Greve Olaf Stenbock, dressed in his armor and riding his war horse, waited with the full force of his Swedish regular army hidden in the tree line. Talbot Company hid with him, keeping his flanks and front covered with their pikemen and musketeers. The whinnying of the cavalrymen had to be kept quiet, so the combined allied cavalry force was placed far behind the main body.

The greve was growing impatient. It seemed that he had seen the English footpad sneak into the castle hours ago. Perhaps he was still trying to find a way inside, or perhaps he had fouled up somehow. The more the greve thought about it, the more worried he became. He was certain he heard shouting some time ago. Perhaps the poor boy was dead, for no red lantern lit the gates.

Just then, he saw something in the darkness: he could make out two figures, both walking slowly towards him. One was a male, walking with an awkward gait as if he were injured, and the other was definitely female – he could tell by the outline of her large, voluminous skirt. There should not have been any women out here except…

“Crista!” he yelled out, as he dismounted his horse and ran to meet her.

“Pappa!” she squealed as she ran to embrace him.

It seemed like it had been years. The two were finally reunited and shared a tearful hug. Greve Olaf Stenbock’s little girl was safe, and with her life secured, his inhibitions were released.

“I’m sorry I was late coming home, my love.” the greve said in their native Swedish.

“Oh, no, pappa. The guests were very rowdy, you would not have approved.” Crista replied with a giggle.

“And whom do I have to thank for the safety of my daughter?” he said, switching to French.

Fletcher, unsure of what he said, stepped forward. “I believe you said, ‘who’, milord?”

Greve Stenbock grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a great bear hug. His chest tightened against the greve’s steel armor, making it hard for him to breathe.

“… Milord…” Fletcher managed to say between gasps, “…I thank you?”

When the greve finally allowed him to breathe, he clapped him on the back and said in French, “My boy, you may have failed your original mission, but nonetheless you did a great thing for us. By freeing my daughter from captivity, you have earned my eternal gratitude and…”

“Pappa,” Crista said, tapping her father on the shoulder.

“Yes, my love?”

“While this man did manage to help me over the walls…” she stopped short. Crista was hungry for her father’s acknowledgment and attention. She was always neglected at home, and her father was almost always away. She wanted to tell him something that he could be proud of. She wanted to tell him that she escaped the castle by herself, but that would be discounting Fletcher’s efforts.

“Never mind, pappa.”

“Silly girl,” the greve said, giving her a tender kiss on her forehead. “Now where was I – yes. You, sir, have allowed us a great tactical opportunity. Now that my daughter is free, we may now begin using our artillery against that blasted palisade gate.”

“I understood the word ‘artillery’ from that, milord.”

The greve laughed heartily and slapped him on the back again, knocking the wind out of him.

“Boy, you may retire to the camp. Tomorrow, we assault the castle. But tonight, we open the good mead! Let us celebrate, for my daughter has come home to us!”

“Retire for mead, if I understood that correctly… yes milord, gladly!”

Fletcher took a slight bow and walked carefully back to Talbot Company’s camp. The pain in his back had not subsided, and the greve’s strangely affectionate hug may have made it worse. Still, he had little idea of what he did right, but he had correctly guessed that he had rescued the greve’s daughter. He would have a little of the cheap mead from Talbot Company’s stores tonight, mostly to dull the pain, for the next morning he feared that he might have to be sent out again.

The Swedes were more than grateful for Crista’s heroic rescue. It would mean one less charge over the walls. As promised, the casks of good mead were unsealed and the men drank freely, with Finnish eyes watching them in mischievous anticipation all the while.

The sound of a dozen pops of mead corks was followed by the trickling of wine into tankards, canteens, and cups. The sweet honeyed golden liquid was taken together with fresh venison that the Swedish musketeers had killed that afternoon, and men gathered to tell stories around their fireplaces.

Captain Henri Andersson sat by a fire together with a few Swedish cavalry officers, calmly nursing his mug of beer. He politely refused their mead and preferred to listen to their conversation rather than take part in it.

