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OOC: Uh, thanks everyone! It's not all about war, right? 
But I didn't expect it to be a thread-killer
I'll be advancing the storyline soon, in case someone wants to put something in.
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April 28 - Afternoon
"We've gone through everyone Captain," Edward Seraphim began. "200 Genoese crossbowmen, almost 700 infantry, about 200 cavalry and surprisingly enough about 10 landless knights."
"These are knights who can't afford ransom?" de Bloomfielde asked.
"Yep. Dispossessed. They were hoping to win their honour back at Janville."
"Can they be trusted?" de Crecy glanced at Sir Sobieski. The Polish knight nodded.
Captain looked at Clerk, who was scribbling numbers. The boy talked quietly to the mercenary leader. Captain nodded. "So we have about 1000 infantry, 300 Welsh bowmen, 200 Genoese and 100 Flemish crossbowmen, 300 light cavalry and about 300 heavy cavalry. Not to mention six bombards."
Edward chuckled, "Trust us to go into battle and come out ahead."
"Yeah. I think we need to reorganize. Since Essex died, that leaves me with De Bloomfielde, de Crecy, Edward and Piet for the infantry. I'll take 100 men-at-arms as my personal reserve. Lieutenant Piet will oversee them. You three will each take 300 men. De Bloomfielde has the right wing, Seraphim the center and de Crecy the left. Ataman Sagan and his 100 Cossacks will take scouting duties. Forster will take the 200 light cavalry and form the rearguard and the knights with the heavy cavalry will form the vanguard."
"How about the archers?"
"Right. Pohlman's with his 'babies' at the moment. I'll see if he want's to assume full time duties of the artillery or handle both the Welsh and the bombards. I'll group the crossbowmen together into one 300-man formation. I'll just have to promote a Lieutenant for them. If anyone can think of someone that's good with crossbows let me know."
* * *
April 28 - Evening
"Sagan. I haven't had a chance to talk with you, but I've heard that your story's an interesting one."
The Cossack leader flashed a toothy smile. "Me and my men have traveled far, Captain."
"Then come to my tent and tell me. I have some... er... water. Tell me, how would you like to ride point and scout for the Company?"
* * *
April 29 - Morning
Ivan was a huge bear of a man. He shuffled up to Captain's tent with a look that was a cross between worry and determination. The guard looked at him inquiringly, eyes taking in the bear-claw skin wrapped around the Russian's wide shoulders.
"I have to talk to Captain."
The guard was about to answer when Captain stepped out from the tent. "Ivan, I've been meaning to thank you for the job you and your men have done with the soldiers. You are a God send to the Company."
"Thank you Captain." Ivan said. He studied the ground for a minute. "Look Captain, there's a problem. The shitting sickness is starting to spread to your men."
"What? Edward mentioned a few cases several days ago but I heard nothing else. Let's walk." Together they headed toward an empty section of the fort. "What makes you say that? I've kept the men away from the English as much as possible."
"That's good, but I don't think that's the whole problem. It's the water, you see."
"The water?"
"I'm sure of it. I suggest you locate another source of water away from the English. There has to be some streams nearby."
"There are several tributaries. You think that's the problem?"
"Well Captain, it can't hurt to try."
"Right. Very well, I'll have the men toss our supplies and find fresh water. We'll see what happens. I hope you're right. There'll probably be a lot of grumbling."
"Better grumbling than shitting blood Captain."
"I'll have to agree with that."
But I didn't expect it to be a thread-killer
I'll be advancing the storyline soon, in case someone wants to put something in.
-------------------------------------
April 28 - Afternoon
"We've gone through everyone Captain," Edward Seraphim began. "200 Genoese crossbowmen, almost 700 infantry, about 200 cavalry and surprisingly enough about 10 landless knights."
"These are knights who can't afford ransom?" de Bloomfielde asked.
"Yep. Dispossessed. They were hoping to win their honour back at Janville."
"Can they be trusted?" de Crecy glanced at Sir Sobieski. The Polish knight nodded.
Captain looked at Clerk, who was scribbling numbers. The boy talked quietly to the mercenary leader. Captain nodded. "So we have about 1000 infantry, 300 Welsh bowmen, 200 Genoese and 100 Flemish crossbowmen, 300 light cavalry and about 300 heavy cavalry. Not to mention six bombards."
Edward chuckled, "Trust us to go into battle and come out ahead."
"Yeah. I think we need to reorganize. Since Essex died, that leaves me with De Bloomfielde, de Crecy, Edward and Piet for the infantry. I'll take 100 men-at-arms as my personal reserve. Lieutenant Piet will oversee them. You three will each take 300 men. De Bloomfielde has the right wing, Seraphim the center and de Crecy the left. Ataman Sagan and his 100 Cossacks will take scouting duties. Forster will take the 200 light cavalry and form the rearguard and the knights with the heavy cavalry will form the vanguard."
