Burgundy: Origin of the Free Company: Book One

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September 17th - Evening

Lochlan stirred the fire with a stick, then smiles slightly when a spark jumped off and startled Hans.

"Mein Gott!" He said vehemently. "Lochlan, must you torment me."

"Absolutely my friend, absolutely." Then the scout seargent stood. "Get some rest Hans, were getting up early tommorow."

"But...I thought there were jsut going to be negotiations?"

"Thats what their telling me...but...just follow orders Hans."

"Ja." And the german rolled over away from the fire and any sparks.

Lochlan threaded his way through the camp, it was winding down. Most of the men had been fed, and everyone was tired from the march. What was interesting was noticing who was still awake. For instance, even from here he could see the glow coming from the officers tents. Lochlan thought about turning and seeing what was going on in there, but then decided against it. There was enough hidden history and back plots going on in this company to make you never turn your blind side to anyone ever again.

Still, something was going on...and it definately did not smell right. Since no one had been gracious enough to inform Lochlan of what was going on, he would just play his own game. Captain was meeting the duke at dawn, but Lochlans scouts would be in place two hours before that, and they would shadow the company leader all the way to the meeting, while he was there, and all the way back. SO help him god, Lochlan would feather any man who touched the captain, be it the Duke, or the King of France himself. Lochlan owed Captain, after that fighting retreat, and the way he had held them together...he owed the man. He headed back toward his own fire to get some rest. On his wasy he saw several fires around which men were preparing for battle rather than getting ready for bed. He met Scherer's eyes and nodded, passing by his fire without comment. He winked at Buckeye, who was re-stringing his bow, and recieved a grave nod in return. He saw others getting ready as well, everyone from Diego's spanish, to Forsters light cavalry. Everyone was on edge tonight.

As he reached his fire, he mentally prepared himself for the next day...come whatever he would be ready.

 

[Lord Durham]

September 17 - Late Evening


"The men are high-strung tonight, Captain. I think they smell a brawl." de Bloomfielde's voice came from the dark, and a moment later he walked in range of the camp-fire and sat. "Evening Countess."

Captain grunted and the Countess smiled.

Moments later Seraphim joined them. "What's up with the men?" He sat too.

"I was just wondering myself," de Bloomfielde began, only to be interrupted by another, brasher voice.

"There ye be! CHRISTINA! OVER HERE! NO! HERE! FOLLOW ME VOICE, LASS!" The Irishman sat down, making sure there was empty space beside him.

Captain and the Countess looked at each other as the evening fire crackled. "Sean?"

"Sir!"

"I'm going to split the scouts between Lochlan and Scherer. That should give them about 20 men each. I don't want you traipsing through the forest anymore. It doesn't become an officer."

Christina had sat down and caught the tail end of the conversation. She let out a yelp of joy, then looked properly abashed when Constance glared.

De Crecy appeared out of the darkness, along with Pohlman. "What's got the men so spooked, Captain?" the Bavarian asked.

"Don't ye feel it, mon?" Sean replied. "Evil's in the air. I feels it."

Captain and Constance looked at each other again. Silently Captain felt for the miniature cross bow at his side.

* * *

September 18 - Morning


Early dawn was cool, with a hint of moisture in the air. The camp was slowly coming to life when Captain, Clerk and Father Wilheim came walking back from their meeting with the Duke.

They were met by Sir Greystoke, Barkdreg and Sobieski.

"Up early, gentle knights?" Brother Wilheim said.

"Couldn't sleep." Sir Sobieski grumbled. The other two mumbled 'Aye.'

"Well then," Captain began, "at least I don't have to wake you up. Gather your commands. Get Dan and Karen. We march in the hour."

Sir Greystoke looked surprised. "Where?"

"A place called Montereau. The French King wishes to talk peace with the Duke."

The army was up and on the move within the hour. Many of the men were disappointed that nothing had happened.

 

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Barkdreg had cornered him earlier in the morning before setting out for the day. Not one given to rising early, Georges had a little trouble believing he had heard the knight correctly.

"Have you ever tried Wlak à l'orange, real good. Somebody once told me wlak is rather tasty when cooked with a nice port and cinnamon, never tried it though. But never eat short-strided wlaks, they'll make your stomach hurt."

