The servant pressed himself into the damp moss of a limestone hollow, his breathing held shallow, measured with care. Below him, the forest floor had descended into slaughter.
The German mercenaries Francisco had hired were already breaking formation, slipping away into the trees with little regard for cohesion. In their place, the two professional "snatch squads" now clashed directly, their purpose no longer concealed.
The Spanish lead agent—a man whose cold, unyielding gaze recalled that of an Inquisitor—stepped over the body of a fallen mercenary, his saber still wet. Raising a flintlock pistol, he fixed it upon a British officer clad in a dark, unmarked greatcoat.
"Stand back, you island cur," the Spaniard hissed, his voice low and edged with venom. "Francisco belongs to the Crown of Spain. By blood and by birth, he is a subject of His Catholic Majesty. You trespass upon a matter of state."
The British officer gave a faint, contemptuous sneer, nudging aside a discarded musket with his boot. "Blood?" he replied coolly. "Do not be tedious. Look about you, Spaniard. This is Göttingen—within the Electorate of Hanover. King George is master of this soil, and any man who breathes its air falls under the protection… and authority… of the British Crown. Your 'matter of state' resembles nothing so much as an abduction upon British ground."
"Protection?" The Spaniard let out a short, jagged laugh. "After your last attempt, I doubt he desires such protection. Only Spain can offer him what is rightful—and real."
The Briton's expression hardened. "Protection? You would confine him within a palace, make him serve as a tool for your pedantic court." His gaze flickered briefly toward the hilltop, where the phaeton stood in deceptive calm. "He is no mere subject—he is a mind of value. And such men belong to those who can keep them. The moment he signed the university register, he placed himself under British jurisdiction."
He paused, then added, more sharply, "Stand aside—or we shall finish what began at the harbor."
No further words were exchanged.
Both sides surged forward.
What followed was swift and brutal—a close struggle of bodies and steel. Musket stocks struck with dull, cracking force; blades met flesh with a wet, unmistakable sound. Smoke from discharged powder thickened the air, blurring form and movement into shadowed shapes.
From his concealment, Francisco's servant watched in silence, a grim understanding settling over him. This was precisely the "calculated attrition" Francisco had anticipated.
The Spanish cazadores fought with fervent intensity, as though reclaiming something sacred that had been taken from them. The British agents, by contrast, moved with cold efficiency—less passion, perhaps, but no less resolve, as if securing a valuable asset for their Crown.
Gradually, the numbers diminished. Ten men became five. Five, then three. Each exchange grew more desperate, more deliberate.
Yet the clash did not go unnoticed.
At the gates of Göttingen, the guards who had seen Francisco depart earlier grew visibly uneasy. The sharp reports of gunfire, carried faintly upon the wind, stirred unwelcome memories. The last time Francisco had been taken, the consequences had been severe. Punishments had followed swiftly—delivered not only by the university's director, but reinforced despite the quiet objections of the Privy Council. Officers had been demoted, commands reassigned, reputations diminished. Since then, no man stationed at the gates regarded the safety of the students lightly.
"Remain here," one guard said at last, his voice tight with concern. "I will inform the captain. At the very least, he must be prepared should matters worsen."
Without waiting for a reply, he hurried off, leaving his companion to watch the road with growing unease.
The distant sound of gunpowder unsettled more than the guards alone. Within the city, tension spread quickly. Those who might ordinarily have ventured out to hunt chose instead to remain within the walls, unwilling to risk crossing paths with a conflict that was not theirs. Farmers from the surrounding lands, hearing the shots and fearing the worst, began to gather at the gates, seeking shelter.
In a matter of moments, Göttingen—so recently calm—had fallen into a state of quiet, mounting disorder.
When the commander heard the guard's report, the color drained from his face.
"Not again…" he muttered, almost to himself. "Those British bastards will not let us have a moment's peace." His expression hardened as he turned sharply on the man. "And you—why was he allowed to leave at such a time? With the French in disorder and the people growing restless, Göttingen has troubles enough without inviting another."
He paused, drawing a slow breath, as if steadying his thoughts. Then his gaze settled into something firmer—resolved.
"No matter. We move at once. Prepare a detachment—arms and horses. We will retrieve the boy ourselves." His voice lowered, more measured now. "He pays his taxes well, and he has the support of the university's director. We cannot permit harm to come to him."
