Bolingbroke Village, England

In other parts of the world, the sun would be shining and the birds would be singing their sweet melodies, filling the morning air. But when the Almighty created England, He decided, as a cruel joke, to make their summers miserable and wet. Instead of a bright and warm summer sun, rain clouds filled the gray and gloomy sky. Instead of birds singing, the loud pitter-patter of raindrops echoed off the wooden shingled roofs of English country houses.

The rain was not as hard today as it was on other days. The weather was being incredibly cooperative to woodsmen who were collecting firewood in the forest on the outskirts of the town, farmers who were tending their crops and did not mind a light shower, and hunters looking for rabbit and other small game to feed their families, all under the shadow of Bolingbroke Castle.

The hunters were using mostly English longbows since muskets were prone to getting their firing mechanisms wet in the rain, and a wet musket was a little better than an expensive club. Longbows had been put out of conventional military use a hundred years ago, but the peasants still used them to hunt, when their matchlocks could not be used. To prevent water from ruining their bowstrings, the English had them waxed.

It was quiet in the forest, save for the faint sound of water trickling off the leaves. A lone rabbit was grooming itself on top of a tree stump, its little paws rubbing against its puffy, gray-haired face. A few meters away, a little iron arrowhead protruded from a bush – except that it was not a bush, it was a man. Covered from head to toe in a smock covered with leaves and branches, the archer silently drew back the bowstring of his weapon and breathed out in a long, drawn-out breath in order to steady his aim. He did not want to miss this shot – it was probably the only chance he would get. If he missed, the rabbit would hop away into the woods and he would probably never see it again.

Confident in his aim, he released the arrow – it flew truly and swiftly… towards the tree stump. The rabbit, now alerted, bounded off into the ferns and shrubs to escape. The hunter, swearing, broke from cover and chased the rabbit, hoping against all odds that he would be granted a second opportunity to kill it.

His prey was fast; the hunter’s clothes snagged on branches and thorns as he struggled to catch up with it. When he reached the first clearing, he thought, he would nock an arrow as fast as he could and pin this animal to the ground. Soon enough, the hunter and prey entered a clearing, and as soon as they did, the sound of a single musket shot rang loud and clear through the forest. The rabbit had been killed, but not by the man who had stalked it for half an hour and waited until it was still so he could put an arrow through its chest. No – it had been shot by a king’s ranger.

The rangers watched over state property and made sure that no man would hunt on land that belonged to the king – which is exactly what the hunter was doing. Although the rangers themselves were supposed to protect the forest for the king’s personal use, times were hard, and even the rangers needed to eat.

“You there – yeoman.” the ranger called out, “What were you doing in the king’s woods?”

The hunter did not respond.

Picking up the dead rabbit, the ranger then yelled, “Were you hunting in the king’s woods? I shall have you know, sir, that what you are doing is a violation of the law.”

Without another word, the hunter turned with a whirl of his smock and bolted off into the woods behind him. The ranger, shouting commands for the hunter to stop, clumsily reloaded his musket as he attempted to chase him. The two hurled themselves through branches, leaves, and bushes. The hunter was a quick fellow – he maintained a distance of ten paces from his adversary, even while moving. The ranger, still trying to reload his rifle, could not concentrate on the complicated procedure while running at the same time. A branch hit him in the face and he fell flat on his back. When he came to, the hunter he was chasing was nowhere to be seen.

Escaping his pursuer by the skin of his teeth, the cloaked man made his way to the edge of the forest and tried to catch his breath as he cursed himself for not being able to fetch dinner. He would probably have to go hungry again tonight unless he could convince some charitable soul in town to spare a loaf of bread – or he could try and go to the tavern and try to beg the tavern keeper for a meal. He decided that the latter option would hurt his pride less than the former – as he did not want to be seen as some common beggar – and made his way to the Black Horse Inn, the local tavern and public house.

The Black Horse was a simple looking establishment. The building was made of the cheap unpainted bricks and wood collected from the forest. The rusty sign that hung over the door depicted a rearing black stallion engraved with the words “Black Horse Inn” on its side.

The tavern was ancient, and some even speculated that its insignia was chosen because of its history of attracting recruits to the king’s cavaliers. The bartender liked to claim that the pub was around when King Arthur himself wore the crown and that the horse was a symbol of the might of English cavalry that trampled the Saxon invaders.

Most of its patrons ended up serving in the army or in roving mercenary bands thanks to the recruiters that frequented the establishment. Many of the men that enlisted in the service returned to Bolingbroke in wooden boxes. Still, the money was good, and a life of soldiering was certainly better than a life of begging.

