LINGEN, HOLY ROMAN EMPIRE

The city of Lingen was a short march away from Nordhorn Range, and the men of Talbot Company still had the energy to set up camp, which they were forced to do anyway since the walled city forbade large armies from entering the city. It was probably for the best as well, since the company was not sure which side of the war Lingen supported. This was not to say that they were forbidden from supplying here though, since eager merchants brought their wagons out to the men to sell various baked goods, sweetmeats, drinks, and trinkets. Unfortunately, Colonel MacRae was not keen on feeding his men pretzels and gingerbread for the duration of the campaign. While the men drank themselves into oblivion with the company’s money, MacRae had sent Otto Koenigsherr and Gunther Jaeger into the city to secure supplies that they actually needed, like grain, water, dried meat, and salt, instead of wasting their time in some tavern on a street corner.

Otto Koenigsherr sat outside a tavern on a street corner, merrily nursing a tankard of ale, as Gunther sat across from him shaking his head in disappointment. This was his fourth tankard, and he was spending company money on the best ale in the house.

“You need to learn to live a little, Herr Jaeger.” Otto said, his speech slightly slurred.

“The only reason I am here with you is because I do not trust your sense of propriety. Do you expect me to believe that you will simply guzzle down all that ale, complete your task and haul a wagonload of supplies back to camp before sundown?”

“Yes!” Otto replied, raising his tankard.

“You have already had too much, we should go.”

“No, stay awhile longer, have a pint yourself. It is good for your nerves.”

“Herr Koenigsherr, my nerves are frayed because we were given a task and you are the obstacle that is preventing us from completing it.”

“And you are… you are just a fun-killer.”

Gunther sighed in exasperation and grabbed his colleague’s arm, “Let us go.”

“No!” Otto groaned like a stubborn child. His breath stank of alcohol.

“I have no intention of seeing you here tomorrow stinking drunk and robbed of your possessions. The sooner we complete this task, the sooner…”

“I challenge you to a duel!” Otto was clearly out of his mind, drunk. He regarded the way that Gunther looked at him, that disappointed scowl, that nagging tone. He probably thought he was better than him. This was no less than an insult, and Otto’s honor had to be satisfied.

“What.” Gunther said in confusion, his word more of a remark than a question.

Otto closed the visor of his helmet and repeated himself, “I challenge you to a duel!”

“I accept.” Gunther said, rising from his seat to take his zweihander sword from the pillar from where it was resting.

“Excellent. This will be short and painless,” Otto said as he staggered to his feet, drawing his broadsword, “for me.”

“First blood, Herr Koenigsherr. If I win, sit down and shut up in the back of the wagon. If you win, I will drink with you until we are both arrested for disorderly conduct.”

“Excellent terms, I agree.” Otto said with a hiccup.

The two German swordsmen stepped into the empty street, away from the tavern. A small crowd began to gather around them. Duels were always fun to watch, especially when they were to the death.

Otto confidently assumed his combat stance, with his feet spread apart, one foot in front of the other. He gripped his broadsword in both hands and raised it high up like a priest offering the sacrifice at mass, ready to strike at Gunther’s head.

Otto watched his opponent’s movements carefully through the narrow eye slots of his helmet. Gunther frowned at him and changed his stance, holding his zweihander with its hilt below his waist, the tip aimed towards Gunther’s helmeted face.

Now was Otto’s chance. His opponent was defending from his waist while he was about to strike high. Otto leaped forward to move in for the kill, bringing his sword down onto his opponent’s head – his blow was immediately blocked, and before he could react, Gunther had wrestled his sword away from him and he was on his back, looking at the sky.

The disappointed crowd dispersed and went back to drinking, while Gunther helped his companion to his feet.

“I think I am bleeding.” Otto said as he opened his visor.

“Impossible. My blade did not touch you.”

“No, I am very certain that I am bleeding. I think I bit my tongue.”

As he got back on his feet, he felt a light tap on his shoulder. As Otto turned, he found a sword tip pointed straight at his face. As he looked down the length of the blade, he could see that it was being held by someone from horseback. It looked like Bjornsson, but he could not tell – the alcohol was impairing his vision.

