Königsberg, Prussia

For four days Talbot Company had marched through hostile territory, avoiding major roads and large cities as they did when they first arrived in the country. Villages, however, were subject to the whims of the men’s stomachs. Two more Polish villages razed to the ground on their way to Prussia.

Don Alfonso had refused to take part in either of the lootings, so the matter of pillaging was left to the cripples Warwick and Bjornsson, neither of whom had any problems about slaughtering a few peasants for the greater good. To ensure that the men’s morale did not suffer as badly as it did when the company chose Catholic soldiers to burn down a Catholic church at Zalesie, Protestant soldiers were hand-picked to do the slaughter, as they thought that they did God’s work through shedding the blood of the heretic Catholics. Some began to remember what the war was about in the first place, and there was a real danger of religious strife within the company.

However, when the first Talbot Company boot stepped into Prussian territory, MacRae had ordered the looting to come to a complete halt. Prussia was a Protestant nation and firmly in league with Sweden. Any hostile actions against Prussian citizens on its soil would be seen as an act of war against Sweden’s valuable ally. They were fortunate to have acquired so much booty that they were no longer in need of a resupply, but passing through Königsberg was a geographical necessity, despite acquiring a surplus in supplies thanks to the looting.

“If I have not made myself clear,” said MacRae as his men entered the large red brick gates of the city of Königsberg, “I want ye men to touch nothing. No tavern brawls, no fraternizing with the local lasses, no thievery, and no mischief. We are merely here to rest, and we will move on at daylight.”

The citizens of Königsberg looked upon the mercenary horde with apprehension. A thousand men with their pikes and corselets covered with mud and blood were a sure sign of violent intent, and the city’s militia was on edge. MacRae tried his best to smile and wave at passers-by, but how could a smile be charming, when one had but a single eye?

MacRae rode up to the marketplace and had one of the baggage wagons drawn up beside him. The officers then unloaded all of the unusable goods that the company had acquired and began to exchange them for solid coin with the Königsberg merchants. Iron bars, pottery, baskets, jewelry, and fragrant herbs went a long way towards getting coin for the men’s food and other expenses.

They deserved some rest and relaxation, especially now that Jarlsberg was only three days away. The officers divided the coin equally amongst their soldiers but ensured that their sergeants kept watch for anyone who so much as passed wind in the wrong direction.

MacRae had allowed the men free time to roam the city until sunset. While Bjornsson and Warwick elected to stay and guard the baggage train on account of their injuries, Otto, treading a fine line, made a beeline for the tavern; Sophia, meanwhile, found that the fine colors and fabrics of Königsberg’s tailors were enough to make her smile again; Gunther found himself at a cross street with a theater on one side and the town brothel on the other; and Don Alfonso had taken to sparring practice and drill lessons with Fletcher. Everyone else in the company was trying to find something to do to distract them from the war.

The Pregel River flowed through Königsberg, straight through a manmade island in the center of the city reminiscent of the islets of Venice that held the statehouse and the city’s cathedral. Beautifully landscaped gardens with tall trees and flowering bushes would have contributed a calm, meditative atmosphere to the place if it hadn’t been for the throngs of politicians, priests and college students that were gathered around in a large crowd, watching two foreigners duel each other in a courtyard under the shadow of the cathedral.

Don Alfonso held his sword at a low guard, his body leaning back at an angle. Fletcher, seeing an invitation to strike for his head, swung his hunting sword, but his blow was promptly parried while Don Alfonso’s free hand simultaneously grabbed Fletcher’s wrist. In the time it took to scratch an itch, the don had parried and countered Fletcher’s overhand strike. The Englishman now stared down the length of Don Alfonso’s sword.

“Stop attacking overhand, señor leche. Use moves that the enemy does not expect. Again.”

Of course, this was no true duel. The Spanish captain somewhat enjoyed Fletcher’s company, and was equally enthusiastic to practice his English. Fletcher, on the other hand, believed that he could find out more about the mysterious Italian girl through her mentor.

“So, milord, about Lieutenant Bianchi…”

Don Alfonso batted Fletcher’s blade away with his sword and thrust home, just barely tapping Fletcher on his neck.

“¿Otra vez? ¡Por que? Why must you persist with the girl?” He sheathed his sword, and the crowd almost immediately began to disperse. Sparring time was over, and Fletcher’s interrogation had begun.

