The Free Company and the Last Bastion of Empire: Book IV

Another, younger, man walked up to the first Bedouin, and sat down on the ground. "You have tied the camels securely?" "Yes. They are right where you told me to tie them." "Good. If we go back there and find that they are gone, someone is going to be punished." "Yes, I know."

"By the way, Muhammed, that one fellow who attacked your camel yesterday was here. I noticed him before he saw me, and he has taken his leave unto Allah." "You should have let me kill him, master." "Never mind. Here is al-Capitan. Hello, al-Capitan. I do hope you have decided in the affirmatif." "Yes. Well, if that man there was your enemy, then yes. if he wasn't, then..." "He was. He attacked my assistant's camel some time ago. Ah, one moment, you haven't met him. This is Muhammed Akbar. Muhammed, this is al-Capitan. Well, I think that is all for now. I shall be going back to camp." "Very well. Good bye." "Allu Akbar."

Early evening, 21 July, Locanda del Edgewater

"Ah, Miss Annette, I'm running low on a few things. Perfect timing!" Stroph said with a broad grin as the woman entered the tavern.

"Stroph, I really think you should try the wine again," Annette said, an impossible-to-read expression on her face.

Stroph rolled his eyes. "It's too heavy! No one in Italy would buy it. And you only like it because Sieur Guillaume gives it to you practically for free."

"That's not true at all," Annette said with a hurt expression that wasn't quite believable. "I think it's delightful, a true nectar of the gods!"

Stroph cast an eye at Captain and Otto, who had settled down to discuss arrangements. "Well, I'm going to need alot of swill on short notice, so I'll take the stuff off your hands if you cut your price on salted wlak flanks."

Annette looked like she was swallowing a glass of lemon juice. "Allright," she muttered. Then her expression brightened. "Why do you need so much?"

Stroph started to answer, but Annette had already marched over to Captain.

"And then the cannon wheel slipped off and the idiot ... " Otto trailed off as olive-skinned beauty glared at both of them.

"Captain, is there something I should know? It better not involve more opportunities for my fool husband to risk his neck!" she demanded when she had their attention.

July 21st, 1438 – Locanda del Edgewater

Baron Hendrik Johan of Apeldoorn opened the door of the tavern.
He walked to the bar and noticed that there where much big men, probably mercenaries. He arrived at the bar and ordered a ale. When he got it he thought over the events of the past year. He was a Gelrian noble, he had fought in one of the many wars between Burgundy and Gelre. In the last war Gelre had to cede much territory to Burgundy, inclusive his land! When he had returned to his land his castle was burned, his father and mother murdered, his sister raped and take away and al his peasants taken away. All he had left where some coins, the Duke of Gelre couldn’t help him and the Duke of Burgundy didn’t want to help him. Bitter he had moved south. He fought in duels to get money. That was good until he lost. He was the prisoner of a count for a year. In some way he had freed himself and stole his armour and weapons back. But he still had to recover from his captivity and somewhere in Baden he was ambushed by robbers. His warrior nature had woken up and he killed all the thieves. For thieves they where miraculously rich and after he stole the money he had moved to Italy.
“Maybe I can get a job as mercenary. ” he said in himself.
A old man next to him heard him and said “A mercenary huh, well if you want a job, the Free Company is back.”
“The Free Company” Hendrik Johan ( HJ for his friends) was suprtised.
“Didn’t they fight for Burgundy” he thought. “C’mon, don’t let the past spoil your fun” He thought.
He saw that his glas and the glas of the old man was empty.
“Two ale please!”

Vincent rolled over the corpse with one booted foot. He showed no emotion as he rummaged through the dead mans belongings, but he and his companions showed disgust when all that liberated amounted to a few measly coppers.

Showing his annoyance, he nevertheless pocketed the coins and turned to fellow robbers.

"Whoever got here before us were good. We need to move: Night approaches fast."

"And so does the Duke." Grinned his closest comrade, revealing a life time of brawling and fighting.

"Florence," Vincent continued, "isn't far from here. Hopefully the city should provide us with shelter and some good pickings."

Turning on their collective heels, the half-dozen rogues trudged to the relative safety of Florence, and away from the pursuing Duke and his oddly compelling blood-vendetta he had against Vincent. Vincent, who had robbed and pickpocketed his way across France, Germany and now into Italy. Vincent the medium built Englishman who was not averse to liberating supplies from wealthy merchants to make sure he could continue his own perverse crusdae. Vincent, who had taken advantage of (someone he thought was) a prostitute, but had turned out to be the Duke of Schumwaltzs daughter in law. Vincent, who had been running every since and fighting almost every step of the way in his liberated armour and his cracked and broken sword. Vincent and his companions, who now hoped to find whatever safety in Florence and maybe, just maybe, get the heck out of Italy altogether and leave the Duke stranded and powerless.

Vincent, who now crested a barrow and before him lay the city that would house him and his comrades-in-thievery for a while, till the danger passed.

"You know" began the Toothy rogue, "I hear mercenaries are hiring around here. We could, you know, join up for a while."