"How about the archers?"
"Right. Pohlman's with his 'babies' at the moment. I'll see if he want's to assume full time duties of the artillery or handle both the Welsh and the bombards. I'll group the crossbowmen together into one 300-man formation. I'll just have to promote a Lieutenant for them. If anyone can think of someone that's good with crossbows let me know."
* * *
April 28 - Evening
"Sagan. I haven't had a chance to talk with you, but I've heard that your story's an interesting one."
The Cossack leader flashed a toothy smile. "Me and my men have traveled far, Captain."
"Then come to my tent and tell me. I have some... er... water. Tell me, how would you like to ride point and scout for the Company?"
* * *
April 29 - Morning
Ivan was a huge bear of a man. He shuffled up to Captain's tent with a look that was a cross between worry and determination. The guard looked at him inquiringly, eyes taking in the bear-claw skin wrapped around the Russian's wide shoulders.
"I have to talk to Captain."
The guard was about to answer when Captain stepped out from the tent. "Ivan, I've been meaning to thank you for the job you and your men have done with the soldiers. You are a God send to the Company."
"Thank you Captain." Ivan said. He studied the ground for a minute. "Look Captain, there's a problem. The shitting sickness is starting to spread to your men."
"What? Edward mentioned a few cases several days ago but I heard nothing else. Let's walk." Together they headed toward an empty section of the fort. "What makes you say that? I've kept the men away from the English as much as possible."
"That's good, but I don't think that's the whole problem. It's the water, you see."
"The water?"
"I'm sure of it. I suggest you locate another source of water away from the English. There has to be some streams nearby."
"There are several tributaries. You think that's the problem?"
"Well Captain, it can't hurt to try."
"Right. Very well, I'll have the men toss our supplies and find fresh water. We'll see what happens. I hope you're right. There'll probably be a lot of grumbling."
"Better grumbling than shitting blood Captain."
"I'll have to agree with that."
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The Moors were settling down for afternoon prayer when a group of horsemen rode up, about 100 Selim counted. The Moors watched as they dismounted, took out prayer mats and knelt down, the Moors were somewhat taken aback by this, Muslims were rather scarce in this part of Europe.
The leader of the group walked up to Selim who was getting ready to direct prayers, Selim gestured in the direction of Cockney, the man walked over to him and spoke in Arabic
"hello, I am Sagan, Ataman of the Cossacks you see here, is it ok to pray with your men"
"naw problem, go ahead" Said Cockney "Cossacks you say, so yew all from the Ukraine then?"
"Yes that's right" Said Sagan
"What's brought yew 'ere then?" asked Cockney
"Allah's grace and mercy" said Sagan smiling. Cockney nodded, knowing that the answer would have to suffice. "Where are you from?" asked Sagan, changing the subject
"Norf Africa mostly, couple from Syria , we 'ad a Perisan too but the frog saw to 'im, meself, I'm from London" he ended abruptly
Both groups of men knelt down as Selim lead them in praise.
********
LD, as good Muslims the cossacks can't drink
The leader of the group walked up to Selim who was getting ready to direct prayers, Selim gestured in the direction of Cockney, the man walked over to him and spoke in Arabic
"hello, I am Sagan, Ataman of the Cossacks you see here, is it ok to pray with your men"
"naw problem, go ahead" Said Cockney "Cossacks you say, so yew all from the Ukraine then?"
"Yes that's right" Said Sagan
"What's brought yew 'ere then?" asked Cockney
"Allah's grace and mercy" said Sagan smiling. Cockney nodded, knowing that the answer would have to suffice. "Where are you from?" asked Sagan, changing the subject
"Norf Africa mostly, couple from Syria , we 'ad a Perisan too but the frog saw to 'im, meself, I'm from London" he ended abruptly
Both groups of men knelt down as Selim lead them in praise.
********
LD, as good Muslims the cossacks can't drink
Cockney: Gakk!! You got me there. I was thinking ahead to Ivan. Correction's made. Thanks.
BTW, once I get the Company reorg complete I'll update the web page.
BTW, once I get the Company reorg complete I'll update the web page.
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April 29th Morning
Lochlan watched the moors and the cossacks pray together. Faith was still something he enjoyed witnessing, even if he no longer shared it. He walked a little down the path toward the main fort/encampment to where the company was going about tis morning business. Patrols were heading out and coming in, Bloomfield was drilling his men, and his sgt. sounded very unhappy with some of them. Lochlan chuckled, only the free company could come out of a battle with more men than it had gone into it with.
He veared left and headed over to the archery range, which at this time of the morning was empty. He pulled five shafts from his quiver, and stuck them into the ground. Stringing his bow, he pulled an arrow to the string and released it, sending it speeding toward the target.