Fletcher put away his own hunting sword and grinned, “I do not know, milord. She is… amazing. Her eyes are like the stars, her hair flows like water, her skin…” Fletcher stopped. Don Alfonso’s eyes narrowed. “Eh… her skin is very nice.”

“Ante todo, señor idiota, her name is not Lodovico Bianchi. That is a man’s name, and her disguise has fooled absolutely no one. Her real name is Sophia Fortezza.”

“Sophia…” Fletcher whispered. Her name was like sugar on his tongue. He almost began singing her name before the don put a stop to it by putting his hand on the Englishman’s shoulder.

“It is obvious that you are in love. Do you deny this?”

“No…” Fletcher replied, his mind somewhere else.

“I am not one to stand in the way of your emotions, señor leche, but do you not find it difficult that you speak no Italian at all? No French?”

“Je parle la tongue de amour!”

“Primeramente, it is la langue de l’amour. Secundo, you are embarking on a path that will lead to ruin. You will doubtless be devastated if she dies, and I will have lost two comrades instead of just the one.”

Fletcher suddenly turned serious, “I am prepared to risk my life for her, milord.”

“…again.” Don Alfonso finished, “By her account, you hid her in the bushes, and I saw you flogged for her sake. I do not doubt your conviction. I am simply saying what I feel needs to be said. However, I will not hinder your endeavor. What do you wish to know about our esteemed lieutenant?”

Fletcher’s mind became giddy with thoughts. This was as close to speaking Sophia’s own language as he could get. The first words to escape his words were,

“What is her favorite color?”

Don Alfonso reeled back in disbelief. “Hijo, no. You are wasting this opportunity. Ask something with a bit more substance.”

Fletcher thought for a moment, putting his hand to his chin, “Sir, if I may be so bold to inquire – what stirs her soul? What drives her passion?”

Don Alfonso chuckled, “The dice, believe it or not. She is quite lucky with them. You know the only reason why she is here is because she fell into a massive gambling debt?”

Fletcher was slightly taken aback. He did not expect the beautiful, graceful Sophia to be a hard gambler. But as he thought about it some more, it did make sense. She was an adventurous risk-taker, jumping into things she knew nothing about in anticipation of profit. Perhaps he could gamble on his love for her.

Sophia Fortezza walked proudly through the streets of Königsberg wearing her new outfit – a blue and white silk dress decorated with ribbons, and tiny brass flowers. As a lady of Milan, she had impeccable fashion taste. She was laced up to the neck like a proper lady, but she still wore her broad-brimmed beret, which actually matched the dress even though it was considered a rather masculine item. Her old clothes she carried in a box.

It was good to be in proper women’s clothing again. Although she had to admit that her costume was easier to put on, her steel corselet did not turn heads the same way a satin corset did.

With her shopping trip completed, she made her way back to the town square where the company had been ordered together. The men who saw her scarcely recognized her as she gracefully glided through the streets, the scent of roses from her new perfume lingering in her wake.

The soldiers stared at her slack-jawed. They could hardly believe that this was the same girl they had marched with. Her own swordsmen argued amongst themselves that this could not possibly be their commander. Sophia giggled as she passed them, content to hear them curse and shout at one another over her. Few hooted and whistled – everyone remembered what happened to the last man that tried that.

As she walked up to the baggage train to stow away her old clothes in her trunk, she caught Warwick’s attention, who was sitting there with one of his men on guard duty. If it was not for her beret, he would not even have been able to recognize her.

“Buongiorno, Capitano Guarrico.” she said as she gave a graceful, feminine curtsy. It made no difference how she acted now, since everyone knew that she was a woman anyway.

Warrick said nothing, his expression one of astonishment and confusion. The same awkward girl that trudged through mud and grass with them now stood before him, looking like an elegant swan. His soldier looked on with hungry eyes.

“Who… is Guarrico?” he managed to say in French.

“Why, you are.” Sophia replied with a smile.

Warwick realized that the two had never truly spoken before, and that was just how Sophia pronounced his name.

“Sir,” interrupted his soldier in English, “My man parts are bewildered. Was this not Lieutenant Bianchi?”

“Master Thatcher,” Warwick said, continuing to stare at Sophia as she sat beside him, “shut your gob and go away.”

“But, sir…”

“Go. Away.”

As the soldier slowly shuffled away, mumbling something about man parts and “he-shes”, Sophia smiled at Warwick and leaned closer to speak to him.