A veteran cavalry captain named Nilsson took a gulp of mead and said, “I just want you to know, boys, that whatever happens tomorrow, you can rest assured that God will be with us. These Catholic dogs no longer represent His message, and it is our duty to cleanse the fatherland of their filth.”

His statement was followed by cheers of “here, here” followed by the clinking of mugs and the downing of more mead.

Another officer by name of Hagman took a large swig of the golden brew and added, “If by tomorrow I have not killed more than a dozen men, then you have my permission to diddle my sister.”

The men laughed and kept laughing for the longest time, for a joke that was not even that funny.

Henri sat silently, observing their eyes and gestures. Nilsson began staring at his hands, while Hagman began swatting at insects that were not there.

“Captain Nilsson…” whispered Hagman, “You should see the size of these little flying Catholics.”

“I have no idea what you mean, sir – have spiders been living in our fingernails all this time?”

Henri, satisfied with a job well done, stood up and walked away from the fireplace. He watched as men around him yelled that the sky was about to swallow them whole, while others began flopping around on the dirt as if they were swimming. He had no idea how long the devil’s trumpet poison would last, but it was certainly entertaining to watch.

Unbeknownst to Bjornsson, Gunther Jaeger was also in the Swedish camp. He had come by to borrow a sharpening stone for his sword but instead arrived to see an army of madmen. People walked around trees in circles, danced without music, and laughed at the grass. It was true insanity.

What Gunther managed to notice was that they all held drinking vessels and the whole camp stank of mead. Thinking quickly, he rushed back to the Talbot Company camp to warn the others.

The mercenary officers, meanwhile, had just sat down with the greve and his daughter in MacRae’s command tent for a celebratory supper. A long table that was normally used for maps and lists was now laden with biscuits, fruit, various sausages, pickled herring, and soft bread. In the corner of the room, a large untapped cask of mead sat ready, beckoning to be drank from.

The officers actually arrived some time ago, but the food remained untouched. The two camp leaders – who shared opposing religious beliefs – could not decide how to say grace, and a simple disagreement had evolved into a bitter argument of passive aggression in French.

MacRae sat in his chair, hands folded in prayer, as he looked Greve Stenbock dead in the eye, “If his lordship would be so kind as to embrace the ancient and implanted traditions of Holy Mother Church that everyone here knows, then perhaps this food would not be growing cold.”

“And if the good colonel actually remembers that he is in a country where we do not pay lip service to God but instead pray with our hearts, then maybe we can finally start eating.” Greve Stenbock said between clenched teeth.

The other officers dared not speak a word, their eyes darting about at each other like embarrassed children at a family supper. Sophia slowly extended her hand, attempting to quietly reach for a moist piece of raisin pastry, but it was quickly swatted away by Don Alfonso, who gave her a scolding look.

“His lordship does not understand that more than half the people here present follow the Catholic faith. It would be highly fuckin’ improper if grace were said in the local tongue which we do not understand.” MacRae growled.

“And the colonel must be reminded that he is in Sweden under the banner of a Swedish noble and that his pay comes from Swedish coffers.” the greve hissed.

Just then, the tent flaps were thrown open and Gunther entered, shouting in English, “Do not drink the mead!”

The whole room stared at him in awkward silence.

“I apologize for interrupting your supper, Herr MacRae. There has been a… development… in the Swedish camp.”

The greve and Bjornsson stared anxiously at him as Crista translated what he was saying to Swedish.

“The men… they are… es war Wahnsinn, mein Herr. They are going mad.”

Greve Stenbock stood up from his seat, “What is this about my boys going mad I hear?” he said in French.

“Apologies, Herr Markgraf, but I believe that your mead may be… rotten.”

“That’s impossible.” the greve said, his eyebrows furrowing.

“I suggest you come and see for yourself.”

