The rain had set in during the night, and the strengthening light revealed a green world beaten down under grey hissing torrents. A squadron of Royalist cavalry, in the facings of Van Rijn's Horse, huddled miserably in a hollow. From under a nearby gorse thicket they could just hear their commander.
"Good girl Bessie, now bend over a trifle more. Yes, now..take hold of the end."
"Oh Sir, its so big and heavy" came a slighter voice.
"Well then. Just rest it in that forked branch. Good enough, now wipe the end with a cloth when I tell you."
Van Rijn, having got the telescope set up to his satisfaction, peered out into the driving rain. Below him, the steep walled coombe appeared deserted, a long stone barn the only sign of human occupancy. Beyond that the sea was just visible in the notch of the cliffs, an unhealthy greenish grey.
A dollop of water fell from the bush onto his neck; he swore. As Bessie industriously polished the lens, he twisted round and eyed the troopers behind him. They looked tough enough, festooned as they were with weaponry, but there was an air of despondency about them. No coarse witticisms, just apathetic looks. I need to get them under cover and warmed up, thought Pieter, or soon they'll be no use at all. He turned back to the great telescope, and completed a leisurely survey of the terrain. The barn now, he reflected. That would do for a start, nicely positioned to command the lane. He came to a decision and stood up.
"Sergeant! Where's the Geometer?"
"Next field Sir. I've sent a lad to keep an eye on him" replied Sgt Wakeford. "You know what he's like". A few moments later, a young trooper appeared through a gap in the hedge, pulling a bedraggled figure behind him. The latter was not an encouraging sight. Mud and rain plastered his shapeless tunic to his slight form, and only the whites of his eyes showed. Flecks of spittle clung to the wispy beard, and he could be heard muttering. The three soldiers looked at him dubiously and shook their heads at each other.
"Master Octalius! We need a judgment, do you understand?" Van Rijn shook the unheeding figure, but no reply was forthcoming. "Hello?"
"Pissed again Sir. Or he's taken some of his potions. Shall I chuck some water over him?" suggested Wakeford. Van Rijn looked up at the downpour and sighed. "No, Sergeant, just wrap him in something and sling him over a horse. And bring me his book".
The wind had died away, leaving the rain to fall without hindrance. Pieter crouched under what little shelter a thicket, a horse, and Bessie (holding a piece of canvas) could afford and opened the Book. It wasn't the first time he'd had to puzzle over it. On their way south, he'd been forced to carry out the assault on Hod Hill without Octalius to provide the Judgment. Luckily his earlier studies had been at least some use, and they had carried the fort handsomely. After the Master had recovered himself (thanks to Van Rijn's encyclopaedic hangover cures) he had been persuaded to teach more of his art.
Even so, the Dutchman was only just able to puzzle through the complex tables and odd formulae. He felt warm breath on his ear. "Is that all there is to it?" enquired Bessie. "Master always said it was too fearsome for ordinary men to look upon."
"Hah. That clod would say anything to impress people. There are books like that - I've heard tell that Eagle has a few - but this is just a small tactical handbook. Just for small fights, see? A thousand men or two - a battlefield a league or two wide. Anything bigger you'd need a better book than this." The page was soaking up water fast. He fished out a small brass dial and got to his feet, reciting words under his breath. Then "Here - catch!". She fielded the tome and stood looking after him with her mouth open as he strode away.
Bessie Groundwater spent much of her life thus. Contrary to the lewd imaginings of the dragoons, it had little to do with her role as the Captain's companion. Nor was it very often in surprise; in years of campaigning in the Civil Wars she had already seen most of what life had to offer. Rather, it was to allow a torrent of cheerful chatter about anything, everything or nothing. Her plump, ample charms, and unfailing good nature had made here immensely popular with nearly everyone in Van Rijn's horse. Besides this she had a weakness for order and tidiness, which in practice meant having all men within range comfortable, smart, well fed and wearing clean socks. She looked at the precious book in surprise and then, shrugging, filed it neatly away in her smock along with the latest items for darning.