“Förklara för mig,” said Bjornsson in Swedish, “Var är mina leveranser?”

Gunther reminded the captain that they did not speak Swedish, and he sighed and switched to Low German, grabbing Otto by the visor of his helmet.

“My supplies, you idiot. Where are they? You have been gone for hours.”

Otto giggled and responded in Saxon, “You sound funny. Do not worry, you old knacker, we will get your…” as Otto’s speech trailed off, the sweet sensation of sleep overcame him.

Bjornsson was not amused. “Wake up!” he said, as he shook Otto by the pauldrons of his armor.

“It is no use,” Gunther said as he put his zweihander away, “he will be like that for hours. However, sir, it does give us time to go to the market and take what we need.”

“We might as well.” Bjornsson agreed, “Come on, help me load this oaf into the wagon.”

After the two men managed to heave the armored Otto into the back of the rickety wagon, the Swede hoisted himself up into the driver’s seat as Gunther climbed up beside him. The stubborn Finnish horse made a reluctant snort as Bjornsson goaded it to walk to the marketplace.

“There is a matter that I wanted to discuss with you in confidence, Herr Jaeger.”

“Sir?”

“I was going over the muster roll of the company, and I noticed something about your recruits. The areas that they come from – Austria, Spain, Italy, Bavaria… do you realize what they have in common?”

“If this is a reference to the fact that the majority of our troops are Catholic, I do not see the problem. We will fight any enemy for you regardless of their religion.”

“You may believe that, Herr Jaeger, but I trust no one. When I first met Colonel William MacRae I thought he was of the same faith as Colonel Alexander Leslie, a Scottish Protestant in the court of King Gustavus Adolphus. However a few days ago I heard him say, ‘by our Blessed Mother’ and I knew he was Catholic.”

“What, precisely, is troubling you, sir?”

“If these men find out that they are slaughtering their fellow Catholics there may be a mutiny. We need to balance this out by hiring as many Protestant men as we can.”

“Will the gold that we currently have be sufficient?”

“I have gone through the accounts. If we scrimp on supplies, we can afford to hire perhaps another one hundred and twenty trained men. The untrained will have to be paid in loot.”

“I understand completely, sir. We will slash the rations appropriately.”

“Yes, no more cakes, pretzels, wine or fresh beef either. All our meat will be dried or salted, and we will learn to subsist on the bare minimum.”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Gunther nodded. Excessive leisure was bad for an army on the march anyway.

Bjornsson brought the wagon to a halt as they turned the corner into the market, and Otto was jolted awake, burping and mumbling.

“You are awake so soon?” said Bjornsson, “Good. There is a task I need you to help your companion with.” Turning to Gunther, he continued, “I am going to do a bit of haggling here in the market. You two can go into that tavern over there and look for potential recruits. Tell them to meet us outside the walls to enlist. We shall have to do this in every town we encounter to balance out our forces.”

Gunther dismounted the cart and grabbed Otto by the straps of his armor, throwing him off the cart.

“You sir,” Otto hiccupped in protest, “greatly offend me. I challenge you…”

Before he could finish, Gunther slapped the side of his helmet, jarring his head. “Get up, we are going to the tavern.”

“The tavern?” Otto said as he somehow regained his bearings and stood up on his own, shouting, “Joy and merriment! Ale, ale for every soul!” after which he immediately collapsed again.

Scowling, Gunther helped Otto up to his feet and stood him up straight. “Can you walk?” he said, more out of practicality than concern.

“Little children can walk!” Otto replied as he wobbled towards the tavern’s front door.

Gunther rushed in straight after him and caught him just as he was about to slip and fall again. The patrons and the tavern owner gave them strange looks as they entered. It was not peculiar to see drunken soldiers gallivanting about the town, but Otto did not look like a common mercenary with his shining black armor and armet helmet.

The two found two empty spots on a tavern bench and sat down, receiving worried looks from the patrons around them, who whispered to each other in German.

“Do you remember what the Captain said, Herr Koenigsherr?” Gunther said, speaking slowly as if he were talking to a child.

“Recruit!”

“Good. But keep your voice down. Not everyone in the tavern has to know.”

“Press gang the lot of them!”