"Not a bad idea. We'll have to see what's the pay like, but for now, we just need to get into that city and out of the way of His Majesty." Vincent tossed a worried look over his shoulder. "Keep moving."

They moved on. Into history.

Jacques LeClerc walked easily with the other men to the tavern. For some time now, it seemed that there was always some group trailing after him. Completely oblivious of his understated charisma, he had no idea why.

At 31 years, he had kept the wiry, intense posture of his youth, but his body and manner had acquired a substance previously lacking. His eyes had the intelligent, probing look of a scholar, his wife's preferred vocation for him, but the well-toned muscles and calloused hands indicated that he spent plenty of time holding a sword.

Learning from the great, late Edward de Seraphim, he had become a competent if unremarkable warrior. But his real strength lay in his ability to understand tactics and strategy, to move men about and keep them motivated. Now, however, he was focused on nothing more than finishing his story and getting a beer.

"It looked like we were done for," he told the rapt audience of green academy students. "The Berbers were closing in from behind and pouring out of their fortress. But suddenly!"

Everyone held their breath. "Suddenly, from over a sand dune, appeared the greatest beast you have ever seen! Built like an elephant, covered in greasy, coarse hair, and with a stench strong enough to make a old man run to a leperous whore, it walked with a strange gait of long and then short strides. Yes, it was the legendary desert wlak!"

There was a murmur of amazement. "Now, when it saw a Floppy Hat waving in the wind, it became enraged and charged the Berbers, who---"

"What?!!" came the all-too-familiar shout from inside the tavern. Jacques winced.

"Ah, perhaps I can finish the story later," he said apologetically. Taking a deep breath, and reminding himself that it couldn't be any worse than facing a wlak, he entered the tavern.

July 21st Late Evening

Otto made his way back through the gathering gloom to the Academy. It was getting late and an early start beckoned if he was to help the Captain organise all of the new recruits that were streaming into the city.

On entering the establishment that many of the Company regulars chose to call home he noticed a candle burning in one of the class rooms. He gently pushed the door fully open. Dieter Pohlman was hunched over a map, surrounded by letters. He was studying the map so intently he did not notice Otto peering over his shoulder.

“I see you’ve heard where we are going?” Otto spoke softly to avoid startling the young man. “It’s been more than two years since the last letter, hasn’t it.?”

Dieter nodded but did not turn away from the map and the letters.

“You still think that the Romans were lying? Your father would have written if he had left Constantinople. I know it was hard but this is an unforgiving trade we have all chosen. You know almost as well as your father and I how dangerous the black powder is and how accidents can happen. You nearly blew half the Academy up when you tried to make that exploding ball”

Dieter turned to face Otto “I know what they said, Uncle. But you fought with my father. In all the battles did he make one error? Don’t you find it strange that Spiros was also killed in the explosion? Spiros did not give a fig about casting cannon and my father never let him near the foundry. And why was there nothing left, no personal belongings, none of my father’s papers. I will not believe he is dead until someone shows me absolute proof that he is gone.”

“Well, lad, you will get a chance to see for yourself. The Captain is gathering a new Company for the service of the Eastern Emperor. We’ll leave within a fortnight I judge. I’ll need you awake bright and early tomorrow to help me prepare the powder and the guns for travel.”

Dieter rolled the map up and gathered the letters from his father. “I will find out what happened, Otto. You can count on it!”

Florence

"I do not like it at all, your emminence" Matthias reluctantly began.

He was sitting across the room from one of the most eminent theologians of the East, Isidore of Kiev, in the parlour of his suite. It was far less regal than usual or proper, but the Turk had not given the Emperors entourage time to arrange for better.

"I would not think to contradict the Emperor's will in temporal matters, especially those in regard to war. By the grace of God, that is his province, not mine. I have never envyed that duty. But these Condottieri they are not the sort of men we need."

"How so?" The aged cleric replied, with a small smile of satisfaction. He knew, of course, the arguement his aide and student would no doubt construct. He also knew that he was angry enough to forget who taught him it.

"The latins and turks are bad enough. They kill because they believe it is right, that they do God's will to kill his enemies, even the helpless and the harmless ones. They are foolish, and misguided and wrong. But mercenaries! They do not even pretend to think that they do what is right. They do not care for right or wrong, for if they did they would find an honest profession. No they kill, they war with God and their own souls, for money." He nearly spat the last word.

"These italians will come to no good for the Empire. They turn traitors at the jingling of a coinpurse. OR even if, by God's will, they stay true, and carry the day, driving the Turk from the field, think what would happen. These are men whose hearts are kindled to war by gold. What will they do when they see the Hagia Sophia? They will try to seize what treasures they can, and there will be fire and war within the walls as well as out."

"One should be careful Matthias, not to make oneself a prophet." The elder priest replied. "God grant that we do not see such a day. These things have entered also into my heart. But I do not see what we may do to forestall them."

"For now, it is late and I am not as young as you. I shall retire now." He smiled kindly on his young friend, still fuming against the world in his seat.

