still fondly examining the sword and turning it in his hands, he began speaking.
“Armand Besson, Emile Garreau and Guillaume Maguiere are seasoned professionals whom I’ve known for over 30 years. We are all from the same region in the provinces and joined the army within a few weeks of each other.” Chauvin ran his thumb lightly down the front of the blade and tested the point with his fingertip. A log crackled in the fire, scattering sparks around their boots. “We’ve seen action in campaigns at Fontaine-Française, Ivry and the Château d’Arques. Learning to shoot efficiently and accurately became a simple matter of survival at Vimory in the harsh autumn of 1587. Some of us were only boys. We became veterans overnight.”
“Tristan Paillard and Guy Vasseur were neighbours,” the Frenchman continued. “They’ve carried muskets since they could lift them and honed their skill shooting at running hares and foxes on the farm.”
“Julien Roberge is a loner,” the old corporal nodded in the direction of a man lying alone on the floor some distance from the others, puffing pensively on an old briar pipe. “He likes to be on his own. Roberge is an excellent marksman—easily the best in the group. He was born with a harquebus in his hand. Unique. He can consistently kill a man at 80 paces. Always aims at the head.” Chauvin leaned back in his chair and scratched at his stomach. He gently laid the rapier across his knees. “And he reloads quickly before his target can move 12 steps.” His exaggeration to prove the point was obvious. “He prepares his own charges using a slightly heavier load of powder, and I’ve seen him polishing his musket balls, filing away surface imperfections.”
Jack listened intently, totally absorbed by the picture the old soldier’s description was painting.
“Deadly accurate, Roberge is a pleasure to watch in action—a steady and unhurried maestro. He prefers to shoot from higher ground, more often from a turret or bell-tower than a rampart or a street. I’ve watched him dispatch 22 enemy soldiers with as many consecutive shots. The count would have been higher, but he exhausted his powder supply. There are few who can match his marksmanship, and the ungifted question what I have witnessed. They all died instantly, bleeding red stains from the skull onto the snow. Apart from that, I know little about him. He is a private man who is difficult to get close to.”
Both men sat pleasantly content, bathed in the delightful warmth of the fire, as Chauvin went on. “Today we lost Jean Legard on the wall. He’s in heaven now, still killing rebels with his musket. I did not see him die but found him lifeless against the wall. At least his death came instantly. I closed his mouth and covered what remained of his face.”
“Hopefully his smoking musket had found its last target,” the Frenchman spat, momentary anger flaring in his eyes and replacing the dancing flames reflected there. “I have asked that he be buried with the other defenders. We shared our valedictory on the battlements.”
Jack grasped his sword as Alain handed it back. He swallowed another thin slice of cheese as he returned the rapier to its scabbard.
“And finally, we come to Michel Arbois,” the corporal continued in a hushed tone, his eyes hauntingly distant. “The youngest of my men—only a mere lad, really. He joined our regiment only three years ago after his young wife took her own life. She had apparently blamed herself for a miscarriage. It was to be their first.” He cleared his throat and sipped on his beer, wiping his mouth clean with the back of his hand. His downcast eyes studied the floor at his feet. “Michel would have been 22 last week. I had tried to pair him with Roberge, but Julien wasn’t happy. The lad’s presence bothered him. He claimed that it distracted his concentration. I wanted the boy to learn from a real master.”
Chauvin rubbed the middle of his tanned brow, pausing briefly. “Vasseur and Paillard taught him to fence and fire his musket, and the lad had learned quickly. He was growing into an excellent soldier. Last month we were with the regiment in Klatovy, some 12 leagues south of Pilsen. Musket shots fired by some drunken idiots had startled a draught horse pulling the munitions cart. The horse reared and trampled Michel, crushing his head. We recognised him from his uniform and ring. Most of his face was missing. Now there are only seven of us.”
The two men sat in companionable silence for some time. Jack studied the corporal unobtrusively by the light of the fire. Chauvin was sinewy and of medium height, an alert and agile man with greying, wavy hair—nearing 50. A good eye with a musket, he would probably flounce like a ferret when forced into a swordfight. A short scar ran over his right eye, bisecting his eyebrow. His argentine eyes could be as hard as the metal of his blade and a match to its shade. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing deep, dark blue veins that ran like rillets of wine down his arms. He had a habit of walking slightly stooped, belying his fulgurant reflexes. A grey Monmouth cap covered his head when it was wet or cool, and a crimson scarf was knotted loosely around his neck. He was a thoroughly experienced and shrewd military man—possibly one who had known no other life. Most importantly, Jack felt that he could confide implicitly in the corporal.
Jack prodded at the fire with the toe of his boot, too relaxed to reach for the poker. Chauvin finally raised his cup and whispered hoarsely with a sleepy yawn, as if each word carried the weight of an anvil, “A votre santé, monsieur. I’m off to bed.”
“Na zdrowie,” Jack replied ruefully as both men drained their mugs.
After his friend had shuffled away, Jack leaned back in his chair and drew out each side of his luxuriant moustache between his index finger and thumb as was his habit after eating. His eyes rose towards the dark, lofty reaches of the rafters and the vaulted roof. A decent round of direct strikes from the enemy’s heavy guns would bring this sacred church down, he mused silently to himself. Thankfully the cathedral occupied the very heart of the city, which effectively placed it beyond their normal range. He scanned the coloured glass windows, admiring the beauty of their scenes. The grand windows easily stood four or five body lengths high, each a masterful example of the artisan’s talent. The glass tiles were a mosaic of beauty, telling a compelling story of God and his creatures. He was attracted by one, in particular, that depicted a pious-looking man with white hair and beard crossing a stream with a staff in hand and carrying an infant. There were serenity and conviction