"Wlak, sir?" he managed to croak.

"Yes. Wlak," came the stollid reply.

"Well sir, if you can have someone find me one - or however many we need to feed all the officers - I'll certainly try. Might I suggest, however that a side of beef might be a more pallettable alternative?"

But no. Barkdreg would have none of it, and thus Georges was now futilely looking through the markets in every little village they passed through, trying to locate a Wlak. On the other hand, such was the chef's confidence that he felt sure he could even make a short-strided member of the species taste good.

Finally, in a very questionable purveyor of meat, he finally found someone who understood his request.

"Certainly, my good sir. I'm fresh out of long-strided Wlak but I do have a short-strided Wlak flank-steak that I'd be willing to part with at a reasonable price."

Georges wondered how one flank steak was supposed to feed a dozen or more men, but decided to take the chance anyway. "Very well. I'll take it."

They negotiated a price and the owner asked him to have the wagon pull 'round back.

"I could just take it myself," Georges said in all innocence.

The butcher looked him up and down and replied, "Yeah. You and what army?"

Georges admitted defeat and went back outside to have the wagon pull to the loading doors.

***

Ten minutes later they were whipping the horses hard to try to catch up with the rest of the column. They were having a tough time gaining much ground, though, as the Wlak flank was weighing them down heavily.

On a positive note, Henri's mutt was going to have a field day with the thigh bone from this one.

 

[Lord Durham]

September 18 - late morning

Ataman Sagan and his Cossacks were riding to the rear of the baggage train, spread out wide in loose formation. Scouts wandered in and out of the group periodically, making reports.

All heads turned as a cart went careening past, tipping dangerously close to one side, then the other. The driver was barely holding onto the bouncing contraption for dear life. In the back a huge slab of meat that resembled a side of ribs slid from edge to edge.

One of the Cossacks asked, "Where'd he get the side of wlak?"

"Don't know. Short-strided?"

"Looks like it. Flank-steak?"

"Yeah, I'd say so."

"Bloody officers get all the breaks..."

 

[Sharur]

"Word is that Georges managed to get his hands on a side of wlak."

"Really? Short-strided, or long?"

"Short, I believe. He's out to prove he can make it edible."

"Is he? Well, I'm willing to believe he can, even if it is a short-strided wlak, given what he did earlier with the..."

Scherer stopped, realizing that his men were all glaring at him enviously. Smiling, he walked on quietly, breaking the silence only to whistle every now and then.

Amazing how a bit of wlak can take the edge off of those nerves, he thought.

 

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Slightly later that morning...

Georges decided to reconsider his opinion on bumpy wagons and rutted roads. Whereas the previous day he had been cursing at every jolt, today he gloried in it, knowing that every crash would save him from hours of back-breaking pounding to tenderize the meat. Perhaps this was the secret to preparing a tender short-strided Wlak? He hoped so. Word was already spreading throughout the upper eschelon that he had procured a flank...

...and he could smell the money changing hands as to whether he would succeed. "I want me some of that action!" he thought. A week's pay that not a single officer would fail to observe that short-strided Wlak could be just as good as the other. He began to plot out a searing demi-glaise that would disguise almost anything...

Of course he could always fall back on the ultimate trick of the trade. It was a well-known addage amongst the best chefs (though a closely guarded secret otherwise) that a generous side dish of brussel sprouts could make anything else elicit superlatives. With that in mind, he set out on an important mission when they reached the next villiage...

 

[Lord Durham]

LOL. I have the next major post to go, but somehow I think it would lose it's effectiveness... just a hunch.

Let's get the preparation of this mouth-watering meal out of the way first, then I'll steer it back to something a little more serious tomorrow.

 

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For Posterity (or how to cook S-S Wlak)

By evening, Georges knew he had a winner. It certainly was the hit of the officers' mess to date, though perhaps the enlisted types would rue the event for days to come. For future reference the chef recorded the following: [ed. translated of course]

Wlak Fondu Bourguignonne

servings: guessing at about 125. We used the left-overs for days...

This dish is cooked at table in a special deep metal pot which narrows at the top to keep the butter from sputtering. It can be cooked on direct fire if the butter is especially sweet and clarified to keep it from popping, else on plates made seering hot by large candles placed beneath.

