CHAPTER 2

Bjornsson swore under his breath. The Catholic Polish and their Lithuanian allies had been trying to push back Sweden's incursions into Eastern Europe for centuries, but they had only been at peace with Sweden until very recently. This was probably a desperate attempt to win back lost territory. Jarlsberg was a castle built on the borderlands between Livonia and Lithuania, but it had been guarded by several smaller outposts in the past. One of them had fallen, apparently, and now the enemy was at the gates and it was Bjornsson's duty to defend the castle.

“Musketeers to the southwest ramparts! Pikemen guard the gate! I want men on the cannons facing that general direction to begin shelling as soon as the enemy gets in range!” Bjornsson shouted as he dashed towards the ramparts to join the defenders. Jarlsberg had never been attacked before, but he was confident that he could defend it against a company-sized element of enemy troops with the artillery he had in place.

“Today, of all days, this had to happen as I suffer from a damn hangover.” Bjornsson muttered to himself as he climbed up the steps of the ramparts. He took the spyglass from the watchman to look through it himself. The silhouettes of hundreds of foreign infantrymen crested the horizon beyond, with their pikes and muskets shouldered, standing still and awaiting orders.

Bjornsson recognized them by their uniforms to be Lithuanians – Catholic allies to the Poles and members of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. The Lithuanians were not particularly well known for the quality of their infantrymen. The discipline and tactics of Sweden’s regular army would be more than a match for them, but Bjornsson had no wish to sally out of the safety of his own castle.

He ordered the guns, Swedish leather cannon, to adjust their elevations and concentrate fire on the Lithuanians. The smell of burning matches and gunpowder wafted up Bjornsson’s long nose as he braced himself for the vibrations and noise of cannon fire.

With a series of loud thuds, the leather cannon propelled their fist-sized stone balls towards the mass of infantry. The rounds fell short several yards away from the big toe of the nearest enemy soldier.

“Sergeant Torsten!” Bjornsson cried out, “Adjust elevation to maximum!”

The sergeant repeated the order, and the gunners responded in the negative,

“That is all the range they have, sir!”

Bjornsson noticed movement on the horizon again. He looked through his spyglass and cursed at what he saw. The enemy was bringing in their own cannon: bronze six-pounder guns, with far greater range than his own. There were four of them, and all of them seemed to point towards the gate.

“Sergeant Torsten, prepare the men to sally forth.”

As Bjornson finished this sentence, a synchronized volley of cannon fire sent rounds flying over the gatehouse with a loud whoosh, and four stone balls buried themselves in the wall of the castle keep. The enemy was most definitely within range.

Both Bjornsson and his subordinate stood petrified for a moment, staring at the keep’s wall.

“I said move, damn you!” Bjornsson barked as he kicked Torsten to get him moving. The captain followed Torsten down the ramparts to the formation of pikemen guarding the gate.

Pikemen rushed to the gate and formed a square to prepare for the enemy’s assault. A block of seventy-five bristling pike-wielding infantry stood at the gateway, muttering prayers and gritting their teeth in anticipation of mortal combat.

“Men!” yelled Bjornsson, “Embrace the fear in your bellies and the tears in your eyes! They are proof that you are alive! Turn that fear into hate, and rip…”

On the word rip, a cannonball tore through the wooden gate and flew straight into the mass of pikemen, turning a dozen soldiers into a mush of blood, flesh, splinters, and armor.

Bjornsson threw his hands in the air, “Lord God! At least give me a chance to finish my speech!” The captain turned to Torsten and growled, “March the men out into the field and deal with these Catholic bastards. Go!”

“Yes, sir! Gatekeeper, open the gate!”

As the gates rumbled open, the company drummer began playing his drum to the “preparatory” call – a long drum roll.

“Avdelning! Framåt… MARSCH!”

At this command, the drummer played a steady, rhythmic beat that bid the formation to march forward, even as the enemy’s bronze cannons stared down at them in the distance. The enemy cannons chose to remain silent and the Lithuanians still refused to advance, knowing they would be in range of Bjornsson’s leather cannon. The captain rapped his fingers on his spyglass in restlessness and suspicion.

