Nordhorn Range Holy Roman Empire

The march to Gouda was quick and unremarkable. So were the marches to Utrecht, Amersfoort, Voorthuizen, and all the towns in Holland after that. The Dutch were a peaceful, generally quiet people. Or perhaps it only seemed that way since none of them wanted to stand up to an army of mercenary thugs that were marching through their lands, especially since Talbot Company was actually paying fairly for the goods that they were taking, instead of wantonly raiding like some of the other free companies did.

Now the company was eight miles east of the nearest settlement and had just crossed over into the territories of the Holy Roman Empire. Vast tracts of forest lay ahead of them, and Colonel MacRae had determined that an open field in the middle of a forest east of the town of Nordhorn would be a good place to set up camp.

The company was halted and the wagons from the baggage train were arranged in a circle around the camp to form a defensive position. MacRae would take his time here. There was no imminent threat of attack, and the men needed to cook, clean, and recuperate. Any fresh meat they had acquired in the towns had to be salted and preserved before it turned blue, and the surgeon had to be given time to check on his patients.

One by one, campfires flickered to life throughout the encampment as some men began setting their pots to boil their bacon while others went out into the woods to hunt for fresh meat.

Sophia Fortezza sat around a fire with Don Alfonso and Thomas Warwick. The Englishman set a pot of water to boil and produced a chunk of salt pork from his bag. Sophia looked at the pork with apprehension and said in Italian,

“By the devil, does he intend to kill us with all that salt?”

Warwick, who knew a smidge of Italian, commented,

“I am not certain about what you said but I would bet a pound Sterling that it was not anything good.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing important, hija.” Don Alfonso said, reassuringly.

Warwick chucked the meat into the pot of boiling water and sighed.

“I was never any good at this, you know. It is a shame we are wasting these rations.”

The don looked at him with uneasiness.

“Well, señor, man does not live on bread alone…”

“Yes, but, this is not bread is it… that would have been too easy. We will just have to see how it turns out.”

“I am hoping for the best, señor.” Don Alfonso said as he stood up, “Excuse me, I think I will fetch some entertainment from the wagons. I will return shortly.”

Salt pork was indeed an unpalatable substance unless it was soaked then boiled. Even then it was not the most pleasant meal to have. By failing to soak it, Warwick ensured that the officers’ meal would taste like the sea. Fresh meat would have been easier to prepare, which is why the irregulars like Fletcher were sent out to obtain fresh game from the denizens of the forest.

A hundred yards away from the wagon-enclosed encampment, James Fletcher had once again taken his bow and arrow to hunt for supper. He was part of a hunting party that consisted of himself and five other longbowmen, spread far apart from each other, but traveling in the same general direction to increase their chances of spotting prey. Several such hunting parties were scattered throughout the woods, looking for anything from deer and wild pigs to badgers and rabbits.

The five men walked slowly, with their heads down and eyes level with the shrubs that surrounded them. A slow tiptoe-like gait with carefully placed steps that avoided dead leaves and branches made them almost silent.

Suddenly, there was a rustle in the bushes directly ahead of Fletcher. Five arrows were nocked and aimed towards a large shaking bush. Whatever creature was hiding behind the bush made no sound of its own, but it was clearly rubbing itself against a tree that was directly behind the bush.

The arrows were loosed – and the creature let out a great roar of pain. A flurry of rippling reddish-brown fur shot out of the bushes. Four of the five members of the hunting party dashed up into the trees, screaming to God and the saints for protection. The great brown bear ran after Fletcher.

As fast as his legs could take him, Fletcher spun around and sprinted back to camp yelling,

“Bear! Bear! Bear!”

About thirty paces from Fletcher, two Spanish halberdiers stood watch. No one ever wanted watch duty. It was hard to stay awake and it always made the mind wander.

Isidro Gonzaga’s mind wandered off to very strange places indeed, as he postulated to his watch-mate, Manuel Alarcon, that perhaps if one bathed in wine, there would be no need for soap.

However, before Alarcon could form a concrete counter-argument, he heard the faint sound of someone shouting in the distance. It was steadily getting louder and louder.

“Did you hear that?”

“Do not change the subject, Alarcon. You know that I have a good idea.”