This dish gives the chef an easy time, both from the cooking angle and from the subsequent entertaining - as guests quickly reveal their individual characteristics. They are all there - the hoarder, the cooperator, the kibitzer, the Captain...

Note: limit of about 6 persons per heat source. Keep guests away from open flames later!!!!!

Allow ~ 1/2 pound of Wlak per person From tonight's experience, officers can consume upwards of 1 pound each but that should be considered an anomoly (if not downright dangerous!).

Begin with a shank of Wlak. While it is said that long-strided Wlak is prefered, my initial experiment with short-strided was a smashing success (except for one small detail to be mentioned later). Tenderize thoroughly by bouncing around in a wagon utterly lacking in suspension for 10+ hours and apply liberal dose of road dust. Dice Wlak into 3/4 in cubes.

Prepare at least four of the following sauces for dipping (preferably all):

- Mustard with capers
- Thickened tomatoe sauce
- Mayonnaise with garlic and herbs
- Marchand de vin with mushrooms
- Curry sauce (in case a cossack drops by)
- Chutney sauce (in case a English type drops by)
- Sweet and sour sauce

Melt in pot: at least 1 cup of butter - clarified if possible

When the butter is brownish, announce the rules for dinner: each officer may only cook one or two cubes at a time, so as to keep the cooking heat constant. Impale the Wlak on long forks (or whatever weapons some of the heathen have at hand ), worry it around in the butter until it is done to your liking. Sauces may be arranged tastefully on the officer's plate - or one might take the example of certain un-named gluttons and just spoon it where ever the fancy takes them. The hot browned Wlak is dipped into the sauce (or sauces ) of your choice.

Recommended side dish: freshly steamed brussel sprouts but I also had some favorable responses to avocado slices and grapes (don't stand too close to Sherer with the grapes again...his pip aim is attrocious!)

Warning: Short-strided wlak is somewhat...err...highly...err...err...err..."gaseous". If serving, avoid human contact within 10 feet if at all possible for at least 3 hours (and counting......could be days...). Properties of long-strided variant unknown. Would imagine less, but guessing...Open flame a bad idea!

Captain wasn't sure that the...err...outgassing...would necessarily be an asset at the parlay table. Nonetheless, it had been a tasty repas. He could, at least, face what was to come well sated...and possibly well-armed.

Gods but that.........stinks!

Won my bets though

 

[Sharur]

Originally posted by MrT
don't stand too close to Sherer with the grapes again...his pip aim is attrocious!

If you think Johan's good with that mini-crossbow, you ain't seen nothin' yet...

Oh, and to anyone who's been reading H_S's Ethiopia aar, let's keep de Crecy away from the assembled nobility, shall we? After having eaten that wlak...

 

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September 18th - noon

"So, anything out there?" Sagan asked quietly.

"Not a thing." Lochlan replied. "And honestly, it bothers me."

"Bit jumpy are we?"

"Absolutely. I feel like im walking on the edge of the blade right now."

"Ahh, last night?"

"Yeah, I was sure something was going to happen this morning, but nothing did. I should feel better, but I don't."

"You feel like instead of releasing the bowstring you should be pulling it tighter?"

"Exactly." Lochlan finished, the looked back along the colums. "You know what it felt like." He paused, and looked into the sky, then he returned his gaze to the Nomad's eyes. "It felt like the blade touched my neck, drew back for the stroke, I whirled to face my attacker, and there was nothing there."

"I see." Sagan replied, looking down the road. Then he looked back to the scout who was trotting alongside his horse. He was about to say something but, he noticed Lochlan's attention had drifted somewhere else. "What is it?" He asked.

"I don't know, you mind if I run alongside you for awhile, I want to give more instructions to the next scout group that comes in."

"Of course my friend." The Cossack smiled, and returned his attention to his horse. "Understanding was good among comrades." He thought. And returned his attention to the horizon.

 

[Barkdreg]

Mr T, that was great! The whole wlak thing is hilarious!

 

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Originally posted by Barkdreg
Mr T, that was great! The whole wlak thing is hilarious!

OOC: Well ya gotta know that if ya go and post something as irresistable as that in someone else's thread, it's gotta be used against ya or for ya So? What did our valiant knight think of his short-strided wlak fondu bourguignonne? Tasty?

