Outside Randstadt

The third squadron, Guard Horse Grenadiers filled the view in the telescope. They were fresh: Grand Duke Karl could tell from the swift way they maneuvered. Each squadron took turn and turn-about to fulfill their duties, keeping the heavy troopers and mounts fit for longer.

For the past week the regiment had assisted in pressing the retreating remnants of the Margraf’s blocking force back from the border with Hetzenberg. Although never profligate with the lives of men, Karl regretted the necessity of preserving his meager cavalry resources. It made the task of pressing the enemy that much harder and meant fewer resources elsewhere.

Their immediate opponents wore the green uniform of Dummebettler's Regiment of Dragoons. All that day had been a case of advance and retreat, advance and retreat, both sides’ cavalry matching the moves of the other with precision. Now the enemy had their backs to the town of Randstadt. Here they could no longer stand, so they must by necessity withdraw into the town or ride away, refusing battle. It was that or face annihilation at the hands of superior forces.

He lifted the instrument to gaze at the distant town, ignoring the charming spires and towers to focus on the gray line of the ramparts stretched around its circumference. Men moved there, and cannon showed in embrasures sited at intervals. He gauged the distance between the leading troop of his cavalry to the edge of the defense works.

“There goes their cavalry,” Count Ostenberg murmured as the line of enemy dragoons peeled away into column of twos and rode fast for the nearest town gate. “Any moment now…”

Karl glanced at the Chancellor, gazing through his own instrument with rapt attention. “That’s the Neuburg battery, is it not?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Karl nodded thoughtfully. “If I recall correctly, that young scamp Ursula reported six eighteen-pounders there.”

“Just so. Ah!”

Karl saw it at the same moment, a big puff of dirty white smoke erupting from one of the dark dots that marked the enemy guns. He counted the seconds under his breath. At the count of six a gush of earth sprang from the ground about a hundred yards in front of the Horse Grenadiers. Two of the men hurriedly guided their mounts to one side before the heavy ball bounded between them. The signal was plain: thus far and no further.

“It didn’t bounce far,” Ostenberg commented, closing his telescope with a snap. “The soil is damp from the thaw.”

“It’s just as well. It’ll be easier to entrench.” Karl watched the captain commanding the troop ride toward the town, leaving his men behind. With an elegant sweep of his tricorn he saluted the distant enemy gunners. A few seconds later the flag above the battery dipped in acknowledgement.

“Easier to entrench, but we must beware of the miasma that can rise from wet ground. Disease has carried off more soldiers in a siege than ever cannon did.”

“You’re quite correct.” Karl refused to dwell upon such practical but gloomy thoughts. Instead he directed his attention to the rest of his army.

In accordance with orders they proceeded to shake out of column of march into column of divisions, colors flying at the head of each regiment. Every step of the process passed in measured and stately fashion until the army marched parallel to the defenses of Randstadt. Karl admired the maneuver even as he nodded approval of the way his officers directed their commands. All that remains now is for us to seal off the town. Everything else will follow in due order.

Almost as if following a cue Colonel Wilhelm Schmutzgräber walked up to the command party. He carried a yardstick under his left arm and the end of a measuring tape poked out of a coat pocket. Drawing his lanky form up to its full height, he saluted. “My boys are ready to proceed on your command, Your Grace.”

Karl returned the salute and cast a glance back at where the army was deploying off the Kimmelsbrücke road. Sure enough the engineering train was parking in a field alongside the road. The lumbering flat-bed wagons were laden with tools, and enough duckboards, gabions and fascines to make a start on siege works.

Beyond those lay the pride of the siege train. “Ah!” Karl said, turning his horse and galloping over to view the passing guns. Oxen lowed mournfully as their drivers goaded them onwards, following directions from a harassed-looking major. Standing close by him was a young woman in the crimson coat of the new Guard artillery. Karl checked his mount by the side of the road and regarded her thoughtfully. “Good morning Major Thom, Lieutenant Amadeus.”

The pair saluted. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

“Please continue with your work.”

