The Free Company - Book VII: Closure

October 11 Noon, the Inn at Le Mans

A servant brought news that the Burgundian had arrived, wanting to speak to Frederik. The Dane stood, straightened his expensive black tunic,

"Send him in."

He walked slowly to the fire place and turned to greet his guest.

"Master d’Aulon?"

He shook the Burgundian's hand.

"I am Frederik Hviid, head of a small merchant house."

He gestured at a well decked table,

"I have taken the liberty of ordering a variety of the best the inn can offer. I hope you will join me?"

Without waiting for reply he went to a side table and poured a healthy goblet of wine,

"Burgundian, I was in luck, the innkeeper had a small but exquisite selection of reds."

He held out the goblet to the puzzled Jean d'Aulon who took it. Had he expected a mercanry he was sorely disappointed. The Dane's sombre dress gave him a look of a well to do merchant, something he went out of his way to groom.

"Now, I am sure you are curious as to this proposition of mine?"

He pulled out a seat,

"Will you not sit? I will have to find a seat, my leg is particularly stiff today."

He sat down at the table by the window with the light in his back.

"Now, you are a master gunner are you not? A master of artillery in every sense save perhaps position?"

Frederik of course knew this. Captain had informed him of the man's reputation and he had followed up with his own investigation.

"I understand that the Burgundian army recently had a new Maitre d'artillery?"

He sipped his wine, urging the puzzled guest to do the same,

"Perhaps you would be interested in hearing of a possible employ that will put you at the head of your own artillery?"

October 12, 1450 - The Twisted Sole, St.Malo - Late Afternoon

Thomas nodded and turned around when he heard Milo calling him back. He turned around as Milo continued, “And tell them not to send any more new recruits to the docks. The next person to appear at the docks looking for equipment will be volunteering to help me with my unloading.”

Thomas nodded again and moved away before Milo could summon him back again.

Thomas turned and started trudging back to the Twisted Sole shouting behind him "I'll make sure I will", "Jesus I'd hate to get on the wrong side of him too often" he thought to himself.

Arriving at the Twisted Sole he saw the young man who had been with Milo at the dockside trip and vomit over another, turning away to avoid the trouble he overheard the name of Lochlan as the leader of the scouts, remembering the group he had approached to join he sought them out again.

Seeing him Thomas sidled over to his table, whipped a beer of a maid's tray and sank down onto a stool before taking a swig of the beer. Neither lochlan nor the man sitting alongside him looked at Thomas, indeed the other man seemed more interested in polishing his weapon than anything else. Thomas shrugged, finished his beer and said "I'm Thomas Hulne, I've been assigned to the rangers" turning to the second man he said "That's a fine boar spear you have, have you found many boar around here?"

October 11th, noon, at an inn at Le Mans

Jean scrutinized the Dane. Not a young man anymore, and with the silently assured air of an affluent merchant, not unlike Jean’s own father used to display. But a merchant? Hardly. This Frederik Hviid had a leanness and an edge of the kind to himself that Jean had sometimes seen in hardened veteran officers. It must be the man he had thought to have heard of. Well, if the Dane wanted to play games with him, he could oblige him.

Jean lifted his cup in the hint of a salute to his host. “My thanks for your invitation, master Hviid.”

The strange name rolled awkwardly from Jean’s tongue, but the taste of the red on it was all the sweeter. A rich, full-bodied flavour, of the quality he had lately become used to, and very different from what the student watering holes of Paris used to serve.

“A very fine vintage indeed”, Jean acknowledged. Following the previous invitation of his host, he pulled a chair close and sat, straightening out the voluminous folds of the formal scholar’s robes he had donned for the appointment as he did so.

“Alas”, he said with thinly veiled irony, doffing his soft velvet cap and laying it across his knees, “what business would a merchant have with a Burgundian maître des canons? I would imagine you’d hope to become by my agency a supplier of salpeter or somesuch to the Burgundian crown. But no, it is a grand command of my own you are offering me. You see me …. intrigued. Maybe you would like to explain yourself, master Hviid?”