 

[Rictus]

I'll have you know that while Floppy Hats remains a trademark of Gak...Aargh (Bloomfield) productions, both Long and short-strided Wlaks are part of the Boogaloo (Rictus) Group.

Thats right, find out more about Boogaloos (and later Wlaks) here

 

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Morning on a sword’s edge. 18 september

Johan made a policy out of buying things at daylight, so that one could clearly see what one was getting. He had heard too many stories of exeriments that failed, devices that had broken down, or worse, accidents of a personal nature, simply because the materials where fawlty in the first place. It wouldn’t have been necessary now. The sword was in excellent condition and even though the reputation of the Moors, Johan was willing to buy it, after he gave it some simple metal stress tests. In his opinion as an engineer, the blade was made of high quality steel, and though he never learned to handle the sword, it felt well balanced, as if the sword itself would teach him how to wield it.
What bothered Johan was that the Moors where eager to get rid of it, in fact, the sword was downright cheap. Though the Moors spoke some quick sentences to eachother in Arabic, Johan was able to deduce, with his limited knowledge of the language, that the sword ment trouble. All this made Johan think, and he hid the weapon carefully among his possesions. The blade had a dire reputation apparently, and Johan didn’t want to draw attention to him that the sword was his.
It didn’t matter, the sword was useless at the moment, because Johan lacked the skill to handle it. That would change, but not today. Today meant trouble, everyone was tense. Johan ordered the men to keep their weapons ready and in very close reach.
Farnese, despite his mediteranian origin and appearance, didn’t look out of place on this misty morning. His presence unnerved the men of the crossbow squads, and gave them patience instead of anxiety, discipline instead of worry, and confidence instead of doubt. Much like Johan had done with his squad, Farnese had reshaped the crossbowmen into a new formation, and today might be the day to prove that effort, for lieutenant, sergeants, corporals and footmen alike. Johan saw his squad come to life in the morning. Van t’Wege bursting with camardice and experience, Osterdorf elementary at home on this foggy morning, Johan knew he had to watch out for Ricardo and his Italians. True, they experienced camardice much in the same way as the Flemish, but Johan remembered well from the last summer the shaken faces of Ricardo’s young pals. Johan couldn’t babysit them though, he had to be there for all of them. And he would be, if necessary. Today, they would be ready.

 

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Just after lunch

Sean studied the ground they were camped on. The early morning mist was starting to move off, though patches of the morning fog still lingered, as if to add an even more ominous note to the day by its refusal to budge. He knew that the Marauders had camped off to the west, and he suspected that if anyone was likely to be used to betray them, it would be another mercenary company.

It made the most sense. If the Burgundians own troops attempted it, there would be no guarantee they would get the job done, plus he'd never be able to hire mercenaries again. And good or ill, Burgundy was desperate for mercenary aid to fight this war, and would be again in the future. The French could not attack just the Mercenaries, who would trust their enemy to do that? Besides we had not fought any "French" as such the whole war. It'd been Auvergne and Orleaners, just vassals of them, and they'd never stick out their neck for that. Violate a parley? It'd turn their friends on them even. And of course again there would be the issue of how would they ever hire mercenaries again after such an act.

So it had to be the Marauders, and the parley a ploy to draw Captain away to either kill him separately or ensure he could not pass orders to the men. If it was mercenary companies fighting, it could be passed off in any one of a hundred different ways. "competition between the two" being the easiest. but simple barbarism would be bought by enough people. Mercenaries didn't need an excuse to kill one another. And two to one odds would be enough, in the Good Duke's mind, to get the job done.

So look, what ground can we...there. He saw a small forest on a rise, off to the West, that would cut across the route of advance the Marauders would most likely take. With Faolan's archers and my command to cover them, we could hold that until either we pulled out or rallied, and WE could get the first strike...and surprise.

"Let's fin' Cap'n darlin." He said to himself, kicking the flank of his hose and riding hard to find him...

 

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Master had managed to get a nice big bone for me, yes, yes.