July 21st, Late Evening - Locanda del Edgewater

It was getting late, but the crowd in the tavern didn't dissapate, nor did it quiet down, but that was the way of taverns filled with mercenaries after all. Otto had left not long before and headed back to the Academy, which left Captain, Lochlan, Severus, and Alv sitting at the corner tabe, watching the tavern and discussing their plans.

"Well, what about supplies?" Alv asked. "Constantinople is an enormous city, if we their not getting supplied properly than this whole thing is over before it even begins."

Captain nodded, and turned to look at Severus while the Cataphract took a moment to think about how to phrase his answer. "The Venetians will most likely be." He trailed off, then shrugged. "I have to believe the supplies will be there, or else why even try."

"I'm certain We'll be able to get enough supplies." Captain said. His eyes drifted over to where Annette and Jacques were having an animted, and not very hushed conversation. "And perhaps Annette could help us with that some when she cools down a bit."

The other men at the table just laughed, and when he got up to get enother round of drinks, he glanced around the tavern. A second or so later, he saw what he was looking for. Faolans son was learning how to drink with a dozen of the Academy students, and that seemed harmless enough. Lochlan resolved to keep an eye on the kid, at least whenever possible, Lochlan just hoped he wouldn't have to carry this Faolan over his shoulder anytime soon.

Returning to the table, the conversation hit a lull as all the occupants began to think about what was coming, not one of them even touched their drinks.

July 21st, getting pretty late

"And Francesco Sforza has offered you a position at the university in Milan many times," Annette continued. "But instead you'd rather block swords with that dense head. Why? Just answer me that."

She put her hands on her shapely hips and pursed her lips.

Jacques shrugged. For a moment, his mouth twitched into a smile. Then he said seriously, "You know where all the prostitutes hang out around here, so it's very hard for me to see them behind your back. I figure in Constantinople, that won't be a problem."

Annette opened her mouth and closed it. Opened it again and closed it again. Finally, she said, "Well, I certainly hope Captain gives you the salary you deserve, instead of the pittance he's been giving you..." She turned away, trying to hide a smile.

Jacques shrugged again. "It's just going to be spent on ale and women, so I don't see how it matters," in a whisper meant to be overheard and walked over to join Captain and the others.

"You have permission?" Captain asked seriously, looking away from his untouched drink.

Jacques nodded. "It was tough, but I think I'm allowed to come with."

As Jacques recounted the conversation, even though everyone in the tavern had heard it, the mood lightened somewhat and everyone had a good laugh at his expense.

July 21, late evening - Locanda del Edgewater

The four men had entered the tavern some hours ago, and since then had done little other than drinking an occasional ale and watching the patrons. Right now, the hour having advanced late since they had come to Florence that afternoon, they were enjoying a good meal of lamb and bread. The four had been clad in armor when they had first arrived in town after a long ride from the south, but they had changed their attire to something lighter, stowing their belongings in a rented room of which they were fairly sure that noone would enter it without their invitation. Riding in armor, although uncomfortable over long distances, not only afforded them good protection on the threacherous roads. Had they preferred to ride in lighter clothing, they would have had to bring additional horses for their equipment of combat.

The four were sitting side by side on a bench along one of the darker corners of the Locanda del Edgewater. They had come to Florence for a reason, not quite sure what they were looking for, but when they heard that the Free Company was recruiting again, and going to fight the Turks at Byzanitum, they knew what they had been searching for. They all didn't look too trustworthy, but one of them appeared to be the leader, for when he gestured or spoke quietly, the other hushed, listened, or did as they were told. This man was of tall stature, slim, almost skinny. His face would have looked friendly and soft, hadn't it been for his lifeless blue eyes and a long scar running down his left cheek from ear to chin. His fine, even silky blond hair cascaded down the sides of his head with a single strand occasionally falling into his face, causing the man to brush it away behind his ear. When he did so, his motions were measured, avoiding any unnecessary movements.

His three companions were younger than their leader who looked to be in his mid-thirties, although his looks could have been deceiving. Next to the blond man sat one with dark hair and olive skin, with noble features and sparkling dark eyes. He seemed to be of Iberian origin, and the occasional Aragonese word that sneaked into his heavily accented voice when he spoke confirmed that impression. By his other side sat a red haired young lad, probably from Ireland, and just as probably only twenty, but with an earnest expression that one would expect from men far older. His freckled face in part betrayed his seriousness, however, although it was clear that this gaelic boy had been through worse things than most his age. The fourth of the group was probably the most unexpected one, for he was a dark skinned Nubian, his head shaved bald. He was the quietest of them, because he, a former slave, had lost his tongue when he was still a child.

Despite their superficial differences one could see that the four were very accustomed to each other, probably knowing each other for years. So they sat together that night, feasting on their meals, and keeping an eye on the recruiting that went on around them, keeping especially an eye on the Captain and those he greeted as friends. They didn't speak, but the Spaniard and the Irish boy occasionally nodded their head in the direction of the patrons that were hiring with the resurrected Free Company, and usually the slim blond man gave a nod when he saw who his companions were looking at. At one point the red haired boy wasn't able to suppress a belch over a swig of ale that he had taken between bites of meat. His leader gave him a sharp look and the boy muttered a silent excuse and sulked, avoiding eye contact for some time.

