Burgundy: Origin of the Free Company: Book One

[Lord Durham]

Welcome to Burgundy: Origin of the Free Company.

This will be a plot driven, ongoing story that features RPG interaction among characters, their surroundings and historical events.

For those of you who are familiar with the concept from my Papacy AAR, then no further explanation is required.

For newcomers who wish to partake, or just plain read for enjoyment, you'll find the closest thing in similarity will be D&D. I will play a year at a time and record events. From there I will sketch out storylines and introduce the elements which the writers will work from. Typically one writer will do a piece and leave a 'hook' so someone else can step in and carry on.

Stories will range from war, campaigns, political situations, quests, battles, even marriages. They will be serious and lighthearted, gripping, sad, and funny.

The only rules are: Stay within the spirit of the story-telling (i.e. - no silliness or totally OOC posts) and no killing off another person's character unless prearranged. Additionally I ask that dates/times be used in the headings for continuity sake, and finally, try to accompany all OOC posts with a legitimate post, even if it's a few lines. I want to try and keep the thread size down relative to the content, if you get my drift.

As before, I will create a web-page with as much back-ground information as possible. I will continue the tradition of campaign and battle maps and other maps of interest.

In advance I want to thank Derek Pullem for helping me gather as much information for the time period as possible. I'll take full responsibility for any errors

This AAR will be structured like a novel, so characterization is as important as story telling. Keep the backhistories of your characters to a minimum and bring them out slowly. It makes for better reading when motives and conflicts are only hinted at.

If people wish to comment, or add historical suggestions or insights, then please do. While attempts will be made to keep this as accurate as possible, screwups will happen, whether accidental or planned.

While contributers are always welcome, and encouraged, please understand that this AAR is complex and fast paced. So if you wish to join, please do it with the intention of hanging in for the long haul. There's nothing more disappointing than fitting a person's character into the story, only to have the author drop from the face of the earth.

Unlike any other AAR, this one is catered to the serious writer. I encourage anyone who wishes to hone their craft to give it a try.

Reading this from the beginning is not neccessary if you wish to join. Every effort will be made to bring new writers up to speed as soon as possible. Sometimes it suits the new character better if they don't know the backhistory.

Enjoy!

[Havard]

Originally posted by Lord Durham
Welcome to Burgundy: Origin of the Free Company.

Burgundy! Great! My first AAR was Burgundy (see .sig) (not finished either...)!

Go! Ye Grandmaster of the Golden Fleece!

[Lord Durham]

I believe both France and the Habsburgs have a claim on her, but we'll be running this year by year, and unlike the Papacy, an event like that will force us to relocate to another country. I'll just use the old Storey 4in1 trick.

-----------------

Oh. Thanks Havard. I just missed your post. Anyway, my explanation for adverse events stands. BTW, I remember that AAR of yours. Very good indeed.

[Habsburg]

Hooray for Lord Durham, a most excellent writer of AARs!

Sincerely,

Herzog Karl-Heinrich von Beaverhausen

[Sharur]

Sergeant Freidrich Scherer looked around in stunned disbelief. How had he ended up here? Transported from the training grounds of the Burgundian army to a completely empty white space... no walls, no ceiling, no floor, no nothing, just... white. Except, there had to be a floor, because he seemed to be standing on something; he just couldn't see it. Well, he thought, I guess I'll just have to wait for Lord Durham to take me back...

OOC: YES!!! I finally got in at the ground level on an interactive AAR! This aar gets a pre-emptive 5 star rating

[Lord Durham]

Habsburg: You're making me blush... hope your pen's ready

OOC: This is a set up piece. Feel free to work in your characters. I'll arrange for the neccessary meetings, etc, etc. For any newcomers, you can wait for one of the vets to post if you're unsure what to do. Those of us familiar with the time period will help those that are unsure. Feel free to PM me with any questions. Above all, exercise your creativity and have fun!