The Mutt wagged gus tail as he carried the bone throughout the camp. He had figured out who he could go to for food, and there was one in particular, a very kind man with a joyful face and a nervous smell. But Master was kind, and this man was kind as well. But he did not smell like Master. The mutt could not believe it. Two men who treated him better than had any other person for as long as his ears could listen. He wagged his tail, following the scent to Henri...

...And Henri saw his beloved mutt coming down wending his way around and through groups of people. The mutt wagged his tail and had such an aura of joy that Henri laughed out loud. He had partook of the feast prepared by that new cook, and he had been impressed. And he had been even more impressed when this man had given Boy a bone. Boy had been practically leaping in the air for it, and Henri and the cook had had a great laugh. Henri did not know what it was exactly he had eaten, but it tasted good, and for Henri, it was better than the usual food he ate. He sighed, and gave a chuckle as Boy walked round in a circle a few times before finally laying down at Henri's feet. Henri knew the girls would love him, make him into the brother they never had. Henri wondered what was next. His age showed as he tried to remember what exactly as going on. Well, he would figure it out when the time was right. Until then, he lay back and took a little snooze.

 

[Lord Durham]

September 18, 1419 - Afternoon


Lieutenant O'Glaigh rode up near Captain and stopped short. He flicked his head in a gesture of privacy. Captain joined him.

"Captn' darlin, I be thinking about this, ands I think the Duke plans to betrays us. Why else would he be hiring additional mercenaries, 'ceptn' to do the dirty work for him."

Captain looked hard at the Irishman. "Have you met the Duke, Sean?"

"Can't says that I have. Only saws him when I was on the other side o' the wall, so to speak."

"Do you think you're a good judge of men?"

"I reckon so. I needs to know who I can trust in a pinch."

"Well, Sean, then trust me when I tell you the Duke means us no harm."

"But the mercenaries..."

"Are to help us take Paris. Nothing more, nothing less. What happens after is anyone's guess, but for now we are allies."

Sean nodded with little enthusiasm. "If'n you say, Captn', but alls the same, I'll keep my men ready."

Captain grinned. "I wouldn't expect it any other way."

* * *


September 19, 1419 - Afternoon: Montereau


The afternoon was cloudy, dull and grey, threatening rain.

Montereau was a small town that had until now escaped the ravages of war. Flowing through the community was the Seine River, and spanning the fast flowing current was a stone bridge. On the east side of the bridge stood Jeans sans Feur with some nobles and several guards.

On the opposite side was Charles, the King of France. Charles the Mad, some called him. He was surrounded by his own nobles and retainers. Further back on opposite sides were the men of both armies, occupying the narrow streets of the town and spilling back onto the farmer's fields.

The peasants were nowhere to be seen.

Captain and his lieutenants were gathered together near a stone wall that paralled the east bank of the river. With them were most of the knights. They watched in silence as the Burgundians and the French entered the bridge at the same time. They approached each other cautiously.

At mid-point the Duke of Burgundy and the King of France halted, and began to talk. The words were lost in the steady breeze that blew off the river.

Seraphim looked skyward, one eye closed. "I felt a drop."

de Bloomfielde removed his Floppy Hat(TM) and moments later said. "Yup. Definitely rain. I hope they wrap up their talks soon."

The conversation went on for some time. For a while it was civil, and at times it became very heated. Always the heralds stepped in to calm the parties down.

By now the rain fell steadily, and the men were becoming restless. Suddenly Sir Greystoke gasped. He pointed and said something to Sir Barkdreg. At the same time Lieutenant Pohlamn swore.

"Captain!" The Bavarian said. He pointed across the river. "Those riders! The man in the lead. I'd recognise him anywhere."

Captain felt the back of neck tingle. "What do you mean?"

"Janville! The battle of Janville! He led the brigand cavalry... Robespierre. His name's Robespierre!"

The rain was falling so heavy now that the Duke and the King were partially obscured, but it didn't prevent Captain from watching the mounted men edge toward the bridge. They dismounted. Grabbing the reins, Captain nudged his horse toward the crossing.

One last look at the enemy had them drawing swords and swiftly approaching the group.

Captain pulled his blade free and broke into a gallop. He didn't take the time to see who followed. The Andulusian clattered onto the stone bridge, almost slipping on the slick surface, but the massive warhorse maintained his footing and carried Captain forward.