Karl watched for a while as they guided the guns through a gate and into a broad field that would serve as the artillery park for the siege. In truth, he was still uncomfortable in the presence of Lieutenant Amadeus. So was Major Thom, judging by the stiffness in his bearing. Had he known what his son proposed, Karl would’ve forbidden the granting of her commission. Now the act was a fait accompli and he could not rescind the order without making Philip look foolish. The only saving grace in the whole affair lay in the young woman’s competence. Her work on the wedding fireworks for Grafin Ursula had been the talk of Europe. She bore watching – especially if, as some sources had it, there was something else in the relationship between Graf Philip and his protégé.

Karl found a genuine distraction in the shape of his guns, shiny new twenty-four pounder castings from the ironworks at Wöhl. Each bore the legend Ultima Ratio Regum, Latin for ‘The Last Argument (literally ‘reason’) of Kings.’

Once the town is encircled and all threat of interference removed, we shall begin the siege, he thought. Those little beauties will have their say in the matter. He gave the new lieutenant a courteous nod. And give this young lady her due; she’s more than competent to direct their fire. We shall prevail here at Randstadt, and the Eisenwasser Valley will be ours!

A Study in Bearstein

*

Professor Iago Knappenberger entered his chambers, situated high in the Baroque New House on the University of Bearstein campus. Ordinarily a sense of repose would come over him as he entered the study-cum-sitting room, a charming room with a south facing view over the university lawns and gardens to the river beyond. After a busy day of tutorials and lectures, he welcomed the calm surroundings. This afternoon, however, he had a knotty conundrum to consider, a problem of the utmost political delicacy.

It had arrived in the form of a simple missive, apparently written in haste by a surprising correspondent - to whit, Grafin Ursula von Hetzenberg-Pfalb. He picked the document up from his cluttered desk and read it again.

‘I have a dear friend who is what is known as a commoner. She is of age, and wishes to marry my cousin Graf Philip, heir to the Grand Duchy. There is no family or blood tie between them. Would their marriage be legal?

‘All correspondence will reach me if directed to:- the Grand Ducal Army in the Field, Somewhere inside the Margravate of Dunkeldorf-Pfühl. Hopeful in your reply being yes, yours sincerely, Ursula von H-P.’

As an authority on international law Knappenberger had handled the matter of the Grafin’s claim to the Grand Ducal throne via Sacro Illiac law. He little expected correspondence from the young woman herself, let alone on such a subject. “And with so little data to go on!” he expostulated, setting the letter aside. As an afterthought he weighed it down with a wineglass then went to stand before the window. “What to do, what to do…” he muttered.

The door opened behind him and his servant entered the room with a soft tread. Knappenberger turned to regard the newcomer with some irritation. “You’re late, man!”

His servant bowed, holding the tray he bore tightly so as not to spill the tankard of small beer upon it along with a platter of soft bread and überreifem cheese. “My apologies, Professor,” he mumbled and carried the tray to the desk. Knappenberger shook his head. The man spoke with an atrocious form of the local dialect, something his ear had difficulty attuning to even after several months residence in Bearstein. “Would that the cretin spoke French!” he sighed in that language, returning his attention to the view. “You may go,” he said in German, dismissing the man with a wave of his hand.

The servant bowed and departed the room. Knappenberger stared out at the sunset, his mind returning to the problem posed by the Grafin. “So very difficult, and yet I think there is precedence.” His stomach rumbled and he sighed. “But first to feed the inner man.”

He sat at his desk, folded the napkin across his lap and proceeded to devour the meal. Even as his teeth worked on the crusty bread his mind kept working on the problem, until at the end of the meal the solution was clear. Picking up pen and parchment he wrote.

‘To Her Excellency the Grafin, greetings.

‘My dear Excellency. With reference to your communication of the third instance: I thank you for the generous payment received and give you this advice subject to further research on my part, and upon the presumption both parties in the relationship are agreeable to a match.

