Free The Lightstep by John Dickinson Page B

the Prince-Bishop's
hussars for his son, nevertheless certain doors in Erzberg and the
Empire – canonries, and positions in exclusive church foundations,
would remain closed to him and his family for at least
another generation.
    For that reason, the Knight had said to his son, it was all the
more necessary that one should conduct oneself at all times in a
manner fitting to the blood. And Karl von Uhnen did, to the best
of his ability.
    He was a handsome young man, with liquid brown eyes. His
usual expression was thoughtful and almost melancholy, as if he
were trying to compose a poem and had got stuck half-way
through. He had looked exactly like this the day he had had to
sit at the head of his troop under French cannon fire, and had
seen twenty of his men and horses killed in a quarter of an hour.
He had looked the same, only perhaps a little more melancholy,
as the ravages of campaigning had put holes in his boots, lice in
his hair, and had ripped his immaculately-tailored uniforms to
rags. At each return to Erzberg he had righted all deficiencies as
swiftly as he could. Now, a month after the peace, he was again
dressed in crisp white uniform and an extravagantly braided
tunic, with his green jacket, lined with black fur, slung just so from his shoulder. He had even managed to grow his hair back
long enough to tie it into a queue at the neck and into the
elaborate braids that hung before each ear, which were a mark of
the hussars in peace and which every hussar had cut off while in
the field to help keep themselves free of vermin.
    He was acting against orders. He was showing his uniform in
town on a day 'when every man in the Prince's little army was
supposed to be keeping indoors. The mob was out – a paid mob,
hired by the Canon Rother-Konisrat, the head of the peace party
in Erzberg. Yesterday they had chased and stoned two infantry
officers who had tried to approach the Saint Christopher Chapel.
They had pursued a baron of the war party across the New
Bridge, and pulled two of his footmen off his coach, beaten them
and thrown them into the river. And in the night a man had been
mistaken for someone else by drunken vigilantes, and had
been knifed to death in a gutter.
    The mood in the town had swung heavily against the army as
the scale of the losses at Hersheim had filtered through. Citizens
who might have shrugged their shoulders at the death of a few
mercenaries or sad émigrés had also lost sons. Apprentices who
had once gaped at smart white uniforms had lost all respect. Now
jeers and mocking songs sounded outside barrack walls. The
army, fuming, stayed behind barred doors. And Captain Karl von
Uhnen of the hussars walked in the streets, with his plumed cap
on his head and his uniform plain to see.
    He was not a stupid man. He knew there might be trouble. He
had even left his valet behind, preferring to run an extra risk himself
rather than bring his servant into danger. But his motives felt
compelling, and he thought that he could handle it.
    Mob or no mob, he calculated, his best chance of reaching the
Saint Christopher Chapel was to make his approach as boldly as
possible. He would march quickly (but not too quickly) down the
Saint Simeon street, confident under the eyes that fell on him, and
be past them before they could wonder what exactly he had to be
confident about. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword. His
boots clumped purposefully on the cobbles, accompanied by the
jingle of his brightly polished spurs. So far, it was going well.
    He had reckoned without the crowds. It was a feast day – of
which there were many in Erzberg's calendar. The guilds had
closed their workshops. Journeymen who had followed their holy
relics in procession that morning now swarmed around tables set
out in the streets. They had tuned their fiddles, knocked the
bungs off kegs and were beginning their celebrations. Even
the broad Saint Simeon was thronged and difficult to pass. Von
Uhnen came to a halt in a