He smiled as it hit dead on, he pulled the next arrow from the ground...
Lochlan watched the moors and the cossacks pray together. Faith was still something he enjoyed witnessing, even if he no longer shared it. He walked a little down the path toward the main fort/encampment to where the company was going about tis morning business. Patrols were heading out and coming in, Bloomfield was drilling his men, and his sgt. sounded very unhappy with some of them. Lochlan chuckled, only the free company could come out of a battle with more men than it had gone into it with.
He veared left and headed over to the archery range, which at this time of the morning was empty. He pulled five shafts from his quiver, and stuck them into the ground. Stringing his bow, he pulled an arrow to the string and released it, sending it speeding toward the target.
He smiled as it hit dead on, he pulled the next arrow from the ground...
April 29 - Afternoon
Captain and the other Knights were at the gate. Sir Edmee was on his horse.
"You feel you must do this?" Sir Greystoke asked.
The French knight hesitated, then nodded. "I must check on my family. I hear so much is happening up north in my homeland."
"Well, you've been a valuable addition." Captain said. "You are always welcome to rejoin us. That is, if you can find us."
Barkdreg and Sobieski mumbled farewells.
With a final look Sir Edmee rode off.
As the men turned to enter the fort they heard a crash and a high pitched screech. It sounded like a bag of tortured cats. The sound grew louder.
"Incoming!" Greystoke shouted and the knights scattered.
A moment later a squealing cloth sack hit the ground with a forlorn whine. Slowly the noise faded like a deflating balloon. Captain and the knights picked themselves off the ground and slapped dust from their bodies.
"What in God's name..." Sir Sobieski began.
Barkdreg walked over and poked at the sack with a stick. Each poke elicited a mournful wail. "This thing's cursed! Hey. What's that attached to it." Bending down Barkdreg removed a piece of parchment. He unfolded it and scanned the contents, his tongue working from side to side as he concentrated. Finally. "I can't read."
Pishtaco was walking past, and Barkdreg grabbed the man by the arm, thrusting the paper in his face. "What's that say?"
The Doctor read it over and shrugged. "It says: 'Ici. Nous ne voulons pas la chose maudite. Elle fait aux enfants le cri'."
Sir Greystoke sighed, and opened the sack. He burrowed through it for a few moments until coming up with de Bloomfielde's bagpipe. He held it out at arms-length like it was a viper. "Does anyone want it?"
Captain walked away. "I don't want it."
The others followed, each suddenly on an urgent mission to be elsewhere.
Only Greystoke and Pishtaco remained. The knight looked at the Doctor, and the Doctor put his hands up, palms out. "No! NO! Absolutely not!"
The Knight grinned and pushed the bagpipe into the Doctor's arms. "Here. Tell de Bloomfielde the French don't want it. He'll probably try and knight you for returning it."
As Sir Greystoke walked away Pishtaco called after. "But I don't want to be a Knight!"
Captain and the other Knights were at the gate. Sir Edmee was on his horse.
"You feel you must do this?" Sir Greystoke asked.
The French knight hesitated, then nodded. "I must check on my family. I hear so much is happening up north in my homeland."
"Well, you've been a valuable addition." Captain said. "You are always welcome to rejoin us. That is, if you can find us."
Barkdreg and Sobieski mumbled farewells.
With a final look Sir Edmee rode off.
As the men turned to enter the fort they heard a crash and a high pitched screech. It sounded like a bag of tortured cats. The sound grew louder.
"Incoming!" Greystoke shouted and the knights scattered.
A moment later a squealing cloth sack hit the ground with a forlorn whine. Slowly the noise faded like a deflating balloon. Captain and the knights picked themselves off the ground and slapped dust from their bodies.
"What in God's name..." Sir Sobieski began.
Barkdreg walked over and poked at the sack with a stick. Each poke elicited a mournful wail. "This thing's cursed! Hey. What's that attached to it." Bending down Barkdreg removed a piece of parchment. He unfolded it and scanned the contents, his tongue working from side to side as he concentrated. Finally. "I can't read."
Pishtaco was walking past, and Barkdreg grabbed the man by the arm, thrusting the paper in his face. "What's that say?"
The Doctor read it over and shrugged. "It says: 'Ici. Nous ne voulons pas la chose maudite. Elle fait aux enfants le cri'."
Sir Greystoke sighed, and opened the sack. He burrowed through it for a few moments until coming up with de Bloomfielde's bagpipe. He held it out at arms-length like it was a viper. "Does anyone want it?"
Captain walked away. "I don't want it."
The others followed, each suddenly on an urgent mission to be elsewhere.
Only Greystoke and Pishtaco remained. The knight looked at the Doctor, and the Doctor put his hands up, palms out. "No! NO! Absolutely not!"
The Knight grinned and pushed the bagpipe into the Doctor's arms. "Here. Tell de Bloomfielde the French don't want it. He'll probably try and knight you for returning it."