Van Rijn finished giving orders. Dispositions to attack , to move on the stable. Flank guards, a pincer to keep any fugitives from fleeing back down the cliff path to the town. Anvil, and hammer, skirmishers, reserves, scouts. Two files of men sent away an exact distance and direction - to satisfy the arcane requirements of Geomancy. An NCO with them - somebody reliable. And lastly;
"I left enough slack in the Judgment for three scroungers" said Van Rijn. "Who?"
"Corporal Pullen Sir?" suggested Wakeford. The rest nodded agreement.
"Very well then. Give him the Bulkely twins". He looked around. "Ready everyone? Right, then lets get in out of this poxed rain".
The Dutchman had manoeuvred his men to the right place; set them in motion, directed. At the end there was little more to be done than lead them, in the last rush over the soggy greensward to the door. The crackle of muskets -dry powder he thought, we'll have that off 'em - some of his men fell.
More were with him as he reached the doorway. Axes rose and fell, then the door was open. Their own troops inside - a squalid little struggle with sword and dagger. He shouted, used the flat of his bloody sword to beat the overexcited dragoons out again, into a line to present arms and fire, over a hedge, into a lane. The volley was ragged - unbelievable that any guns went off at all - but it broke the last resistance, and the enemy melted away. For an hour, two, he was frantically busy, mopping up, consolidating. But eventually, adrenaline drained away, he sat in the saddle and looked, past his forward picket, down into Lyme Regis. A ray of light pierced the clouds and shone, briefly, on a sail far below. Was there a faint smell of brimstone, on the wind, or was it his imagination? He sniffed the breeze again, and smiled. "Got you" he pronounced.
By the evening, some semblance of order had reasserted itself. The dragoons were enjoying the comfort of the great tithe barn, digesting their dinner. At a seat near the fire, Bessie sat knitting (a comforter for Trooper Staddon) absorbed in the book on her lap. She was uncharacteristically quiet.
In a loft, Van Rijn lay back in the pleasant smelling hay and enjoyed a few moments of relaxation. All things considered, he felt himself to have cause for satisfaction. His first concern ("horses first, the men next, yourself last" as his old mentor had taught) had been splendidly addressed by this commodious snug billet. His second objective, the military one, had worked out well enough too. The plan that he, Grimmelshausen and the others had worked out called for a series of carefully timed attacks on separate places. Any or all of them could yield the sulphur they wanted. Moreover, the disposition of the various attacks had been planned on the advice of the protector's witches. Pieter's grasp of Geomancy hadn't been enough to understand the details, but Praise the Lord had assured him that the plan was worthwhile. They had decided on a combination of moves - his strike at Lyme Regis and Grimmelshausen's drive across the wilderness of Locks Heath were the first. Then, Stark and Dethorm would encircle the village of Swindon, before retiring east. He now had a commanding position, encircling the port and ready to launch his attack on the correct day and hour. So far, so good, he thought, if only it all gets us further towards Alfric's wretched bauble. I wonder how Grimmelshausen is doing?
The next day started badly, and then got worse as Van Rijn's careful plan failed to survive contact with the foe. Their captain was evidently a man of some talent, and had used his time well. A narrow lane ran down to the port, sunken between tall banks. This he had sown thick with ambuscades, one upon another, stubborn, bloody little affairs that cost time and men. Losing men (his stock in trade, as he sometimes liked to name them) had put the Dutchman in a foul mood.
Presently, he found himself in a tangled green woodland, the ground underfoot a steep treacherous slope, which plummeted from the fields on the cliff top to the sea far below; cut into a maze of narrow gullies and sudden deadfalls. Summoned thence by a message, he found both his drunken, unreliable Geomancer, and his woman Bessie. These two had been at loggerheads since, emerging from a stupor, Octalius had found her deeply absorbed in his Great Book. In the process of snatching it back he had given vent to a variety of expressions, of which whore and strumpet were the least, if truest. Van Rijn had arrived in time to save him a beating, but not a ducking, at the hands of the outraged mercenaries. Now, as he puffed up the slope he was ready to knock their heads together. It was hot, horribly hot, and humid. This, I don't need, he thought. The sweat was running down his face from beneath his helmet; suddenly, he felt giddy and ill. I'm getting too old for this shit. Getting? No, got. Well got.
"Now what the bloody hell is it now girl? I'm busy dammit, in case you hadn't noticed".
Her mouth closed with an audible snap, and her generally cheerful countenance darkened abruptly.
