First lieutenant, Iain Malcolm MacGregor, stamped the layers of caked snow and mud from the heels of his riding boots. His disheveled appearance was beyond tidying, but acceptable for his audience with the General. Three days of hard riding had taken their toll on his clothing. His leather jacket and breeks were splotched with dried mud. His linen shirt was testimony to some combat for it was dirtied with splatters of blood and stains. A tartan swathe, the only indication of his true nationality, was slung haphazardly over one shoulder and also carried the filth of combat. He smoothed his hair back, but did not bother with the mess of the queue at the nape of his neck that tied his long, dark hair together. He waited patiently outside the main command tent of General Tilly, one of the foremost generals for the Catholic Army. Within the tent, the General entertained an emissary of the Elector Maxmillian Hapsburg, the Catholic ruler of Bohemia and the Palatinate. Iain had instantly recognized the emblazoned insignia of the Elector, encrusted upon the saddle of the white stallion, also waiting patiently outside the tent. Iain turned his attention to the valley below him and scanned the campfire dotted darkness. Below him rested over a hundred thousand militiamen waiting for the next battle of religious propriety. These Catholic regulars would soon have their battle, for the Protestant Army was slowly making way back towards the Rhine and the Lower Palatinate. A breech of light from the tent behind him danced a strange pattern across the snow, and drew his attention back as one of the General’s attendants opened the flap and stepped out.
“The General will see you now Lieutenant.” the young soldier replied in formal German.
Iain nodded his head and stepped toward the opening in the tent, held back for him. At 6’2”, the tall Scot had to duck considerably to step within, and his head nearly brushed the top when he stood fully erect. Inside, the cold seemed to dissipate, as there were several braziers swinging warmth through the spacious tent. Behind an ornate carved desk, a distinct spoil of war, stood the squat General Tilly and a young man, who could only be the Emissary. They were gazing at a map that hung behind the desk. The map, a carefully drawn parchment of the entire European continent, was Tilly’s pride, a strategy map. Yellows flags, as Iain well knew, indicated the Catholic forces and strongholds and the red flags indicated the opposition and their position as well as their victories. Iain also knew that the red flags were beginning to grow more numerous on that map, as the Protestants gained more support and better advances. At the moment though, the General was boasting of his most recent victory, a small indecisive battle that lost nearly two thousand Catholic men. Though the Protestants had been sent retreating back towards Alsace, their losses were minimal. Iain gripped the hilt of his sword as he waited until there was a pause in the conversation, then he cleared his throat in an attempt to gain their attention.
“Lieutenant!” the General swung around to greet Iain.
“General.” Iain replied equally in German. |
