ZALESIE, POLAND

Talbot Company had been marching for a little over three days, avoiding every village they could on MacRae’s orders. The colonel reasoned that if they stopped to resupply at every village they went to, someone somewhere would rush to the nearest garrison and inform them of the company’s movements. Although there was some truth in this, the real reason why MacRae was ordering his men to stay away from the locals was because he had no money to pay for provisions.

Bjornsson’s sumptuary laws were now back in effect. The company was stretching the supplies they plundered from the Blue Falcons to the limit. Whatever fresh meat they once had was now gone, the little bread they had left was now rapidly turning hard and crusty, and the men were getting anxious. MacRae knew that food shortages would cause a blow to morale, and a decrease in morale usually planted the seeds of a mutiny.

MacRae would’ve continued to avoid villages if it was not for the village of Zalesie, which was unmarked on the map that he had purchased. The steeple of the village church was visible for miles, and there was no denying that it was there. Talbot Company had now been brought to halt a mile away from the village boundaries as MacRae gathered his captains around him and tried to think up a plan.

“Boys, I bring ye here to tell ye something in confidence. We be fucked. From what I can tell, we be low on food, low on mead, and low on morale. One or two of the lesser men have already resolved to fuck us and desert in the middle of the night. We need supplies and we need them right fuckin’ now.”

“What are your orders, mein Herr?” Gunther whispered.

“The way I see it, we have two choices. Either we take supplies from the peasants by force and risk a Polish army riding up our arse, or we burn the whole fuckin’ village to the ground, no survivors.”

“And live with the guilt for the rest of our lives.” Don Alfonso interjected.

“Master Spaniard, ye of all people should know that this is a necessity. Did ye not use force of arms to quell a rebellion in, what was the name of that wretched place? The Fellipaghns?”

“Las Islas Filipinas, señor. That was mandated by the viceroy, their blood is on his hands; and I did not enjoy taking the lives of defenseless women, children, and elders, regardless of the fact that they were heathens.”

“What solution would you propose then, hm? Would you simply stroll up to them with your hand on your fuckin’ Spanish balls and politely ask them to cough up food, water, and medicine?

“Sir, perhaps there is another way,” said Warwick, who was now hobbling about on crutches, “We can make camp here and wait until nightfall, and steal some supplies from the village as thieves in the night. It shall be quick and painless if executed with good form.”

“Master Warwick, ye cannot have a hundred people moving stealthily through a village.”

“Not a hundred sir, but perhaps a dozen. My archers are capable of treading on leaves without making a sound.”

“And if they fail?”

“They will not fail, sir.”

“And if they fail.” MacRae repeated, sternly.

“If they fail then we are justified in burning down the entire village.”

MacRae found these terms agreeable, and the next few hours were spent in the woods outside the village, where the men quietly made camp, but were given strict orders to remain silent and hidden as to avoid suspicion.

It was no small feat to hide over a thousand men, in fact, several of them were spotted by the villagers, who ignored them, thinking that they were just another roving band of mercenaries passing through like so many others before them. There were even some children who waved at the soldiers as they played in the fields.

The lack of alarms and cries for help made some feel that MacRae’s orders were unnecessary, even stupid. The men grew more restless with each passing hour until nightfall, when sleep was foremost on everyone’s minds.

Everyone, that is, except for the few archers – Fletcher included – that Warwick had hand-picked for his daring nighttime raid. The twelve, like the disciples, gathered around Warwick’s campfire as they listened to his instructions.

“You dozen are the fox-walkers.” he whispered as the fire crackled, “You lot have lived in the greenwood all your lives and now is the time for you to make use of your God-given skills of finesse and stealth. The company needs food, blankets, tools, anything you can take. The plan is simple – sneak into the peasants’ storerooms undetected and abscond with as many provisions as you can.”

“But milord,” asked Fletcher, “how would we haul off enough food to feed a thousand mouths?”

“An astute question, Master Fletcher. This matter will be left to Master Calvert.”

