The rays of the sun crept up the feet of the sleeping recruits as the men whom Gunther Jaeger put on night watch began to wake the other soldiers, who were sleeping everywhere from bales of hay inside barns to smelly alleyways and hard cobblestone streets. Pikes were picked up from the walls where they were left leaning on the night prior, and muskets were inspected and shouldered.

As the enlisted soldiers began their morning rituals, urinating in the streets and washing their faces in the horse troughs, the officers in the tavern began to stir as well.

Gunther briskly exited his room fully dressed and shaved. The gaunt German moved with haste towards Otto’s quarters and knocked on the door.

“Enter,” came the groggy response.

The wooden door to Otto’s room creaked open to reveal the man out of his armor, urinating in a chamber pot, in full view of Gunther, who simply rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Get dressed. As the two most experienced officers here, we will need to be at MacRae’s side before anyone else. You know this.”

Otto groaned while he shook off the last few drops of urine.

“Yes, yes, I will be there shortly. Was that all you wanted to say while you were in here? Did you want to play at being my mother? Well, good job. Now get out. I do not want you to see me changing.”

Gunther shook his head at the man’s twisted sense of modesty and shut the door.

During the night, a group of horsemen had arrived in Rotterdam from the far north. They traveled incognito, as to not reveal their wealth. Captain Sven Bjornsson had barely recovered from his injuries and could not run, but he could ride well enough, leading a group of survivors from Jarlsberg. While his captain rode off to hire mercenaries, Greve Stenbock had stayed in Sweden to ask for help from the king.

They had come riding several weeks behind a messenger that was sent to MacRae with a letter containing details of the campaign, and now they were in Rotterdam to assess the quality of men that Talbot Company was bringing to the fight. Bjornsson had barely gotten any sleep when he arrived in Rotterdam before he was awoken by terrible dreams about the attack on Jarlsberg.

Wasting little time, he bid MacRae assemble his officers in the lower hall of the tavern they were staying in. Time was short and valuable, and the sooner the men were briefed, the faster Jarlsberg would be back in Swedish hands.

“Good morning, Colonel MacRae.” Bjornsson said as he limped into the tavern’s hall, still half asleep. The fact that his leg had not healed was making this more difficult.

MacRae made a shallow bow and gestured that the Swede take his seat at a long table that they had conveniently set up at the end of the room, where the bards would usually play.

Bjornsson did not have to wait long. A mere minute after he entered, the early birds were eagerly filling seats in the tavern, anxious to hear about this new contract. They included Thomas Warwick, the recruiter and de facto leader of the Britannic irregular troops and the two recruiters from the Holy Roman Empire, Otto Koenigsherr, and Gunther Jaeger.

“Good morning, all. I hope we can end this meeting expeditiously, with the concerns of all men here present addressed.”

“Bitte schweigen! Spricht jemand Deutsche, fremde Schweine!?”

“Beruhigen, Herr Koenigsherr.”

“What the bloody hell is everyone saying?”

Bjornsson slammed his gloved hand on the table. The Babel-like cacophony fell silent.

“French.” he said, in a low, growling, annoyed tone. “We will all speak French.”

“Très bien.” MacRae muttered, drumming his fingers on the table. He hated this language but the client, who apparently spoke no English, gave him little choice. “Gentlemen,” he continued in French, “this be the representative of our client, Captain Sven Bjornsson of the Kingdom of Sweden.”

“The enemy descended on us in broad daylight at Jarlsberg Castle near the border of Livonia. They had a sizeable force with them, composed of Lithuanians and Lipka Tatars. I am here on behalf of my lord, Greve Olaf Stenbock to hire your company to avenge this insult to him and take back our castle. As we speak, my lord is appealing to the great King Gustavus Adolphus to send troops to aid us. In anticipation of his success, our two forces will meet at Jarlsberg Castle in twenty days. It will be a long journey by foot, passing through the Holy Roman Empire, then through Poland, where we are expected to meet heavy resistance before finally arriving at Jarlsberg at the border of the Swedish Empire. Does anyone have any questions?”

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Thomas Warwick rose from his seat. “Yes – my lord, have you considered the possibility of a sea route? We could easily march through friendly territory, embark on ships at the Holy Roman port of Lübeck, and sail towards…”

“The point of a land route, Master Englishman,” interrupted Bjornsson, “is to meet the enemy from the west while my lord meets them from the east, in a pincer movement. We are also going to make use of the opportunity to train on the march, something we cannot do while we are at sea. Furthermore, we will deny the enemy any opportunity of resupply from his own country by closing roads and restricting travel on them.”

“We can also recruit more men as we travel through Deutschland.” added Gunther, “Their men are good, professional fighters.”

