Once named Ober-Captain, Sir Felix did not waste time. Now with the Emperor’s blessing to act as his official commander on the new war front against the City States of the Vallarese, the newly christened Duke sought to solidify the small gains made by the Imperial forces. He uprooted the mercenary camp two weeks after the tournament’s official end, giving the lesser men time to joust and settle differences when the official events were over and the lists were opened to all.
Once the companies were ready, the entirety of the camp was knocked down and an army of woodsmen and carpenters was hired at House von Rabsburg’s expense. In the space of an afternoon, Sir Felix named his subordinate Captains as Sir Clement, Sir Jean and one of the Imperial captains Edward didn’t know, a Viktor von Rayne. Each was given command of a full five hundred lances and a designated district on the front, over which they were to construct a fort and begin patrols.
The wedge of forts would cut the city of Lucca off from the other city states, and it was the Ober-Captain’s plan to force them to capitulate first. Edward, now officially named as Sir Clement’s Standard Bearer and First Lance, was included in some of the councils. He knew that the City-States were wealthy beyond belief, each worth nearly the entirety of the Empire’s yearly income, but their fractured nature gave the Imperial armies their edge. The League did not yet think the threat was dire enough to set aside their own rivalries and as such Sir Felix felt they could take two or even three cities before any sort of true alliance could be brought against them.
So it was that Edward found himself mounted on his light-boned palfrey, riding away from Siegesstand with Sir Clement’s banner clenched in his fist at the head of a column of two thousand men and women. They had been designated the central district of the Luccan crescent, as the front was being called, and they took with them a hundred of the foresters and a further fifty carpenters to build the fort.
They marched hard for three days to get to their designated area. They were so close to the city of Lucca that when Edward climbed a nearby tree he was able to see the crenelated tops of the city’s walls. Sir Clement began work on the fort immediately, dividing his lances into five divisions of one hundred lances, one of which was given to Edward to command. Ever the planner, Clem laid out designated camping spaces for each division and each was further divided into mess groups of ten lances and ordered rows of tents and sod huts rose like mushrooms after a spring rain across the flat.
The army of foresters fell on the wooded areas and began clearing trees like men possessed. First, they cleared an area around the camp a mile in each direction, and the neatly stacked piles of trees were trimmed and cut to shape by the carpenters and a smattering of archers and men at arms who pitched in to help. Sir Edward took note of who volunteered, and each evening when the officers dined together, he shared his list with Sir Clement as men to watch. One of these men was a young man at arms, not much older than Edward himself, named Thomas Blackwood, another was Edward’s new archer, Gerald.
Men pitched in and soon a six foot deep by six foot wide trench was dug around the entirety of the camp. Logs were sharpened into stakes and in two foot intervals were driven into the upcast created by the dirt that was removed for the ditch, making the entire camp impassable to cavalry and a decided annoyance for anyone on foot. Sir Clement and Sir Edward stood on the mound and looked towards where they knew Lucca would be in the distance. The younger knight grimaced in irritation as he felt the gravel slip into his shoes and knew it would be some time before he could empty them.
“It won’t be long before they send a force to probe our defenses, honestly Edward it’s a miracle it’s taken them this long,” the elder knight thought out loud.
Edward held out one gloved hand and watched as a minute snowflake fell onto his palm and quickly melted, “snows are here,” he answered his knight in a tone of contemplation.
As it turned out, the first true snows of the oncoming winter didn’t fall for another week. In that time the carpenters managed to raise a squat, eight foot wall of sharpened logs around the camp, ringing the internal edge of the ditch. With the wall complete they fell to with a feverish intensity to build large barrack buildings. They were long squat buildings and each division got two of them, one for the knights and men-at-arms and another for the archers, pages and squires.
They would not do, to host any powerful noble and they were susceptible to anyone who decided to burn them out, but for the time being it would allow them to find shelter from the worst of the winter storms. The snows closed in and Edward found himself and the rest of his men slowly moving to thicker and thicker woollen clothes and cloaks. Linen shirts replaced by fine woollen gowns that stretched to their ankles, with warm wool caps that could be pulled down over their ears.