“Bollocks.” muttered the surgeon.

“His task will be to walk one of our horses into the town and harness it to a wagon.”

“Is that all?” Calvert sighed with relief, “I shall be glad to do it, sir.”

“I am quite sure you are. Now – as for the rest of you, what should concern you the most is the matter of loading as many goods into that wagon as you are able to. I want every carrot, every apple, every goddamn grain of rye that you find loaded onto that cart. If you run into trouble and wish to signal the others to retreat, mimic the sound of the owl. Master Koenigsherr has promised to rush in and help you.”

The fox-walkers nodded and proceeded and began to ready themselves. These men were gamekeepers, yeomen, and hunters. Some put fresh bowstrings on their longbows while others removed their shoes for even quieter walking. Fletcher put on the old forest cloak that he brought from England but put it away once he realized that it would take too much time to put new foliage into the webbing of the cloak, and the leaves he had put in from the forests near Bolingbroke had browned with age long ago. He would not quite look like a walking bush in his green hunter’s tunic, but it was better than what some of the other men were wearing with their red doublets and yellow waistcoats.

As last minute preparations were completed by the light of dimly burning lanterns, Calvert mounted his horse and quietly walked it into the town. It was time. The fox-walkers split up and slowly crept their way into the village from several directions, blending with the shadows, keeping their heads low and their steps silent. The rats that scurried through the villagers’ houses made more noise.

Calvert had just finished attaching the yoke of a cart to his horse and stood by it, waiting for the others to return. Some men had found sacks of grain in the village mill, and others were finding butter in outdoor churns and salted meat in barrels that lay about people’s houses.

Fletcher had found the main village storeroom. He walked towards it, his footsteps making absolutely no noise. As soon as he put his hands on the wooden door handle, he heard something from within – the creaking of wood, but not like the sound of a door handle. It was rapid and consistent, almost mechanical. Fletcher frowned. There was definitely something in there. He cupped his hands to his mouth to make the owl call, but decided against it. He could not be sure, and he did not want to enter the building alone.

Fletcher gave a hand signal to another nearby fox-walker, signaling him to come over. The fox-walker, a former thief named Nathan, silently came up by Fletcher’s side.

Fletcher drew his knife and gestured for Nathan to do the same. Armed and ready for combat, Fletcher gingerly opened the door to the storeroom. It responded with a loud creak, but that was not all he heard.

“Oh, Jakub! Pieprz mnie! Aah! Aah!”

The two archers had chanced upon the village strumpet and a randy farm boy in the middle of their discreet midnight rendezvous.

As the couple continued to go at it, Fletcher’s hand signals erupted into a flurry of fingers, insisting that the two should leave before they got discovered. Nathan, his eyes focused elsewhere, blatantly ignored his companion. Discounting Sophia, he hadn’t seen a beautiful woman in weeks and he was determined to get his eyes full. Moving closer to the action with all the finesse of a hunter, he carefully placed his foot in a pile of hay, but did not see the cat that had chosen to nestle there for the night.

The cat’s screech of surprise was immediately drowned out by the shrill piercing scream of the naked young lady, who still sat straddling her lover. Nathan froze in fear while Fletcher sheathed his blade and grabbed him by the collar, hauling him out the door.

Several yards away, Otto Koenigsherr sat on his horse, armored and battle-ready. He was so anxious that he even considered rushing his men into the village when he heard a real owl hoot. A scream suddenly broke the midnight calm, and a wide grin lit up Otto’s face. It was time to pillage.

“Truppen! Move out!” He said with glee as he closed his visor and spurred his horse to full gallop, charging the village as the rest of his cavalrymen followed him, the thundering of their hooves waking every man and beast within earshot.

Lamps and torches flared in every window as the sound of Otto and his sixty cavalrymen drew closer. A few brave men grabbed weapons and torches to defend themselves while the women and children fled to the safety of the church.