As his pikemen advanced on the enemy, Bjornsson heard the sound of rumbling thunder. Turning his spyglass to the direction of the sound, he scanned the horizon and saw what looked like a great dust cloud. Enemy cavalry – perhaps they were maneuvering to flank his pikemen.

The captain shouted for his pikemen to form a square to defend themselves against the approaching cavalry, but the formation was too far away for Torsten to hear him.

To Bjornsson’s horror, the cavalrymen wheeled around the pikemen and charged straight for the castle’s gate.

“In the name of God, close the gate!” Bjornsson yelled as he ran back up the ramparts to the gatehouse. The chains of the gate mechanism groaned as the men cranking it grunted and cursed that they could not make it move any faster. Bjornsson himself grabbed hold of one of the revolving spokes of the mechanism and exerted all the strength he could muster to make the rusted machine move. As the mechanism turned faster, the gate slowly closed. The massive wooden structure sealed shut as Bjornsson let out a satisfied sigh.

They were safe for the time being, the only damage to the gate being the massive hole that was left by the cannon round from earlier.

The foreign riders came closer. Lipka Tatars – distant cousins to the sons of Genghis Khan – Muslim steppe people famed for their excellent cavalry. These ones fought as mercenaries for the Polish.

As the Tatars came into musket range, the musketeers on the ramparts fired their weapons at them in a single volley and ducked behind the battlements to reload. Some of the enemy riders fell, while the rest responded with arrow fire with such volume that it effectively suppressed the Swedish musketeers, forcing them to remain behind their cover.

With the Swedish musketeers successfully pinned down, a few Tatars rode to within spitting distance of the fortification and grappling hooks through the hole in the gate. The riders, with the ropes of the grappling hooks attached to their horses, then rode at full gallop in the opposite direction, ripping off big chunks of the wooden gate.

The gate had been breached – a Tatar cavalryman sounded his horn.

Hearing their cue, the Lithuanian infantry formed a long, brought their spears to charge and slammed into the outnumbered Swedish pikemen, engulfing them on all sides. Torsten’s company was effectively lost.

Crista was not trained in the arts of war. She knew nothing of shot or shell or concealment, but she knew that she had to return to the castle keep. Steeling herself, she bolted towards the keep’s door, bumping shoulders with the flow of men that ran from the barracks towards the ramparts. It was made even more difficult by the fact that Crista had to run in a skirt. She muttered a curse to the fool who had invented it as she reached the castle gate and slammed her fist on it, ordering the doorman to let her in.

Crista put her ear to the door in impatience, wondering what could be taking so long. She heard the sound of heavy wood grinding on metal. The doorman was removing the large wooden bar that held the door together. After that, the doors immediately flung open and the doorman urged her inside, closing the door back up again as soon as she entered. Crista knew she would be safe for the time being. The stone walls and the soldiers defending the castle outside gave her a small measure of comfort, however now that she had gathered herself somewhat, she realized that someone was missing.

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“Where is my father?” she asked the doorman.

“Mistress, your father went out on a hunting trip in the early hours of the morning.” replied the doorman, his lips quivering. “I fear... I hope he does not return too soon, for his own safety.”

Crista frowned. While it was a good thing that her father was safe, him being on a hunting trip also meant that he took a small number of soldiers with him from the garrison to act as bodyguards and dog handlers. Those same soldiers would have added strength to the garrison's meager force and would have possibly made a difference in the battle that was currently raging. But again, at least he was safe. All that Crista had to worry about now was herself. Where was the best place to hide?

The interior of the keep itself was large and offered many hiding places, but none appealed more to Crista than her own room in the solar. Not only was it comfortable and familiar, but there was also only one way in or out of it, through a narrow staircase that curled up and around a large stone column. She would hide there until the gunfire and screaming stopped outside.