He tried again, this time with more tact, and gradually the story emerged.
"It was the Quartodeciman Pleiotropes. That's what gave it away. Octalius measured them yesterday and then of course I looked at it this morning, and they were wrong, so I said to him, well, you must have measured it wrong, and of course, he had done, but that was 'cos he uses the Old calendar with revisions by Timaus of Malta, and so anyway, he said to me, he said well, never mind what he said; the point is it's all wrong and different today. We've measured it all again and even so it won't come out right, we think it must be to do with the ground not being stable so all the alignments are out of true.. "
She paused to draw breath, into which brief silence the Geometer took his chance, intoning "This land is waste; it is diseased. A curse lies upon it ; yea, even as the Cities of the Plain were cast down so too will this.. " in a sonorous boom, before the exasperated Dutchman cut in.
"Listen. You have 5 minutes to explain. If we're to take the town we have just one chance. I have managed somehow to sneak some men to their flank there; on the high ground. It's just enough, if we push hard the day can be ours. If we lose these two fields we end up exposed to plunging fire from the cliff top, and we die or surrender. It's the height, got it? We have some. If we lose it we lose. Now don't tell me the bloody Greek book wants us to go somewhere else, it isn't what I want to hear."
"I'm sorry Pieter. You see, we just don't know, that's what I was trying to tell you, before you and him began interrupting. It's this place, the Geometering doesn't work. We can't tell why."
"Ha! that's the best news I've heard all day. Possibly now we can get on with the job without all this..." Van Rijn tailed off, swaying. Bessie reached out to steady him, but seemed suddenly uneasy herself. They ended up in heap on the ground, his head buried in her chest. Van Rijn breathed a long sigh and relaxed. Octalius remained on his feet, though for some reason he too seemed to be swaying slightly. Odd, thought Pieter, I was sure we'd taken all his bottles away. We must've missed one. Then the Geometer gestured.
"Behold!" And then his gravitas deserted him, and he continued excitedly
"Look! The cliffs! over there, they're moving!"
The ground beneath them gave a sudden lurch, sending Octalius sprawling. Unbelievably, the cliff top, just visible through a gap in the trees, was receding. Van Rijn managed to haul himself upright on a tree, and was rewarded by a grandstand view as the earth suddenly parted at his feet. A brand new cliff of wet, dirty grey shale was slowly rising in front of him, the earth on which he stood a huge raft that shuddered as it slid away. The new gap in the tangled thicket afforded him a clear view. A huge area of the cliff, acres in extent, slowly, majestically slid seawards, a precarious pair of fields now separated from the land by a brand new gully; some ten feet deep, and widening as he watched.
"Bess..." he ventured. "Any of that sausage left?"
They sat, the three of them perched on the edge like shags on a rock, and dined on sausages and genever. The landslide continued its stately progress. Messengers from his sergeants found him, and their reports confirmed his suspicions.
"So. I spend all morning moving men into two fields for a strategic advantage." he began. "yes, the height, you can have them shoot downwards or something" Bessie interjected "but, sadly, these very fields are now lower down the cliff, and there's a fucking big ditch separating them from what we're trying to attack. An act of God, perchance? Pretty bloody convenient." He tossed her the half empty bottle. "I'm going to go and see to the troopers. Better stay away for a bit, things might turn nasty until we can arrange a capitulation. Yes, that's what I said."
"I'm afraid we've lost."
His organised force was now but a handful of men and no horses; together on the small natural redoubt formed by the sundered ground. Peering cautiously over he saw his opposite number, a dashing looking figure with a yellow sash, waving boisterously to his men. They were moving up the new gully, sliding and falling about on the precipitous slopes formed of vile, sticky black clay running with water. A scream came from behind him; men were dying under musket fire, coming down from the original cliff edge above them. They all sought what little cover there was; suddenly a fresh wave of soaking wet, mud bespattered soldiers burst through the hedge. Hand to hand with rapier; cut, block, parry; another purpled shouting face; cries of "For the Queen!"; a squeak from Bessie. A startled Van Rijn, looked around. "You stupid cow, I told..." he began; then came a great clang across his helmet, a feeling like a huge boot kicking in the chest and he was falling, scrabbling for a hold. Mud, soil, clay, water; in his eyes, ears, nose, mouth. He slid, fell, slid some more and smashed up against something solid. He came to his senses, again. Lying on his back, water running over him. Against the sky a dark figure. It had a bright sash, a sharp sword descending...