October 12 1450, St Malo Afternoon

Gunther regarded his breastplate. It would probably never shine, but it was cleaned and oiled and ready to wear.

He started strapping it on. "Well, I don't know much about them other then they are supposed to be pretty famous and they must be flush in cash."

Gaston laughed. "What would lead you to believe that, are they throwing money around in the taverns?"

"No," replied the older man, "not that I saw anyway, but you notice, they were welcomed into the city without a fight, without any looting and most importantly, without levying any contributions. That is a sure sign of a healthy pocketbook." Gunther stood up and adjusted his breastplate. "Their men on leave are also acting very disciplined as well, no increases in crime since their ship hit port. That is the kind of organization you want to work for, not that fly-by-night fool Sir Robin."

Gaston rolled his eyes. "So their guys on leave aren't murderous robbers. I've been a merc for a while and I've never done any of that, how does that prove they're a good employer?"

"Right," Gunther replied, "but then, this is their whole unit, not just the 'good ones,' and that is pretty rare. It means they must pay enough and on time to make looting and deserting not worth the effort. Maybe they are high-moraled or maybe they're just rich, but either way, it means we get paid well and on time and I want a part of that."

He helfted his pole-arm. "So, you in?"

October 11 Noon, the Inn at Le Mans

Frederik smiled slightly and filled the guest's goblet again,

"I am as you may have guessed not exactly in the market for guns or their chemicals. I am however also the supplier of sorts to certain parties."

He smiled again,

"And as such I am at liberty to offer contracts to influential and experienced individuals.

Let us just say I am doing someone a favour and seeing I was in the vicinity I agreed to forward the offer."

He pulled a small knife from somewhere and carved a piece of a steaming capon.

"My contact is considering to strengthen his artillery after the fashion of Burgundy and the French. For the right man, with the right skills there may well lie both influence and fortune."

Frederik gauged the other man's looks. Slightly haughty, definitely proud. It would possibly be money, but more likely the position that would draw him. Maybe the slight of being overlooked for the position in the Burgundian army?

"The position is simple, yet important. The new Maitre will be solely responsible for all artillery in the... company."

Frederik paused slightly before choosing that word,

"With the clear aim of expanding that service considerably in the near future."

October 11th, noon, at an inn at Le Mans

Jean took his time to meticulously carve himself a piece of the fat capon that had been served and to then wipe his fingers clean of its grease on the fine linen napkin provided, but what he really occupied himself with all this while was trying to seize this strange man up. Glib and soft-spoken, clearly a man of some education. Maybe he had been mistaken after all in taking him for a mercenary?

But it didn’t matter much, what mattered was that the man offered him a means to escape the power of d’Angouille. Jean d’Aulon had been very unhappy at d’Angouille’s elevation to the all-powerful office of Burgundian maître de l’artillerie in the previous spring. In the past, he and the Provençal had on several occasions quarreled, and that the man had now become his superior could not bode well for Jean’s further advancement. If this Dane's contractor was reasonably prosperous and respectable he might prove a godsend and a way to escape a dead end.

Taking good care not to let his piqued interest show through, Jean smiled mildly at the Dane and said in nonchalant and very mild voice: “My dear master Hviid, you flatter me, you really do. But you see, I am quite content in my current employment. Duke Philippe of Burgundy is one of the most senior monarchs in all of Christendom. His coffers are deeper than any other sovereign’s, and his generosity such that men call him ‘the Good’. Even if I had a mind to leave his service, which I do not, you will surely excuse me for harbouring grave doubts that any party you represent could match the Burgundian crown, let alone surpass it sufficiently to tempt me to change my present circumstances.”