Nathan fled into the woods beyond the village while Fletcher made a run for the supply wagon, but Calvert had no intention of rescuing anyone. With a loud and panicked “hyeah!” the wagon sped out of town, throwing off one of the fox-walkers who had just placed a large bag of rye onto it.

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“At least the supplies are safe.” Fletcher said as he watched the rickety wagon speed off into the night. Suddenly, he heard someone shout something in Polish behind him. He wheeled around to find an angry Polish peasant running towards him raising a scythe, ready to slice him in two. Fletcher reached for his sword, but before he could do anything, a horse and rider came in between the two men. The dust that the animal kicked up from its gallop went into Fletcher’s eyes.

After shaking his head and brushing the dirt away, Fletcher opened his eyes to see the villager with a sword slash wound across his back lying lifeless beneath the horse’s hooves as Otto looked down at him from his mount.

“Well, Warwick had his little play at roguery, but now we do this like soldiers. Oberst MacRae has ordered us to raze the village and kill everyone.”

Fletcher thought he had just misheard Otto terribly. At times, his German accent was hard to understand.

“I am sorry, milord, but I believe that I heard you say that you wanted to raze the village and kill everyone?”

“I see my English is improving. Yes, that is exactly what I said!” Otto replied with a nod as he galloped away, brandishing his sword, leaving Fletcher behind him coughing up a cloud of his dust.

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Janusz woke up to the sounds of screaming women and laughing men. He could also hear the sounds of horses and fighting outside his simple wooden cottage. His heart beat faster at the implications.

As the village blacksmith, he was not trained in the ways of war, but there were two things he could bring to a fight – he made knives, farm implements and hunting weapons for the whole village, and he knew how to swing a hammer.

The blacksmith leaped out of bed and reached for his hammer – his Mjolnir that he would use to strike down these foreign attackers. As he headed towards the door, he remembered that he left some kvass to ferment in a large wooden barrel in the corner. One last drink before he died. Taking a swig from the barrel, he reasoned that he could use the barrel lid as a makeshift shield. Now he was armed like a warrior.

With his heart beating with all the fear and righteous anger in the world, Janusz kicked open the door of his hut and rushed out into the night, shouting the name of Jesus for protection and strength.

As the door burst open, Janusz was overwhelmed with the smell of smoke, the sight of fire, and the sound of his screaming friends and loved ones. His heart burned with hatred for the invaders – they would rue the day they set foot in his village to burn down his home and slaughter his people.

He turned to the first enemy he saw – a timid looking young archer who wore an expression of fear and bewilderment. Gritting his teeth, he clutched his hammer like a mace and swung at his opponent, who blocked it with his cheap sword. Janusz countered by striking him in the gut with the edge of his shield, causing him to fall over. He shouted in triumph as he raised his hammer to deliver the final blow.

Before the hammer could land home, it was met with the flat of a sword, wielded by a foreigner in black armor, like the paintings of the devil from the village church. He was probably their leader. If Janusz could kill him, the entire enemy force would rout. The fate of the village was in his hands.

As he recovered from the block, he assumed his fighting stance, with thoughts of the people he loved racing through his head, and whether this fight was worth his life. His breath came in great gasps as his heart raced harder. His opponent stood across from him, cold and silent.

Finding the strength within him, he spurred his feet to action and charged at the black knight, his hammer flailing in the air with all the fury and hate he could muster. He did not make five steps before he was skewered by the cold, sharp blade of a German broadsword.

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“Herr Engländer, are you all right?” Otto said as he helped Fletcher to his feet. The madman that he had just run through with his sword lay writhing on the ground in his final death throes.

“I’m fine, milord.” Fletcher said as he got up, grasping his aching stomach. “You… you’re burning down this village?”

“Ja, and I took time to turn around and make sure that you were not hurt. I am glad I did.”

“He was merely defending his home! Our men are setting fire to it!”

“Well, you are certainly ungrateful.”