As Sir Greystoke walked away Pishtaco called after. "But I don't want to be a Knight!"
'Damn fools,' Ivan muttered to himself as he again looked at a sample of the water that most of the camp had been drinking. It was very, very faintly yellow. A simple blotter test on fine Egyptican paper had shown that the water was unsafe. He'd done the same test at for the English when he'd traveled with them, but his concerns had been shrugged off. "Even an animal knowns not to shite and piss where he drinks!" the great Russian yelled at Mohammed. The Egyptian, who was quite used to his master's mood swings, simply nodded and cleaned up after the experiement.
"Well, at least Captain listened to me," Ivan continued to himself. He left it up to the Company's leader to deal with the provision of new water supplies, as his own men were busy restocking his basic herbs from the forest, and...making new bandages. That last job was rather unenvyable and a tad ghoulish for most men's tastes. Ivan had gone through over a quarter of his bandage supplies the previous day, and was scavaging the discarded tunics and uniforms that littered the battlefield for replacements. Going amongst the dead was a most unnerving task, even for Ivan, who had probably seen more dead men in his life then anyone at camp.
The cloth taken from the corpses were washed and steamed three times, scrapped with sharp rocks, and then washed and steamed again until all dye had been bleed out and only white cloth remained. The result were sterile pieces of cloth needed to bandage wounds.
Growling to himself, Ivan wrapped his bear-skin cloak around him, and prepared to go strech his legs and to see if new water supplies had been located, when a gentle tap on his shoulder made him turn. "Pardon me, Master," Mohammed said in his quiet voice. "But it is time for the men and I to pray..."
Under his beard, Ivan blushed slightly, angry at himself for forgetting his attendents. "Of course, course, Mohammed. You and the men take as much time as you need." The Egyptian bowed his head slightly and then went to collect his fellow Muslims. Shaking his head more at himself then at his young attenedent, Ivan left his tent. An Orthodox Christian from birth, the Russian may not believe in Allah, but did not turn his nose down on those who do. 'Anyway,' Ivan thought with an ironic smile as he made his way through camp. 'Here in the Pope's land, we're all heritics!'
His booming laughter filled the air as the Russian stomped toward the forrest.
"Well, at least Captain listened to me," Ivan continued to himself. He left it up to the Company's leader to deal with the provision of new water supplies, as his own men were busy restocking his basic herbs from the forest, and...making new bandages. That last job was rather unenvyable and a tad ghoulish for most men's tastes. Ivan had gone through over a quarter of his bandage supplies the previous day, and was scavaging the discarded tunics and uniforms that littered the battlefield for replacements. Going amongst the dead was a most unnerving task, even for Ivan, who had probably seen more dead men in his life then anyone at camp.
The cloth taken from the corpses were washed and steamed three times, scrapped with sharp rocks, and then washed and steamed again until all dye had been bleed out and only white cloth remained. The result were sterile pieces of cloth needed to bandage wounds.
Growling to himself, Ivan wrapped his bear-skin cloak around him, and prepared to go strech his legs and to see if new water supplies had been located, when a gentle tap on his shoulder made him turn. "Pardon me, Master," Mohammed said in his quiet voice. "But it is time for the men and I to pray..."
Under his beard, Ivan blushed slightly, angry at himself for forgetting his attendents. "Of course, course, Mohammed. You and the men take as much time as you need." The Egyptian bowed his head slightly and then went to collect his fellow Muslims. Shaking his head more at himself then at his young attenedent, Ivan left his tent. An Orthodox Christian from birth, the Russian may not believe in Allah, but did not turn his nose down on those who do. 'Anyway,' Ivan thought with an ironic smile as he made his way through camp. 'Here in the Pope's land, we're all heritics!'
His booming laughter filled the air as the Russian stomped toward the forrest.
OOC: Cockney, are you sure that cossacks were muslims??? I think orthodox describes their faith much better...
True, but Sagan described them as Cossacks and made lots of references to Islam, I'm just going along with what he said.
We could always make them Tartars
We could always make them Tartars
April 29th afternoon
It was early afternoon in the free company camp, and things continued as normal for the mercenaries. Drilling, practice, being cursed at by sargeants, that sort of thing. Lochlan was entering the camp from the forst side, and the hair on the bacl of his neck stood up...something was wrong.
He surveyed the camp quickly, everything seemed to be in order. The infantry were drilling again, and the cavalry were tossing insults at their collective ability to march. Lochlan could'nt make out who was who from this distance, but it did'nt matter it was pretty common. Still he thought something was out of the ordinary. He walked by the Captains tent, nothing there. He walked by the rather odd new doctors tent, nothing there. He even stopped by Alberics tent, and for oce nothing was wrong there.