“No, listen… It sounds like someone saying, ver… but what is there to see?”

“Ver? Nada que ver aqui.” See? There is nothing to see, replied Gonzaga. “These foreigners trying to speak Spanish, ¡Dios mio, que horror!”

A horrified looking Englishman broke through a thicket nearby, continuing to scream “¡Ver! ¡Ver! ¡Ver!”

“It is not ver! It is mira, idiota!”

The bear had no such grammatical restrictions as it thundered through the bushes behind the Englishman, closing in on him with alarming speed.

“Perhaps ver is the English word for oso?”

“He will die before he reaches the camp. I am in no mood to fight bears today.”

“Eight florins says he can make it within view of the wagons before the bear kills him.”

“It is a deal.”

Fletcher continued to run even as branches smacked him in the face and thorns caught on his breeches. The bear was not slowing down at all. Fletcher could almost feel its breath on his neck, but he could see hope ahead. A wagon – he was approaching camp!

Don Alfonso was hunched over the side of a wagon, rummaging through common supplies that the company had procured on its trips through the villages. His hands found the neck of a guitar. Perfect. If his meal was to be bland, then at least he could play some good music to fill his soul.

Before he could even think of what song he was going to play, he heard the rapid pounding of footsteps, coming directly towards him. It was that peasant from earlier… and a bear?

Without thinking he dropped the guitar and quickly picked up his spontoon, bracing it as if preparing for a cavalry attack.

“Get behind me, lunatico!” he yelled out to Fletcher.

The Englishman readily obliged, putting Don Alfonso and his spontoon between himself and the bear.

The bear continued to charge, unwavering in its anger and blind pain. By the time it realized that it was about to impale itself on a long wooden stick with a pointy tip, the bear was not able to stop fast enough and was speared through the neck.

The great animal writhed in agony and started running around in panic as the don leaped away to avoid getting trampled under its powerful feet. As blood gushed from the wound in its neck, it turned and tried in vain to return home to the forest, but expired before it could take even five steps.

The don walked up to it and removed his spontoon from the beast. With great effort, he managed to tear it out of the neck, causing more blood to splatter on the ground and on his clothes. With a great sigh, he made the sign of the cross and began to pray,

“Saint Hubert, thank you for delivering me to victory; I dedicate this kill to you and our Heavenly Father, Amen.”

When he finished praying, he turned to the Englishman hiding behind the wagon and urged him to come out.

“It is dead. You can come and see for yourself. Why is it that I keep seeing you around? What is your name, anyway?”

“It is Fletcher, sir. James Fletcher.”

“Leche? Yames Leche? You are Milky Yames?” the don said, suppressing his laughter and letting his guard down.

Fletcher did not understand, instead choosing to politely smile and remain silent.

“Forgive me, señor,” the don said, putting his hand on Fletcher’s shoulder, “it is just that your name sounds... very awkward in my language. Permit me to say this but, I feel that we keep on meeting for a reason. I do not believe in coincidences, señor. Please, join me in camp. We will share a meal together.” The don smiled, continuing, “Consider it my way of appeasing fate. You are welcome to join my companions and myself – we have salt pork. Ah, yes, I almost forgot,” the don reached back into the wagon to retrieve his guitar, “there is nothing better to liven up the dullness of the forest than music.”

Fletcher gave the don a wide grin and happily accepted. As the two walked back to camp, two disappointed halberdiers looked on from a distance.

Sophia slowly chewed the pork, wincing with disgust from its salty flavor, as Warwick eagerly awaited her assessment of his culinary skill.

“I pity the worms that have to eat my shit when I pass this through,” Sophia said in Italian as she stared Warwick dead in the eye.

The Englishman, of course, did not understand, but could tell by Sophia’s expression that he had once again failed at cooking. He gave a resigned shrug and dug around in the stew pot for a piece of pork for himself. As soon as he put it in his mouth he, too, looked like he was about to hurl.

“By Christ and all the saints, the best part of this pig’s life was when it got slaughtered. Now it tastes like Lot’s wife after Gomorrah!”