As my awareness of Ducal law stands there is no inhibiting factor to such a marriage between His Excellency the Graf and your friend. Social and traditional constraints exist in plenty, of course, and your friend will doubtless be aware of this. To summarize, my answer to your query is a provisional yes.

Please advise your friend to await further instructions from myself before undertaking any moves toward her nuptials.

Your humble, obedient servant, I. Knappenberger.’

“There!” He laid his pen aside, sanded the document, yawned and sat back in his chair. “An answer, I feel, that will satisfy the presumptuous young lady whilst allowing me time to consult with her elders – in particular, His Grace.” He yawned again, removed his wig and scratched his scalp. “Bless me! I feel quite fatigued. Now, uh. Uhhhhh…”

Bartolomeo Gundaker stood patiently the other side of the door, listening to the Professor as he talked to himself. His cue came when he heard the solid thud of a body hitting the floor in the study. With a quick glance around to ensure privacy Bartolomeo entered the room, shutting the door carefully behind him.

Professor Knappenberger lay prostrate on the floor alongside his desk, his wig resting near an outstretched hand like a strange birds nest. Bartolomeo knelt alongside the fallen academic and tested for a pulse. Nothing.

“A cretin, am I, Monsieur le professeur?” he said quietly in French. He patted the cooling cheek in a familiar manner. “At least I’m not the one now taking up residency in that special circle of Hell reserved for lawyers!”

Rising, Batolomeo quickly scanned the desk. Locating the recently written note he shook the blotting sand onto a spare sheet of paper and replaced the document with a carefully-forged note of his own composition. The original he stuffed into his jerkin. Pausing only to scatter the ink-stained sand onto the forgery he departed the room, locking the door behind him.

By the time a porter summoned by an anxious colleague had battered down the Professor’s study door, Bartolomeo was already across the Bearstein border and bound for home.

* * *

So begins a new Hetzenberg Chronicle. As things stand such excerpts may appear at least once a week, if not more often. It all depends on what time I have among other projects. Watch this space...

On Sale Now!

The Hetzenberg Chronicles, volume 1: Prelude to War is out now at Amazon!
Buy it here!

The year is Seventeen-hundred and frozen-stiff...

In the space between European empires two small nations hover on the brink of war. As great men on both sides ponder the future, a secret agent and two unconventional women are about to make their mark.

The Convent of St. Ungulant is home to Sister Mary Amadeus, a nun with a passion for blowing things up, and her best friend Ursula Reitzell, a bold and beautiful novice. Little does Mary A suspect her friend is a spy in the employ of Hetzenberg secret agent Konrad Beckenbaur. Little does Konrad suspect Ursula hides a secret that will light the fuse for war.

When fate calls the three are swept up in events that lead them through moments of high terror and drama, comedy and pathos. Will their combined talents for explosives and mayhem see them through?

The Hetzenberg Chronicles Volume 1:

Prelude to War

Coming soon!

The print version of
the Hetzenberg Chronicles, vol 1: Prelude to War
will be on sale from tomorrow!

STOP PRESS!

*

Or rather, Start press! I'm happy to say the final proof copy of the Hetzenberg Chronicles arrived today and I approved it only minutes ago!

As you can see above it all looks very spiffy, and will be on sale in approx. fifteen days time. I'll post a link to Amazon's CreateSpace site when it's ready to go! Thank you one and all for your patience while the creative process was underway.

Trials and tribulations overcome!

I think I may have mentioned working to produce a book in print form is no picnic. If my recent experience is anything to go by, if it was a picnic it'd be one well-visited by ants, wasps and other creepy-crawlies!

Still, the proofing is done and submitted to the printers. I just have to wait now for the next stage.

Have a happy Presidents' Day weekend, everybody!

Proofs!

*

So here we have them - two print copies of the Hetzenberg Chronicles, volume 1 - Prelude to War. There's a wonderfully tactile sensation associated with handling print copies of your own work, and these are no different. However, proof copies are intended as a final check on quality before going into full production, and these have shown up some internal errors which I'll have to correct before giving the okay. At the current rate I'm looking at a release date sometime in early March, if not sooner. Watch this space!