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CHAPTER ONE - RESURRECTION


Dijon, Burgundy: January 22 1419 - Evening


Jean Sans Peur, Duke of Burgundy, of the House of Valois, knew fear.

It wasn't a tangible fear, it was an inner dread that had haunted him since that fateful day on November 23 in 1407. It was the day he had Louis d'Orléans assassinated at the Impasse des Arbalétriers in Paris.

That the man was the brother of Charles VI, King of France, didn't matter. The King was rumoured to be as mad as a toothless crone. The resulting chaos of the assassination was an opportunity that Jean relished, for it pitted his Burgundians against the Armagnacs and their leader, Charles's father-in-law, Bernard VII, count of Armagnac.

The conflict inadvertently attracted the attention of the young English king, Henry V, and before long England had invaded France to stake his claim to the French throne.

Jean Sans Peur admired the young English upstart. Just four years past the 'Warrior King' had inflicted a terrible defeat on the flower of French nobility at Agincourt. Jean had waited in the safety of his castle with calculating neutrality, then moved on Paris in 1418, where he arranged the massacre of Bernard and his followers. The irony was not lost on Jean Sans Peur. The murder was committed by Jean de Villiers, current lover of Charles Queen, Isabeau. It was claimed the man had carved the cross of Burgundy in the Count's chest.

It was a deed both daring and startling, for the cross marked Jean as surely as it marked the dead Count Bernard.

He knew that retribution would come one day, and he was determined to be prepared.

* * *

Jean Sans Peur stood on a balcony, overlooking the city of Dijon. Thunder cracked in a raucous explosion of sound as lightning lit the night sky in a flash of brilliance, briefly silhouetting the gothic beauty of Notre-Dame, seated majestically in the distance.

There was a noise from behind and the Duke spun quickly, his hand reaching for the ever present blade slung at his side. He relaxed when he recognized his seneschal, Pierre.

The short man bowed. "He is here, my Lord."

Jean nodded, and turned back to the balcony entrance. He waited several moments, then turned back. He was surprised at the size of the man that waited for him. An Englishman.

The stranger was of medium height, broad shouldered and ruddy in complexion. Cool blue eyes stared at the Duke from under a tangled mass of brown hair. His dress consisted of a dark shirt and brown, well worn pants. A shirt of mail covered his torso in the Norman fashion; no doubt an heirloom handed down from father to son. At his side hung a sword, plain and well used by all appearances. Heavy boots, riding to mid-calf, completed the dress.

The Duke decided that small talk and flattery would be wasted. "You came. Good. Drink?" he asked in thickly accented English.

"The stranger's eyes flicked quickly around the room. "Wine, watered." His voice was calm, but deep and vibrant. A voice used to command. He had replied in French.

Pierre hurried over to pour two goblets, handed them over, then moved back to a deep recess in the massive study.

The Duke took a drink and said, "You're a hard man to find, though you come highly recommended. All we had to go on was a description."

The stranger smiled humourlessly.

"I have need of your services."

This time the stranger raised an eyebrow, then took a drink. "What does a Duke require of a mercenary, outside of war? I thought all your enemies were dead?"

The Duke stopped mid-drink. "Things are tenuous at the moment. Don't let the semblance of peace lead you to believe it."

The stranger laughed. "Spoken like a nobleman. If you knew enough to find me, then you know I have few men to command at the moment."

"Hard times?"

"A betrayal."

The Duke waited for more, but the Englishman merely took another drink. "I need a company of men that can act independently of me, but act for me." The Duke paced to the balcony, then back. "It's true, the lull in the war is coming to a close, and I want to be prepared to act decisively when the time comes."

"A company you say? That will cost. The war's on the other side of France. Good men will be hard to find around here."

The Duke finished his wine and flicked a wrist. Pierre was at his side moments later. "If money is no object, can you find the men?"

The stranger nodded. "It will take time. I'm fussy on who I choose."

