As dawn broke the next day, Thomas Warwick climbed out of his cot, eager to taste something delectable from “Lodovico’s Kitchen”, but quickly became disheartened when he remembered that she had been whipped like a dog the day before. He had never even gotten to know her real name. Warwick sighed. Although the punishment she received was just, he could not imagine the pain she was going through – both physically and emotionally.

The English cavalier put on his uniform and went outside to stretch. He was now the commander of three companies. He would have some serious work to do. He could perhaps merge ‘Lodovico’s’ old company of swords with his Britannic irregulars and form one massive shock infantry company. They would be less maneuverable, but far easier to command. He would worry about that later though. His primary concern now was food.

He approached the communal stew pot, surprised to find it already simmering with a fine-smelling soup. Someone had apparently been industrious enough to cook during the night while everyone was sleeping.

Taking a bowl, he scooped a good sized portion of the soup into it and took a taste – it tasted awkward, with a wave of bitterness, almost as if the cook dumped a bucket of spinach and a drum of pepper into the pot in anger. However, it was nearly balanced by the other ingredients: aromatic vegetables, lots of cheese and bits of bacon. Although it was cooked in anger, he easily recognized that cooking style – ‘Lodovico.’

Finishing his meal quickly, Warwick ran over to the company drill area – a large flat piece of turf that MacRae had designated for drill practice, right next to the ground where Fletcher and Sophia were whipped.

Sure enough, there she was, dressed in her blue, white, and red clothes with her kidney belt and breastplate, standing in front of her swordsmen, prepared to hand them over to Warwick. But her expression had changed. Far from the usual cheery and energetic Italian, this girl stared at the distance with a scowl.

Warwick approached and gave her a flourishing bow. ‘Lodovico’ made a half-hearted dip in return and stepped forward, saying,

“Ils sont à vous.” they are yours, she said in French with her usual Italian accent. She spoke softer now and did not look Warwick in the eye.

Bothered by her sudden change of demeanor, Warwick thanked her for her service and sent her to join her men in the back of their formation. He did not want to be looking into those empty eyes every time he faced the formation. The Englishman shook his head at this sad loss of such a happy soul, but quickly cleared the thought from his mind as he marched the company of swords over to join his irregulars.

Fletcher could hear Warwick’s new men marching towards the irregular camp, but could not see them as he was lying face down on a wooden table, hissing with pain as the surgeon, an archer named Calvert, used a new experimental method to treat his wounds.

“Now hold still, I am trying to apply this ointment evenly.” Calvert said as he brushed a mixture of egg yolk, rose oil and turpentine onto Fletcher’s fresh wounds. “It is a miracle cure, I tell you. I have seen the results before; so much better than pouring boiling oil onto the flesh… Releases too much pus, you see.”

“Stop. Talking.” Fletcher said between gritted his teeth, “Finish. Treatment.”

“Oh, yes, yes of course. All that is left is the bandaging. You whine too much. Your lady friend handled it so much better when I treated her last night. Not a sound out of her.”

Fletcher suddenly raised his head at the mention of Sophia, but that caused him to bend his back, shooting pain back into his system. He cursed at the piercing sensation.

“Damn your ears. Now look what you have done.” Calvert said, shaking his head, “I will have to apply the ointment all over again. I was just about ready to bandage you up too. Hold still this time.”

“Calvert,” Fletcher said, trying his best to speak in complete sentences, “how is she? Did she suffer much?”

“I will tell you what, boy. I have treated many torture victims in my time. Usually, after an episode like this, the victim becomes more docile, more… emotionally flat. Look at Gunther, for example.” he chuckled.

“What about the girl?” Fletcher persisted.

“Ah, yes, the girl, of course. She ended up… different. I believe the experience hardened her. She seems angry at everything now; most likely her way of coping with the stress.”

Fletcher let out a great sigh as the surgeon continued his treatment. He worried that whatever chance he had to know more about that sweet, innocent girl that grabbed his hand to dance during an impromptu guitar session was now gone. Whatever the torture had left behind was vicious and unfeeling. Fletcher closed his eyes as he heard the sound of marching feet getting closer.

Sophia’s scowl hid the pain she was hiding as she marched. Not only the physical burning sensation from the whipping but the pain of her failures so far. As an officer she failed to lead her men in the bandit attack on the road to Gouda; as a soldier she had abandoned her duties in Schwedt; and as a friend she had failed to make any efforts to comfort Freccia or whatever the boy’s name was, especially after he was tortured with her, for whatever infraction he had committed. She still was not sure why he was tied to that pole. He had always been the model follower – modest, unassuming, and servile.

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But no more. A new person was forged from the blood of the cat o’ nine tails the other day. With those fifteen lashes Lodovico Bianchi had died, and now Sophia Fortezza had to make a name for herself – one that she could be proud of. The new her had to be strong, competent, brave, and focused. Every waking moment had to be dedicated to proving to herself that she was more than just some rat on a sinking ship, scurrying away from her problems as the tide rose around her. This new life with Talbot Company was the storm that brought the tide, and she had to fight to stay above its waters. She kept the fake necklace around her neck as a reminder – never again would she fail as she did when she was guarding that wagon. She would not end up like Vincenzo and Fabiano who hung from a tree. She would embrace this new life and ride this storm to completion.