With a slight smile as if to apologize for the futile troubles his host was taking onhis behalf, d’Aulon took a large bite from the capon’s leg and pretended to busy himself for the moment with eating. A decade at the Burgundian court had taught him a thing or two about intrigue and deception. He would not give away his interest by asking who the Dane’s contractor was – let the self-professed merchant come up with his employer’s identity himself.

October 12, 1450 - The Twisted Sole, St.Malo - Late Afternoon

Euphoria gripped Tylo, he had been accepted. As celebration he had ordered a mug of ale and sat at a table with total strangers. They gave him a few looks over, but didn’t say anything, just another kid that happened to be recruited this afternoon. Tylo didn’t figure on starting a conversation, as experience taught him never to mess with men that could kill you by looking into your eyes.

The ale was delivered and Tylo took a few sips and didn’t even notice the barmaid. He wasn’t a big liquor drinker and he didn’t intend to start. In fact it was his first time in The Twisted Sole.

Tylo placed his bows gently down, making sure they leaned inwards towards him so he would be able to catch anyone who would try to steal his lucky day. Then a commotion caught Tylo’s attention.

A sickly man burst from the kitchen carrying a crate, when all of a sudden he tripped and vomit flew from his mouth hitting the line of potential recruits. It looked like seasickness and then Tylo became slightly nauseated himself. He had never been at see for more than two days, and those days were in light water. Woe comes the day when he would be forced to brave a storm at sea.

Even though the vomiting man had been facing the opposite direction, Tylo had the disgusting feeling of something wet and liquidly on the back of his neck. Gingerly touching where he thought he had been hit, and feeling nothing, a notion flittered across his mind. He wasn’t the only archer in the Free Company, and he knew that there were going to be plenty of experienced men competing against him. Sure Tylo could do a few stunts, but with no combat knowledge, he was sure he was a leg behind the competition. If only there was someone out there that was willing to teach, Tylo was willing to learn.

October 12 1450, St Malo Afternoon

"Right," Gunther replied, "but then, this is their whole unit, not just the 'good ones,' and that is pretty rare. It means they must pay enough and on time to make looting and deserting not worth the effort. Maybe they are high-moraled or maybe they're just rich, but either way, it means we get paid well and on time and I want a part of that."

He helfted his pole-arm. "So, you in?"

Gaston put the comb away and straightened up. He struck a confident pose, and wished he had a hat to set at a stylish angle. "I'm in," he declared.

In truth, despite the cynical attitude he'd put on for Gunther, he'd been in ever since he'd heard about the rose-and- sword banner. Service with the famous Free Company was just too good a chance to pass up, even if they'd turned out to be a bunch of burned-out bravos who'd managed to snag a banner and a legend. But Gunther's good opinion was certainly a point in their favour - his old comrade might be too cautious by half, but he had a knack for smelling out good billets. And if the Company could simply sail into town and set up shop - without a so much as a threatening parley, much less a fight - that was in their favour, too. And if the Free Company men had landed with money in their pockets but were neither drinking the town dry nor brawling in the streets, that was a point too. He wasn't sure yet if it was for or against.

Gunther looked unimpressed. "Then why are you waiting?"

Gaston grinned. "Saving your old legs. Wouldn't be fair to leave you behind."


Gunther set a brisk pace through the town, despite the weight of his breastplate and the gear he was carrying, and Gaston fell in beside him. A hat would still have improved things, he thought, but they made a fine martial pair and the townsfolk seemed keen enough to keep out of their way. "So, how do you want to play it?"

"Don't show off. No boasting, no clowning, no promising what we don't have. The Free Company must see a hundred young fools a season, and they will be looking for soldiers, not braggarts."

"Don't sell yourself short." Gaston dropped easily into the old argument. "You've got - what, it must be fifteen years now? Ten with the pike, three as file-leader. That must be worth pay-and-a-half, even to them."

"Double pay, with gear," replied Gunther, patting his breastplate. "As for you.." He ran his eyes over Gaston's bare head and patched gambeson.