"But they will come to you?"

"Once I put the word out."

The Duke took a refill. "Very well. I will arrange for the funds to reach you. Pierre here will be my contact. Where shall he find you?"

The stranger looked at the diminutive seneschal. "I am staying at La Vierge Étranglée."

Pierre snorted and looked at the tall, thin Duke, who said, "The Strangled Virgin'? You choose an unsavory place to call home."

The Englishman turned to leave. "I'm in an unsavory business."

Pierre cleared his throat. "Who do I ask for? What's your name?"

The stranger stopped and regarded both men with emotionless eyes. "You can call me... Captain."

[Sharur]

"What's the news, sir?" Scherer was one of the few men left in the Company after the purges Captain had been forced to make, which put him in the unusual position of being a Sergeant that talked to Captain. He was a stubborn, impulsive man; he was quick to make judgements, after which he almost never changed his mind. But he was definitely not stupid. While he knew that he was from somewhere near Magdeburg, he had no knowledge of his family or its history.

"We'll be fighting for Jean Sans Peur, the Duke of Burgundy. Recruitment starts tomorrow. That's all you need to know. Dismissed." Captain wasn't a wordy man.

[Lord Durham]

Hot to trot, eh Sharur? Good post.

One major piece of info I meant to impart, silly me. As far as I know formal ranks did not exist back in 1419. Mercenary companies of the time typically had a sponser (the Duke), a Captain, then masters of 20 (vintenaries), 100 (centenaries) and 1000 (millenaries). The mercenaries usually comprised of landless knights, with an entourage of squires, yeomen and archers. There were also individual yeomen and archers. Let me know what is more comfortable to use, rank wise. It's only a game after all...

[Sharur]

I vote for ranks, because editing my post would be way too much trouble.

Perhaps the Company could be the revolutionaries in the field of command structure?

[Sgt. Bloomfield]

"Damn," Edmond de Bloomfielde thought, looking from his empty purse back at the grinning harlot, "I need money!"

He looked up and saw a sign swinging above the grimy mew. "La Vierge Etranglee" it read.

[Rictus]

His height was medium, but his build suggested a man who was either in a lot of fights, or planned to be, his complexion was light, lighter than the French and Burgundians that he now found himself surrounded by, as he made his way patiently yet determinedly through a thick crowd to a particular Inn. At his side was a fine Italian made sword, scabbarded loosly to his waist, counter-wiehgted against that was a thick, brutal knife.

His clothes were a mish-mash of scavanged articles, he had a thin leather riding jacket and muddied trousers. His clothes were patched and in dire need of burning, but his weapons were spotless.

Edward of Seraphim was an experienced mercenary, having made his way through many of the English armies operating in France and dropping in and out of the German princes forces, but now he was looking for more permanant work and his prayers had been answered when he heard that one particular unit, the unit was recruiting and with all haste, he had dropped his lost contract and made his way for Burgundy.

He was an example of the best and the worst points of English Yeomanry, he fought hard and he fought well, he had a loyalty of sorts, but it was all tinged with the colour of gold; gold provided his loyalty and gold bought his skills. Edward was not nobility, nor did he ever aspire to be, but he knew what his place was - and that was, in this particular case, was of a mercenary.

So he made his way through the thickening merchant crowds of Dijon to a tavern, where he hoped for further employment, and, more importantly, gold...

(OOC: Howdoyoudo. Ahhh, the sweet smell of a new AAR, bliss...)

[Ernst]

from : Knight Edmée Malavoye de Caze
to : baroness Marie de N.

" My sweet sister,

Oh how I wish you never married this old Baron. Since our mother's death, Fortune has never smiled to our name, has it ?

Maybe all this is about to change, Marie, for I am now in Dijon. The Captain is looking for men to fight for the Duke Jean de Bourgogne. Maybe you have heard of the Captain ? He is one of the most famous mercenaries in Christendom.

