By My Sword Alone by David Black (ebook reader ink TXT) 📕

the old general considerable amusement. Laughing, he said, ‘Well said, chevalier! Telling the great General Lacy, “your compliments be damned”, eh? Shunning even the remotest chance for a purse full of silver for your troubles. Or maybe even gold, should you wish to be of further service to him. Alas, what you wish is irrelevant.’

James felt himself bridle at what had just been said. ‘Make your meaning plain, sir!’ His voice was frigidly polite. He watched von Bittinghofen closely, as he in turn gave James a long, shrewd look.

‘No, you are not the man for that, chevalier, are you?’ von Bittinghofen said at length. ‘I apologise.’

James, now emollience itself, asked, ‘For what, sir?’

‘Implying betrayal.’

‘I do not understand, sir.’

‘A man like Lacy, requesting you present yourself at his court? Just to say thank you for returning a fool who is only going to be sent back to St Petersburg in disgrace? Or maybe to talk about the weather perhaps? Or the fishing in the Mottlau river? I thought maybe you had somehow made plain to him you were open to offers … to spy maybe … or to swop your allegiance and command his cavalry now he’s lost his original commander, our major general whom young Casimir collared. You are, after all, a soldier of fortune, chevalier, a sword for hire. But then you are not that calibre of man, are you? I see that. Always have. I can only think it is the damned siege that has rotted my brain and provoked me to suggest otherwise. I offer my most humble apologies, chevalier. But you still have to go. Refusing would be discourteous. It is a matter of honour for you. And for me, as your commanding officer. Sorry, but there you are.’

‘Put like that, sir, I of course will obey. But on one point, I do not see how you could have possibly thought I could have made myself plain to General Lacy. How could I have managed that, sir? I know there is a channel for correspondence between our armies, but I am equally sure your staff must know everything that goes into communications between our two camps.’

‘Courtesy of the Gräfin von Kettler, of course. She passes to and fro with a tedious regularity. Negotiating between her uncle and the Russian court, she says, but God knows what else she trades.’

James felt a weight settle round his heart. His intuition had from the beginning warned him the woman was dangerous; even to just stand next to. But this?

‘Dorothea von Kettler might have given an impression of a certain intimacy between us to some,’ he spelled out laboriously, ‘but I can assure you general that we are not so close that I would entrust her with any such message, even if I was so disposed to send one.’

The old general laughed a knowing laugh; and with that, their interview was over.

*

The Russian major general refused to travel in the coach with the other senior Russian officers, and insisted on his own horse. The instant he mounted, he shouldered the beast to the head of the parole column where it had been arranged James should ride with another Russian officer sent to conduct them through first the Polish lines, and then the Russian ones.

The major general studiously ignored all his junior comrade’s pleas to move aside, and as the column set out. James was happy to drop back and chat through the coach window with his new friends.

The journey was little more than two leagues, through the Bischoffsberg gate and out to the south east, winding through the Russian lines, on a route James guessed had been specifically designed to give him a view of the enormity of the Russian build-up; something to give him nightmares as he waited for the artillery bombardment to commence.

The headquarters of General Peter Edmond Lacy, Knight of the Order of Alexander Nevsky, senior figure in the Collegium Militaire – or Russian general staff – and favourite of the Tsarina Anna I of all the Russias, was in an imposing, rambling manor-cum-farm house, with its own wall and courtyard. The general was not there to greet them at the gate. In fact, there was no welcome committee whatsoever. Just one colonel, standing in the middle of what was obviously ordinary, day-to-day bustle. He curtly dispatched all James’ Russian guests to various doors and outhouses as they tumbled from the coach. He was even more abrupt with the major general – despite the man being his senior officer – not even offering to hold his horse’s bridle while he tried to dismount.

James’ small escort of six Dzików meanwhile were bustled away by a couple of Russian cavalry NCOs, presumably for restorative chugs from their bottles of the local eau de vie, judging by all the bonhomie. That left James standing alone with nowhere to go – until he saw a small civilian in a fustian coat looking for all the world like a butler. He offered to take James’ tricorne and cloak, and pointed the way into the main house, all in serviceable French.

They went through a huge, vaulted entry hall with a tall, leaded and stained glass window at the back, and then he was led from the hall down a dark, winding corridor, past open doors leading to much larger rooms, all of them busy with staff officers. Finally they came to quite a commodious snug, all dark wood panelling with four huge, luxuriously upholstered wing-backed chairs and lots of little tables for resting your drink, or book, or for holding candle sticks. A small fire blazed in a grate, and James was offered a seat and asked if he cared for any refreshment. He asked for a cordial.

After only a brief few minutes General Lacy arrived, unannounced, not that anyone could be in any doubt who he was, thought James, rising to accept his