It amused Edward to see these hard bitten soldiers transform into the shape of the grumpy old men in drafty castles he had become familiar with as a boy. The complaints of sore joints brought on by the cold was familiar to him, the screams of men having dead and frost bitten fingers and toes removed was not, and it chilled him even further.
The winter did what the people of Lucca could not. Snow and ice ravaged the new forts and left men frozen to death in the dark of the night. A fever ran rampant through the barracks and Edward lost a week as a shivering, sweat stained mess of sheets and blankets.
When the Company’s youngest knight awoke to a clear mind for the first time, he found himself buried in a blanket lined in wolf fur with two braziers burning bright near his bed. His squire, Murk, was close to hand and leapt to his master’s side when he saw the slightly glassy, green eyes open wide and take in the room. The boy ran a damp cloth over Edward’s brow and muttered some soothing sounds, clearly he still believed Edward was in the grip of the fever.
Edward raised a hand and took the cloth from his Squire’s grip with a nod. He closed his eyes as he pressed the soothing cold to his forehead himself with a sigh, “how long have I been out?” He managed to croak out through cracked lips and a dry, sore throat. Without a thought the young knight squeezed the cloth over his mouth letting the drops of moisture land on his lips and tongue to try and soothe his tortured throat.
Murk sighed with relief, Edward was almost certain the boy might have shed a tear were it not wholly inappropriate. He rushed to the basin on his master’s desk and drew a horn cup from his pouch to fill with the cool water, “roughly a week my lord, Sir Clement said to advise him as soon as you awoke properly,” the squire held the cup to his master’s lips and let the fluid run down his throat, “with your permission I’ll send word now,” the boy continued, Edward gave a short nod as he fell back onto his pillow.
When Sir Clement arrived, he was haggard and drawn, Edward could see the man had lost weight and was unwell himself. Though as yet the fever had not robbed him of his wits as it had Edward and many others of their company. The older knight sat with a heavy sigh, “I’m glad you decided to join us again,” he told his former squire with the ghost of a smile upon his lips, “this damn fever has done more for the Vallarese efforts than their own soldiers have accomplished,” Clem shook his shaven head, despair hiding in the corners of his dark expression, “I can’t lie to you, in the time you’ve been abed we’ve lost almost two hundred lances and half our officers, and the few scouts I’ve been able to get out there and back have reported a force of Vallarese condottieri is only a few days march away, and if their numbers are to be believed we’re outmatched at least three to one,” Edward shook his head, the gesture curiously mimicking his mentor.
“So you need me up and mounted and ready to fight?” he offered Sir Clement with a mirthless chuckle. The older knight was grim as he nodded in turn at his friend’s sally.
“More than that, of the three hundred lances left, barely a hundred are fit to fight,” Clement was offloading his worries and Edward realised quick that it was best these words not infect the men, for their spirit was the most valuable resource besides gold in a war like this. With a quick gesture Edward sent Murk from the room and pushed himself up into a sitting position to face his captain.
“So we need a small victory to put some heart back in the men, pick twenty lances and I’ll take them out and steal a standard, how’s the snow?” Clem smiled his first real smile since he had entered the room at the inherent valour of his former squire.
“You want to attack four thousand men with less than a hundred?” he asked Edward.
“My lord, for you I would fight them alone,” Edward’s grin turned savage, “I won’t be taking any foolish risks, but if the snow is passable, I imagine it’s still falling and will obscure us from a distance, a lightning raid, like the cattle raids on the McCullough border you used to tell me about as a boy,” Clement laid a hand on Edward’s shoulder and gave him a firm squeeze.
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“Thank you Edward,” he told his young friend, “take a day to rest, I’ll get the lances ready for you and we’ll sneak you out of the fort the day after tomorrow.”
True to his word, Sir Clement had twenty lances mustered in the central clearing of the fort. Eighty men in good harness, even the archers were in good breast and back plates with full arm harness and iron gauntlets. The young pages were well presented in mail and wore swords on their hips like prosperous yeomen while the squires and knights were indistinguishable in full harness that covered them from foot to crown, cap a pied as they would say in Bordeaux.