Sophia was determined to salvage the situation. She politely excused herself in Italian as she made her way towards the baggage train. She was going to get some ingredients she knew how to use and make something that at least she would enjoy. Maybe some cheese and diced tomatoes would go well with it too.

She suddenly lost her train of thought as she saw that English archer she met on the road and Don Alfonso heading back to camp together, with their clothes all dirty and bloody. She opened her mouth to ask what had happened but the don interrupted her, saying that they were both uninjured and that they would see her at camp. After seeing that neither of them was walking with a limp, she shrugged and continued on her way towards the wagons in the baggage train.

After digging around in the back of a wagon for some time, she was able to find and extract a sack of finely ground corn meal – the good stuff, bearing the seal of the Casa de Contratacion on the burlap sack. With some effort, she heaved the bag onto her shoulder and continued rummaging through the wagon in search of other ingredients. She was going to make polenta, a dish that Milan was famous for.

While Sophia prepared her ingredients, Fletcher sat by the fire with Warwick as Don Alfonso removed his bloody armor and clothing to wash.

“I remember you – one of the boys from Bolingbroke if I recall correctly.” Warwick said as he absentmindedly poked his salt pork with a spoon. He resigned to fill himself up on coarse black bread for the evening.

“Yes, milord.” replied Fletcher. He avoided saying anything further. It was improper for peasants to speak out of turn.

“Are you enjoying yourself on our little adventure? I am sure this is the furthest you have ever traveled.”

“Yes, milord.”

“You are quite the dullard, you know. No wonder peasants remain peasants. Master Spaniard, why did you bother bringing this man here?”

“I saved him from a bear,” Don Alfonso said as he finished changing into a cotton shirt, “and this is the second time I met him. It could be fate.”

“Well, fate has chosen a dumb mute.” Warwick muttered, “Speak up, boy, say something clever.”

“Do not pressure him, Warwick. He is probably just being polite.” Don Alfonso said as he sat down with them.

“I… I am enjoying the journey, sirs.” Fletcher managed to stutter.

“And God made man’s mouth so that he may use it.” Warwick said, smiling, “Bravo, Master Archer. Forgive me, but I forget your name.”

“Fletcher, sir.”

Don Alfonso snickered.

Warwick ignored him and said to Fletcher, “Yes, a pity there are not more of you longbowmen in the company. You can loose arrows much faster than the musketeer can fire his musket, and you have more ammunition than he does – twenty arrows in your quiver versus… how many boxes on a musketeer’s collar, Master Spaniard?”

“Twelve, like the apostles.”

“See. It is a wonder why we keep the musketeers around at all.”

“Sir, if I may comment…” said Fletcher in a soft voice, “It took me six years of practice and hunting before I could truly master my bow, sir. I believe that the musketeers say that it took them less than a month?”

Warwick chuckled, “There is some truth to what you say, Master Fletcher, but if we in the company had musketeers that had only trained for a mere month, then half the front line of Master Jaeger’s pikes would have blown up during the battle on the road to Gouda.”

Fletcher furrowed his eyebrows, not understanding what Warwick meant.

“Ah, you see, a musketeer has what is called a match – a cord of rope that burns at both ends that is needed to fire his weapon. During the heat of battle, this fiery candle wick is constantly burning while dangling near the cartridge boxes hanging from his belt. Far from being the only danger, but if a soldier applies too much black powder to his shot, then he will also blow himself up. I envy not the work of a musketeer.”

Fletcher stared, still confused.

“Señor Leche,” Don Alfonso said, smiling, “black powder explodes upon contact with fire. This is how muskets work.”

Fletcher narrowed his eyes and slowly nodded, but before he could ask any questions, Sophia approached the camp, grunting, with a large sack slung over her back.

“¡Señorita Fortezza! Este… ¡Señor Bianchi!” said Don Alfonso, embarrassed that he almost gave away Sophia’s real name. The English speakers were none the wiser.

Sophia dropped the heavy sack on the ground and, wheezing, said, “This man almost killed us with his pork that tasted of the sea. I will show you what real food tastes like!” She paused, regarding Fletcher for a brief moment, “The archer from the road? Why is he here?” she asked Don Alfonso.

“Fate.” he shrugged.

