The Cavalier Club. Stanley Goldyn
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Jack waited for a brief moment. “A quiet, quick word if I may.” He traced a finger across an eyebrow as the pair sat alone.
“In answer to your question last night, I am officially a lieutenant in the king’s guard but spend much of my time away from the Royal Palace in Warszawa with my family at home in Kraków. My primary role is to be available at any time to act as an envoy of the king. I am now returning home from such a duty.” Jack hesitated before continuing, his face unreadable. One hand rested next to his hat on the table, the other on his knee. Vacillating fingers tapped the table. He glanced at the honest, unshaven face staring back at him. He briefly reconsidered taking the wiry corporal he had so swiftly warmed to into his confidence, but the veteran’s grey eyes returned an unwavering sincerity that trumped his heartbeat of indecision.
“My full name is Andrzej Hiacynt Channing. Rather an odd mixture, I know.” A mischievous smile spread slowly across Jack’s face.
“Yet it all rather does make sense when I explain a little more about my family.” He looked the corporal directly in the eye. “You’re a good, honest soldier, Alain. Your men like you and more than that, they trust in you and never question your decisions. I respect you for that. You’re an old, salty, gritty bastard that gets the job done. No issues and without delay. And as none of us knows how things will go today, I wanted to share a little about myself with you. There may not be another evening together by the fire again tonight. That’s in God’s hands.”
Chauvin bowed his head slightly, embarrassed by the praise, and picked at an imaginary splinter in his thumb. His face was sombre; he listened intently as his companion continued.
“I am returning from a diplomatic mission in Paris and was on my way to meet an old friend in Prague when I got caught up in this. Like you, I guess, neither of us believed that Pilsen would fall under siege, trapping us here. We are in strange and troubled times. I feel increasingly uneasy. There is an atmosphere of chaos growing gloomily around us. More than that, I felt it in France, the Palatinate regions and especially here in Bohemia. Rumours of war—many believe it to be inevitable. The whole of Europe may be affected. People are worried, scared. There are provocation and mistrust between the Catholics and Protestants.” Jack scanned the vastness of the nave around them. Women were washing plates and bowls, sorting blankets, and hushing children. Most of the men had left to relieve guards on the walls.
“I must meet with my dear friend, and the sooner, the better. He will be able to update me with intelligence that I need to relay to my king and his council.”
The Frenchman stared back gravely, keenly listening to the officer. Jack summoned another cheeky smile, needing to lighten the topic. “My father fought in Poland as a Scottish mercenary paid to protect the king in the royal regiment. He was known as ‘Jock’ to his comrades, a common enough name in Scotland, I understand. Retired now, he stayed in Poland after meeting my mother. He was also an accomplished swordsman and eventually became the royal fencing master, teaching me—and others—many subtle skills and tricks with a sword.
“I was named after my mother’s brother but was commonly called Jack, particularly as a child. And eventually it stuck, being a variation of John and, of course, my father’s name. My military colleagues referred to me as nothing else, but my university tutors preferred ‘Jacek’, the Polish version. I received my middle name when I was christened. My mother loves flowers, and the priest obliged. For obvious reasons I never use it.” Jack’s smile widened. “So now you know a little more about me. In fact, more than most, my friend,” he added jovially. The two men laughed aloud, attracting curious looks from some of the closer women. Chauvin relaxed, absorbing the trust shared in him.
“I was fortunate, however, Alain, with the turn of events some years ago,” Jack continued evenly. “In the spring of 1612, the king’s trusted envoy was scheduled to meet with an ambassador from Brandenburg at an inn in Poznań, selected for being more or less equidistant between Warszawa and Berlin. The clandestine assignation had been arranged well in advance, and my father and a small group of cavalrymen travelled as an escort to protect the diplomat.
“My father intervened in an attempt on the life of our ambassador, and although badly wounded, he saved the ambassador’s life. My father’s timely intercession was generously rewarded by the king, and in retirement, he received significant lands and estate plus a very comfortable and handsome pension. With my education and knowledge of languages, my name was forwarded to the palace as a suitable ambassadorial replacement. And here I am—a royal envoy in dusty and crumpled clothes. A shabby cavalier!” Jack leaned back with out-stretched arms and grinned like a jester.
The pair laughed heartily again as they rose to gather their belongings. Jack buckled on his belt and inserted his pistol and dagger. Chauvin reached for his musket and cap. Their attention was abruptly drawn by the calling of an approaching figure, a portly man who revealed a bald pate as he pulled off his hat inside the church. He hurried to them with quick, small steps.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” the man hastened, short of breath. “My lords, I understand from reports provided by my troops that you assisted in defending our walls yesterday. I believe that a handful of your men had made quite an effective impact against our enemy. Remarkable shooting, I’ve heard.” He stopped a few paces from the pair and looked, with mouth open, from one to the other. He had spoken in a local Slavic dialect, and Jack understood most of what he had said. He was unarmed and neatly dressed as a civilian. He did not possess the bearing of a military man. Of medium height, he was clean-shaven and carefully groomed. His small eyes blinked nervously, and his puffy cheeks moved like a bellows sucking in short breaths. He looked like an anxious butcher with an empty gambrel and no meat to sell. Jack guessed that he was a man of position due to the deference shown him by the townspeople in the nave.
Reading their blank expressions, the visitor introduced himself and bowed contritely. “Hritek, Jaroslav Hritek. Burgomaster of Pilsen,” he announced formally, punctuating his words with a faint smile. “My apologies!” His ruddy cheeks glistened in the light streaking through the arched windows.
Jack’s eyes danced over him. “I am honoured,” he responded and bowed slightly, with Chauvin imitating the gesture. The two waited for the burgomaster to continue.
“Gentlemen, I was told that I would find you here and have come with the wish to express my gratitude, on behalf of the residents of this illustrious and fair city, for your brave actions. I fear, however, that your continued assistance may be required at, let us say, a more elevated level.” Pausing to give his words more effect, Mayor Hritek appeared to be constantly short of breath and shifted his hat fretfully between puffy fingers from one hand to the other.
Jack began to translate, but Chauvin confirmed with a raised finger and a lazy nod that he understood most of what was being said.
“I have just now left a meeting at my chambers in the Radnice with the captains of the guard. We have been in discussion for many hours this morning, and I have been informed that the majority of our defenders have been preferentially posted onto the three main gates leading into the city.” Hritek wheezed slightly as he spoke.
“To date, artillery damage has only been slight, and we suspect that the enemy’s guns are underpowered against our walls. Repairs have been made during the night to one of the gates that sustained some minor abuse. There has been no major assault, and their inconsequential attempts have been successfully repulsed by our musketeers, and thankfully, your excellent marksmen. Gentlemen, perhaps we can sit down,” Hritek extended an arm to invite the two soldiers back to the table. “The Protestant forces, camped on the hillsides southeast of the walls, appear to totally outnumber us. Nevertheless, we have sturdy walls and sufficient food and munitions to hold adequately for five—perhaps six—weeks against a sustained siege, including a limitless supply of fresh water from the well,” he added as an afterthought.
Hritek spoke quickly, again paused for breath and looked at each man in turn. His expression was grave, and he could barely shroud the fear in his eyes. His furrowed forehead glistened with beaded sweat. “We understand that Mansfeld is leading the Protestants and that their bombardment has ceased temporarily until heavier cannons