The allied camp was bustling with activity. Supply wagons and soldiers rolling barrels of black powder milled about, safeguarding valuable war materiel behind barricades. Greve Olaf Stenbock stood together with Captain Sven Bjornsson on a small hill that overlooked the whole camp and peered through a spyglass at the enemy fortification that was once his home.

“May I say, my lord,” said Bjornsson, “that it is a great pleasure to be able to fight under your service once more. It feels good to be speaking the mother tongue again.”

“It is indeed good to have you back, captain. What have you seen of the mercenaries while you lived and fought alongside them these past few weeks?”

Bjornsson looked towards Jarlsberg and breathed deeply, “I can say for certain my lord, that they are highly spirited and willing to be done with this as soon as God permits. They are reasonably trained and well-spirited, lord.”

“And most importantly with their strength in arms, I am confident that we outnumber the enemy.” the greve added.

“Forgive my impertinence, my lord, but what is stopping us from storming the castle now?”

The great oaken gate that had been breached during the siege had now been replaced with a hastily constructed wooden palisade gate made from fallen trees. It was nowhere near as sturdy as the original gate had been, and their new bronze cannons would make short work of it.

As far as enemy defenses, the leather cannons at the castle were still in place, augmented by the two longer ranged Polish six pounders that had originally caused the castle to fall. Breaching the walls or gate would not be a problem, but it was still something that the greve wanted to avoid.

“Crista is still inside.”

Bjornsson had not forgotten about the day when he was dragged outside the walls to be toyed with by his Tatar captors. He had simply assumed Crista had met the same fate or worse.

“How did you come about this news, my lord?”

“Ratsherr Fegelein sent me a message via pigeon. Curiously the same message also hinted at collusion with the Turks.” the greve said with raised eyebrows, “Although I do not see traces of a single Turkish Mohammedan here, I believe that we should not discount anything the ratsherr says.”

Bjornsson nodded in agreement and added, “What of the walls, lord?”

“Yes, that will be a problem. I have already considered that cannon fire might topple the keep, and we do not know whether they are keeping my daughter in there, or in the barracks, or in any other building within the walls. I believe this is a matter that should be discussed with the mercenary commander and his officers. Perhaps they can divine a solution to this problem.”

Bjornsson saluted his lord and walked off to find MacRae, leaving Greve Stenbock standing on the hill alone in contemplation. The thought crossed his mind that he was not sure if he could trust an army of paid ruffians to preserve the life of his pride and joy. However, he was not in any position to refuse their help. He had already given a letter of credit stating that he was willing to part with four thousand florins to pay the company and there was no taking that back now. The Swedish and Finnish regulars assembled outside of Jarlsberg numbered in the few hundreds and could not possibly hope to overrun a fortified position, while Talbot Company and its thousand men guaranteed that it would play a crucial role in the battle ahead. The matter was not up for debate – Crista’s life depended on the strength of arms of strangers of questionable reliability motivated solely by money.

“Ye want us to do nothing then, sir?” MacRae said in French as he stood before Greve Stenbock inside the Swede’s command tent. Standing together with MacRae were all of the Talbot Company officers, together with a few sergeants who were taking down notes. On Greve Stenbock’s side of the tent sat the Swedish officers and Bjornsson.

The two groups had been debating for some time about how to assault the castle without having to breach the walls.

“No, that is not correct, monsieur MacRae.”

“Colonel MacRae.” the Scot corrected immediately.

Greve Stenbock shot him an annoyed glare, but MacRae stood as he was, refusing to acknowledge the greve’s expression.

“… Colonel MacRae,” the greve relented, “as stated previously, the castle must not be fired upon for the sake of my daughter’s own safety.”

“Can we not gamble the soul of one person over the necessity of a breach that will ensure victory?”

“I cannot believe you are arguing with your client, sir!”

“And I sir, cannot believe that yer men want mine to walk ladders up to a castle brimming with cannon and expect to make it out alive!”

“There was also the proposition of a battering ram…”

“Yes, a battering ram which would take till Christ’s second coming to reach the walls of the castle, all the while being fired upon by cannon.”

Warwick raised his hand and hobbled forward, still on his crutches, “I have a suggestion, my lords. What if we used sabotage?”

Greve Stenbock shook his head, “Sir if you believe that I shall give you any permission to tunnel under my home and destroy its structural integrity…”

“No sir, not like that at all. We merely need a very small team of my fox-walkers.”

MacRae laughed, “Oh just like what ye did in Poland? That was time well spent indeed.”

Warwick rolled his eyes, “No that was completely different. What I am planning is a ruse so simple that even a child could pull it off. Gentlemen, what is our primary concern?”