“Captain Guarrico, would you be able to teach me your language?”

Warrick furrowed his brow, “Whatever for? All the other officers speak French, and you know the language yourself…” Warwick found an explanation in his own query and smiled, “Ah… the peasant boy.”

Sophia blushed and nodded her head.

“Permit me if I misstep myself, my dear, but… would you not prefer someone more… mature, perhaps? Maybe you would be better suited to wed someone with substantially more wealth?”

Sophia drew a dagger from her corset, but did not drop her smile, “If you touch me, even MacRae himself will not be able to save you.”

Warwick swallowed, “I see. Your intentions have been made quite clear. What would you like to learn first?”

“How do you propose your love to someone in English?”

“Well, you could simply say, ‘I love you’, but those words are meant to be used…”

“I lava yo…” Sophia said, trying her best to sound romantic.

“We have much to work on, my dear.”

Gunther Jaeger’s clothes lay in a neat pile on a nightstand in the Höllischer Hase, or Hellish Hare guesthouse, one of Königsberg’s lesser known but affordable houses of ill repute. Parts of the gaudy dress of a prostitute, with its prominent yellow stripe indicating the nature of her profession, lay scattered all over the floor.

The dress’s former wearer, a skinny Königsberg strumpet with too much makeup and dyed hair, lay on a bed on all fours grunting loudly while Gunther took her from behind.

Gunther held a golden hunter-case pocket watch in one hand and the girl’s rump in the other, as he pounded her back and forth, each smack of skin-on-skin corresponding with every second on his watch. As soon as the minute hand struck the forty-fifth minute, he allowed himself to ejaculate and made the slightest grunting sound. Satisfied, he withdrew himself from the girl and lay beside her on the bed. They both panted in exhaustion.

“We have about…” he glanced at his watch, “Fourteen minutes to prattle meaninglessly. You may ask me anything you wish.”

The girl laughed in between gasps, “You are quite the different fellow, mister…”

“Customer.”

“Of course love, we must keep things discrete after all. Would you care if I asked where you received those welts on your back, or would that be going too far?”

“Six I received for dropping a bucket of water, twelve for calling my commanding officer a ‘lout’, and fifteen for drinking while I was on watch. Next question.”

“You are certainly very forthcoming with that information.”

“We will never see each other again. I can discuss anything with you without fear of malicious rumors.”

“I… see.” The girl said, furrowing her brow. “That is actually quite true. Um, you did not seem to enjoy your time with me. You barely even smiled at all.”

“Sexual release is a human need that clears the mind and prevents crimes of passion.”

“My, that sounds rather… detached. Have you ever been in love?”

“No. Next question.” He said, looking at her dead in the eye.

Taken aback, the girl turned to him, propped on her elbows, “Are you certain? No one has ever taken your fancy or made your heart skip a beat?”

“No.” Gunther replied, his voice a monotone.

“Interesting. If you are without love, then what brings you joy?”

“Money.”

“And what do you spend that money on?”

“Necessities – food, clothing, shelter, sex.”

The prostitute shook her head, “That is a sad existence.”

“Perhaps you are asking the wrong questions.”

“Oh? I see the game you are playing.”

“What game?”

“Your joy and your purpose of living are not the same thing. The question I should be asking is, ‘what makes you feel alive’, is it not?”

Gunther paused for a long moment. “When you clash in the heat of battle, with the dust clouds kicked up by men and horses obscuring your vision, and you hear the shouts of friend and foe all around you, the dying and the yet-to-die, when you feel your blade thrust into the clothes, flesh, and bone of a man who wishes to take your life – this is when a man knows he is alive.”

“Ah, you are of the forlorn hope.”

Gunther was now the one taken aback in surprise. “How did you…”

“Love, these legs have spread for many men. You are not the first. If I recall, you forlorn hope types receive double pay for dangerous work. You are notoriously resistant to death, you live hard, and you are quite the dying breed of men.”

“Yes, originally my company had an entire platoon of men like myself, who loved nothing and feared nothing, as they say. I was once their leader. The men were always the first ones into the fray and we could never find enough volunteers to replace them. I am the last.”

The girl chuckled, “How much longer do we have?”

“One minute.”

“Would you care for a kiss, love?”

“Yes, that would be nice.”

The prostitute smiled as her lips pressed against his.