.a shriek from somewhere, "Bobsywobbles!!".
"Bobsywobbles?" A moment of clarity possessed Van Rijn. He saw the face of his enemy, the young features a look of amazement. The sword wavered. Then a figure, mud grey with blond hair flying, cannoned into the startled officer and for some reason seemed to be ... Hugging him ?
Terrific. he thought. You'd think she could've waited 'till I was decently dead before changing sides. He managed a croak, and was rewarded by full length embraces and anxious entreaties. The Englishman's look of startlement had been replaced by one of resignation. He sheathed the sword.
"Hello Mother." he sighed.
Van Rijn fainted.
"Memmingen, I heard it was. Anway, it seems there was a fire in the town powder mill, and the burning brimstone drifted over the whole town, and some people thought it was the last judgment! Dropped to their knees there in the street and began wailing and confessing their sins. The Inquisition had a field day!"
It was night. Down in the snug village of Lyme, Van Rijn and his captor drank, swapped tall tales. The breastplate that had saved his life had been given to the Innkeeper as a souvenir, with a huge dent that no armourer could ever beat out. The Dutch Captain was enjoying himself. For a change, no troops to worry about (all disarmed and turned loose) and his wounds, mostly cuts and bruises, were healing cleanly. The English commander who had so handsomely beaten them had been more than civil. When he recovered consciousness Van Rijn had been introduced to his "nephew". This youthful Captain, Robert Blake, had proved a generous host, being as he said, somewhat partial to the Dutch. "After all" he had commented "how would our Nations ever fight, save by Sea, and you won't find me abroad on that element, no, not for a King's ransom!" Bessie had spared Blake the detailed account of Blake's origins that Van Rijn had been entertained with ("so he said to me, he said, Hello my beauty, and how would you like to earn yourself a shillin?") and contented herself with organising, as she put it, things properly. The two commanders had struck up a friendship. Blake had related how he had come to Lyme and found that the strange, unstable cliffs had given rise to a strange area, where all the normal rules of Geomancy were held in abeyance, leaving only human cunning to guide the conduct of wars. Proudly, he had shown Van Rijn where the carefully placed petards had been triggered to bring down the rain sodden cliffs still further. "Of course" he commented "we can spare the powder to waste on such tricks". The subject had turned to Sulphur, and that evening as they sat in the Parlour of the Inn, they continued.
"It's no great secret" Blake explained. "The stuff comes from abroad, mostly; this is just the place we ship it in, and being not only a port but a pretty Godforsaken spot we find it convenient for a powder mill. Nitre from the countryside, oh and charcoal of course; from the locals. The roads hereabout aren't up to much so we send most of it away by sea as well." He paused as a knock came at the door "Yes, Sergeant, what is it? Time for my what? Oh did she. Well present the Lady my compliments and I.... oh never mind. That will be all."
After the smirking NCO had left. The Captain remained silent for a while. There was clearly something on his mind, and Van Rijn had a shrewd idea what it might be. "Pretty dull here though, I expect" he remarked. "Must be difficult keeping your men out of mischief." He had hit the spot. Blake slammed his jack of ale down on the bench.
"Discipline! The key to it! I have some very hard cases here, and until yesterday I flatter myself I had their loyalty, their respect." He paused for a pull at the beer. "However" he continued "not even Caesar himself could present a stern and inspiring countenance to his men when his mother insists that he wrap up warmly against the cold; that he take milk before retiring. All this in public! And mark 'ee; even had that noblest Roman been so embarrassed in public, would he have had to submit to being addressed as... as...". He paused; seemingly overcome by emotion.
"The 'B' word?" enquired the Dutchman helpfully.
Captain Blake drew himself upright.
"Captain Van Rijn. In the harbour there is a ship, well found and bound for the London River, there to discharge a cargo of powder to the Tower Armouries. After that it will carry you where you wish. As one gentleman to another; I implore you. I shall of course remain a dutiful son. I will write to my revered mother every week. But Sir; I beg you. Take her away!"