Edward himself was in full white harness, and the entirety of his little command were clad in woollen cloaks of white, in the distance they would not stand out greatly against the brilliant backdrop of snow. Edward whirled a fist in the air to signal the gathered men of the company and in a display of horsemanship they turned as one and filed through the back gate of the fort, despite having never practiced any such thing.
“Bring me back a standard to wipe our arse with!” Clem called out and received a salute from his former squire in answer.
The column rode into the snow clogged surrounds with the men-at-arms and squires on their heavy destriers breaking a path through the waist high powder. Edward led them from the front, Bohemund powering bravely through the snow while Murk rode just behind on his lighter rouncey.
It took all of a day for the archers to get bored and ride off to scout ahead, their light boned horses picking their way through the lighter snow drifts below the tree cover with ease. Gerald led them at a fast trot and they were lost to sight in moments, Edward shook his head at their impatience but knew better than to try and argue with an archer who wanted an adventure. Far better it was to let the Archers have their heads, and as it turned out it was a stroke of fortune. They found the enemy camp.
True to their nature the archers struck the enemy camp after nightfall, when the sentries were staring into their fires and doing nothing to actually watch their camp. Gerald led his party of twenty archers through the camp and in less than an hour had reduced the enemy numbers by nearly a hundred men, throats cut in their sleep, and returned to their bewildered corporal with a pair of enemy standards.
“And here I was expecting to be needed for this empris,” Edward muttered a trifle pettishly as he welcomed the archers back to the main column and began to wheel them back towards the fort, the men-at-arms grumbling like surly drunks that they had not gotten to fight. Gerald meanwhile flashed his lord a gap-toothed grin and tugged his forelock in mock salute.
“You’re welcome your lordship, wouldn’ wan’ you gettin’ your pretty armour all scuffed.” The roguish archer gave him a wink before swinging back into his saddle to follow the column back to the fort, buoyed by their success. Sir Edward shook his head at the archer’s impertinence but in turn he put his steed’s head back towards the fort and followed behind.
It was not a great feat of arms, nor was it the swift raid and victory the young knight had imagined, but it was the sort of foolishness that put heart into the demoralised men. Within an hour of their return to the fort the archers had been fed enough wine to kill a village drunk and the story had grown with the telling until it was said confidently that their handful of archers had killed a full thousand men in the enemy camp. Edward gave a proper report to Sir Clement who he found abed, his own illness finally sapping the energy from his mentor’s bones and leaving him lucid but weak.
The knight looked wan as he smiled tightly over his sweat-soaked sheets at his successful corporal. The fever had him in its grip, but it was not his master, and Edward saw immediately how strong his mentor was in that moment. Clem pushed himself up onto an elbow before he spoke, “I gather you had some success,” he rasped through a dry throat.
Edward felt the corner of his lips twist in a slightly lop-sided and entirely rueful smile at his uncle, “the archers did, I doubt it really accomplished anything though,” he said as he tilted his hand in a gesture of uncertainty. Clem nodded weakly.
“It will be enough to hold the men until the snow clears,” he informed Edward with a hint of his fire showing in his tone, “a convoy arrived from Sir Felix while you were gone, the men have been paid for the month and we received food, news of a victory, even a small one will do them good,” the older knight began to cough loudly and dots of blood flecked his damp sheets, “I’m going to need you to take command until I am well again,” Clem ordered.
Edward looked up in shock, “Sir Richard can handle-.” He began only to be silenced by his mentor’s weak hand waving him down.
“Sir Richard doesn’t have the birth to lead this many men, and believe me Edward, birth matters, you are the nephew of the King of Arturia, men will listen to you,” Edward still shook his head.
“I’ll do what I can, you save your strength,” he told Sir Clement, but in his heart he screamed, I’m only sixteen!
Sir Edward’s first meeting with the officers went about as well as could be expected. Among mercenaries, reputation was like hard currency and could be spent the same way. For a freshly minted knight like Edward who won his spurs in a famous tournament, he enjoyed some small word fame as a fighting knight, but he was untried as a commander and while the other officers tolerated him as a corporal with his own lances, seeing him promoted above them stuck in the craw for many. Sir Richard took it in stride and assumed the role of Edward’s lieutenant with no complaint, in fact he worked to support Edward in the first meeting until one of the newer corporals, a hard-bitten and scarred adventurer from the north of Seageld named Phillipe. He was not a belted knight, but he enjoyed a certain amount of fame as a cattle raider and brawler.