"As for me..." Gaston lifted the bill from his shoulder and spun it in a showy arc, the blade sweeping within a handsbreath of an unwary passer-by "I'll just have to get by on my skills."

"Discipline, Gaston. They will be looking for discipline."


Gaston stepped though the door of the Twisted Sole and stopped. He wouldn't have wanted to admit it, but the scene inside took him aback. He'd seen recruiting lines before, and he'd been expecting the usual sorry line of bored fisherboys, runaway apprentices and worn-out veterans. Instead he was met by clothing styles he'd never seen before, languages he'd never heard before, more varieties of weapons than he'd seen outside a castle armoury - and all their owners looked as if they could use them. For a moment his confidence deserted him, and he wondered if he'd come to wrong door and walked in on a gathering of Company veterans.

No... These might be veterans, but they weren't Company veterans. They weren't together enough, the talk wasn't flowing, they were scattered round in little groups and acting cautious of each other. These must be the recruits - but if these were the recruits, what were the veterans like?

Taking a deep breath and hoping no-one had noticed his hesitation, Gaston looked around the room for the sergeant. That would have been easy even without the line in front of him. There was a look to sergeants that you just couldn't fake, and this one looked like he could make the Grim Reaper call for reinforcements. He started to move towards the man, then stopped again.

"What's wrong?" asked Gunther from behind him.

"Bad time." Gaston might be reckless, but not reckless enough to seek attention from a veteran sergeant who had just had someone throw up on his boots. Instead he stepped aside to clear the doorway, dropped into a practised parade rest, and waited for the explosion.

October 12, 1450 - The Twisted Sole, St.Malo - Late Afternoon

"That's a fine boar spear you have, have you found many boar around here?"

Nikolai stopped what he was doing and looked at the pale man. A sad look crossed his face as if the question had stirred some old memory,

"not many my friend, not many."

He finished tying the leather strap holding the cover on the blade and put the spear aside.

"You will be with the rangers?"

He caught a short nod from Lochlan and didn't wait for the answer.

"Your choice of weapons and approach? Horse, foot?"

He drained his tankard,

"I'll have another, if you want one, I'll pay, you can return the favour when you get your first pay."

The old Rus stretched, it was good to be back on land.

"I think I'll gather the rangers, new and old outside the walls, tomorrow or the day after, make sure you don't miss the call when we know for sure."

The beer arrived,

"So, what brought you to the company?"

Every man had a tale, sometimes it made sense to hear it, sometimes not.

October 12, 1450 - The Twisted Sole, St.Malo - Late Afternoon

"So, what brought you to the company?"

Every man had a tale, sometimes it made sense to hear it, sometimes not.

Thomas sighed, that was true every man did have a tale and his was not a happy one. Draining his beer and ordering another one from a passing wench he replied

"Came over here 5 years ago served my master Lord Percy then various other lords as the war went on, we got pushed back to Avranches where the Lords sailed ack to England and left us to cope as best we could. I gained passage upon a vessel due for Portsmouth but ill winds blew us here. I would now be sailing for England if it weren't for you arriving."

Thomas coughed, wiped his chin and continued

"As for weapons, I have both sword and longbow, I can ride so I've served both on foot and in the saddle. lately on foot 'cos we've had no horses."

Thomas stopped talking for a moment and shrugged

"The rest, well, here I am."

October 11 Noon, the Inn at Le Mans

Frederik smiled genially,

“Yes the coffers of Burgundy no one can compete with.”

He continued eating, slowly,

“So, I haven’t been to Burgundy in years, what goes on at court at the moment? I hear the people are very content with their king?”

In essence he didn’t really care, but he could easily play the polite host. Jean d’Aulon spoke for a few moments about various trivialities at court and Frederik listened intently.

Smiling inwardly he almost threw up his hands in mock surrender,

“I can understand you are a man of great influence at court and no offer save perhaps from the French or Spanish crowns could possibly offer you a better or more important position.”