Gunther sighed turning to the guests around him, “Excuse my friend here. He has had a bit too much to drink.” Noticing that a few of the patrons had empty tankards, he smiled and called for another round of ale to be brought to their table. The men sitting with him still looked at him with a feeling of distrust.

Gunther opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a patron that sat across from him.

“You are recruiters, are you not?” he said in a deep baritone voice as he leaned in closer.

From the roughness of his hands and the size of his arms, Gunther thought he might be a field laborer or a blacksmith.

Gunther nodded, saying, “Yes. We work for the honorable Talbot Company. We pay four florins a month for a life of freedom and adventure.”

“Which side do you fight for?” the large man said, scowling.

Gunther paused. He had to be careful. Even though this was Saxony, which was traditionally Protestant, there were still pockets of Catholicism scattered throughout the region. Declaring allegiance to the wrong faction could be fatal.

Otto slammed his fist on the table. “You are taking too long with this.”

Before Gunther could stop him, Otto had climbed on top of the table with a tankard in his hand.

“Everyone!” he bellowed, “A toast to his holiness the pope!”

Dead silence. The tavern was so quiet that even the mice that scurried underneath the wooden floor stopped squeaking.

“Fuck the pope!” came a cry from the back of the room.

“Fuck off, you papist cunt!” screamed someone else.

“The devil take you! The devil take you and your armies to hell with him!” an old woman said, shaking her fist in the air.

Gunther grabbed Otto and sprinted for the door. Glassware, metal plates and someone’s left boot hit the door just as they closed it behind them.

“You see?” said Otto laughing heartily, “My method was faster.”

Gunther, panting, clapped Otto on his back. “Well done Herr Koenigsherr. Now we must tell them our true intentions before we start a riot.”

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Sophia lunged at Fletcher with her rapier, but the Englishman was able to see the blow with ease and stepped aside, letting her advance too far and trip herself on her own maneuver.

“Stop.” Don Alfonso said in Spanish, pinching the bridge of his nose, “You were lifting your foot too high off the ground, hija. He was able to see you coming a mile away.”

The three were practicing in an open field away from the main camp outside the wall, situated behind a grove of trees so that the common soldiers could not see them. Sophia was finally learning how to properly use her expensive Italian rapier, and Fletcher was getting practice with his old hunting sword while Don Alfonso dictated instructions.

“Right,” said Sophia, panting, “Keep my feet close to the ground, but do not drag them, and, ah…”

“Quick, explosive movements,” said the don, drawing his own blade to inspect.

“Yes, yes, quick and explosive.” Sophia said as she practiced her movements at half speed.

“Did I do well, sir?” Fletcher asked in English.

“Oh, yes, superbly.” Don Alfonso replied, switching to English for Fletcher, “Especially for someone who is untrained. Where did you learn how to fight like that?”

“Hunting boar in the greenwood, sir. Their movements are predictable, like hers, and she is just as ferocious and single-minded.”

“You are lucky she did not understand that, señor leche.” Don Alfonso said with a chuckle.

“And where did you learn how to speak my language, if I may inquire?”

Don Alfonso smiled, “Once, when I was much younger, about your age perhaps, I worked as a ship’s boy for the Spanish navy. One day my ship was intercepted by one of the vessels from your home country.”

“Pirates, sir?”

“Well, yes, but they called themselves ‘free sailors.’ They were led by a very refined fellow, Michael Garlington was his name I recall. No frightening alias or gimmicks – he was as he was, a dandy highwayman on the high seas. Anyway, they press-ganged me into their pirate crew and I served them for several years, learning of your people’s language and culture.”

“And how did you ever manage to escape?”

“I did not escape, señor. I was eh… liberated. An entire Spanish fleet crossed paths with us once and forced us to capitulate. They repatriated us Spaniards back to the motherland and hanged the pirates.”

“And you were not punished for piracy or brigandry?”

“The Spanish captain was very understanding, and frankly a bit of a racist.” Don Alfonso chuckled, “He said that we were innocent by virtue of our Castilian blood. I am Asturian myself, but freedom is better than death.”

Sophia walked up to them, frustrated with herself. “What are the two of you jabbering about in that ugly language? I want to go again. Signor Freccia, come, let us continue.” she said, tugging on Fletcher’s sleeve.