The last ducats I've spent buying this horse may not "vanish in the air like smoke vanishing in the sky", as you wrote in your last letter. At last our father's sword will enjoy the pride it deserves, and our lineage's coat of arms will shine again.

I know, my mercenary status is not worthy our name. I don't like them either, but I need money. To Paris, my sister ! Soon we shall march to Paris and then we'll get rid of your senile husband. We will stay together again, just you and I, able to stare at people, right in the eyes, as we used to. Can you remember ?

Until then, make the Lord they never hear of the Malavoye's secret...

Take care of you, Marie.
Your brother, Edmée

[Honour_Shogun]

It was said that this incarnation of William Wallace was brasher, more daring than the rest. What was known of him was not much. He hailed from somewhere in the Highlands, he had with him some of the finest Welsh Bowmen the lands had ever seen. And then there were his core of men, his "Kilters" as he called them. Fierce, totally fearless, utterly mad,berserk fighters who wielded their claymores like a child wields a small stick. These men were what was soon to be known as "Wallace's Bunch". Ok, so maybe Wallace was lacking in originality, but that really did not matter. He had come over with Henry the Fifth. He had actually been at Agincourt, and had helped to slaughter many a Frenchmen that day. But as the days wore on, he and his men had grown bored of fighting for the English. In fact, how he had come to fight for them at all was beyond belief. As it was assumed that every Scot hated the English with a passion not seen in man or beast. But here was Wallace and his men, fighting alongside English soldiers. His motives were his own, his desires known only to him. He was a man of destiny. Where that destiny lay, no one but William Wallace knew.

William and his men had travelled the land, in search of bounty, of glory. They had ended up in Burgundy, outside a tavern in Dijon. Oh, such a sight it was! Men in kilts, the Welsh with their longbows strung across their backs. The motley crew entered the tavern, and that was the beginning of their story...


"Lads! Lads! We'll be drinking well tonight! I hear word that the duke of these parts needs some help, and will lok for outside help, if ya know what I mean, hehe. We are gonna find this duke, find him and convince him to let us work fer him. Now, as me namesake would say before every battle: 'Ya can take our lands, but ya can never take our Freedom! '. Well, fer me, is no like that. More like:' Give us lots of gold, we'll kick the arse of whoever you say! And where's the ale!'"

A hearty roar rose from the group. One thing about Scotsmen, give them a beer, and they are happy. And so a night of racous tales of derring-do and tall tales began. And lasted well into the night...


******************************

[OOC: What? LD, did you think I would let William Wallace fade away? We need a laugh track of some sorts Seriously, this will certainly be fun. Pity I cannot find a way to get some Nipponese involved. Oh well, Scots all the way. With their kilts, and their beer. And their bagpipes. And their use of the word "eh" excessively. Oh, and possibly the use of the word "hoser" from time to time(What? Have you no met the Mackenzie Brothers? They are a part of "Wallace's Bunch" as well.]

[Barkdreg]

"Your gold or your life!"
the bandits seemed very serious
Slowly Barkdreg started to count them. Only 6.
Hardly fair, 6 smelly peasants facing a fully armoured knight Templar.
Former knight Templar, Barkdreg corrected himself.
Slowly anger started to build, how did they dare expel him from their order. Only because he got a little drunk. God damn them all. Another reason he got expelled, blasphemy. The fools, how could a man live without cursing.
"Your gold or your life!"
Barkdreg was surprised, he had almost forgotten that the bandits were here. He sighed, slowly he dismounted and started removing his armour.
The bandits started to look happy. They probably didn't understand that he wasn't surrendering, he was leveling the odds. Without his armour and sword the bandits had at least a chance to survive.
Without a warning Barkdreg charged...

*******
Humming a happy tune Barkdreg strapped his armour on.
Hopefully he would reach a tavern before the evening, nothing made him as thirsty as fight.