Ahead of him he could hear cries of alarm and the clang of swords. Then one cry in particular pierced the rain sodden air. "The Duke is down! The Duke is dead! They take the body! They take the..." The voice was cut off and lost in the rain.

The next thing Captain knew he was crashing into a throng of men crowding the bridge. The King was gone, and most of the Dukes men were dead. Perhaps fifty feet away several men carried a body. In the pouring rain Captain could only guess it was the Duke. Beyond them ranged the men of Charle's army. A lot of them appeared to be in shock, while others produced weapons.

Suddenly a sword flashed at him, and he was pressed on all sides...

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

OOC: Looks like I fooled a lot of people. Cool. Take your time with this. Writing attendance seems to be low, so I don't expect it to last long. BTW, save the Duke for me...

 

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Bridge in Chaos

Lochlan began to swear profusely as he saw Captain charge his horse onto the bridge. CLosely following behind him were some of the others who he had been standing at the wall with. The rest of his party was running abck toward their units screaming orders.

In a a second that seemed to last an age, Lochlan made his decision. "Im too far away to get there in time to be any help." He thought. "But I can do something."

"Hans, string the men out, lay down fire on the frogs pressing the bridge." Lochlan called out as he ran towards the river.

"Aye sir. Where are you going sir?" He called back.

"I need a better spot." Lochlan called, and then his voice could no longer be heard in the din.

He pulled himself up onto the thatch of the house. I wasn't incredibly stable, so he balanced himself on the stone wall as much as possible. "Ill just have to be careful." He thought.

There was a low whisper as he sent an arrow into a frenchman who's head he could see clearly. He went down.

Lochlan's second arrow took a man un the upper arm who had his sword raised.

His third arrow took a cavalryman who was moving toward Captain in the eye.

His fourth arrow caught another frog who was heading toward Captain. This one had almost been right on front of him.

He drew his fifth arrow...

 

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Sean saw Cap'n racing to the bridge, he ran to his horse and drew his crossbow, he took aim at one of the French just coming on the bridge opposite Cap'n. He shot the rider in the side, and both he and his horse fell into the stream.

Well Cap'n at least ye were righ' about his character. he mused to himself as he climbed on his horse, drew ban reilte, and made his way for the bridge. But his horse did not get three strides before it was dropped by an arrow.

Sean fell hard, pain coursed through his leg as he tried to throw himself from the mount before he would be trapped under it. The arrow that had killed his stead had also passed along his shin. Landing on the ground was only slightly helped by the dampness of the day, but he was thankful for that...and for the fact that unlike some of the knights, he didn't wear full plate, so he could get back up after he fell.

He parried the blow of the first from one knee, his blow removed both legs from the body of his attacker. Climbing back to his feet. He saw two men coming at him. He drew his daggar and cast it at the first, the knife transfixed his throat. The second continued his charge. Steel rang on steel as Sean slashed at his right side. Then he followed that with another ringing blow as he then slashed for his head. Then he kneed the man in the stomach, as he staggerred from the blow, Sean finished him with a thrust to the hilts.

He returned to his horse and retrieved his crossbow. Loaded it, and launched the bolt at another assailant on the bridge. Then he charged into the melee on the bridge.

 

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Don Diego heard the cry "The Duke is down! The Duke is dead!" It appeared that treachery was a way of life to the French. First his father and now his patron. Don Diego was mad. It was time to kill some gabachos. The only problem was that the bridge limited access to the French. The Siene was far to deep to ford and going accross in the small boats they might find would be a nightmare. The bridge it was.

Don Diego rushed to help Captain with his men following him. His squad was among the first to make it to the bridge other than the Knights and Lieutenents that were with Captain.

Most of the French were still in disarray. Could it be that they didn't know this would happen? Could it be an independent betrayal? Was someone trying to make the French Crown look bad? Those questions were best answered later.

Captain's group had already taken the bridge. The French King and his guards having vacated it. Captain was going after the men who were carrying off the Duke's body.

Don Diego's next move was chosen for him as a group of Frenchmen charged the bridge hoping to take it and cut off the Company and the Burgundians on this side of the bridge. At this point the best thing to do was keep the bridge secure.

Thinking stopped as instinct took over. He ducked a clumsy swing at his head and skewered the Frenchman through the chest.