"Whats going on here?" He thought, I keep feeling something catastrophic is going to happen. Then he heard it, it was coming from behind him...Bloomfield! He whipped around quickly enought to see Pishtaco stumble out, and he heard the Lieutenant yelling after him...
"A Knight I tell you, a knight. No a baron! You'll be nobility! Thank you oh thank you!" Bloomfield cried, rushing after Pishtaco who was now in full flight. And what was that Bloomfield was carrying. Then he realized what it was.
"Have mercy." Lochlan said, stunned. "I thought they got rid of that thing for sure. I better go warn everyone." And Lochlan quickly made his way through the camp spreading the word of what he had seen, and what he was afraid would follow.
It was early afternoon in the free company camp, and things continued as normal for the mercenaries. Drilling, practice, being cursed at by sargeants, that sort of thing. Lochlan was entering the camp from the forst side, and the hair on the bacl of his neck stood up...something was wrong.
He surveyed the camp quickly, everything seemed to be in order. The infantry were drilling again, and the cavalry were tossing insults at their collective ability to march. Lochlan could'nt make out who was who from this distance, but it did'nt matter it was pretty common. Still he thought something was out of the ordinary. He walked by the Captains tent, nothing there. He walked by the rather odd new doctors tent, nothing there. He even stopped by Alberics tent, and for oce nothing was wrong there.
"Whats going on here?" He thought, I keep feeling something catastrophic is going to happen. Then he heard it, it was coming from behind him...Bloomfield! He whipped around quickly enought to see Pishtaco stumble out, and he heard the Lieutenant yelling after him...
"A Knight I tell you, a knight. No a baron! You'll be nobility! Thank you oh thank you!" Bloomfield cried, rushing after Pishtaco who was now in full flight. And what was that Bloomfield was carrying. Then he realized what it was.
"Have mercy." Lochlan said, stunned. "I thought they got rid of that thing for sure. I better go warn everyone." And Lochlan quickly made his way through the camp spreading the word of what he had seen, and what he was afraid would follow.
OOC - Cossacks
I think that at this time, the horsemen that would become known as the Cossacks were Muslims. During this period, as the Golden Horde slowly disintegrated, they came under increasing exposure to Orthodoxy & began to convert & tie their allegiance to the Orthodox duchies of northern Russia.
At least, that is my vague recollection of the socio-politico-religious development of the region & era. Any real experts out there on the Cossacks & their late medieval society?
As Cockney noted, a few minor edits & Sagan's post can stand as written even if I'm wrong...
I did some quick research & it seems I am wrong about the origins of the Cossacks. They are apparently freemen who streamed into the more-or-less empty lands opened up by the collapse of the Golden Horde & established independent communities which soon came under the sway of the growing Russian state. Thus it is already both too early for Cossacks & unilkely that they would be anything other than Orthodox in origin.
I stand corrected...
I think that at this time, the horsemen that would become known as the Cossacks were Muslims. During this period, as the Golden Horde slowly disintegrated, they came under increasing exposure to Orthodoxy & began to convert & tie their allegiance to the Orthodox duchies of northern Russia.
At least, that is my vague recollection of the socio-politico-religious development of the region & era. Any real experts out there on the Cossacks & their late medieval society?
As Cockney noted, a few minor edits & Sagan's post can stand as written even if I'm wrong...
I did some quick research & it seems I am wrong about the origins of the Cossacks. They are apparently freemen who streamed into the more-or-less empty lands opened up by the collapse of the Golden Horde & established independent communities which soon came under the sway of the growing Russian state. Thus it is already both too early for Cossacks & unilkely that they would be anything other than Orthodox in origin.
I stand corrected...
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The Scotsmen rushed from their barracks, buckling their belts and pulling down their kilts. Soon they had ringed de Bloomfielde. Someone was passing around Whiskey.
"Ach! I ken it fer a mirracle!"
Doncan McG exlaimed: "Aye, the heathen French bastards kinna abide the sweet blessed sownd of the rright Heeland Greatpipes!"
"A plague on that Alberic! Nae harrrm has come of his villiany!" interposted Duncan McD, "but I cood wish, Edmond, that you'd perrmit me and the lads tae gee the rat a gewd skelping!"
De Bloomfielde was overjoyed. He stood there, the tears streaming down his face as the Scotsmen patted his shoulders and forced drink on him (which wasn't hard to do).
"Now, my man!" said Duncan McG, "Let' us walk tae Alberic's tent and then ye will gee us a tewn, no doot! In celebrration of the mirracle."
And he did. De Bloomfielde played his favorite set: Tea In the Morning, I burried my Wife and Danced On Top of Her, followed by The Queen's Knickers.
It was glorious.
"Ach! I ken it fer a mirracle!"
Doncan McG exlaimed: "Aye, the heathen French bastards kinna abide the sweet blessed sownd of the rright Heeland Greatpipes!"