Lucky for Edward his time in the companies had been accompanied by growth as only a young man can accomplish. His devotion to the tiltyard and his new height that was on the cusp of six feet meant he was able to look the man in the eye and had at least an extra ten pounds of muscle on the ferret faced routier. He moved quickly to stand chest to chest with the older man, “if you wish to fight messire, you have only to ask,” Edward informed the man.
Phillipe backed down but it became obvious within days that a fight would eventuate. First he had his master archer start to cause problems, small things like putting cuts in the leather of girth straps to cause a saddle to fail, or throwing buckets of water onto the wood pile designated for Edward’s archers and so on. Sir Richard caught the man in the act on the last one and had him flogged. Edward noted that the sullen archer was quick to find him afterwards and confess who had put him up to the task. So, it was with no small amount of trepidation that Sir Edward slapped Phillipe with a chamois glove and challenged him to a fight on foot.
They met in the centre of the fort surrounded and cheered on by all the archers and most of the men at arms. Murk had done an admirable job of arming Edward and he enjoyed the feeling of snug safety that his full harness provided. Phillipe by comparison was every inch the routier Edward knew him to be. The man wore a many times patched coat of plates with arm and leg harnesses of thick leather and iron splints with a dented bascinet with half an aventail, and the entirety of it seemed to weep rust.
Edward had forgone his ostentatious tournament wear for the simple appearance of plain steel that shone in the damp air thanks to Murk’s ministrations of pork fat and tow. He raised his sword in salute, “you may beg forgiveness and surrender to me if you wish Phillipe, I may even let you keep your armour,” he sneered at the man, it was petty but Edward was done being polite, and Sir Richard did his best to hide the smile that curled his lips.
“Go fuck yourself,” Phillipe swore at Edward as he drew his own sword. In two motions Phillipe confirmed what Edward had suspected. He was a vicious brawler, known for pushing into the stour and striking foes with strength and little in the way of technical skill. He had speed on his side however and his first three blows fell like hammers on Edward’s guard in quick succession from a high garde. Edward made his blade a staff with his left hand at the point and allowed the strikes to slide off like rain on a steep roof.
Edward could smell the man’s garlic infused breath, Phillipe’s helm having no visor like many men in the companies. He timed the sixth blow and rotated off of its momentum to drive his pommel into Phillipe’s teeth. The blow was controlled, hitting with plenty of force but being unlikely to kill the man. As it was the corporal spat teeth and threw himself against Edward in retaliation to try and wrestle him to the ground. The young knight in turn kneed Phillipe viciously in the balls, hard enough he thought he might do permanent damage, certainly there was no protection except the cloth of Phillipe’s braes and hose to protect the vulnerable parts from the hardened steel of Edward’s poleyn.
It was the final straw and Phillipe collapsed to the ground in a moaning heap. The once formidable fighter even had a few shining tears leaking unbidden from his eyes. Edward turned on the watching crowd, “this is an example, the Great Company is no place for…men such as this,” he hesitated to use such a word to describe the fallen routier, “whoever is page to Phillipe here, please saddle his horse as he is leaving,” the festival like air that had been lent to the entertainment of an officer fighting seemed to evaporate, “I will be conducting an inspection of all Lances under Phillipe’s command, I expect harness to be in significantly better condition and skills to be significantly sharper than what he displayed here,” the anger was readily apparent on Sir Edward’s face and in his voice, “you have one week to show me that you deserve to be here and earn the Emperor’s coin, let Phillipe be an example, you do not question an officer unless you make damn sure you can do the job better,” He squatted down by Phillipe’s head where the man still groaned in pain, a small puddle of bile lay under his cheek and more still leaked from the corner of his mouth, “make sure I never see you again,” he hissed in the man’s ear before he turned on his heel and headed back to the barracks, Sir Richard in tow.
“That was a touch harsh, but well done lad.” The older knight told Edward.
“Had to be harsh or it would have happened again,” Edward offered by way of explanation, Sir Richard only nodded in quiet assent.