The guard nodded solemnly. Orders were given without delay. A small squadron was assembled, muskets checked, blades secured, and within minutes they were mounted and riding out.
Those nearby, who had already heard the distant crack of gunfire and smelled the faint trace of powder on the wind, watched with growing unease as the guards departed.
"Perhaps it is bandits after all," one farmer ventured, squinting toward the horizon. "Look—the guards themselves are riding out."
Another man gave a skeptical snort. "Bandits? They would not trouble themselves unless coin were involved. No… I say this smells of something larger. Perhaps the French—are they preparing to bring their chaos here as well?"
A third, a man of the university, struck him lightly on the head. "Do not be foolish. The French are occupied enough, tearing themselves apart in Paris. They have neither time nor order for such ventures."
Murmurs spread, each man shaping his own explanation, each more uncertain than the last. Beneath it all lay a quiet fear—that the fragile peace they had known might soon be broken.
The guards paid no mind to the speculation.
The rhythmic thunder of Hanoverian hooves gradually slowed as they approached the wooded ridge. What had been a steady advance became, almost imperceptibly, a cautious trot.
The smell reached them first.
Not the clean scent of pine and damp earth, but the sharp, acrid bite of spent powder—mixed with the unmistakable metallic tang of fresh blood.
The captain raised his hand at once, signaling a halt. His horse gave a nervous whinny, sidestepping away from a dark stain spreading across the pale limestone path.
"God in Heaven…" the captain murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as the color drained from his face.
Before them lay a scene of deliberate violence.
Bodies were scattered across the clearing—nearly forty in all. Yet it was no chaotic aftermath of banditry. There was order in the destruction, a grim symmetry that spoke of trained men and calculated intent.
On one side, figures in the dark blue and yellow of the Spanish cazadores lay where they had fallen, muskets still clutched or cast aside. Opposite them, entangled in their final struggle, were men clad in subdued yet finely made charcoal coats—the unmistakable mark of British Crown agents.
"Sir…" one of the guards stammered, pointing with a trembling hand. "There are two groups—fighting each other. Not only the British… the Spanish as well."
The commander of the Göttingen guard closed his eyes briefly and rubbed his temples, the leather of his gloves creaking softly with the motion.
This was no mere skirmish. It was something far worse.
A political snare, set in their own woods.
If word reached the Geheime Rat in Hannover that agents of two rival empires had turned their territory into a private battlefield, the consequences would be severe. His command would not survive such scrutiny—and perhaps neither would he.
"The Spanish as well?" the commander murmured, his voice falling into a strained whisper. "Madrid and London… they have brought their quarrel to our very doorstep." His jaw tightened. "They treat the Elector's land as though it were no more than a tavern floor."
He stepped carefully over the body of a fallen British agent, his gaze drawn to the fine flintlock still clutched in the man's stiffening hand. The quality of it spoke plainly enough. These were no common soldiers.
Snatch squads. Men sent not to fight openly, but to make others vanish without a trace.
"Sir… what are we to do?" a younger guard asked, his voice unsteady as his eyes searched the treeline. "If we report that Spanish cazadores and British Crown agents have fallen on the same road, the ambassadors will be at the palace gates by morning. They will demand inquiries… and reparations—for their own trespass."
The commander said nothing at first. His gaze lifted slowly toward the hill above, where the faint, steady glow of a lantern marked the position of the phaeton.
For a moment, he remained still, weighing the matter in silence.
Then his expression settled—hard, deliberate.
"We shall do what any sensible man does when two giants choose to fight within his garden," he said at last, his tone measured, stripped of all hesitation. "We remove the garden from their sight."
He turned back toward the field of bodies.
"These men are not soldiers today," he continued. "They are—unidentified bandits. Thieves wearing coats that do not belong to them."
His gaze sharpened as it passed from one guard to the next. "Strip them of everything. Letters, coin, insignia—anything that names 'King George' or 'King Carlos.' Leave nothing that may invite questions."
He paused, letting the weight of the order settle.
"And remember," he added quietly, "you have seen nothing at all."
The men exchanged brief, uneasy glances—but none spoke. One by one, they set to work.