During the day, it was so quiet on the inside that one could hear the squeaking of the vermin that scurried about on the tavern floor. But at sundown, the place was so lively with the shouting of drunks and rogues that one could barely hear oneself think.

The hunter had arrived during the evening, keeping his hood up to protect his head from the rain outside. No one noticed him enter through the cacophony of song and drunken shouting. He approached the tavern keeper’s counter, but before he could say anything, the tavern keeper sneered at him and said,

“James Fletcher. You dare to show your face here again?”

James did not respond but instead waited for the tavern keeper to finish. The large, bald man with a potbelly and a red nose produced a stick carved with notches from behind the counter. The notches almost covered the entire piece of wood.

“I am normally a very patient man, James – but you drive me too far. Do you see this tally stick? Each notch indicates a meal or a drink that you have promised you would pay for ‘before the next harvest.’ Well, we have passed harvesting season – twice.” The tavern keeper paused for a moment, waiting for James to come up with some kind of excuse. He said nothing, so the tavern keeper continued, “I am sorry lad. I should have done this a long time ago, but I have to cut you off – I am trying to run a business here. And I cannot make any money for myself and my five sons – five.” He held up five fingers for emphasis, “unless you find some way to pay back what you owe me.”

“How much do I owe you?” James said, finally. His voice was that of a youth – masculine, but gentle. Doffing his hood, the young hunter revealed a head of smooth black hair and piercing blue eyes, with good cheekbones, but a feminine jaw.

The tavern keeper ran his fingers through his own non-existent hair and grumbled. Every time he saw James’s hair he was reminded of his own glorious locks – which he lost years ago.

“You owe me three pounds,” said the tavern keeper, “Or a head of hair. The choice is yours. If you cannot pay me back, then I cannot serve you.”

“Three pounds it is then.” James said, without hesitating. He liked his hair very much. “If I cannot settle the debt before asking for my next meal, then you have my permission to shoot me.”

The tavern keeper blinked in surprise and said, “If you are that eager to die, then I accept. You are hereby banned from the Black Horse Inn until you pay back your debt. Now get out.”

James Fletcher dragged himself out of the Black Horse thinking that he had just consigned himself to death. Three pounds was the cost of a very nice warhorse. He had no idea where his next meal would come from – perhaps he was destined to live the rest of his life as a bandit – to hunt men instead of rabbits. Yes, that is exactly what he would do. Arrows were cheap and reusable. He would simply…

“Good morrow.”

He was interrupted by a man wearing a cavalier uniform. A soldier! He was about to be arrested, then sent to jail – and hanged! He quickly turned and…

“You seem to be down on your luck, my fine fellow.”

James stopped. He turned and faced the cavalier. The man’s sword was not drawn, and he just stood there, with a smile on his face, as if he was talking to a friend. James was not sure whether to trust him or to proceed with his original plan and flee.

“May I inquire if you know about the dreadful war that rages on throughout Europe?”

James blinked at the mention of the seemingly irrelevant question and simply replied, “No, I have not.”

“Then allow me to inform you, good sir,” said the cavalier, “Seven years ago, his majesty King Charles decided to come to the aid of his beleaguered Protestant allies and declare war on the Catholics. Many men, myself included, jumped at the opportunity to enlist as soldiers in His Majesty’s royal army – but five years later, disaster – for reasons unknown to us, the king withdrew from the war and now we are at peace! But an army without a war is seldom a good thing my dear lad, and thus we elected to continue fighting, and to continue earning our keep.”

James did not understand. He was about to ask what the man’s point was when the cavalier continued.

“You see, even though England is officially at peace by the declaration of the sovereign, we may still fight her enemies – as mercenaries in the service of her Protestant allies. Four florins a month – that is what we are getting these days. The continentals are rich, lad, and they pay quite well. The food is provided for, the beds as well. At nights, we sleep in warm cozy tents beside cozy fireplaces, and in the morning, the glory of battle awaits. You, lad, seem to need some money, quite badly I might add.”

James’s ears opened up at the sound of “four florins a month.” He could pay off his entire debt in just six weeks of service! He did not want to hear anything more, not that he could understand the man anyway. He grabbed the cavalier’s hand, shook it brusquely and said, “Whatever a mercenary is, four florins a month sounds fantastic. I accept your offer.”

The cavalier smiled warmly and produced a document and a piece of charcoal from his coat pocket.

“Can you read, good sir?”

“No.”

“Then make your mark on this document my good man.”

James took the charcoal and made a big, black X mark on the sheet of paper. When he handed it back to the cavalier, he realized that he hadn’t gotten the man’s name, and asked him to introduce himself.

“Apologies – I am Thomas Warwick, formerly of the King’s Life Guards, presently serving in the Talbot Company. Welcome aboard.”