Bjornsson nodded his approval. Privately though, he was unsure if they had enough men and resources to attempt a siege. This momentary thought made him raise a question.

“What about cannon, siege works, carpentry equipment? Do we have those? The Tartars were able to take the walls with mere grappling hooks. It is doubtful that we will be as lucky.”

As he spoke, the other officers entered the room. MacRae was visibly annoyed at their tardiness, but he said nothing in front of the client. This was the Swede’s show now, since he carried the money.

Don Alfonso and a sleepy Sophia quietly entered and took their seats at the back of the room, followed by some lieutenants and their sergeants, who carried notebooks and pencils for taking down important details.

Warwick confidently assured his client that cannons could be purchased immediately in Rotterdam and hauled along with them. He also said that he had the best artillerymen in the company to man the said cannon, who were able to shoot a fly off of a mare’s arse given good weather conditions. While the former statement was true – a Belgian gunsmith had set up shop near the company’s headquarters last year – the latter was not. Warwick’s men were irregular troops from the British Isles, who were perfect for skirmishing and harassing the enemy, but not so much for the precise work of a cannoneer.

Bjornsson gave a curt nod of approval and looked towards the newcomers. He then turned to MacRae and wordlessly asked for introductions.

“These are me officers for the field. Each commands a company of pikes, halberds, muskets or swords.” MacRae said in Scots, “Do not trust the commander of swords though.”

Bjornsson understood, although he did not have a perfect command of the language. He thought he was seeing things at first, but upon closer inspection, he could understand why MacRae did not have full faith in his commander of swords. That was no “sir.” However, he did not wish to prolong the meeting with accusations and ridicule.

“Ordre de bataille.” Bjornsson continued in French, “We will not fight in the standard formation. The Swedish battle formation provides superior and overwhelming firepower while enabling musketeers to defend our pikemen and vice versa. We need about one thousand musketeers at the very minimum to make this work effectively and…”

“Sir,” interrupted Warwick, “I believe the number of musketeers we may field is quite insufficient.”

“You were in charge of the recruitment of these men, were you not, Master Englishman?” Bjornsson replied with a scowl.

“Yes, but…”

“You are relieved of command, sir.”

As Warwick’s jaw dropped, MacRae buried his face in his hands. There was nothing he could do. This man represented the client and the client was God. He could do whatever he wished. The loss of Warwick’s command could prove to be a major weakness unless a more capable commander could be found.

“Command your artillerymen and irregulars if you wish,” continued Bjornsson, “but I will take responsibility of the musketeers. We will need to buy muskets and shot in bulk before we leave Rotterdam.”

MacRae winced. Never before had a client taken command of a section of his company, and he was hesitant about it. However, Bjornsson was a veteran soldier, and could very well be a capable commander. He chose to keep his mouth shut on the matter for the time being.

“Let us move on to the matter of payment then.” Bjornsson said, pulling out a piece of parchment from his pocket and raising it up for all to see. “This is a letter of credit from Greve Olaf Stenbock, vassal of his majesty King Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden, authorizing Talbot Company to draw on his accounts one thousand florins payable immediately in gold for provisions, equipment and salaries, and a further four thousand florins payable on the condition that Jarlsberg Castle is delivered back into his control.”

He gently handed the letter of credit to MacRae, who received it with a smile and a low bow. The thousand florins would go a long way to ensuring that his men did not mutiny midway through the long march to Jarlsberg.

“Colonel MacRae, sir, I leave it up to you to determine the order of march, breaks for camp, purchase of provisions and so forth. If no one has any objections, we must spend the rest of today purchasing supplies and equipment for our long march. We leave at sunrise tomorrow morning.”

MacRae was amused. Usually, a client would give what they considered a rousing speech to bolster the spirits of his men, and the men would humor them in turn by letting out a loud cheer. Not so this time. Here was a soldier who was all business and knew that, at the beginning of a long campaign at least, men were motivated by coin more than anything else. Hunger, weariness, and lust would be motivators further down the road. There was seldom any need at all for any grand speeches.

As the officers began to quietly leave the room, Sophia, who knew some French, began to realize what she had signed up for. She had traveled on long journeys like this before, although usually by carriage, not on foot. The journey there was at most a thousand miles. Would they be walking the entire way?

“Signore Alfonso,” she said, jabbing the Spaniard in his rib, “Will we be walking a thousand miles?”

Alfonso looked at her as if she were asking if water was wet. “Yes, señorita, we will be walking a thousand miles. Horses are only for the cavalry, artillery, and baggage trains. Are you a field gun, little girl?”

She did not appreciate the don’s sarcasm. The prospect of a thousand-mile journey without proper transportation bothered her. On a fast horse, the journey would take no less than five days, which meant that it would probably take them a little more than two weeks to do it by foot. She was going to have to get used to bandaging her feet.