The hard packed earth baked in the blistering heat. Overhead, the menacing globe of the sun burned down on the marching column like the baleful eye of some demonic lord. The company was stretched out along the partially defined road in a double column. A vanguard of archers rode rounceys ahead, the thick bodied horses weren’t as large as the Knights’ Destriers but they ate the miles well, pairs breaking off at intervals to scout the sands on either side. To the rear a convoy of supply wagons rattled along with a guard of Pages in varying degrees of harness riding alongside.
The Captain rode at the head, flanked by his Marshal and Standard Bearer. The white wolf stood proudly on the crimson banner, the arms of Ser Felix von Rabsburg, the Captain’s Squire rode demurely behind with his fine charger snorting at the flies that tried to land on the beast’s nose. The Captain was in light harness, a brigantine in a rich scarlet velvet over his maille, his head covered in a broad brimmed straw hat to keep the worst of the sun off.
Further back in the column Sir Clement d’Arlay rode with his new squire. Sir Clement was a tall man, perhaps three fingers more than six feet. His head was shaved in the style popular in Arlay, grey-green eyes stared ahead over a long nose. His cheeks were unshaven and he wore a simple green brigantine over a similarly green arming cote. The roan charger he rode was kept on a short rein, the large stallion eyed his new Squire’s mount with too much interest for Sir Clement’s liking.
“So Edward, is life on campaign everything you imagined?” Sir Clement asked, the note of humour and the barely disguised smile giving away his enjoyment as he watched his Squire; Edward, struggle with yet more flies as he swatted them away.
“Truly Sir Clement, I feel like a hero from the romances.” The young boy spat with all the venom of a teenager as he slapped himself, drawing away a gloved hand to see the small black body he’d crushed against his face. Clement laughed as he reached to his saddle horn and drew out his wine flask.
“You’ve definitely got my sister in you boy.” The Knight answered without a hint of reproach.
“We’ve only perhaps two more days of this before we hit the Pass, from there it’s only a few hours ride to the Fortress and we can finally do something more than ride.” Clement took pity on the boy and handed him his flask. Edward quickly took a gulp of the wine, rolling the sweet liquid around his parched mouth.
“Thank you sir.” He allowed as he handed the flask back. Clement nodded and reseated the flask in its place over his saddle horn.
“Once we stop for camp we’ll let John and Tall Boy set up camp for us, you need to practice your sword work, for now let’s discuss the company. Tell me, how many men make up the company?” Clement switched into the guise of a castle tutor as quickly as it took to say a prayer to the Worthies, and Edward felt the pressure of the test immediately.
“Two hundred men make up the fighting core of the Company sir, with perhaps another hundred in non-fighting positions as serving men and women.” Edward answered.
“Good, though I wouldn’t let them hear you call them civilians, the Headwoman and the Smith can certainly be a handful in a fight! Next question, what is the organisational structure of the Company?” Edward bit his lip as he processed the new question.
“The Company consists of fifty Lances, each Lance consists of a man-at-arms, a squire or valet, a page and an archer. The Company is led by the Captain and his Marshal, additionally the First Lance and Standard Bearer are considered Corporals. Our Lance consists of yourself, me, John Bucknam, your Page and Tall Boy your Archer.” Clement nodded.
“Not bad at all, at least you’ve been paying attention.” The Knight once more passed his wine flask across to his Squire, giving a nod of recognition. Young Edward took an appreciative gulp to calm his nerves, he was keenly aware that a test had taken place and he’d obviously passed. He unthinkingly stroked the head of his charger, Gwayne. Clement watched amused as he could almost see the cogs turning in his Squire’s mind.
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Three hours before sunset a pair of Archers accompanied a travel stained rider on a lathered horse with a thick cloak of crimson wool, the sign of an Imperial Messenger, into the head of the column, bringing the whole procession to a halt. Within moments the order to make camp had passed and the vanguard was called in. The ground on either side of the road sprouted tents and pavilions like mushrooms after a rainfall. The Captain’s pavilion of red silk went up around his camp stool where he’d entered into discussions with the messenger at once, joined by the Marshal and camp officers.