The Tatars began pouring through the broken gate, trampling the musketeers that stood in their way to attempt a last-ditch defense. Bjornsson's tactical lapse in judgment had proven disastrous. He threw his arms up in the air in frustration and watched as Tatars dismounted and came sword to sword with musketeers that were descending the ramparts.

He also heard a rumbling in the distance that was closing in at an alarming rate – definitely heavy cavalry. His pikemen, meant to protect against cavalry attack, were being hacked away by the Lithuanians several yards outside the walls. Every foe that was entering the walls was on horseback, and his men could not take much more of it.

A rider on a white horse charged through the open gate. The morning sunlight reflecting off of his plate armor, his face concealed by a closed faceplate, with his red lance couched beneath his arms. From out of his back, feathered wings bristled like those of an avenging angel. Dozens of similarly-attired cavalrymen followed behind him. Winged hussars – the pride of Poland's army and the greatest heavy cavalry in Europe.

Even as dust kicked up by the horses and smoke from the muskets obscured the battlefield, Bjornsson could tell that he was losing this battle. The next sensible course of action would be to organize a retreat. But to where? Riga? That was sixteen miles away, and there was no way that the garrison would be able to slip out of the fort safely without being slaughtered to a man, especially since the enemy was composed primarily of cavalry. As the musket balls whistled over his head, Bjornsson decided that it would be better off if he saved only the most important people at Jarlsberg, starting with the Greve's adviser, his daughter, and any officers that he could gather.

Scanning the chaotic scene at the courtyard, he could see that the hussars were making quick work of the musketeers he had placed there to stop them. Since they failed to put up a wall of pikes and were instead running around like rats on a sinking ship, the Polish hussars had their horses simply trotting around and were slashing at the retreating soldiers at their leisure.

The few swordsmen at the ramparts were faring no better. Tatars excelled at melee fighting, and many had brought shields with them, giving them a distinct advantage against the Europeans with their one-handed broadswords and tiny bucklers.

It was definitely time to go. Bjornsson sheathed his sword and hurriedly quit the courtyard, looking around him and making sure that none of his troops could tell that he was retreating back to the castle keep. He would never forget this defeat for as long as he lived, which would not be very long if he did not hurry.

As she huddled in the corner of her room, clutching a candlestick – more for comfort than as a weapon – Crista could hear the gunshots outside getting louder and more frequent. Her eyes darted around the room as if looking for a way out of this nightmare. Of course, she knew there was only one exit, but surely there was an alternative to descending the stairs into the hands of the enemy and certain death. The windows were reinforced with iron bars, so they were not an option; besides she could not fly. Hiding was not an option either – the enemy would search every room thoroughly for loot.

She looked back to the door. If she stayed here, she would be safe only if the battle below went favorably, and if the enemy was not allowed to enter the tower. What she could hear outside was not bringing her any sense of confidence in the ability of the garrison to defend either the castle or itself. If she left through that door, she had a small chance of making it outside and possibly escaping through one of the gates, if the soldiers were too distracted to try and catch her. She had to act soon though, while the fighting was heavy. If she waited too long, the enemy would overrun the garrison and she would definitely be captured. The door was the only sane choice.

Dropping the candlestick, Crista rose to her feet and bolted for the door. As she fumbled with the deadbolt, she realized that this could very well be her last day on earth. Seventeen years of nothing but boring parties, forced smiles, social tiptoeing and lessons... endless, frivolous lessons. Seventeen years wasted. She could not die like this.

The door opened, and in her haste, she almost slipped and fell down the stairwell. That would've been a slightly better, albeit more embarrassing death than bleeding out by shot or cold steel, but Crista had no intention of being bested by the work of a sloppy peasant blacksmith. She ripped her long skirt and removed her dainty shoes, running down the stairs barefoot. She was making good time. It would be insane to go through the front door into the courtyard, so she opted for the back door.

Just as she was about to sprint towards the small oaken double doors of the castle, a hand reached out from behind her and grabbed her by the arm, and another one reached for her mouth before she could scream. A man had pulled her behind the stairs. Panic gripped her. It was over – this is where she would die. She had many regrets, too many to think of, and tears started forming in her eyes.