“Would you mind if I pry further, Master Alfonso?” Fletcher asked as he assumed his defensive stance.

Don Alfonso nodded his approval.

“Why are you training her? I thought she was already an experienced officer. I was clearly mistaken.”

The don’s smile faded. “No one must know that she is inexperienced. The lives of men depend on her. I am only helping her because she paid for my own commission and I intend to keep my word. Besides, she reminds me of my younger sister.”

Sophia assumed her offensive stance and pointed her sword at Fletcher, waiting for instructions from Don Alfonso.

“Señorita Fortezza,” he said, switching to Spanish, “your opponent is reading your movement. Be unpredictable, use your feet. Do you remember how quickly you moved when you danced? Do that – but remember your fundamentals.”

Sophia nodded and began to tap her feet on the dirt, giving herself a beat.

Curious, Fletcher looked down at her little feet making dust clouds in the dirt.

With no warning at all, Sophia glided towards her opponent, slapping the blade out of his hand with her sword like it was a lover that had scorned her, and brought the tip of her blade to Fletcher’s throat.

Fletcher stood frozen in disbelief and fear until Sophia put her sword away with a smile cresting her lips

“Astounding,” he said as he gave her a slow clap. “That was not an orthodox move, but it worked. It seemed almost… Fiorian.”

“What?” she said, confused, “What does this mean, ‘Fiorian’?”

“One of your countrymen, señorita. He was a very skilled master swordsman, known for his practicality, roguery, and deception. You should be fighting with a longsword.”

“But I like this one – it is light and fast and it has my initials engraved on the side.”

“As you say,” Don Alfonso shrugged, “A warrior knows themselves better than anyone. Now, we shall refine this… dance technique of yours. And by the way, señor leche,” he said, switching to English, “the sister that I am speaking about, my Catalina, was five years old when I last saw her. She shares her stubbornness and courage, but she was never very bright. Speaking of which…” the don paused and switched to Spanish again, “Señorita, what role do you believe your swordsmen play on the battlefield?”

“You have asked me this question before, signore,” she said with a confident smile, “and they are the first into the fray, the bravest and fiercest…”

“This is what you answered the last time, hija, and once more, you are wrong. I will explain again. The doctrine of modern war…” his speech trailed off as he drew his sword and began making a drawing in the dirt, “… is quite simple.”

Fletcher and Sophia leaned in close to observe his diagram. It was a row of several large squares, with two smaller squares at the beginning and end of the row. The don also poked a series of holes in the dirt in an organized cluster behind the row of squares.

“For simplicity’s sake,” the don said with a sigh, “the large squares are the pikemen and musketeers. As I said before, they are responsible for taking the full onslaught of the enemy. Behind them, represented by the small dots, are the irregulars like señor leche here, the artillerymen and the cavalry. The irregulars have their uses – building bridges, pillaging, banditry, whatever they can do to make up their difference in salary from commissioned officers like ourselves. Now, the smaller squares are your swordsmen. They protect the flanks.”

The don then drew squares overlapping the pike squares and continued, “If an enemy force draws near and entangles itself with our pikemen, what do you believe you should do?”

Sophia stuttered, but could not make an intelligent answer.

Fletcher put his hand to his chin in thought, “I assume these squares are armies, milord? Would it not be sound for the smaller squares here to turn and hit the enemy from the side?”

“I am thankful she did not understand that, but yes, that is exactly what the ‘smaller squares’ are for, señor leche.” he said with a smile, after which he switched back to Spanish. “Señorita Fortezza, you and your men will be responsible for attacking from the side to break pushes of pike.”

“A push of what?” Sophia asked, dumbfounded.

“A push of pike is what happens when two companies of pike meet and realize that they hate each other very much – so much so that the field in front of them becomes a forest of pikes, with spear tips from friend and foe pointing at heaven, earth, and your nether bits. Your men are tasked with breaking this by charging at them from the side or ‘flank’ as we say.”

“How would we go about doing that?”

Don Alfonso smiled and patted her on the shoulder, “Come, hija. I believe that tactics can wait until after you know how to fight. Let us continue the fencing practice.”