He leaned back,

“I will however not hope I have wasted my time completely, perhaps you have a suggestion as whom I should approach then with an offer? One of your colleagues in France or perhaps one in Burgundy?”

He sighed,

“A pity really, the employer is not the French court, but by all means honourable, feared and respected by its enemies.”

He gestured to his own lodgings,

“And generous to anyone who gives them their loyalty.”

October 12, 1450 - The Twisted Sole, St.Malo - Late Afternoon


Nikolai nodded,

“As you said, not an unusual tale.”

He idly wondered why the man had left the farms or whatever trade his family had occupied in his childhood, but that wasn’t his business.

“Ever done some scouting? Snuck up real close in pitch darkness across open fields?”

He looked at the man, rangers seemed like a good place to try him out, but the rangers covered a lot of tasks. Scouting, guarding, raiders at times and in some instances something mostly akin to assassination. He didn’t like the last part much nor when they had to fight in the towns, but rangers in the company were first in and last out.

“We are often going in before everyone else, scouting, raiding, disrupting supplies and we are the last ones out, skirmishing, delaying. That covers a lot of tasks.”

October 12, 1450 - The Twisted Sole, St.Malo - Late Afternoon


Two men stepped into the Twisted Sole, one much smaller than the other. But then nearly every man in the place was smaller than the man they called Ox. The smaller of the two men stood for a moment, adjusting his filthy doublet, trying to make it appear more presentable. But a look around the room made him rethink the need. Dodging a few drunken patrons, the smaller man looked up at his friend, nearly a foot taller than he, and motioned for him to follow.

"Pardon...I'm looking for the man they call Lochlan," he asked of a passing serving wench. She merely pointed and went on her busy way.

The smaller man gestured again and they walked towards the man to which she had motioned. He looked rough, as if he could kill in a moments notice, but the smaller man had no need to fear. For he too could be fierce if need be.

"Good day," he announced to Lochlan with a smile, "I am Nigel Hawkins of Kent. I've understood you are the commander of the rangers associated with this group and I would like to offer my services."

The ranger looked him over with sharpness, not signaling interest but rather gauging this man. Shifting his eyes to look upon the much larger man with him, Nigel Hawkins took the cue.

"This is Ox. I have no idea what his real name is. He's never told me. He does not speak much but is quite strong, I can assure you. You need only look at the man."

He offered a slight laugh but continued when Lochlan did not reply in kind, "I am quite proficient with the knife and sword, if need be. I've worked with several mercenary companies over my years and most have utilized my stealth."

Finally Lochlan offered a question, "How many years is that?"

"I have worked in this trade and others for nearly my whole life, sir...nearing thirty five summers."

"What does your friend do?" Lochlan then asked, signaling that he was not particularly impressed.

"That is an interesting story." He leaned in close and whispered to the man, "He was an executioner for several Lords back in England. Seems he botched a pretty number that turned out to be the Count's mistress and...well...he was sent on his way. The poor girl took hours to die."

Lochlan kept his gaze on Ox as he heard the story. He looked back at Nigel first and then once again to Ox, "You wanting to join too?"

The large man just nodded his bald head without saying a word. Nigel stepped in for him, "As I said, he does not speak much. Can't read or write either. The poor man was shunned from his village. I met him on the road from Calais. No idea what he meant to do here in St. Malo, but he's been a fine traveling companion."

Lochlan simply nodded at the story causing Nigel to perhaps show his eagerness, "May I presume our services can be used, sir?"

October 12th - St. Malo, The Twisted Sole - Late Afternoon

"I've heard of Moldovia, I think. I heard they speak a form of Italian there, or something." Lasko thought hard for a moment. "That can't poosibly be true, the Hungarians would have gotten rid of them centuries ago. Anyway, I'm from Navarre. Do you know the last time I spoke my native language, I can hardly remember myself, I've been abroad so long."