Sophia smiled at him and offered her hand for him to kiss, but quickly remembering that she was supposed to be a man, flipped her palm to receive a handshake. “Lodovico Bianchi.” she said, slowly and deliberately.

“James Fletcher. I remember you from the road, mi…lord.” Fletcher replied, lightly shaking her hand, unsure of how to address a woman disguised as a man.

Sophia politely nodded, only understanding that his name was freccia, the Italian word for arrow. It seemed fitting, given that he was an archer. “Prepare to be amazed, my friends – I will not suffer the horrors of your English cooking that are best left for Satan and all his devils, but I will delight you with a simple Italian dish from home that will leave you craving for more!”

Don Alfonso chuckled and translated, “She says she is going to cook something.”

“She?” muttered Warwick.

“Forgive me, señor. Slip of the tongue.”

“Be at ease, Master Spaniard. The whole camp knows that she is a woman. It will be good fun to see how long before she notices that we know. It is too bad she does not speak our language, eh Master Fletcher?” he said, lightly jabbing Fletcher in the shoulder.

Fletcher laughed politely but secretly agreed with him. She was quite attractive even with that silly costume. She also had a lovely sounding voice and seemed to have a friendly, casual demeanor even after what had happened on the road to Gouda.

Sophia began by grabbing all salt pork out of the pot and throwing it out, to the objection of absolutely no one. With the water already boiling and salty, she started gradually mixing in the cornmeal. They would have a fine dinner that night.

Don Alfonso finally brought out the guitar and began to tune it. After a few awkward notes, he began strumming the strings – slowly at first, then at an increased pace. A beat began to form. The strumming was soon supplemented with the palm of the don’s hand tapping against the guitar – percussion. The beat grew stronger and steadier. Shifting his hand on the fingerboard of the guitar, the instrument began to sing – its quick, happy tunes carrying the stresses of the day away like driftwood on rushing waves.

Warwick and Fletcher began to nod their heads to the beat. Sophia tapped her foot and began stirring her polenta to the beat of the music.

Don Alfonso, pleased with himself and his guitar, smiled a crooked grin and closed his eyes, saying, “¡Canta para mi, mi angel!”

The melody of the guitar grew even faster and more beautiful. If it was once a cleansing wave, it was now an irresistible howling wind that carried the sweet smell of Castilian roses.

Sophia slowly began to sway her hips. A smile formed on her lips. She could not resist the temptation any longer. She stopped stirring and dropped her spoon into the pot, practically leaping into the center of the group. Her feet moved like the ground was on fire, but the way she let the music carry her, it seemed like she danced around the metaphorical flames instead of stomping them out. She raised her hands, and her wrists and fingers moved like flower buds that bloomed and shut, following the sun. It was mesmerizing.

An audience began to form around her. Guards forgot about their watch, porters dropped their loads, and even Gunther Jaeger, who was busy with his lists nearby, stopped brooding for about three seconds before gesturing for all the common soldiers to get back to work.

Sophia and Don Alfonso, oblivious to the world around them, continued their musical trance. Sophia grabbed Fletcher by the hand and pulled him up from his seat, drawing him close to her, their lips nearly touching. Fletcher grinned sheepishly as Sophia wrapped her arm around his waist and carried him into her world of swirling fire. Her eyes pierced into his, which were wide in fear and hesitation. She did not blink. In a whirl of frills and color, Sophia spun her partner, causing his free arm to flail, with a cheer from the audience around them. Sophia’s body spoke to his, willing it where to go and how to act. As the howling wind reached its climax, Sophia locked Fletcher’s leg with her own and let him slide gently into a dip, ending with her looming over him with a smile.

A roar of applause erupted from the crowd, followed immediately by the barking of sergeants and cries to return to work. Sophia’s chest heaved with heavy breathing, and Fletcher’s heartbeat raced as fast as a bird’s. The two released each other awkwardly and shared a chuckle.

“My God,” Warwick said slack-jawed, “that was the most powerful performance I have ever seen… by a woman.”

Sophia, not understanding, took a bashful bow and returned to cooking dinner.

“Master Fletcher, I believe that the good lieutenant has just made you her dance-bitch.” Warwick added. Everyone who understood the joke laughed.