MacRae shot Greve Stenbock a cheeky smile and said, “My stubbornness in my faith has saved us from this misfortune and ye know it.”

The greve refused to acknowledge him and hurried out of his tent. MacRae rose to follow him, chuckling in satisfaction.

“Ye men may dine here while we see what all the kerfuffle is about. We have nary a need for every man to be there,” said the Scot as he left with Gunther following behind him.

As the tent flap closed behind him, the remaining officers seated at the table: Bjornsson, Otto, Don Alfonso, Sophia, Warwick, and Crista, all sat and stared at each other for a while, until Don Alfonso made a deep, defiant scowl and made the sign of the cross, giving death stares to the Protestants who sat at the opposite end of the table. He then began to say grace in the Catholic manner,

“Benedic nos Domine et haec Tua dona quae de Tua largitate sumus sumpturi. Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen.”

After crossing himself again, without looking away from the Swedes, he reached over the table and grabbed a loaf of bread. He nodded once and broke it.

Bjornsson, clearly offended, clasped his hands and muttered his own prayer, returning the don’s stare.

Warwick slowly reached for a spoon, hoping not to be noticed, while Otto threw his hands up in apathy and began eating. The girls exchanged an awkward look of confusion.

As the three men ate in irritated silence, Crista thought it would be pleasant for them to have a go at civilized discussion,

“So…” said Crista in near-perfect French, “that’s a very nice dress, miss…?”

“Fortezza, mia signora. Sophia Fortezza.” For once, Sophia could say her real name without concealing anything. It felt somewhat liberating.

“Ah, you are Italian. E cosi bello conoscerti! That explains your impeccable fashion sense! I have seen many dresses of the sort adorning the women of high society in Riga.”

Sophia smiled and switched to Italian herself, “You speak my language well. Where did you learn it?”

Crista’s smile dropped, “I… had a good tutor. I prefer not to discuss her.”

“I see…” Sophia said with genuine morose in her voice. The room was silent once more. The non-Italian speakers continued eating, oblivious to the tone of the conversation.

Don Alfonso now entered the conversation in Spanish, “So, what was it like, escaping from the tower? How did our man leche do it?”

Sophia clasped her hands under her chin and leaned in closer. “Yes, how did freccia do it?

“You two pronounce Messere Fletcher’s name quite oddly.” Crista said, chuckling, “But if you must know, he did nothing but catch me. I leaped out of the window myself.” she finished the sentence with a proud smile.

Don Alfonso and Sophia exchanged puzzled glances.

Crista acknowledged their disbelief, “I know I may not look the part, but I am actually quite the athlete. I used to spend many hours horseback riding, and I ran foot races quite a lot when I was a child.”

Sophia furrowed her brow in disbelief, “So… you chose that specific time on that specific date to jump out of your window?”

“Oh, heavens no. The window was barred for weeks. I reasoned I would never be strong enough to break the bars, but I noticed that the bars were built into a wooden frame. I was able to sneak a kitchen knife into my room one night and cut up the frame, little by little every day, until such a time that it weakened and I was able to kick away the window frame to freedom! Is that not truly amazing?”

Sophia narrowed her eyes.

Don Alfonso interjected, “You say you were a prisoner in the castle keep. How did you manage to sneak a knife into your chambers?”

“Oh, the guards posted at the castle were ordered not to harm me. After a while, they appeared as very large, living toy soldiers to me. A very strange sense of chivalry this Polish colonel has, willing to rape and murder servants and peasants but unwilling to do the same to noblewomen. If he had tried, I would have gutted him with my knife.”

“How many people have you killed, exactly?” Sophia said, her eyes still narrow, slightly annoyed at Crista’s exaggerated bravado.

“Until this evening, none.” she stopped at the thought. “As I recall I saved Messere Fletcher’s life. He was assaulted by a Polish guard and I had the opportunity to fend the brute off.”

“Signora, do you take me for a fool?” Sophia said, visibly irritated.