At another tavern nearby, a drunken band of musicians played their hurdy-gurdy, drum, and lute to the tune of an ancient drinking song as Otto, still dressed in his armor, danced atop a table leading the raucous crowd in an out-of-tune chorus that Bacchus himself would be proud of:

In taberna quando sumus,

non curamus quid sit humus,

sed ad ludum properamus,

cui semper insudamus.

quid agatur in taberna

ubi nummus est pincerna,

hoc est opus ut quaeratur;

si quid loquar, audiatur.

Latin, normally the language of the Catholic Church, was now being used to sing about the joys of sinful drunkenness. The lyrics, mostly butchered by the drunken crowd, spoke about not caring about the troubles of the earth, the stresses of gambling and how money was one’s servant in a tavern.

“Drink! Drink for all time!” Otto said in a slurred voice as he tried his best to keep from falling onto the floor that was apparently rolling like the sea. Despite his efforts, he slipped on his own foot and fell onto the wet, stinking floor. The crowd howled with laughter. “Whose dog pissed here?” he yelled. The crowd laughed harder.

Otto, laughing at himself, crawled to a bench and sat back down.

“Where is mead? I need more!” he spat.

A smiling patron poured him a tankard and passed it over to him. Everyone had been all smiles since he offered to buy a round for everyone in the tavern.

“Thank you, kind sir.” he said, raising his tankard, “And now I propose a toast… to…”

Otto remembered the last time he proposed a toast in a tavern. Much merriment was had over that, but he did not seem to remember why.

“… His holiness the pope!”

A dead silence fell over the tavern for a long while, until someone screamed,

“Fuck the pope!”

Immediately followed by another patron screaming,

“How dare you speak of our holy father like that?”

Civilians drew their swords and glass bottles began breaking on the tavern walls as Otto calmly gulped his mead.

The city of Königsberg was a divided one. While the majority of the population was Protestant, there was a small Catholic minority in the eastern part of the city and a Jewish population to the north. The citizens tended to avoid topics concerning religion when drinking with strangers precisely to avoid a situation like the one Otto had created. It was funny how an argument about God was able to divide a city, even whole nations. Otto contemplated the politics of the war as a glass eye rolled across the table while its previous owner was getting his teeth violently removed.

Two wrestling drunkards landed on top of Otto’s table and nearly spilled his mead. He took great offense to this and removed his gauntlet.

“Sirs, I challenge duel!” he said, slurring. The men continued to wrestle, ignoring his challenge.

“You dare acknowledge a noble? How dare you!” he belched as he threw the gauntlet down on the back of one of the two wrestling men. Their fight continued while Otto’s gauntlet bounced off of them, rolling onto the floor and into the crowded mass of fighting tavern patrons. He groaned in frustration as he got on all fours, crawling through the spilled mead, blood and urine to get it. Several men tripped over him as he crawled under them. After wading through a sea of boots and unconscious people, he finally got a hold of his gauntlet – and that was when the tavern door burst open.

“Captain Koenigsherr!” a voice bellowed from the entrance. He knew that Scottish accent anywhere.

William MacRae had come to collect his men. Since this particular tavern had people and objects being thrown out of its windows, he rightly assumed that his drunken cavalry officer had something to do with it. MacRae stood in the doorway with a great scowl on his face while furniture and bottles flew around him. Eight of his men stood behind him.

“Search the place.”

MacRae’s definition of “search” involved punching, kicking, throwing, wrestling and biting. The soldiers rushed into the melee and began knocking people aside, breaking even more furniture and causing the even tavern owner to run out of his own establishment.

Otto was found trying to crawl out of the tavern through the back door. Two soldiers grabbed him by the pauldrons of his armor and fought their way back to the front door to drop the wretched German in front of MacRae.

“Ah, Master Koenigsherr.” MacRae said, looking down at his officer like a disappointed father, “Welcome back. This be coming out of yer pay.”

Otto said nothing in response but instead showed a toothy, drunken grin. As he was hauled outside, MacRae took a last look at the state of the tavern, shook his head, and left; closing the door behind him just as a chair leg hit it.

Talbot Company, freshly restocked and well-rested, would continue their journey eastwards into Swedish territory. Spirits were high, bellies were full, and coin purses had been lightened. The men took every opportunity to distract themselves for they knew that in five days, many of them would not be alive to return to their fields and families.