When he had finished his dinner and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief he kept in one of his pockets, the blond man leaned back, continuing to observe. Idly, he began to rub a finger absent-mindedly over his scar, a custom he had taken up when he was in thought. His fellows were careful not to disturb him when he was doing that particular gesture, but in this case they were still all busy with their meals, anyways.

At one point, several minutes after the group leader had swallowed the last bit of meat, Captain was sitting alone at a table with an ale before him, obviously making a list of the men he had signed up so far.

The blond man stood up for the first time in hours, his companions stopping their eating, following him with their eyes. The Nubian gestured a question to his mates, and the Iberian just answered with a silent nod, flashing shiny white teeth in a smile, his face the expression of a person who had just learned wonderful news, but with a deceitful glint in his fiery eyes.

The blond man stood before the table of Captain, looking down on him, and scanning quickly over the length of the list. "I hear you are assembling men for the fight against the heathens", came his voice, emotionless, almost monotonous.

Captain looked up at the tall man, answering, "That is correct. We will aid the Byzantines in their struggle against the Turks."

"Then you might want to add four more names to that list of yours", nodded the tall mercenary to Captain. He smiled, his teeth well kept but the front teeth slightly crooked. Although maybe honestly meant, the smile looked cold, largely because of his expressionless eyes. "My name is Armin Schauenburg. You may or may not have heard of me", he said with some self confidence sneaking into his otherwise emotionless voice. "These are my companions. Pedro Alvarez is from Madrid, one of the best crossbow shots you will meet. The red haired boy is Timothy O'Brien. He may look young, but he is skilled with the sword. The Nubian is Kerim who I bought some time ago out of slavery. He had fought with the halberd for the amusement of his keepers." Armin Schauenburg didn't wait for a confirmation from Captain as he continued. "I think you can estimate our worth and am sure that you will make us a fair offer." With that last sentence, the tall man bowed slightly which gave him the appearance of wheat bending in the wind.

July 22nd, Morning. Free Company Compound, Florence.

He awoke with a slight bit of a headache: "Merciful God! My head hurts.", he said. He desperately tried to remember what he had done and said last night, the first thing that came back to him was him trying to mount his horse when he left.

God I hope that's the only embarrasing thing I did, who knows what I might've done else - or worse - what I might have said

"Ah well, no use lying in bed feeling sorry for my self", he muttered. I should never have allowed myself to even go near that ale, see what comes of it! Father was right all along!, he thought.

He got up to find this Sgt. Alv, but while wandering around he walked into Lochlan.

"Lochlan, sir..", he stammered, "thank you for.. the .. the errr.. help with the horse last night."

"Not too much trouble"

"Great, I must have made .. made quite a fool out of myself. Do you know if .. if .. I"

"Say it, lad."

"If I mentioned the name of a famous ancestor of mine last night?"

July 21st , 1438- Locanda del Edgewater,

After a couple of glasses ale HJ asked the old man
“Where are you from?”
“I’m a born and raised in the beautiful city of Kampen in Gelre.” Answered the old man.
“No kidding , I’m born in Amsterdam! But I’m from Apeldoorn.” Said HJ.
“Terrific! A citizen of the Duke. I was a minstrel for the Duke but after the war…” Said the man with a sad voice.
“Yes I know. After the filthy Burgundians had burned my castle the Duke couldn’t help me either. I haven’t spoken Dutch since a half year.” Said HJ. “What’s your name?” He asked
“My name is Frank Verbeeldt, also known as the clown of Kampen, also known as Kampense Frank., and many other names.” Frank answered.
“I’m not only good in singing but also in throwing knifes.”
‘Can you sing a song?” asked HJ.
“Off course!” and Frank took his lute and begun to sing.

Ons Gelre



Ons Gelderland

Waar der beuken breede kronen
Ons heur koele schaduw biên;
Waar we groene dennebosschen,
Paarse heidevelden zien;
Waar de blonde roggeakker
En het beekje ons oog bekoort,
Daar is onze Vale ouwe,
Kost'lijk deel van Gelre's oord.
Kost'lijk deel van Gelre's oord.
Waar bij zomerzon de boomgaard
Kleurig ooft den wand'laar toont,
En de vruchtb're korenakker
Stagen arbeid rijk'lijk loont;
Waar het aorige rivierke
Rustig stroomt langs groenen boord,
Daar is onze rijke Betuw
Kost'lijk deel van Gelre's oord.
Kost'lijk deel van Gelre's oord.
Waar kasteelen statig prijzen
Rond door park en bosch omringd,
Waa het voog'lenkoor zijn lied'ren
In het dichte loover zingt;
Waar het lief'lijk schoon na 't landschap
't Oog des schilders steeds bekoort,
Daar is onze "olde Graafschap",
Kost'lijk deel van Gelre's oord.
Kost'lijk deel van Gelre's oord.



(ooc: translation tomorrow in ooc thread)

Though no one except the two men spoke Dutch everybody understood that is was a song what was special to some people.
HJ sang along somewhere in the middle and the singing continued through the night.