“We are required to breach the walls without using artillery.” Greve Stenbock said, frustrated. He had gone over this a hundred times.

“Yes sir, but to what end?”

“Get to the point, man.”

“Of course, sir. Our primary objective is to enter the castle and force its surrender. We can do this by sending a single highly skilled fox-walker over the walls at night to open the gates, after which a handful of others will trickle in to burn down everything that can be set alight.”

Greve Stenbock sighed, “Sir you are forgetting that my daughter is still inside the castle.”

“If that be the case then she should simply be rescued before…”

“And that property still belongs to me. Your idea is sound, but I believe that we do not need to burn down my entire estate. One man over the walls – and you are sure that he will be able to open the gate?”

“Absolutely. It is only a matter of walking along the ramparts until he reaches the gate, in theory. It is a wooden palisade, gentlemen. Only one man is needed to open it. The army will be standing at the ready, waiting for his signal.”

“Which would be?”

“Ah, it shall be a red lantern that we can all see in the darkness. We shall find a lantern with red glass and have him hoist it up once the gates are open.”

“And if it fails?” the greve said with suspicion.

“Then we will only have lost one man.”

The English captain was right. The loss of only a single man would put barely a mark on Talbot Company’s numbers, and sneaking a single person across an open field was much easier than trying to hide a dozen men, even in the dark.

“Your idea is agreeable, captain. Which one of your men do you have in mind for this perilous task?”

“A certain James Fletcher, my lord.”

The crickets chirped in the meadow while the nocturnal denizens of the forest began to emerge from their hiding places. A lynx emerged from its den to begin its hunt, just as a certain hunter prepared to leave the safety of his camp and venture into the bowels of enemy territory.

James Fletcher, armed with his longbow, rondel dagger, and a grappling hook, crept up to the castle walls with the stealth and deftness of a small cat. His mission was simple – open the gates. The entire allied army had slept in shifts during the afternoon and was now standing by in the tree line waiting for the signal to attack the castle.

Fletcher chose his angle of attack – the western portion of the wall was far away from the barracks, according to Captain Bjornsson, but close enough to the gate so that he would not have to walk very far. The looming keep was the closest building to that part of the wall, and its immense size would hide him well. As Fletcher threw the grappling hook over the wall and began to climb, he could not help but think that something was amiss. The guards on duty on the wall had lanterns as he did, and he was supposed to simply light his lantern to signal the attack? He was certain he misunderstood something.

With the walls scaled, he looked around for any guards that might be patrolling the walls. Pausing for a while in complete stillness, he waited, watched, and listened. There were no sounds, no movement. He was about to proceed forward when suddenly he saw something from the window of the keep. An entire window frame, bars and all, came crashing from the fourth floor. This was immediately followed by a long rope that was apparently made of bed sheets and clothes that were tied together. A figure, dressed in what appeared to be a bright pink gown, began climbing down from the open window.

Fletcher could not believe what he was seeing. Part of him wanted to continue on with his mission, but the other part wanted to see what would happen to this girl.

Her descent was slow and awkward. She was swinging precariously, attempting to find footholds where there were none. She was likely about to fall.

Fletcher’s conscience gnawed at him. He wanted to help, but could not risk the mission. If the girl fell he would have to live with it for the rest of his life. If he jumped off the ramparts now, the only way up again would be through the stairs that were likely well guarded. The drop from the ramparts was a little more than the height of a man, but the drop from where the girl was hanging was surely fatal.

Fletcher’s choice was made for him when one of the girl’s hands lost its grip. She now dangled from her blanket rope by the strength of her grip and five fingers alone. Fletcher cursed his luck and jumped off the ramparts, sprinting to where he believed she’d land.

At that moment, her strength failed her and she fell several feet, landing on Fletcher. The impact of a woman that weighed a hundred pounds was enough to cause him to collapse on the ground as he caught her, but at least she fell without screaming.

The first thing Fletcher noticed, aside from the pain in his back, was her distinct smell, like fresh peaches.

“Ach, min rygg gör ont!” the girl whispered as she climbed off of Fletcher.

“Almighty Lord, the continent is like Babel.” Fletcher said as he lay on the dirt in pain.

“Engelska språket? You are English?”

Fletcher, stunned for a moment by the fact that this strange window-climbing girl was speaking to him in his own language, managed to stutter a reply,

“Well… yes. Yes, I am.”

“What is you do here?”

Therein lay the problem. She did not speak it well.

“I uh… I was trying to open the gates.”

“Varför?”

“What?” Fletcher said. He thought she sounded like a small puppy.

“Oh, sorry; why for?”