[Sgt. Bloomfield]

De Bloomfielde told the harlot to wait, he'd be right back. She winked at him and turned her back. "Damn," he thought again. Then he hitched up his breeches and his sword, brushed uselessly at a dried blood stains on his leather jerking, and ducked into La Vierge Etranglée.

* * *

Captain and Scherer were sitting a table in a dark corner of La Vierge Etranglée. It was still early, and they sipped at their cheap wine from time to time. Word had gone out that Captain was hiring and soon the unquiet spirits, the disinherited nobles, the proscribed villains, the unrequited lovers, and the fleeing horsethieves, along with the scum of the old Western Empire would arrive at the sign of the Strangled Virgin.

The two men did not speak much. They had come through a lot together in Italy and there was no need for words. Scherer played idly with a few heavy coins on the table before him, part of Sans Peur's advance. The gold on the table was the signal that they were hiring, and men would come, listening for the soft clink in the recess of the tavern.

"I'll kill the bastard if I find him," muttered Captain under his breath.

"She'll kill him first," replied Scherer and took a deep swig from his earthen mug.

When he set the mug back down, the gold was gone.

"What?" And then Scherer saw the small, grimy boy dashing for the door. He jumped up, running after the boy, upsetting the table and blocking Captain's way. Scherer stumbled over a stool, got up and, cursing under his breath, pushed through the half-drunken crowd. He had probably lost the boy.

But when he got to the door, he stood in front of a tall, burly man. The man wore a large sword, hitched up high. His clothes were spattered with what seemed to be dried blood. A scar ran down one side of his face, and in his right hand, suspended above the floor, he held the thief. The boy's clothes were little more than rags, his face was dirty and he kicked and flailed uselessly against his captor.

"The thief!" exclaimed Scherer, "give him here!"

But the stranger held the boy higher, and away from Scherer. "I found him, I keep him," he growled.

Captain had pushed through the crowd, and when he saw the scene, he drew his sword and spat. "Bloomfielde!" he hissed.

The man holding the boy blanched at the sight of Captain, and took a step back.

"Captain! I didn't know you were here in Dijon... Captain, listen, I can explain...," he stammered.

Captain looked around him. The crowd was hushed. Curious, lugubrious faces peered at the three men and the struggling boy.

"Come with me, and bring the boy," Captain said and turned.

* * *

They had made their way back through the crowd to the table.

Still holding the kicking, but silent boy, Bloomfielde shrugged apologetically at Captain as the men sat down.

"Honest, Captain, I didn't know she was your sister! I mean, you know me, I would never have..."

"Yes, Bloomfielde, I do know you! And I should probably skin you right here and now. But I need men. Good men. You were damned lucky to have run before last Martinmas, because you weren't there when..." He glanced at Scherer. Then he went on, "You're in. Understand?"

Bloomfielde nodded.

Scherer, who had had a hard time controlling his impatience while Captain and Bloomfielde talked, turned on the boy.

"You filthy little vermin! You thief! Where's the gold?"

The boy, who must be thirteen perhaps, shrugged and shook his head innocently.

"What's the matter, you can't talk?"

The boy again shrugged and nodded sadly.

"A bloody thieving mute!" exclaimed Scherer and started frisking the boys pockets for the gold. Captain took the boy's rucksack from his shoulders and dumped it on the table. A slate board, paper, a book, and an inkwell with several quills fell out.

Captain whistled through his teeth. "You can read and write?"
The boy nodded silently.

"Can you keep ledgers and accounts?"

Again the boy nodded. Captain scratched his head. He had lost his clerk on that bloody day in Italy...

Scherer had given up his search for the gold. He did not like the way the conversation was going. This was a damned little thief, a cursed rogue that should be run up the next gibbet. He growled at the boy.

"I know you've got the gold! Now hand it over or I'll tear you limb from limb, I'll squash you like a bug, I'll... I wish you could talk, so I could hear you squeal, you little rat, you..."