“Why the hostility, darling? I am merely telling the truth. But in all fairness, Messere Fletcher did save me from what could have been a most grievous and painful injury. As I was climbing down from the tower dangling by a rope that I made of sheets and my less expensive dresses from Riga, the brave messere thought to catch me, but instead, I landed on him in a most comedic fashion.” Crista let out a high pitched giggle.

Don Alfonso put a hand on Sophia’s shoulder, urging her to calm down, “There is some gravity to señorita Fortezza’s doubts, my lady. You do not seem like one who is prone to acts of violence.”

“Signore, I do not believe I caught your name?”

“Don Alfonso Villanueva y Santiago, my lady.”

“Ah, you are a Spaniard. Señor Villanueva,” she said with a smile, “when one is trapped as I was in my own home with little hope of escape, forced to watch as one’s friends are butchered and raped, and given all the reasons in heaven and on earth to hate a man, then one develops a certain righteous anger.”

Crista, still smiling, took the smallest bite of a grape and continued, “You know, I believe that I inherited my bravery from my father and my finesse from my mother – may her soul rest in peace. Illness took her while I was but in my cradle. From whereabouts did your parents come from, signora Fortezza?”

“Oh, my father was a textile merchant, signora. No one special.”

“Ah, I see he taught you some of the finer things about clothing and fashion. Did you make that dress yourself?”

“No, I purchased it with my own money.”

“Ah, excellent. Forgive me, I assumed that you commoner types would not have enough money to afford such finery. I have always felt so bad for you.”

Sophia, scowling, wordlessly tapped her index finger gently on her temple, in that unique sign language that her people were famous for. She was calling Crista a fool.

Crista was stumped for the first time. She knew the Italian language but she was never taught any of its subtle hand gestures. She assumed that Sophia was being rude but kept smiling politely. She would play this verbal war game. Noticing Sophia’s necklace, she remarked,

“That is an interesting looking necklace. Where did you purchase it?”

Sophia glared at the Swedish noblewoman, “I did not purchase it – I played for it in Schwedt.” The mere mention of the town brought back painful memories.

“Ah, Schwedt is a lovely town. I have been there but once. Of course, it pales in comparison to Riga.”

“What is so special about Riga?” Sophia cursed herself. She should have challenged her to dice to wipe the smile off her face, but instead allowed her to prattle on about this town she had never heard of.

“It is a fine place, love. Second largest city in the empire, you know. All the finest wines, silks, dyes, books and all those wonderful things can be found there. And I certainly believe that the jewelers of Riga would have been more kind to you than the German swindler who gave you that gaudy glass necklace. I myself have this necklace of pearls,” she said showing her neck, “Its elegance lays in its simplicity. The glass one you have is in poor taste, darling. May I suggest buying something in gold instead?”

Sophia was seething, but trying her best to keep her composure. She was about to spit out a retort when she was interrupted by a whirl of the tent flap. Greve Stenbock, MacRae, and Gunther had returned with worried looks on their faces.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the greve in French, “my regiment may be out of commission for some time. It appears as if the lot of them are overcome with a bout of laughing sickness. Our surgeons believe that recovery may take anywhere from overnight to three days. In the meantime, we must not assault the castle. We have agreed though, that it would be prudent to at least shell the walls to mitigate the enemy’s defenses.”

“How dreadful, pappa!” said Crista, wearing an expression of shock that somehow still managed to irritate Sophia, “Where are we to live while our own home is besieged? Perhaps we should stay with Aunt Rigmora in Riga?”

“Nonsense,” her father scoffed, “we will simply have to wait out the sickness for a few days and deny them food and supplies.”

Crista paused for a moment, her mouth agape, “Pappa, wait – do you mean to say that we shall be sharing quarters with... these…”

“Yes, we shall have to sleep and eat with the soldiers. Is this a problem, my dear?”

Sophia grinned. Perhaps miss pomp and arrogance would be put down a notch after all, she thought.