Florence, Early Morning

Vincent gasped with a mixture of horror and pain as he staggered into the tavern. Blood had worked it down to his fingers from a cut high up in his shoulder, dripping unceremoniously (and extremely cinemtically) to the floor, to mix with the dust and spilt ale. This early in the morning, few people were awake and those that were found it in their best interest to ignore the bleeding stranger, as he collaspsed into a shaded booth.

Vincent painfully waved away the yawning waitress, who was pleased to go back to her napping on the bar. Vincent eased his ragged chainmail shirt to expose the cut. He found that, while it was not deep, it was still bleeding quite profusely. He did his best to mend it (having picked these things in his misadventures), but the pain was still mind numbing.

The old Toothy rogue also stumbled into the tavern. He looked to be in an even worse condition than Vincent. Who would have thought that old farmer would have been so accurate with a bow and arrow? Vincent figured the man must have been an old soldier. A man who would take not half a dozen men stealing into his farm and liberating themselves a breakfast, lying down. The first sigh they had that they'd been caught was when Jake suddenly grew a thin, white fletched arrow in his throat. Before they had been even able to draw their swords, Sam had gone down in a similar vein. As had Harold and Tom, before they had managed to escape the farm perimeter. Old Toothy and Vincent had both taken several glancing hits in their flight.

Which meant things were just peachy for Vincent, not only did he have a mad German Duke snapping at his heels, but they had even managed to piss off their would-be saviours within six hours of getting there. That had to be a record of some sort. Vincent rose painfully to his feet and garnered Toothy's attention,

Both of them needed medical help, though men in their profession rarely sought help of that kind. "Let's find somewhere to lie low." Growled Vincent, though he could not back up his orders with force, as he had lost his sword and Toothy still held his in a mailed grip. "I need to sort out this." He indicated his shoulder. Toothy mumbled his agreement and together they stepped out into the morning glare of the sun and the uncertain future.

July 22, 1438 - Very Early Morning, Free Company Compound, Firenze

Very shortly after dawn, on the first day following the return of Sir Severus in the company of a Byzantine embassy, two of the Free Company's trainees had the pleasure of standing guard duty at the gates that separated the compound from the already bustling streets of Florence. It was one of the "choice" shifts, for the air was still fairly cool from the dipping night temperatures and the guards would be relieved before the sun had had an opportunity to turn the air into the scorching humid sauna that made the noon shift possibly the worst punishment imaginable.

Normally dawn guard duty was a quiet affair, with the odd wagon delivering food or supplies or the occasional messenger. This, however, was to be far from a normal shift - and the first indication was the rather unexpected sound of several hundred feet marching in perfect cadence. Even as the sentries looked askance at one another the volume grew louder, and it soon became apparent that the Free Company's compound was either the intruders' destination, or very close to it.

The first sight to catch the guards' eyes, however, was a huge snow-white horse - so pure, in fact, that not a single blemish of brown or black marred the steed's coat, making the beast's eyes, nostrils and mouth seem to almost float in the air by themselves. There was a rich saddle, well-oiled bit and bridle, and across the horse's rump was a tabard of fine cloth with a strange and unfamiliar device stitched to it - a shield that was blue on the right half and white on the other. Despite the beast's size, it walked slowly, almost mincing its steps.

Sitting in the saddle was a man whom the guards guessed was about thirty five or forty years of age; and although he carried a sheathed long sword that dangling from his belt, he was otherwise unarmed and un-armoured. His dress was also unfamiliar to the men, but seemed to be of fine manufacture and indicative of some wealth. His overall bearing seemed...rigid...with his back set perfectly straight in the saddle and his head looking directly forward with nary a turn to look left or right - though the sentries noticed that his eyes never stopped moving as he surveyed his surroundings. He seemed to be somewhat shorter than most men, though it was difficult to gauge this for certain as the size of the horse - perhaps 19 hands or more - made him seem so much taller. His hair was short cropped and jet black, save for a couple strands of silver they could see near his temples, and he wore a velvet cap of blue with a rather ridiculously long feather stuck in the brim and describing a rather amusing pattern with the bouncing of the horse's gait. The mount's reins lay loosely in one leather-gloved hand, while the other lay casually on the sword hilt to control the scabbard, preventing it from swinging with the steed's rolling motion.

If the man on the horse had captured the guards' attention as he rounded the corner and headed in their direction, what followed him caused their eyes to open wide and their jaws to drop. Marching in perfect formation behind him, every booted foot striking the road at exactly the same instant, came a large body of men. The front ranks, perhaps some ten men wide and several ranks deep, bore long glittering pikes in absolutely vertical position - and even as they marched there was no sign of even the slightest wavering of the weapons' tips. To the sides and rear of the formation came even more pikemen, but the centre of the square seemed to lack the long pole arms and strode with empty hands, although axes and swords - as well as long daggers - were belted at their waists.

The overall impression was one of absolute harmony - as though, rather than some two hundred men marching together, it was a single many-legged, many-headed entity that had somehow escaped from myth and now roamed the streets of Florence.