Captain grinned at Scherer. "The boy can talk," he said.

Then, with a sudden movement, he slapped the back of the boy's head. The boy jerked forward, spitting the gold pieces out over the table.

[The Danish King]

The man was at least 2 meters tall, and maybe just as wide. He was a giant. He was a giant from the north. Knud the Strong hailed from the kingdom of Denmark, born and raised in Roskile, he ventured out from his homeland in his yoing days, now he was 32 years of age. Knud's clothe was nothing special, a leather tunic along some throuses and a cape made out most of his close. In armour he had a Norman helmet covering most of his face, though he long beard was still visible, he also weared a pair of leg paddings. He had been all over known Europe, Holy Roman Empire, Byzantium, Hungary, France...the list goes on. He was traveling to Castille for killing a few muslims when he on his way stopped by an inn in Dijon, the capital of Burgundy.

The inn was a busy place, a few drunken Scotsmen told tales from their homelands, a Spanish sitting for himself drinking ale, even a Knight Templar was in here.

"Looks like somebody caught himself a theif." Knud thought, he saw a Captain smacking a boy in the neck and some coins fell out of his mouth.

Knud was out of ducats at this point and was staving for some ale, so he thought he could make friend with the captain and the other person sitting at the table, so he swung over his Dane-Axe to his side and began walking towards them with some ale on his mind.

[Storey]

Dijon, Burgundy: January 24 1419 - afternoon

Alberic keep moving even though the effort caused him no little pain. The cold caused his breath to billow in front of him with every step he took. He came to a small stream and paused, looked around and knelt down. He cupped his hand and scooped up some water all the while never taking his eyes off the forest that surrounded him. He cursed his luck that had brought him to this hell hole they called Burgundy. Panting as he drank he suddenly heard the far off baying of dogs.

"Where the hell did they find dogs?" He cursed.

"The hell with it" he muttered.

He rose to his feet and started moving at a steady ground eating pace that would force those following to curse him as the devil himself for his ability to out run man or beast. He had been in the area long enough to know that there was a town in the next valley that he could reach before nightfall. All he had to do was lose his trackers. He stopped and looked at the cold stream water and sighed again. Stepping into the middle of the stream he started walking downstream leaving no tracks for the men or dogs to follow. As he waded through the stream he thought with amusement of how a man who started down the path as a Benedictine monk could end up as a mercenary in Burgundy. There was only one answer to that and it started with the Captain. At the mouth of the valley he stepped out of the stream feeling confident that he had lost his pursuers. He soon found the trail to the town of Dijon and was quickly walking along it when he heard the clear sounds of a fight in progress. Drawing his sword he crept along the edge of the path and saw a curious sight. A knight by the look of him was in the process of tossing around several rag covered flea infested men. Alberic sat back on his hunches and settled in to watch. He was disappointed in that the fight lasted only for a few moments before the tribe of fleas and their hosts had been pummeled into a heap. As the knight suited up once again in his armor Alberic stepped forth holding his hands well away from his sword smiled and said.

"Well met sir. I think you for this day's entertainment. I go by the name of Alberic and wish you well since to do otherwise as those poor men have found out would not be wise. And your name would be...."

"I'm called Barkdreg." The knight said while eyeing Alberic up and down.

"If by chance you are going toward Dijon I would welcome the company since you never know who you will chance upon or who might chance upon you if you get my drift."

Barkdreg had a puzzled expression on his face as he grunted.

"I'm not sure what you just said but if you want to come along fine."

"Well said sir! I can see your a man with a sense of humor and the wit to express it! Now I happen to know of a place to stay and seek refreshments. It's called La Vierge Étranglée. My employer is there and I'm eager to meet him since I'm a little short if funds at this moment. He's called the Captain."

"Captain? Seems a funny name to be called?"