Sir Clement dismounted near his own pavilion, handing the horse to his Page, John, as he reached them. The Knight offered his Page a nod before turning into the tent, Edward in turn looked to John, “Sir Clement wants you to see to the horses and our camp, see if you and Tall Boy can’t find some decent firewood and get a cook fire running. I’ll handle dinner when I can, he wants to continue my sword training while we still have daylight.” The Page nodded eagerly with the reflected hero worship that was common amongst his station. Edward represented everything he aspired to be one day. Within moments the young boy was off with the tall pockmarked Archer who had ridden to join them, escorting the horses to their place in the picket lines.
Inside the pavilion Edward helped Sir Clement disarm, removing his brigantine and maille, unbuckling his leg harness and un-keying the greaves from the cuisses, setting them just so upon his master’s arming rack. “Alright Edward, you’ve served enough, fetch your sword and meet me out front.” Now in only his arming clothes and thigh high boots that resembled leather hose, the Knight seemed to float with the momentary relief that comes from de-arming. Edward rushed to shed his own harness and drew his war sword from where it was sheathed on his saddle on the pavilion floor.
Sir Clement stood ready, the flat of his own war sword resting against his shoulder, four feet of shining Imperial Steel, the point sticking above his shining pate. Edward quickly moved to face his master and saluted him. Sir Clement drew his sword back over his right shoulder, his leg slipping forward and his hip cocking back, known as the Garde of the Lion, it readied him for a strong cross cut. Edward pushed his sword back out past his right hip, the Garde of the Dragon’s Tail.
The sword over Sir Clement’s shoulder powered forward, the straight cross cut aimed at his Squire’s head. Edward’s blade rose in a powerful rising cut, slapping away his Knight’s blade, before traveling along the same line towards Clement’s collar bone. Clement moved a hand to grip his blade in the middle, the technique known as half swording, pushing the opposing blade safely away before tapping Edward as gently as he could with his pommel in the forehead as the knight side-stepped past. Edward grunted as the steel made painful contact with his face, dancing away while shouting; “Well struck sir!” The young man shook his head to clear it, while Clement rounded on him.
“You started well, but you have to plan beyond the first counter. It might be enough in the scrum but if you find yourself against someone with more training they’ll know how to counter from there. You have to plan further, think of it like playing chess. It’s not one move at a time, you have to beat them before they know they’re beaten.” Sir Clement watched his Squire, ensuring he understood the lesson before readying his guard again. There was a slight cheer and a few claps and Edward’s face reddened as he realised they’d gathered an audience, no less than the Captain, Marshal and what seemed like all the Company officers, along with a red-cloaked man that Edward didn’t recognise.
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“The boy learns quickly Sir Clement, he’s had fine instruction.” The Captain, Sir Felix, said in his perfect Imperial. “Apologies for interrupting but I’d hoped you might have a moment to speak, we’ve received news from Siegesstand.” Despite the phrasing, the tone indicated that it was of course an order, and with a quick bow Edward rushed into the pavilion to grab his master’s camp chairs. Before they could say “Ave Caesar'' the council was seated and Edward was serving wine with John.
“Sir Clement, word from the Fortress isn’t good, The Emperor’s army has been beaten, and Sir Walter Macgill, the Emperor’s Obercaptain was killed His Company is splitting up and every Captain is positioning for his title, I’ve agreed to take on an additional twenty Lances from his men. Mostly it’s Arturian men, two of whom are Knights. I want to make you a Corporal of the Company and grant you command of these new men. Your job would be to oversee their integration and assess how useful they’ll be. I imagine they’re no better than Vallarese Routiers but they’ve been on the front for six months so they’ve seen what we’re going to face.” Sir Clement nodded slowly, his hand stroking his forked beard.