"A plague on that Alberic! Nae harrrm has come of his villiany!" interposted Duncan McD, "but I cood wish, Edmond, that you'd perrmit me and the lads tae gee the rat a gewd skelping!"
De Bloomfielde was overjoyed. He stood there, the tears streaming down his face as the Scotsmen patted his shoulders and forced drink on him (which wasn't hard to do).
"Now, my man!" said Duncan McG, "Let' us walk tae Alberic's tent and then ye will gee us a tewn, no doot! In celebrration of the mirracle."
And he did. De Bloomfielde played his favorite set: Tea In the Morning, I burried my Wife and Danced On Top of Her, followed by The Queen's Knickers.
It was glorious.
Before Duncun gets drunk, obviously...
Edward pushed open his tent and went to inspect his command, three hundred men stood, at warying degrees of cleanseliness, at attention. Less than a hundred of them were his old troops, and over half of those were arranged at the front to form a short of elite force, the rest were scattered throughout his regiment to keep them in check and generally raise the level of experience, which was surprisingly low among the new recruits.
he paced in front of them, regarding a couple in closer detail and generally making the whole regiment feel uncomfortable. When he began to speak it was quietly and quite a few strained to hear it, his voice did not carry effortlessly like Captains, nor did he tend to speak as loudly as Bloomfelde, but he managed to get his point across.
"My name is Edward of Seraphim, I command you in battle, if your sergeants are not availble, you speak to me, or Duncan, my second in command" The scotsman puffed out his chest in pride, he had taken to the position exceptionally well "There are few things I demand from you, but among them is that fight well, respect your officers and, under no circumstances, do you get drunk prior to battle. If you do, you will be hurled into the front line, hang over or not" his veterans grinned, knowing full well their Lts stance on drink. "Apart from that, I want an hours training a day, whether it be drilling, or deuling, marching or survival, it must be done. On the 'field, your life and the man on your right depends on that as well, protect him and you'll live.
"Dismissed."
The regimetn scattered, Edward did not care whether they turned up caked in mud or completely naked, but he wanted them to be able to fight and fight well, run twenty miles and fight a battle at the end of that. But what he really wanted was to get paid.
______
The fascist company that is British Telecom has been arsing around with my interent connexion, thus, my absenses may grow longer as Christmas swings around.
Edward pushed open his tent and went to inspect his command, three hundred men stood, at warying degrees of cleanseliness, at attention. Less than a hundred of them were his old troops, and over half of those were arranged at the front to form a short of elite force, the rest were scattered throughout his regiment to keep them in check and generally raise the level of experience, which was surprisingly low among the new recruits.
he paced in front of them, regarding a couple in closer detail and generally making the whole regiment feel uncomfortable. When he began to speak it was quietly and quite a few strained to hear it, his voice did not carry effortlessly like Captains, nor did he tend to speak as loudly as Bloomfelde, but he managed to get his point across.
"My name is Edward of Seraphim, I command you in battle, if your sergeants are not availble, you speak to me, or Duncan, my second in command" The scotsman puffed out his chest in pride, he had taken to the position exceptionally well "There are few things I demand from you, but among them is that fight well, respect your officers and, under no circumstances, do you get drunk prior to battle. If you do, you will be hurled into the front line, hang over or not" his veterans grinned, knowing full well their Lts stance on drink. "Apart from that, I want an hours training a day, whether it be drilling, or deuling, marching or survival, it must be done. On the 'field, your life and the man on your right depends on that as well, protect him and you'll live.
"Dismissed."
The regimetn scattered, Edward did not care whether they turned up caked in mud or completely naked, but he wanted them to be able to fight and fight well, run twenty miles and fight a battle at the end of that. But what he really wanted was to get paid.
______
The fascist company that is British Telecom has been arsing around with my interent connexion, thus, my absenses may grow longer as Christmas swings around.
De Crecy had been pleasantly surprised. Gaining 200 extra men, that had to be good, right? Well, actually no. Of the new recruits, many had surrendered because they would not know their ass from their face unless they were told which was which. And so, he had begun to have them train, train hard. And he had decided that since he had so many blank slates to use, he would try and implement his new system of training. Wake up was at dawn,followed by a thirty mile run(which mainly consisted of running 10 3 mile laps), fight practice with wooden swords and pikes. He had the men form up into squares, and then had them move in synch with one another. Sure, several men fell down, and Henri sent them to the doctor to be stitched up, but the majority of the men took to the regimen with surprising ease. Just goes to show you, a blank slate could be filled up quickly if it was filled with the correct stuff.
As for setting up the groups, Henri decided to have his personal bodyguard increase threefold, to 25 men. They were all trusted friends, and were freshly armoured from the raid on the French Keep(Did you think all thos dead French would be left to the carrion birds?)