It took some moments for the two sentries to recover from their surprise, and by this time the man on the horse had almost reached them with the tight knot of men close on his rear. When the man was within about five paces his mount suddenly halted, although neither man had seen even the slightest hint of motion from the stranger to draw back on the reins, and exactly two paces later the entire body of men that followed him came to a perfect halt. Not a single order had been given, and yet the ranks were in absolutely perfect lines and rows.

The short man looked down from his perch on the horse and addressed himself to what he guessed was the slightly more senior of the two guards. His spoke in Italian, although it was quickly evident that this was not his native tongue.

"I am here to request an audience with the man known as 'Captain'. Would this be the correct location?"

"Y...y...y...yes sir," the young trainee stammered. "B...b...b...but it is quite early, yet, sir and I do not think that he will have risen y...y...yet. C...c...c...could you wait while I enquire?"

"Yes. I will wait."

"Um...c...c...could I ask you your name, sir?"

"Of course. I am Renaud Roos, formerly a burgher of the Canton of Lurcerne in, what I believe, you might call the province of Schwyz. I bear a message for your commander."

"Th...th...thank you, sir. I'll return shortly."

Shooting his companion an indecipherable look, the guard quickly retreated into the Free Company compound, hoping against hope that one of the veterans - or even Captain himself - might be up at this hour.

He was in luck...

July 22nd, Early morning. Free Company Compound, Florence.

"I wonder why I always sleep so lightly whenever I drink", Alv mused while quickly walking towards the latrines across the courtyard. Nature called. Recapitulating the night's events in his head, Alv worked out an itinerary for the day. He was to judge the abilities of young Faolan today, and he'd probably take the other condottieri hopefuls for a horseback ride. Some of them needed that, obviously.

As he was leaving the facilities, one of the guards came running towards him.
"Sergeant Alv! Sergeant Alv!", he yelled.
"Quiet down, will you? There's no need to neither stop me from answering the call of nature, nor to wake the entire Company, is there?"
"There's a knight - at least I think he's a knight, a man on a horse?"
"Slowly, please!". Alv felt impatient. Why did Italians speak so quickly?
"He wants to see Captain, sir!"
"Captain's asleep, I hope. At least for his own sake", Alv replied. "Where is this man?"
"At the gate."
"Okay, I'm coming."

"I'm not even properly dressed." Alv muttered to himself, while following the guard.

At the gate, a strikingly elegant and rigid man was still sitting on his horse. He greeted Alv in a polite manner, and descended from his horse. Alv motioned to one of the guards to lead the horse to the stables.

"Greetings! I am sergeant Alv of The Free Company. I hear you are seeking our commander."
"That is correct. Where can I find him?" the stranger replied.
"I am afraid, sir, that he is still asleep. Have you had breakfast yet, sir?"

"No. And please, sergeant, call me mister Renaud Roos. Better still, Renaud."
"Well, Renaud, if you just allow me to find some more suitable clothes, I am sure the cook will make us some breakfast. As you can see from the smoke over there, he is already baking bread."
"Good. I have with me some cheese", Renaud said, patting the bags on his saddle.
"Do you want me to carry that, sir?", Alv asked.
"Please, I am not a noble, sergeant. I am used to carrying my belongings myself."


Renaud sat down in the mess hall, while Alv, now in his usual clothes, went to the kitchen to badger the cook into serving them some early breakfast.
"With any luck, I'll have breakfast twice", Alv smiled to himself.

OOC: This post belongs to Norgsvenn

July 22nd, early morning, Free Company compound

[OOC: This post belongs to Driftwood ]

As the first light of the day poured into his window, Jacques was already awake, going through various bits of correspondence he handled for Captain.

I wonder what these counts and dukes would think if they knew the responses to their letters were being written in bed, he thought.

However, he wasn't getting much writing down today. He could still become entranced with the way the light fell on Annette's back as she lay their lightly sleeping. For a woman who could function on only a few hours of sleep a night, she certainly enjoyed sleeping in.

A tentative knock on the door interrupted his reveries. Giving his wife a gentle kiss on the back of the neck, which earned him a pleased mumble, he threw on some clothes and opened the door.

Franz, a nervous trainnee, stood there, looking like he was about to wet himself.

"Sir!" he gasped.

"Shh," Jacques admonished, slipping the door closed behind him.

"Sir," Franz tried again, "an army just arrived! Outside, I mean, that is---"

"What do you mean an army?" Jacques asked in alarm. "Did you sound the alarm?"

"N-n-no, I m-mean, S-S-S-S-Sergeant Alv, I---"

"Out with it, Franz!"

"Breakfast! They're eating breakfast!" he choked out.

"The entire army is eating breakfast?"

"No, I mean, maybe, I mean, I don't know. Sgt. Alv and Mr. Rooster are," he finished lamely.

"Where's the army then?"

Franz's eyes bugged out. "*I* don't *know*!" he said in horror. "They could be anywhere!"

Jacques sighed. It was too early to deal with Franz. "Franz, did the army seem disciplined?"

Franz bobbed his head eagerly. "Oh, yes. When they walked, their pikes didn't hit each other or nothing and when one man walked the others were walking but when one stopped the others weren't walking either!!!"