“Of course my Lord, I can handle them. Can we afford the outfitting if they’re not up to standard?” The newly made corporal was already sketching notes on the wax tablet he’d pulled from a saddle bag.
“We can, there’s a Banker of the von Rabsburg family there. He’ll have a note of account waiting for me and you’ll have an extra two thousand ducats for the outfitting. The armourers at Siegesstand are some of the best. You have permission to terminate the contract for any man who won’t make our standards.” Sir Felix rose once more, a hand pressed to his lower back as the pains of a life in harness showed themselves, he offered a genuine smile to his new Corporal, “The romances never tell of the aches that come with simply wearing our armour do they?” He chuckled and walked off into the darkening camp, followed closely by the senior officers, the First Lance, Ser Jean le Vaingre, remained sitting with Clement.
“He likes you Clem, he hasn’t promoted anyone this quickly ever. I think he’s made a good choice, for what it’s worth.” The tall First Lance was built like a wall, his hands as large as hams and a rondel dagger seated prominently on the front of his belt. Clement nodded, serving Jean a fresh cup of wine with his own hands.
“The men are Arturian, he knows I have a name there. That’s all.” Jean rolled his eyes at his friend’s attempt at modesty.
“Whatever you say, get some rest. It’ll be a hard ride tomorrow, he wants to make the pass.” Jean stood and drained his horn cup of wine before turning, leaving Sir Clement in the company of his Squire. Edward produced some cold sausage and a hard cheese, he handed them to his master.
“Get some sleep Edward, we’ll have an early start come morning.” Edward nodded and retired to his blankets in the pavilion.
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Travelling an Imperial mile on horseback isn’t much of a chore, in fact it can be done in under an hour on a fast horse. Moving three hundred people with wagons and baggage along with a large herd of remounts and a few meat animals is a significantly slower prospect. Travelling forty Imperial Miles in a single day under these conditions is something close to torture, with man and beast feeling the serious resentment that breeds rebellion. Wagons lose wheels and horses throw riders who displease them and suddenly the whole endeavour becomes a Herculean effort of will power.
Following this, the column was a dust covered crowd of hatred. The eyes of three hundred men and women burned into the Captain’s back with the baleful glare of the mistreated. Despite it all, the dry sands turned slowly to low scrub and eventually grasslands. By late afternoon the wooded mouth of the Silk Pass came into view. The paved imperial road stood in glistening white marble brilliance next to the rich greens and browns of the forest. Tempers relaxed as the cool mountain breeze greeted them and the road became more manageable.
Sir Clement rode his white palfrey, the light boned mare was much better suited to long distance travel than his darker Destrier. Edward rode behind with the Page, John, their Archer Tall Boy was riding with the vanguard. John munched on half a sausage, savouring the herb flavoured meat as he bounced on his Rouncey. Edward smirked internally as he watched the page boy, after all John wasn’t much of a horseman whereas Edward had all but been born into the saddle.
As the company rode in under the eaves of the woods a wave of relief broke over them, the shade and breeze cooling sun scorched skin. Lord Felix rode off ahead with a select group of Knights with a selection of hawks and falcons on their fists, the hooded raptors preening their chest feathers as they rode. Sir Clement looked over his shoulder at his Squire, the Knight’s eyes darting across the shadowed woods. “Keep an eye open Edward, these woods are relatively safe for Imperial Soldiers, but that doesn’t count for much.” Edward nodded at his master’s words, as well as being the most direct route between the Empire and the Merchant’s League, it was the entrance to the Kingdoms of the Folk who called the Mountains home. The Folk were not friends of man.