Mihai's eyes light up ever so slightly at a chance to talk about his homeland. "Well, that's not to say the Hungarians haven't tried." He smiles. "We have our own language, but it's not dissimilar to Italian, as I discovered in Ancona. We used to be part of the Roman Empire, so our languages have a common root. French was easy to learn too, but I have a devil of a time with English. Speaking of..." He turned towards Bogdan, leaning around behind Kent. As he turned away, Lasko had a moment to reflect that, for a simple attendant, Mihai seemed awfully well-educated.

"Master, hear what that man with the trunk was saying? Sounded like Polish to me."

Bogdan didn't bother to turn and face Mihai in response, so intent was he on getting the attention of the barmaid who had evidently caught his passing fancy. "Lith too" the older man finally said. "Something about a ship, couldn't hear it very well."

Mihai leaned forwards again, turning back towards Lasko with a roll of his eyes. "Picked up some Polish when we were serving in the army, fighting the Turks" he says, by way of explanation. "Looks like we might need it if that lad's got a horse."

"What Pole doesn't have a horse?" snickered Bogdan.

The boy continued, regardless. "I'm sorry, Lord Sagarra, but I'm afraid I know little of your homeland. Is Navarre near here? You said you've been abroad some time, are you a professional mercenary, or just a traveler?"

The words were only just out of his mouth before Mihai heard Kent's grumble, and the lad visibly wilted. Nearly spinning in his seat, he bowed his head deeply. "I'm very sorry, Lieutenant! I did not mean to speak out of turn! It shall not happen again..." This display finally got Bogdan's attention away from the serving lass, although his reaction was to release several deep guffaws.

Mihai, embarrassed, turned back towards Lasko with a wounded look. "I'm sorry, you were saying...I just...ah...ha...haha..." He trailed off with a bit of a nervous laugh.

October 11th, noon, at an inn at Le Mans

Jean rocked his head gently from one side to the other. “Ah, that’s difficult”, he said. “Now who might be willing to quit his employ? From the top of my head, I can think of nobody, really. Well, maybe, just maybe, and only if the salary was really tempting, …”

He mentioned the names of two of his colleagues, men who he knew were currently stationed convenietly far away, near the Swiss border. This Hviid was puzzling him, he had to admit that. The man was deeper than he had thought at first. A mercenary, if that was indeed what he was, with the subtlety of a courtier – now that was something new. Nobody in Le Mans had known of his employment with the Burgundian army, so the Dane could not have learned of his presence in the town by chance. No, he could play it as nonchalant as he liked, but fact was that Hviid must have been sent, sent with with the express task of finding and hiring him. Well, he knew the game the Dane was playing well, and he knew how to play it, even though he had little taste for it. Fully trained and experienced master gunners like Jean d’Aulon were scarcer than diamonds and in high demand all over Europe, and if the Dane wanted it to play it as if one could be hired at every street corner, he had a poor hand indeed.

“In the end, I think that your best chances would be trying to hire some senior master’s aid or apprentice”, Jean continued his musings. “Even though incomplete in their capabilities, these men do often have very considerable skill, and as they are not yet firmly settled in comfortable positions of authority, one of their number might with some luck well be willing to enter your contractor’s service.”

Jean made a measured pause, sipping some wine and refilling his goblet before he continued. “But if you wish to hire a fully trained, proven and experienced master like myself, your employers would have to offer a some truly tempting combination of coin and favourable terms.”

“You see”, he went on explaining, “I and the likes of me are of course not men of influence at court, as you have put it so flatteringly, but we are still among the uppermost echelons of the army, and the authority we wield and the respect we are afforded is of course a strong incentive past and beyond the mere pecuniary remuneration of our positions. All of us are after all but weak and fallible men, subject to the all too human vice of a certain degree of vanity. The prestige of our employer shines back upon us, and if we were asked to change to a less grand and prestigious one, this impairment would of course have to be made good by some other advantage.”