Leaving aside that incomprehensible comment, Jacques continued, "Then they're probably patiently waiting for this Mr. Rooster. Why don't you go wake Captain - ah, on second thought, why don't you go check in on Sgt. Alv - er, you know, why don't you just go back to the gate and make sure the army's still there."

Franz's eyes rolled as Jacques gave him his orders and ended up counting on his fingers. "Wait - go wake Sgt. Alv at the gate?"

"Go back to your post, Franz!" Jacques yelled. Franz jumped and ran off.

Jacques rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked respectable enough, for the moment. So he headed off to wake Captain; then he would continue on to the officers' mess to find Sgt. Alv and this mysterious general.

The Company Compound, 24th.

July 22nd, Early morning. Free Company Compound, Florence.

Renaud Roos was pleasantly surprised to discover that his wait would not be very long as he saw the guard returning with another man. By the looks of him he was someone not unfamiliar with command, although the former burgher had a little trouble believing, by the man's rather unusual state of dress - or undress - that his was the Captain the he had been told to seek out. Nevertheless, he greeted the man with a polite bow as he approached, and made a rather extraordinary manoeuvre to dismount from his gigantic white horse.

"Greetings!" the man said, motioning for one of the guards to take the mount's reins. "I am sergeant Alv of The Free Company. I hear you are seeking our commander".

"That is correct. Where can I find him?"

"I am afraid, sir, that he is still asleep. Have you had breakfast yet, sir?"

"No," Renaud replied. "And please, sergeant, call me mister Renaud Roos. Better still, Renaud."

"Well, Renaud, if you just allow me to find some more suitable clothes, I am sure the cook will make us some breakfast. As you can see from the smoke over there, he is already baking bread?"

"Good. I have with me some cheese", he said, patting the bags on his saddle.

"Do you want me to carry that, sir?", Alv asked.

"Please, I am not a noble, sergeant. I am used to carrying my belongings myself!"

As they entered the compound, a slight flick of his hand served as a command for his men to follow him, and the tight formation quickly resumed their march into the open training ground beyond the gates.

Renaud halted for several minutes as the Free Company man went to don more appropriate attire, and Renaud took the opportunity to instruct his own sergeant to drill the men on the parade ground. He had noticed, an hour or so earlier, that one man had allowed his pike to dip slightly as they had rounded a corner and that he had subsequently fallen very slightly out of stride for three paces. Such laxity of discipline was abhorrent to the burgher, and the entire Keil would now pay the price by marching in tight formation, with many twists and turns, for the next three hours, or until such time as the burgher was satisfied that the point had been made.

Upon Alv's return - and his obvious bemusement with the squad's renewed activity - Renaud followed the man towards the mess tent.

It was all Alv could do not to stare at the stranger, for he was even shorter than the sergeant had guessed when he had first seen him astride the horse. If Renaud was more than five foot four, Alv would happily have eaten the man's impeccably shining black riding boots. Being one of the less towering members of the Free Company, Alv found it quite a surprising change to have to look down so far to meet a man's eyes.

Upon closer examination, the Swiss commander seemed to have a very compact and lean frame, carrying a considerable amount of well-toned muscle and virtually no fat. There was a look to the man's narrow brown eyes, and the lines of age and concern that weathered the man's face, that told Alv in no uncertain terms that the former burgher was more than familiar with command, and would be a harsh task master. He seemed more chiselled than anything, although the silly feather that bobbed in the light breeze did serve to offset the overall impression somewhat.

Upon arriving at the mess hall, Alv indicated a place for the man to sit, and then went to the kitchen to badger the cook into serving them some early breakfast. He returned with some eggs, a loaf of fresh bread, and several rashers of freshly cooked bacon that the two men settled into with great aplomb.

"You men," Alv began as they simultaneously pushed back their now empty plates. "They seem to be very well disciplined."

The burgher smiled in appreciation of the compliment. "Thank you sergeant Alv. They are well trained, but they have their moments. That is why I have set them about their current task, for I noticed a slight error earlier that is unacceptable for a Keil under my command."

"Please, sir. Just call me Alv. And what is a Kiel, sir?"

"Renaud, Alv."

"I beg your pardon. What is a Keil, Renaud."

"That is what we call our army components in my country, Alv. Our armies are composed almost entirely of what you call infantry, and we organise them into Keils - squads - of one hundred pike on the outside of a square and one hundred swordsmen and axemen in the centre of the square. We have found it a highly effective means, over the years, of countering the enemies' cavalry formations."

"Very interesting, Renaud." Alv began to contemplate rustling up a second breakfast when he suddenly noticed Captain entering the mess hall. It looked as though it had been a late night at the Locanda del Edgewater, for Captain was not moving with his usual speed and alertness. Nevertheless, Alv waved to catch his commander's attention, and the older man changed course towards their table.

"Good morning Alv. You're up early," Captain remarked. "And it appears that you have made a new acquaintance. I believe that I can safely guess that the Keil that I just saw outside must belong to him."