The ride through the pass took up the rest of the evening, with only a few short stops to have their passports checked at the Imperial Way Station built upon the ruins of the old Order Keep of the Knights of Saint Malachy. Edward looked in awe at the once mighty battlements, shattered as they were by Imperial artillery, enough still stood to show where the Fortress had stood, even the old tiltyard was visible and despite the late hour still in use by several of the Emperor’s knights. The moons had crested the horizon by the time they reached the mercenary camp outside the fortifications of Siegesstand. Sir Felix, presented his credentials at the “gate” that was really just a rope strung between two wagons that could be pushed to close off immediate access. The guards were of the lower orders of mercenaries, the kind that clung to the edges of warzones like mud on the hem of a fine cloak. Their equipment had a brown veneer of rust and their leather looked as though it was held together by faith and mould. The Captain’s nose curled in unconcealed contempt for these dregs, for his Lances looked even finer than was normal in comparison, himself in brilliant black silk under his fitted white harness. Edward noted with satisfaction that the slovenly guards cringed from the sound of the hooves of their large warhorses, these men may have been archers but they were not like those of the Company. Before long the rope was untied and the Company was taken to an open space that had been set aside for their arrival, once there the Archers and Pages set too with making camp and the Captain strode off to a meeting with the Emperor’s Camp Seneschal.
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Once the camp was erected, Sir Clement’s new silk pavilion shining like an emerald flame amongst the low military tents of his attendants, the Knights of the Company arrived to drink a toast to his promotion, among them was the First Lance; Sir Jean. The First Lance nodded in an approving way as Edward provided the wine service, rushing from guest to guest to fill horn cups with the rich red Bordeaux. Sir Jean signalled with a raised finger that he needed a refill and Edward was there in an instant, pouring with a graceful bow. “What’s your name lad, you’ve a familiar look to you.” The Knight asked, his blonde hair well combed and giving him the look of a military saint. Edward dipped his head once more.
“Edward sir, Edward de Marche.” The boy answered with the crisp note of report that was the result of years of bowing to his superiors.
“Ah de Marche’s boy, I knew your father at the Battle of Landon’s Bridge. A good Knight, I’m glad he made his fortune. Now you serve as Squire-at-Arms for your Uncle Sir Clement, I saw you fight yesterday, keep training and you’ll get there.” Sir Jean favoured the young squire with a smile, “Sir Clement is an officer now, you should consider training with the other officer’s squires when you have time. My squire, Davide, he probably hasn’t got long left as a squire, he’d be a good teacher for you.” Edward thanked the Knight for his kind words, making a full reverentia on one knee before returning to his duties. Sir Clement raised an eyebrow at the conversation but made no comment.
Later that night after the guests had finally left, Edward rolled into his blankets at the door to Clement’s pavilion, ensuring his arming sword was close to hand. Despite the assumed safety of the camp Sir Jean had already set a watch bill and Edward knew they weren’t exactly welcomed by some of the other Companies. Every Captain wanted to be the new Ober-Captain of the Emperor’s mercenaries but few had the birth. Sir Felix was a prime contender as a great lord of the Empire, which made him a very credible threat to the more ambitious.
There was a loud thump outside the tent and a strangled cry as something hard hit flesh, Edward rolled to his feet, his arming sword sliding from its scabbard as he rose with a sharp hiss. In shirt and braes, he ducked through the tent flap, to find Tall Boy standing with a staff levelled at a man on the ground. The newcomer was thin and dressed in a plain brown robe that was nearly threadbare and couldn’t have offered much in the way of warmth in the cold mountain air. “Y’pardon for wakin’ ye’ Master Edward.” Tall Boy said in his peasant’s brogue, tugging his forelock in salute. “This’n were sneakin’ about like,” he continued by way of explanation. The man’s head was already swelling where the oak staff had made contact. A brief search of the man produced a dagger, much finer than one dressed as he was should own, it’s surface was coated in a sticky substance that neither wished to touch. Edward wrapped the weapon quickly in a spare shirt, and deposited it in his pack.
“Tie him up and we’ll question him once he wakes, no sense waking Sir Clement yet. Apparently we may be even less welcome than expected.” Edward motioned with a hand and left Tall Boy to his work, returning once more to his blankets. It was going to be a long and sleepless night, he was sure.