Chapter 54: Beyond Their Reach
Burg Rechberg, Swabia
The doors swung open, bringing the Baron’s captain of the guard.
The old knight was stripped of all his knightly pride. His chainmail was torn, his breath came hard, and he lacked the usual throng of men that rode with a captain. He had left his peasant footmen to die under the rain of the von Frundsberg guns.
"The battle is lost, My Lord," the captain reported, "Our heavy horse was shot down by riders wearing no armor and bearing fire-dags... we have not the men to take the field again."
Baron von Rechberg stopped pacing. "The von Frundsberg heretic cannot feed a paid host through a long winter siege. We shall use the walls of this keep to bleed his Fugger silver dry. Captain, I give word to gather every living soul left within our walls."
The captain stared at his lord. "My Lord, the only souls left are starving serfs, old men, and children. They know nothing of war and lack even pitchforks to fight."
"Their knowing matters not!" the Baron shrieked, his noble pride blinding him to reason. "They are flesh and blood. Force them onto the walls. Give them stones, old crossbows, the rusted pikes from the lower armory... every body on that wall forces the smith to spend his precious powder, we shall drown his ledgers in our own blood if we must!"
The captain saw the order was a death sentence for the poor folk, but the strict oaths of the Holy Roman Empire demanded he obey... he turned and walked back to the yard to force the last of the Rechberg people to the slaughter.
In the valley below, the taking of the lands moved with the smooth workings of a merchant’s tally.
Konrad halted his horse at the center of the village square.
Marshal Eckhard rode his own horse beside Lord Konrad. "The footmen are set to ring the keep, my Lord. But the men have marched hard and fought a battle since dawn. The captains say the men need to know when they shall rest, and ask leave to gather wood for fires."
"Don’t coddle the men, Marshal. To coddle them is to say that exhausting them gives them the right to bargain." Konrad commanded.
He paused. "More than this, you shall tell the captains plainly that taking anything from this village is an unlawful tax upon my new lands... any man who steals from this village shall be named a thief and shot dead on the spot."
Eckhard’s jaw tightened. "I hear your words, my Lord. But the night grows bitter cold... without fires, the men will lose heart."
"Summon the blacksmiths," Konrad corrected. "We’ll mark out the cannon line four hundred and fifty paces from the eastern wall of the fortress."
Rustle... He unrolled a drawing of the lands. "The Rechberg defenders bring crossbows and a few matchlocks... a steel crossbow can strike no further than three hundred and fifty paces. By setting our guns at four hundred and fifty paces, we stand beyond their reach. We can batter them without end, while they can do nothing but watch."
Eckhard saw the truth of the plan. Within two hours, the von Frundsberg men had turned the muddy rise facing the castle into a line of iron and fire.
The twelve bronze great guns were unlimbered, their carriages set firm behind hastily dug earthworks.
Up on the walls of the Rechberg keep, the peasants and the last men-at-arms watched the ordered work.
"Set the aiming screws to two-and-twenty marks," Konrad ordered the master gunners. "Load the iron round-shot to first break the stones. We shall use the bursting shells once the wall begins to crack."
"The guns are ready, my Lord." The master gunners checked the screws.
"Give fire," Konrad commanded.
The blast flattened the dead winter grass before the guns and sent a thick cloud of burning powder rolling down the valley.
Four hundred and fifty paces away, the ruin was absolute!
The solid iron shot, driven by the finest Baltic saltpeter, struck the old limestone of the Rechberg wall with terrible force.
The strike did not merely chip the stone; it shattered the heart of the eastern wall!
Great blocks of stone were thrown inward, acting as deadly hail that tore through the poor peasants standing on the walls.
The cries of the dying defenders were entirely swallowed by the fourteen-step reloading of the von Frundsberg gunners.
Inside the tent, Konrad sat behind a folding desk.
Rustle... Marshal Eckhard entered the tent, the roar of the guns briefly flooding the space before the heavy canvas fell shut.
"The eastern wall is crumbling fast... my Lord." Eckhard reported. "We reckon the wall shall fall completely before dawn."
"See that the master of stores keeps a strict tally of the black powder. If the gunners burn more than their lot, the cost shall be taken from their silver pay." Konrad stated.
"My Lord..." Eckhard paused, "The defenders are mostly starving serfs... the flying stone is tearing them to pieces. If we stay the guns for but an hour, Baron von Rechberg may yield, saving the hands we need to work the fields."
Konrad looked at his Marshal, "The Baron hanged six of our paid men... that deed gave us the lawful right to take his lands. If we stay the guns, we feed his foolish hope that he still holds power to bargain."
He leaned back in his chair, "...the guns shall fire without pause until the last shred of defiance is ground to dust, go back to the guns and see the loading times are kept."
Eckhard saluted, clearly displeased. He left the tent, returning to the sound of the cannons.
Outside, the incessant clang of the barrels drowned out his heavy sighs; after all, it was Konrad’s orders that ruled this camp, and no one dared question them.
The mercenary crew merely shrugged, loading another round, hoping the castle would fall down before dawn broke...