“The reason I am telling you all this is of course that you may be better able to evaluate your situation, so that our little talk was not a complete waste of your time, as you chose to put it. I might in fact probably be able to counsel you more to the point if I but knew the identity of your employer.”

No sooner than he had spoken these words in a very casual tone, Jean helped himself to another morsel of the capon, apparently absorbed with the food and entirely unconcerned while he waited for his host to make his next move.

After the tirade, things returned to a semblance of normalcy. The rabbits were in the hands of the cook, the recruits continued their processing. Captain noted how young so many of the men were. Hard times, he supposed. As he raised his hand for another ale, he noted two men standing by the door. They had entered just as Baer launched into his tirade, and had he good sense to wait things out. Now that things had settled, he waved them over. “You two looking to sign on…?”

The gesture and the invitation took Gaston slightly by surprise. His attention had been on the sergeant; he hadn't spared more than a glance at the younger man at the table to the side. Now his mind rushed to catch up even as he stepped forward.
Young ... very young ... not the look of a sergeant ... but the veterans defer to him ... an officer then.
Gaston swept automatically into a flowing bow. "Gaston de Mirz de Valence, at your service, mon sieur."
And by the casual way he acts around the men, either an easygoing one or a very good one.
"Lately in the service of Sieur Guiyon de Rieux, in Brittany. Now seeking honourable employment."

"No Sieur, just Captain. There are no lords in the Free Company ... Sir Gaston?"

As he straightened up, Gaston got his first good look at the Captain's eyes. Not the eyes of a lax young officer who wanted to be popular. Not at all. Time to change the approach...

"No Sir, just a footsoldier. Bill, pike or sword. Five years' service on the border. Two battles, three sieges, four summer campaigns. Never dismissed, never deserted, no wounds to speak of." Short, sweet and close enough the truth.

He thought he detected a lightening of the Captain's mood and risked a further venture. "Too many bad commanders. I'm looking for a good one."

He could feel Gunthers disapproving eyes on the back of his neck, but the Captain didn't call him on it, which was the important thing. Gaston gestured grandly behind him.

"And this is Corporal Gunther from d'Estragon's old company in Poitou. Taught me everything I know about handling a pike. He won't let you down."

"And this is Corporal Gunther from d'Estragon's old company in Poitou. Taught me everything I know about handling a pike. He won't let you down."

Gunther grinned, doing his best to seem congenial. "Gaston's words are generous, his natural talent would make any instructor seem brilliant."

The older man brushed his hand across his breastplate. We are indeed looking for a new employer and, captain, if I may be so bold, a solid contract. I only sell my life at a fair price."

"We both have our own arms, so you needn't equip us and we both have experience. I've fought in Prussia, across the German Empire and done some contract work in France. I follow orders, though I can give them, keep my equipment clean and orderly and know how to keep formation. If you have need of men such as us, we are ready to serve...once a contract is settled on. Of course." And here Gunther tried his most polite courtly bow, though it seemed rather stiff.

October 12th, The Twisted Sole, St-Malo, Late Afternoon

"Well, that's not to say the Hungarians haven't tried." Mihai smiled. "We have our own language, but it's not dissimilar to Italian, as I discovered in Ancona. We used to be part of the Roman Empire, so our languages have a common root. French was easy to learn too, but I have a devil of a time with English. Speaking of..." He turned towards Bogdan, leaning around behind Kent. Lasko thought to himself that this fellow seemed fairly intelligent. Educated at some monastary? The Moldovians muttered quickly between themselves about a man across the room. They apparantly understood what the gentleman was saying.

Mihai leaned forwards again, turning back towards Lasko with a roll of his eyes. "Picked up some Polish when we were serving in the army, fighting the Turks" he sayed, by way of explanation. "Looks like we might need it if that lad's got a horse."

"What Pole doesn't have a horse?" snickered Bogdan.