The remaining 275 men were split into 5 groups(well, 6 but that was only because of the group of 25, who were found to be "specialists", who were placed nominally under Henri's direct control) The 5 groups were comprised of 49 men and their lieutenant. Of the 5 groups were comprised of swordsmen, macemen. They were the shock troops. Two more groups were comprised of pikemen, and the last group was a mixed bag of troops. Some pike, some swordsmen, and some macemen.
As his new troops trained, Henri looked on them with some satisfaction. He wondered, offhand, when pay would be forthcoming. His family back on the farm needed some money. He would check on that, soon enough. For now, more training. Always training...
As for setting up the groups, Henri decided to have his personal bodyguard increase threefold, to 25 men. They were all trusted friends, and were freshly armoured from the raid on the French Keep(Did you think all thos dead French would be left to the carrion birds?)
The remaining 275 men were split into 5 groups(well, 6 but that was only because of the group of 25, who were found to be "specialists", who were placed nominally under Henri's direct control) The 5 groups were comprised of 49 men and their lieutenant. Of the 5 groups were comprised of swordsmen, macemen. They were the shock troops. Two more groups were comprised of pikemen, and the last group was a mixed bag of troops. Some pike, some swordsmen, and some macemen.
As his new troops trained, Henri looked on them with some satisfaction. He wondered, offhand, when pay would be forthcoming. His family back on the farm needed some money. He would check on that, soon enough. For now, more training. Always training...
Forster had his regiment of light cav form up early the next day. He broke it into 4 companies 50 men, each led by a more experienced sergeant. He briefly told them what he expected of them, how they would operate and what they could look forward to with the company. Then he gave the sergeants instructions on training. He wanted them to train their company so it would respond quickly and properly. Once he was satisfied as to their training, he would train them to work en masse, but that would come later.
He wondered why the captain hadn't paid the men yet. Those two chests were enough to pay the company twice over. Did Henry take the captured coin?
He wondered why the captain hadn't paid the men yet. Those two chests were enough to pay the company twice over. Did Henry take the captured coin?
Captain was at his table, dictating some notes to Clerk, when de Bloomfielde walked in.
"Put that damned noise maker away finally, did you?"
"Yeah, well, people kept throwing things at me."
"Damned straight. I was one of them. What do you want?"
"The men are grumbling about not being paid."
"What? They were paid, after you saved the baggage train!"
"Who paid them?"
"You did!"
"No I didn't."
"You didn't?"
"No."
"Did you pocket the money then?"
"No! Dammit! I thought you were handing out the coin!"
"Swell! No wonder the men have long faces. What we need is a Quartermaster."
There was a tiny cough at the tent entrance. All eyes turned to the Countess. "Pardonez moi, Msrs. Sorry to interrupt, but I used to handle my husband's finances. Perhaps I could help you until it is time for me to leave."
The two men looked at each other. Captain shrugged. "Why not? Clerk, get those tally sheets you and Pishtaco did up. de Bloomfielde, get the hell out of here and inform the Lieutenants that the men will be paid as soon as we sort things out. Countess? Have a seat."
"Put that damned noise maker away finally, did you?"
"Yeah, well, people kept throwing things at me."
"Damned straight. I was one of them. What do you want?"
"The men are grumbling about not being paid."
"What? They were paid, after you saved the baggage train!"
"Who paid them?"
"You did!"
"No I didn't."
"You didn't?"
"No."
"Did you pocket the money then?"
"No! Dammit! I thought you were handing out the coin!"
"Swell! No wonder the men have long faces. What we need is a Quartermaster."
There was a tiny cough at the tent entrance. All eyes turned to the Countess. "Pardonez moi, Msrs. Sorry to interrupt, but I used to handle my husband's finances. Perhaps I could help you until it is time for me to leave."
The two men looked at each other. Captain shrugged. "Why not? Clerk, get those tally sheets you and Pishtaco did up. de Bloomfielde, get the hell out of here and inform the Lieutenants that the men will be paid as soon as we sort things out. Countess? Have a seat."
Alberic yanked the trigger and the Trebuchet's throwing arm swung into motion. The Trebuchet swayed a little after the release and the payload of boulders flew tumbling in the air toward the walls of the fort. They looked so small as they hit the fort but they were having an effect. Pohlman was letting Alberic command the Trebuchet's crew while he was finishing up the placement of the bombards. Truth be told it was because it was Alberic's men who were hauling the boulders to the Trebuchet. Alberic was truly enjoying the challenge of adjusting the Trebuchet to hit the walls of the fort exactly where he wanted to. He was learning that a slight adjustment to the trough would bring quite a different angle to the flight of the payload. After Pohlman had told him that the weight of the counter weight determined the speed and force of the payload Alberic had wanted to add more rocks to it but Pohlman had pointed out the increased stress that would cause to the entire Trebuchet.