“Bitte stehe schweigend auf mein mausebär.” Please be quiet, whispered her captor, as he slowly removed his hand from her mouth. Mausebär?

“Herr Ratsherr? Ratsherr Fegelein? Thank God you are alive.” She whispered in German. Crista breathed a sigh of relief, although her chest was pounding like a bird's.

“We cannot escape through either door.” the councilman said, his voice trembling with fear. “The Polish have attacked us from both sides. Our only hope is to hide in the secret cellar room and escape during the night after the Polish take the castle and bed down.”

Secret cellar room? Crista was sure she knew every inch of the castle. She had never heard of a secret cellar room, but then again she had never gone down into the cellar for too long. It stank terribly, the air was musty, and there were always rats. She hated rats, but she preferred to be surrounded by the vile creatures rather than risk death.

“All right, I will follow you.” she said after half a moment's consideration.

Ratsherr Fegelein swallowed hard and wiped the sweat off his brow with his silk handkerchief. “Good. Stay close by.” he said as he gradually stood up to leave their hiding place behind the stairs.

No sooner had he gotten on his two feet than a loud bashing sound emanated from the small backdoor while it started to buckle. Loud shouts in Polish and Tatar came from the other side. Ratsherr Fegelein froze, not knowing what to do. His indecisiveness cost him.

The door burst open, letting in a flood of Tatar warriors and a single winged hussar in shining golden armor. The Tatars ran towards the petrified councilman, screaming their infidel battle cries. Ratsherr Fegelein's pants suddenly felt a lot warmer.

The hussar in golden armor bellowed a command and the Tatars stopped short of skewering the councilman through his now empty bladder. The hussar dismounted from his horse and lifted the visor of his helmet to reveal the face of a man with piercing green eyes and a curled mustache.

“Czy to twój zamek?” said the hussar.

Ratsherr Fegelein's lips trembled. He opened his mouth to speak, to tell them he did not understand, but no words came out. He was going to die because of a lapse in translation.

“Nie. Ten zamek należy do mojego ojca.” No, this castle belongs to my father, said Crista as she revealed herself from her hiding place. “He is my father's adviser, your grace.” She continued in Polish. She stammered quite a bit. It was as if she was doing a recitation at gunpoint.

The hussar took a deep, respectful bow towards Crista and replied in Polish, “Where is your father, kochanie?”

“He is out hunting, your grace.” she replied through chattering teeth.

“A pity. I would have liked to meet the man responsible for this valiant defense. I am Colonel Jan Casimir, of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, and I am here to respectfully request your surrender.” as soon as he completed his sentence, he heard the sound of glass shattering.

Bjornsson could find no way to enter through the front door of the keep and had instead decided to leap through a ground floor window that had not been secured with iron bars. He had almost been shot twice and had been forced to dispatch a Tatar with his sword. He took in his surroundings, wild-eyed, in to find his lord's daughter and adviser surrounded by the enemy commander and his Tatar entourage.

He froze. Hopelessly outnumbered, there was no way he could rescue either Crista or Fegelein without getting killed himself. The Polish commander spotted him and raised his steel-gloved hand, signaling the Tatars to shoot him. He would have to move quickly – if he could either step back outside or jump behind one of the pillars...

Suddenly he heard the loud bang of a musket. A piece of marble from the floor must have nicked him in the leg before he realized that he was being shot at. His battlefield instincts kicked in, and he leaped behind a nearby column for cover. The next best course of action to take would be to run for the armory, maybe find a musket or a grenade to even the odds.

Bjornsson tried to make a dash towards the armory, but to his surprise, his right leg refused to respond. Looking down at it, he realized he had been shot. His blue pants were now turning dark purple. A sharp, burning pain pierced his thigh as the world slowly got darker around him. His last conscious thoughts before blackness overtook him were that he did not even have a chance to eat breakfast that morning.