The boy continued, regardless. "I'm sorry, Lord Sagarra, but I'm afraid I know little of your homeland. Is Navarre near here? You said you've been abroad some time, are you a professional mercenary, or just a traveler?"

The words were only just out of his mouth before Mihai heard Kent's grumble, and the lad visibly wilted. Nearly spinning in his seat, he bowed his head deeply. "I'm very sorry, Lieutenant! I did not mean to speak out of turn! It shall not happen again..." This display finally got Bogdan's attention away from the serving lass, although his reaction was to release several deep guffaws.

"Don't worry, lad," Lasko said, after a moment. "Everyone in here thinks it's too loud and has to raise his voice, and then the next fellow thinks it's too loud. But yes, Navarre is south of here, between France and the Spanish kingdoms. I can't say as my language, Basque, is similar to much of anything. The Romans didn't have much of an effect on us, I guess." Lasko paused to drink.

"Anyway, my father was the lord of a castle, many years ago, but we had some trouble with some villagers across the border that went violent fast, one thing led to another and I... deemed it prudent to leave after my father's death. I have experience in fighting, been around quite a bit... Mercenary isn't the right term, but I have been paid to fight."

Lasko rather liked the young fellow, Mihai, but decided to reserve judgement about Bogdan until a time when it was clear whether or not the man was drunk.

Captain nodded slowly and returned Lucjan’s unwavering look. That kind of passion couldn’t be ignored. He reached out and took the pro-offered hand, shaking it. “Deal.” Lucjan stood and nodded. Captain said, “Jan, you realize you will have to translate for him until he picks up enough English or French to get by.”

Jan’s face dropped. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now go help him with that chest he’s been lugging around, introduce him to Kent and the others and get him set up in some quarters.”

"Yes, sir." Jan replied again.

With a broad smile and firm shake of the hand, Lucjan had committed himself to a new cause. After all, it seemed like it was the only way he'd get out of the mess he was in.

Retrieving his money pouch from the table then looking to Jan, he stepped away from his seat and the two swiftly lifted the chest. Leaving Jan to take the lead, he followed him to his lodgings upstairs, better to set away his things and clean up before causing anymore commotion.

It was a quiet trip to the room he was set to rest in, presumably with other members of the Company, as several cots and bedrolls had been set about in the room. It was an unusual arrangement for him, but since his time on the tight quarters of the cog he'd less than gracefully arrived here on, he was getting used to it. It had a humbleness to it that attracted him.

As they set the chest down in the close corner of the room, aside a cot near the door, Jan finally spoke up. His voice tinged with a bit of skepticism. "You are a knight?"

Lucjan looked up, at first surprised, then he realized his earlier comments might have sounded ridiculous considering his attire. He brightened quickly with a hearty laugh. "In my land we say 'jak cię widzą, tak cię piszą'."

Jan stared at him blankly.

"As they see you, so they describe you." Lucjan said, opening the lock on the chest and lifting the lid open wide. Surely enough, neatly packed into the large case was the panoply of an eastern knight. Piece by piece he removed his things, only now having a moment to sit down and check that nothing he brought with him had been water damaged or broken during the shipwreck. His armor - a heavy chainmail waistcoat, and boots, cuirass, pauldrons and gauntlets of plate, all dismantled and packed neatly beneath a red and white padded jerkin-, a few books in languages Jan couldn't understand sat beside two extra sets of clothing and a dismantled, visored bascinet, all seemed to be undamaged and in good order. Jan couldn't help but think that it all fit in there was a wonder enough, but that the Pollock was willing to take the time to dismantle it all in order to make it fit was another.

Lucjan smiled wryly as he locked the chest up tight and stood, brushed himself off and cocked his head to the side, eyes opened wide, wondering if there was anything else they needed to do.

Jan made a motion for him to follow him. "I need to introduce you to Kent, he's in charge of the heavy cavalry, then we'll see about getting you acquainted with the rest."

Lucjan was quickly in tow. "Good, I need another drink anyway."