“Milord, I just…”

“You are to deliver the following message to the camp like a good little boy,” Otto said, changing the topic, “We need reinforcements. We are outnumbered by the peasants, and they are slowly organizing. Defending is not feasible. Now – repeat what I just said.”

“I… we need reinforcements and we are outnumbered by the peasants.”

“That is close enough. Now, go – do not die.”

Fletcher nodded obediently as he slipped away into the darkness while a mob of angry peasants with pitchforks and scythes descended upon Otto. The Bavarian grimaced and began hacking away at their unarmored bodies.

Meanwhile, back at camp, Don Alfonso had been awake all evening, listening to the sounds of the villagers screaming and watching the orange glow of the burning thatched roofs grow steadily brighter in the night. His men were awake as well. Some one hundred halberdiers stood by him, awaiting orders and the chance for plunder. Don Alfonso fought back old memories as he watched the smoke rise into the night air.

A figure came running up the road towards them – Fletcher. He was not bloodied but he was still holding his stomach and was clearly in pain. Don Alfonso ran to meet him halfway.

“Señor leche – what has happened to you?”

“I was attacked, milord. But never you mind that, Captain Koenigsherr is requesting reinforcements. The peasants…” he gasped for air, “…they are organizing, sir. They have us outnumbered.”

Don Alfonso scowled. He knew that sixty horsemen against an entire village was a gamble, but he had no idea how resilient the Poles were, or just how fed up they were with the constant war.

“Go back to camp, find Lieutenant Bianchi – este… Fortezza. You know the one, the girl.”

Fletcher furrowed his brow, unsure, but nodded slowly.

“It is very important that she not be here while we work, do you understand? This is a horrible but necessary thing we are doing, but seeing it in action, or worse, taking part in it, will scar her worse than she already has been. Do you understand?”

Fletcher opened his mouth to stutter out an objection, but Don Alfonso grabbed him by his collar.

“I feel like I need to explain this to you as I would to a small boy – I do not want to see a broken commander of swords on the battlefield. Find her and make sure she stays far, far away from the village.”

With that, he released Fletcher and pointed towards the camp, wordlessly urging him to go as a father would urge his child. Fletcher, fearing the don’s wrath, agreed. As the Englishman fled back into the camp, the don made the sign of the cross and asked forgiveness from the Lord for what he was about to do.

Fletcher had little trouble finding the large blue command tent, even in the middle of the night. The moon and, eerily, the orange glow of Zalesie burning in the distance gave him ample lighting.

He opened the flaps to find Sophia lying on her cot, sound asleep. He approached her quietly, using the same walking technique he would use when hunting game in the forest as to not make the slightest bit of noise.

As he sat down on a wooden chest next to her, he thought to himself that he could sit here all night just listening to her breathe. It was soothing and deep, and he would’ve fallen asleep himself if not for the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. He was told to keep her away from the village, but he did not need to do that if she were here fast asleep.

Fletcher realized this was the first time he had seen her out of costume, and without that large beret she always wore. Her auburn hair covered her face, and strands of it moved as she gently exhaled. Without her puffy sleeves and armor, Fletcher could see that she was very thin, but not scrawny. Her arms did not have the muscles of a soldier, and her hands looked smooth, although she had a lot of dirt under her nails from the campaign. Her chest, covered by her bandages, rose and fell ever so slightly as she breathed. She mumbled something in Italian and turned over, showing her back to Fletcher.

Fletcher squinted and looked closer at the bandages – they were brown with age. He was certain that Calvert had ordered all of his patients to change their bandages daily. Sophia was probably instructed, but either forgot or never understood in the first place. Fletcher’s were fresh from this morning, but hers needed to be changed soon. Perhaps if he were very gentle, then he could take them off without waking her.

With the slightest, slowest movements he could make, Fletcher stood up and opened the chest he was sitting on, silently moving objects around until he could find bandages or field dressing. His hand wrapped around something soft – linen wraps – perfect for bandaging wounds.