"Maybe but not many know his real name. At the moment he's hiring men for a little task which might interest you considering your ability at fighting. I feel this is a moment of fate that we should have met at this time sir. Yes I can feel great things in store for us. You wouldn't happen to have a little bread or perhaps cheese would you. I had to leave a little early from my last abode and didn't have time for breakfast."

And the two men one silently riding and one walking while constantly talking moved toward Dijon.

(OOC) Welcome to all the new writers. Hold on to your swords at all times. You never know what's around the next bend of the path.

[Misha]

The white charger pranced & pawed with excitement, but the tall armor-clad rider paid the beast no heed. He was looking ahead, the visor of his helm up, his grey eyes patiently searching the horizon. The knight was clearly a man of action, yet his entire demeanor bespoke of a great calm, as if he were a man who knew his destiny precisely.

"Perhaps Buckeye is lost, Sir Greystoke?"

The knight's squire looked up at his master attentively. They were an odd match. Whereas the knight was a very large, well-built man, standing 6 & a half feet in the English measure, the squire was quite much shorter & quite thin, barely looking able to carry the weapons he bore for his master. And yet, something in the lad's gaze spoke of a commonality between the two. Like his master, his eyes were grey & indicated a rare intelligence, evidencing an almost unshakeable will, if not the wisdom of the ages.

"Be patient Misha. Buckeye will come. No trail can long elude him."

As if on cue, a tall, rangy woodsman clad in green & brown with an English yew longbow at his side, emerged from the woods into the clearing. Walking with long strides that seemed to eat up the ground in large chunks, the scout rapidly approached.

"Dijon, boss. Our boy's in Dijon"

Buckeye spoke the information in a slow, insoucient drawl that Misha found exasperating. The squire also found the scout's use of the Dutch word for leader both annoying & disrespectful to his master. But the knight only nodded, as if to confirm something he already knew.

"Then let us commence."

The small encampment sprung to life. The master had spoken & it was time to make haste. Misha smiled as he worked. He sensed a great adventure at hand...

[Lord Durham]

WOW! Great introductions everyone! Just great!

Let's see, we have a giant Dane that wields an axe, a huge Scot that wields a claymore and a large knight who removes his armour before a fight

All that's missing is a Dwarf, a Cleric and a Mage... Bloomers, don't even think about it!

Danish King: I utilised your original character too. I like the idea of the merchant. Feel free to step into his shoes too, if you wish.

A warm welcome to familiar faces and new blood. I have a rather massive post coming up, but I have to edit it to account for Alberic. No problem. I assume Misha and Rictus are still enroute.

And das, I'm confused by your post. I hope you understand what we're doing here.

Anyway, post coming soon...

[Derek Pullem]

Frederick Pohlman, master handgunner, had ridden for six weeks from his home in Bavaria to reach Dijon. The rumours of war brewing between the heretic Hussites in Bohemia and the empire had forced him into making a decision. He could wait until his liege, Duke Louis of Ingoldstadt, called him to fight in some crazy crusade or he could find employment, paid employment, for one of the French Dukes. Given the parlous state of his finances, the chance of a steady wage and prospect of the occasional opportunity for some booty seemed far more appealing than the certainty of a place in heaven. Besides he had seen the war wagons of the Hus before - they would give the ironheads from the Empire a surprise or too he wagered.

"Sir, look! La Vierge Etranglée!" exclaimed Spiros, his manservant. He'd been with Frederick since the trip he'd made to Venice three years ago. A Greek by birth, he'd been an oarsman in the Venetian fleet before he'd been thrown on to the streets. Frederick had offered him work when he needed a guide and he'd stayed ever since.
"That's the place that the Sergeant spoke about." Spiros kicked the flanks of his mule, who complained and trotted a little faster. Spiros' trusty crossbow swung from side to side as the comical beast headed towards the tavern.

"Ach! Such a place! Let us hope that the tales of the Captain and his men are not idle gossip. And let us hope more that the size of his purse is not a rumour too!" thought Frederick.