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Don Alfonso knelt by his cot inside his tent. His helmet lay on his side while he clutched a wooden carving of Our Lady of Sorrows, made by the loving hands of native Christian craftsmen from his encomienda in the Philippine Islands. His eyes were closed in prayer as his thumb rolled over the cheeks of Mary, who had tears permanently chiseled into her wooden face.

“Oh sorrowful Mother,” he prayed, “Let your servant Sophia be as your divine Son was when Pilate had Him scourged at the pillar. May the whipping not defeat her spirit, but may her pain awaken what is within her. I offer up her suffering and my own to you, gracious Lady, for we will need your protection during the days to come.

Also, bless that English heretic boy. He may not believe in your saving grace, O Glorious Lady, but allow what love he has in his heart to be nourished through your Son, Jesus. Amen.”

As he finished, he crossed himself and opened his eyes. The Virgin had brought him comfort many times before, and she would not fail now. He kissed the image on its forehead and tucked it away in his pouch before putting on his helmet.

As he opened the flaps to his tent, he found that the other tents around him were being disassembled. The company was ready to begin marching again. He yelled for a sergeant to begin disassembling his own tent and went to find MacRae.

William MacRae stood on a small hilltop surveying the horizon with a spyglass. Otto and Gunther stood with him. Many of the other mercenary companies had left to march during the early hours of the morning, leaving Talbot Company behind with an Irish free company, the “Hearts of Eire”, who were incapable of marching due to being too drunk from a night of debauchery.

“I cannot see bugger all,” said MacRae as he looked through the spyglass. The colonel was trying to get a view of a bridge that straddled the Oder River, the calm body of water that divided Poland and the Holy Roman Empire. The terrain was relatively flat, and the city of Schwedt itself blocked the view of the terrain beyond.

“Are you looking for the other companies, sir?” Gunther asked as he looked through a spyglass of his own.

“No, just the one. Them French fucks that stole our money. We should have killed them in their sleep.”

“How did you figure it was them, sir?”

“I pissed on precisely one person when we arrived here. It had to be him.”

“Do you regret it, sir? Because of what happened with…”

“No. Nary a bit; just gives us an excuse to plunder the poor fucks.” Collapsing his spyglass, he turned to Otto. “Mount up and tell the men to form a column in the prescribed order of march. I doubt we will face opposition whilst we cross the river.”

Otto gave a nod and ran down the small hill to mount his horse. With a loud neighing and a whirl, the beast was off. Gunther descended the hill as well, leaving MacRae alone at the top, his brow furrowed in uncertainty of the sufferings yet to come.

Talbot Company’s campsite was alive with activity. Men tore down tents as others rushed to join their formations. Warwick barked orders at his men while Otto rode around announcing that it was time to march. Gunther and Don Alfonso inspected their men as their sergeants slapped around soldiers who were still groggy from the night before.

Fletcher rose from his cot in the surgeon’s tent, which was being dismantled. The pain shot up his back as he sat up, making him wince and hiss. Calvert, smiling, retrieved his own bow and quiver before handing Fletcher his.

“My lad, it is time to go.” Calvert said as he put on his quiver, “I am quite sure that you can walk, even run given your localized injuries. As long as you keep yourself out of the melee of battle where the swordsmen and pikes are, you should be fine.”

Fletcher thanked the surgeon and stepped outside to hear the clamor of orders and the shouts of men that were still dismantling and packing away the tents. He slowly made his way to the rest of the irregulars.

To his surprise though, the irregulars now stood in a formation. Normally, Warwick was content to have them march as a disorganized gaggle which befit their fighting style. Now that they had been merged with the company of swords, they had to match them in marching speed and tactics, which made them slower and less maneuverable.

The irregulars also looked very out of place. The first few rows of the new formation were composed of regular swordsmen, all of whom were outfitted with helmets, breastplates, shields, and swords; at the middle and rear of the formation, however, the irregulars began to mix in with them. Their wide variety of clothing and weaponry made them look like a heavily armed mob that was following the knight-like swordsmen. Scotsmen with their great kilts mixed together with Irishmen and their conspicuous green garments with chainmail.

None of them seemed to know how a formation worked, though, and Warwick was having some difficulty keeping them in order as his sergeants had resorted to physically grabbing men by the shoulder to keep them in line. Fletcher was one of those men. He entered the formation from the side and elbowed his way into the center, whereupon a sergeant grabbed him, screamed at him for being wrong, and pulled him into a new position. Fletcher chuckled despite the pain he still felt in his back.

“I do not know what we should be doing,” he said jovially to the soldier next to him, “what do you suppose we…” he stopped short, recognizing the blue, white, and red of the soldier from the whipping. “You!” he exclaimed.

The girl said nothing, but looked at him and acknowledged his presence. She did not even crack a smile. Now Fletcher truly understood what Calvert had meant by “hardened”. As Warwick shouted the command to march, Fletcher wondered if he would ever get to see the sweet girl from that dance ever again.