Alberic wetted his finger and raised it to test the wind direction. As his crew finished winding the throwing arm into place Alberic said.
"Alright men put in a three quarter load this time. The wind has come up in our face and I think I'll have to change the angle of the trajectory if we want to achieve the optimum force to be transferred to the boulders so they can reach the target."
Alberic felt proud of himself for knowing all the right words even if he wasn't quite sure what they meant. Redd and the other men stood looking at Alberic with a puzzled expression on their faces.
"Well what's wrong? get moving we haven't got all day there's frogs to kill."
Redd shuffled his feet and asked. "What the hell is three quarters?"
Alberic not wanting to appear indecisive boldly said.
"Less that one"
Reed and the other men all nodded their heads and said.
"Ah, right. Less then one. Yea, okay."
Alberic noticed that no one was moving to load the sling and sighed.
"Alright now what?"
"Well how do you get less that one when we've been loading several rocks in the sling every time."
Alberic stood scratching his ear thinking this over. He looked at Redd and felt he knew a trouble maker when he saw one.
"Now you don't need to worry about it. Just load the sling until I say stop. And just between you and me Redd you'll never make Sergeant thinking like that.
Alberic wetted his finger and raised it to test the wind direction. As his crew finished winding the throwing arm into place Alberic said.
"Alright men put in a three quarter load this time. The wind has come up in our face and I think I'll have to change the angle of the trajectory if we want to achieve the optimum force to be transferred to the boulders so they can reach the target."
Alberic felt proud of himself for knowing all the right words even if he wasn't quite sure what they meant. Redd and the other men stood looking at Alberic with a puzzled expression on their faces.
"Well what's wrong? get moving we haven't got all day there's frogs to kill."
Redd shuffled his feet and asked. "What the hell is three quarters?"
Alberic not wanting to appear indecisive boldly said.
"Less that one"
Reed and the other men all nodded their heads and said.
"Ah, right. Less then one. Yea, okay."
Alberic noticed that no one was moving to load the sling and sighed.
"Alright now what?"
"Well how do you get less that one when we've been loading several rocks in the sling every time."
Alberic stood scratching his ear thinking this over. He looked at Redd and felt he knew a trouble maker when he saw one.
"Now you don't need to worry about it. Just load the sling until I say stop. And just between you and me Redd you'll never make Sergeant thinking like that.
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Misha had rarely seen his master in a better mood. In the time that Misha had known his master, Sir Greystoke had rarely smiled, yet recently he had been known to laugh out loud. There was something about being surrounded by other fighting men that he respected, Misha suspected, that made the knight so lighthearted.
The squire knew that there was no man his master respected more than Captain. And Forster & de Bloomfielde were old comrades in arms. Misha didn't much like the lascivious de Bloomfielde's cocky attitude, but Sir Greystoke never seemed to be disturbed by it. Even the ataman Sagan, newly arrived from the far away East, brought a wry smile to the tall knight's lips as would a friend from former fields of battle.
In addition to his old comrades in arms, Sir Greystoke seemed to relish the presence of many in the Company he had only recently come to know. But it was with the Templar knight Barkdreg that Sir Greystoke seemed most at ease. Misha found this perplexing. The squire found Sir Barkdreg to be almost completely inscrutable. Misha rarely had any idea was the knight was thinking at any time, & what he did know scared him. But when the squire mentioned such things to his master, Sir Greystoke would only smile & say, "Sir Barkdreg walks a lonely road - but it is always the high road of justice..."
Misha shrugged. Perhaps he would never understand his master. But he would never abandon him either. Whatever road Sir Greystoke chose to travel, his loyal squire would be but a few paces behind, helping in whatever small way he could to lighten his master's burden...
The squire knew that there was no man his master respected more than Captain. And Forster & de Bloomfielde were old comrades in arms. Misha didn't much like the lascivious de Bloomfielde's cocky attitude, but Sir Greystoke never seemed to be disturbed by it. Even the ataman Sagan, newly arrived from the far away East, brought a wry smile to the tall knight's lips as would a friend from former fields of battle.
In addition to his old comrades in arms, Sir Greystoke seemed to relish the presence of many in the Company he had only recently come to know. But it was with the Templar knight Barkdreg that Sir Greystoke seemed most at ease. Misha found this perplexing. The squire found Sir Barkdreg to be almost completely inscrutable. Misha rarely had any idea was the knight was thinking at any time, & what he did know scared him. But when the squire mentioned such things to his master, Sir Greystoke would only smile & say, "Sir Barkdreg walks a lonely road - but it is always the high road of justice..."
Misha shrugged. Perhaps he would never understand his master. But he would never abandon him either. Whatever road Sir Greystoke chose to travel, his loyal squire would be but a few paces behind, helping in whatever small way he could to lighten his master's burden...