“Well… I believe we are trying to take back this castle.”

“When jobber you for?”

Fletcher shook his head, “What?”

“I speak plainly, when jobber you for?”

Fletcher had had enough and stood upright, being careful not to make the slightest noise as he did so.

“Stay close behind me – if your intention was to escape, then stay with me.”

“I understand. I shall follower you.”

Fletcher shook his head as he took her hand. He could not see her face clearly in the darkness, but she had very soft and tender hands.

Fletcher crept close to the wall, trying his best to be silent, but the girl’s long gown kept rustling against the short grass. Fletcher cursed at himself and turned to face the girl.

“Madame, please, stop and stay here.”

“Yes, I stay.” she said, “Hurry till back.”

Fletcher sighed in frustration as he crept forward, hugging the walls towards the gate. He prayed that the guards would not find him. The gate was only fifty paces ahead of him, and he could see a single guard with his lamp standing on top of a staircase that led up to the ramparts, effectively blocking Fletcher’s way.

Fletcher had no choice – he had to knock out or kill the guard to open the ramparts. Therein lay the problem – Fletcher had yet to kill a man at close quarters, but he knew it had to be done.

Fletcher’s dagger unsheathed with a whisper as he crept up to the unsuspecting soldier. He could hear the man gibbering in Polish, probably complaining about how his life could be spent better elsewhere. His heartbeat raced, and his palms became sweaty. He was not sure how he was supposed to go about this. Perhaps it would be like sticking a knife into a deer’s throat? He would attempt to stab him through his neck. Maybe he could cover his mouth with his left hand and deliver the murder stroke with his rondel. A man with no windpipe would not be able to summon the other guards. It would have to be swift and catlike.

He tried to brush the thoughts out of his mind that this man had a family, perhaps a child that he would go home to. He held his breath, not wanting the slightest sound to escape his body as his left hand extended ever so slowly over the guard’s shoulder, while his right hand prepared to deliver the kill strike.

“Psst… English.” whispered the girl from behind.

The Polish soldier turned around, and Fletcher, in a panic, thrust his dagger into the man’s left eye, causing him to scream in pain and terror; shouts in Polish echoed from the barracks.

“You have now buggered us both, my lady.” he said with an exasperated gasp.

“Sorry!” she said, still whispering.

To Fletcher’s surprise, the Polish soldier was still alive. He yelled something at the Englishman in his guttural language and reached for his weapon – a long poleaxe – and swung it at him, who instinctively stepped back, causing him to tumble off the ramparts. He landed on the cold, hard, earth; which did little to cushion his fall. The Polish soldier, with the dagger still in his eye, descended the rampart’s stairs to finish him off, screaming as he went.

The soldier now stood over Fletcher, about to deliver his killing blow, when suddenly he was tackled to the earth by the girl. Shocked, Fletcher stood up to see the girl stabbing away at the man using the dagger she had pulled out of his eye.

“By the grace of God, you are a violent one.”

“Come! No time!” the girl said as she ran towards the gate.

Still in pain from the fall, Fletcher managed to get on his feet and ambled to the giant palisade doors. The heavy bar that locked the doors tight had to be removed before the troops could be let in. Clutching the bottom of the bar, he pushed up with all his remaining strength. It barely budged. The girl tried to help him by lifting from the other side, but even their combined strength was not enough to lift the great wooden beam.

The shouts in Polish were getting closer. The patter of feet could be heard in the distance – people were running their way.

Fletcher groaned in agony and frustration. He was likely going to die here. He thought that at least he was not going to die a virgin.

The girl had no such plans – she grabbed him by the hand and led him up the ramparts.

“Come, we jump!”

“What?!”

Before Fletcher could complain any further, the girl pushed him over the walls, and he fell screaming, falling a short distance before thankfully being caught by the downward slope of the castle’s earthen defenses. The girl followed shortly afterward. Polish sergeants barked search orders behind the wall just as she jumped over.

Fletcher could hardly believe it – although he had failed his mission, he was alive, and it was thanks to this strange girl.

“Where is this house?”

Assuming she was asking about where he was supposed to go, he pointed to the tree line. Without a moment’s hesitation, the woman ran off into the woods, beckoning him to follow.

Since the soldier’s lamp had died with him, there was only moonlight to illuminate their path. Fletcher was glad that the Polish had chosen to search within the camp rather than look over the walls. Mustering the rest of his strength, he ran after her into the woods.

After they had run a distance to where they were comfortably out of sight of the castle’s guards, they stopped to rest. Both were panting heavily, with their hands resting on their haunches.

“What is your name, milady?” Fletcher asked.

“Crista Stenbock.” she said with a smile.