Alv signed, wondering how it was that Captain always knew the right term for everything. "Indeed they do. May I present Renaud Roos from the - err - canton of - err -"

"The canton of Lucerne, sir," said Renaud in perfect French - although it seemed to have a slight accent to it - while rising to his feet. "And you would be 'Captain', I presume?" The short man looked up into the Free Company commander's eyes and extended his hand in greeting.

Captain showed only a flicker of surprise at the man's diminutive height, and clasped his hand in return. "To what do I owe the honour, burgher Roos," he said, guessing at the man's correct title.

The man gave Captain a friendly grin, opened a satchel that had been resting on the bench beside him, and presented the commander with a letter.

• Greetings, Robert. I trust that this message finds you in good health.
  
  Word has recently reached me regarding an action that I deem you are very likely to take, and a journey you almost certainly will embark upon in the east. I hope you will indulge me by allowing me to repay one of many favours you have done for me in the past. The bearer of this letter is a man by the name of Renaud Roos, formerly a burger from the canton of Lucerne who has been displaced by the Austrians' recent aggressions in Schwyz.
  
  Renaud is one of the more proficient infantry commanders I have become aware of in recent years, and he should present himself to you with a full Keil of the redoubtable Helvetian pike which he now offers for hire in the manner of a condottieri - or "mercenary" if you prefer. If you have never seen Swiss pike unit in action then you have rather a large and pleasant surprise in store for you - although they have some rather strange ideas of what "goes" and what doesn't "go" on a battle field. Suffice it to say that they are amongst the most bloodthirsty combatants I have ever laid eyes upon and they neither give nor take any quarter.
  
  As to the nature of my "gift", I have taken it upon myself to contract Renaud's services and have told him to report to you for all further commands - although I will pay all his expenses and costs. I believe that, in the place that you are going, you may find his services invaluable, and I hope that you are able to make use of his talents.
  
  Oh - by the way - don't let his stature put you off. He's one of the better swordsmen around at the moment, and his equestrian skills are quite impressive. He reminds me a little of Niccollo - but without the attitude.
  
  Fare you well, and I will look for other "little" things that might be of interest to you by way of intelligence - or otherwise.
  
  Your ever wiser - or should that be wizened - friend,
  
  Francesco Sforza.

Captain looked up as he finished the letter. "Well," he said. "That certainly puts a different complexion on this meeting. Well met, Renaud Roos."

This post belongs to MrT

July 22, morning, Free Company Academy

Whatever one could say about the duplicitious and conniving manner of the de Medicis, the accomodations for the Byzantine envoys were sumptuous, to say the least. Severus couldn't remember the last time he had slept in a bed so soft, or had seen the level of extravagance in every detail of their guest quarters.

Pausing briefly to converse with the guards, one of which looked quite turned around, Severus rode into the courtyard to a rather amazing sight, especially at this early hour. Fully two hundred men were drilling in thight formation, pikes held perfectly horizontal as their commander barked out commands in French, though accented oddly. Raising a eyebrow fractionally, he offered a wave to the man drilling the formation and went to stable his horse. The discussions in the tavern last night still played through his mind as he walked towards the smell of breakfast. After discussions with Demetrius early this morning, it had been agreed. He would billet here and ride with the Company to Thrace. Once there, the catephracti of his corps would fight with the Company.

Opening the door to the mess hall, Severus spotted Alv, the norweigian scout he had met last night at the tavern. The man was physically small in stature, but the look of experience in his eyes told the true tale. He was an experienced veteran, and Severus looked forward to working with him in the East. He also saw Captain, and another, oddly dressed man...

Well. If Alv was short, this man was positively dwarfish. Seeing Severus, Captain nodded him over.

"Gaius, let me introduce burgher Renaud Roos, who hails from Helvetia. You may have seen his men in the courtyard drilling. Burgher Roos, Lord Commander Gaius Septimius Severus."

Severus bowed slightly, and replied in accented French. "An honor, burgher. Your men, the precision of their drill is impeccable. You will forgive my misuse of your tongue, it has been many years since I've had the opportunity to use it."

Roos smiled quickly, and shook his head. "It is more than understandable, Sir Gaius. An honor as well to make your acquaintance."

This post belongs to EmprorCoopinius

July 22 - Morning

Yusuf cantered on his horse into the compound, looking around. "Well, Nasir, you may have been right." He surveyed the crowd about him. Men of arms of all sorts were there; he even saw a couple of Bedouins. But how had they managed to get camels to Italy, of all places?

Nasir shrugged. "I'll go take care of the men. You find out what the pay is." A moment's pause, before he continued. "Not that I believe that's your chief concern."

He shrugged. That was of no concern; and time was of the essence. Even riding as hard as they had, they had only reached Florence this morning. Of course, the sight of the Italian peasantry as Moorish cavalry rode through by nightfall was worth it.

He pondered how best to attract attention. Taking the crossbow off of his pack, he galloped toward a row of targets. Wheeling off, he fired.

The arrow hit dead center.

"Now," he began, "if you would be so kind as to tell me where the Captain of this so-called company is, I'd like to offer the services of a few Moor cavalry. Depending on the pay, of course."

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OOC: This post belongs to Faeelin