He turned to face the sleeping Sophia and stopped. How was he going to remove her bandages without waking her? He winced in apprehension as he eased forward to touch her shoulder.

As soon as his finger stroked her skin, she bolted awake and pulled her blanket up to her chest, her eyes wide open in surprise. She was ready to scream, but the pale moonlight was enough to help her recognize Fletcher’s face.

“Cosa fai, Freccia?”

Fletcher swallowed. He had to use his rudimentary French versus her Italian to explain something that was complicated even in English.

“Eh… Je need to uh… changer de bandage on your derrière, mademoiselle.”

Sophia raised an eyebrow, puzzled, and looked under her sheets. Her buttocks did not need bandaging, but then seemed to understand what he was saying. The bandages she wore were old, indeed, but to get out of them required her to expose herself to him, something that she was a little more than anxious to do, but for the sake of her health, it had to be done.

“D'accord, vas-y.” she said, switching to French for him, hoping he understood as she turned her back.

Fletcher understood nothing and assumed she wanted him to leave. Sighing, he placed his hand on her shoulder and said, struggling with his French,

“Mademoiselle, je… bugger… je ne pas abandon vous.”

Sophia thought it was sweet that he said that he would never abandon her, but completely irrelevant given the context of what was happening. She wondered when he was going to start working. His hand just sat there on her shoulder. Giving him a confused smile, she put her hand on his.

“Vous pouvez commencer, monsieur freccia.”

Fletcher was certain that he understood the word “commence”, but started to tremble when Sophia’s soft fingers ran through his. His teeth were chattering too, and he tried his best to hide it. Steeling himself, he patted her hand gently and proceeded to gently peel off the old bandages.

Sophia winced as the itchy bandages were peeled off her skin, exposing the red scabs on her back. The wounds were beginning to heal, but the dirty bandages were not helping. Fletcher was thankful they weren’t infected. Reaching back into the trunk, he looked for something that he could use as a salve for her wounds. A jar of rose oil lay wrapped in a silk stocking for padding. This was perfect – this was the same substance Calvert had used on him.

As best as he could without resorting to speech, Fletcher urged Sophia to lie on the cot flat on her belly. He gently took her shoulders and pressed down on them. She willingly obliged, closing her eyes and positioning herself face down, while Fletcher opened the jar of ointment.

The sweet smell of roses filled the air as he poured the rose oil over her wounds. She hissed with pain but then gave out the slightest moan at the coldness of the oil.

Fletcher swallowed as he frantically searched for a towel to dab the oil with. Once he found it, he gently massaged the oil into her wounds, making her grunt with pain. Fletcher stopped for a while, thinking that he was doing her harm.

“Je vais bien, continue s’il te plait.”

Fletcher understood “continue” and he pressed further, listening to her groan and watching her back twitch every time he applied the towel. He wanted to tell her that it was all right, that it was necessary, but he did not know the words for that. Instead, putting the towel away, he gently rubbed the uninjured part of her shoulders with his firm, calloused peasant hands.

Sophia cooed with pleasure. This was the first time anyone had touched her like this and she liked it. Her breathing became slow and relaxed as her muscles relaxed.

Fletcher bit his lip. He had little to no idea what he was doing but Sophia seemed to like it. He pressed harder, finding a rhythm, slowly gliding his oiled hands down the sides of her body, caressing her shoulders, ribs, and waist up and down. She let out a little giggle.

Fletcher felt the blood rise to his cheeks and to other parts of his body. He decided to straddle over her on the cot and continued to apply pressure over her sides and lower back, being careful to avoid her wounds. With a brave slip of his hand, he placed his hands on her buttocks.

She squeaked in surprise and flipped over, exposing her naked breasts to him. His heart beat like a bird’s as he simply sat frozen and staring wide-eyed at her beautiful body.

She grabbed his hands and whispered, shockingly, in English,

“Us maybe die tomorrow.”

Sophia placed his hands on her breasts as Fletcher started breathing heavily, leaning in to kiss her. The tent suddenly became much warmer.