Loïck walked out of his tent, enveloped in a heavy and warm cape. He had been summoned by his liege, as well as the other knights in his service. Taking a brief look at the sun more or less hidden behind clouds, he deduced that the night would soon fall. As he strolled through the camp, the noises of soldiers doing their activities hardly overshadowed the harsh and cold wind. It would only get worse, however, as winter slowly crept closer.

He tightened the cape around him, and sped up his walk. From his right another figure appeared, walking in the same direction as him.

“Alexander?” He asked, not sure if the man was his comrade or not. He too was heavily clothed against the cold.

“Loïck! You too have been summoned?” The man he recognised as Alexander exclaimed jovially. The man always seemed happy without reason, which could sometimes be nice, and other times it was simply incredibly annoying.

“Obviously. You have any idea why?” Loïck asked curiously. He didn’t expect a positive answer, but then again, sometimes Alexander surprised him.

“Not in the slightest.” He admitted. “Maybe he wants to inform us of our next course of actions?”

“I doubt it. Mercenaries are rarely informed of their master’s strategies.”

“Well, we’re sworn knights, not mercenaries, so he could tell us and maybe even ask for advice.” Alexander continued, refusing to let go of his idea.

The truth was, as Loïck had experienced, that knights were, in the end, nothing more than mercenaries, though maybe an elite of the kind. The concept was the same; the lord housed the knight and gave him food and shelter and a privileged status, in exchange for the knight’s sword and obedience. Oaths were nothing but words and could be broken at a moment’s notice. Such was the cruel reality of this world, whatever some may say.

They walked into the big tent, and saw that there were already a dozen knights inside. They were all old veterans, Loïck being the exception. He enjoyed a privileged rank, being Lord Wilhelm’s nephew.

The Lord in question stood before them, with his hands behind his back. He had a well-kept beard which outlined his square jaw, and calm brown eyes. He was neither young nor old, but carried himself with the dignity and strength expected from a lord.

“I see the last have arrived.” He said, looking at the two newcomers. He waited for a moment, gathering their full attention. “The war is over.” He then announced.

“My conquests have been recognised, thanks to the intervention of the Talian Republic. In exchange, I have promised them my full support in their upcoming campaign against the barbarians in the north. So, I will have to send all of you to join their army as soon as possible. Sir Rorik will take command, and you will leave the day after tomorrow, at dawn.”

The men began furiously talking amongst themselves, while Loïck was flabbergasted. This was suicide. The winter was approaching, and he was sending them north to fight? Another knight voiced his exact thoughts to the lord.

“I have not been informed of their strategy, but it is my belief that the Republic will use the winter to muster an army, and only attack in spring, so don’t worry too much about it. Now, you’re dismissed.” The knights slowly left the tent, but Loïck stayed. He walked up to Lord Wilhelm, who noticed his presence.

“Sir Loïck, my nephew.” He said in a neutral tone.

“You’re going to send me north?” He asked, trying to control his anger.

“Yes, I am.” The man uttered calmly.

“I’m not going north! I’m gonna freeze to death! You can send me south, or whatever, but not north!” He dreamed of going to the vinelands, a place in the southern coasts which was not only reputed for their excellent wine. It was said that the nobles down there lived in a constant exotic utopia, enjoying slaves and having seas where you could actually bath in without danger.

Lord Wilhelm furrowed his brows, and took a step nearer. He was tall, though slightly shorter than Loïck.

“You are way out of line, boy. Get out of my tent, and count yourself luck that we share the same blood.” He said coldly.

Loïck maintained his stare for a few more seconds, and then left the tent. He was confident that the man wouldn’t dare lay a hand on him, but then again, he didn’t want to push it too far. His father had never shown any restraints in regard to punishments, so if Wilhelm were to inform him...

He hadn’t given up yet, however. There were still ways to get out of this. Fighting could be thrilling, but war certainly wasn’t. He would prefer gaining glory in tournaments, where there were alcohol and women and festivities, over gaining it in war, where a single lucky arrow could take him down. Plus, 99 percent of the time was just marching, wearing the heavy armour which was freezing in winter and burning in summer, bathing in your own sweat and only stopping to eat cold and subpar food.

He marched back to his tent with fury, giving a good kick to a helmet lying before a tent. A soldier stuck his head out of the tent, and shouted some obscenities after him.

Loïck made a quick turnaround, walked right back to the soldier who was now watching him with a mix of uncertainty and anger. The man went out of his tent to face him.

“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re...” He was interrupted by a swing to his face. Loïck broke the young man’s nose, causing him to fall on his butt with a grunt while holding his bloodied nose.

Loïck quickly walked away before his comrades came out to check the commotion.

“Bastard.” He mumbled between two breaths. He arrived at his tent and passed next to Nicolaus and George, who were practising together. His page was about to ask him something, when Nicolaus gave him a hit on the head to stop him. He knew all too well not to disturb the knight when he was in this mood. That was the main cause why his arm was in bandages, after all.

Loïck entered his tent, immediately sitting down on his retractable wooden chair. He rested his chin on his fist, still fuming with anger. He could quit Lord Wilhelm’s service all together, and leave on his own. But his father would be severely disappointed, maybe even disinherit him. He would certainly lose face before his brother and peers. The actions of oneself reflected on the family, and they would all hate him for dishonouring them. Except his mother.

A moan coming from his bed of furs interrupted his thoughts. He took a quick look, and saw the whore he had taken from a village a few days ago. Normally he wouldn’t take them with him, but this time it had been different. She had almost begged him to take her away from the village. At the time he had been feeling invigorated, full of power before the weak feeble peasants, and had granted her request. Of course, the fact that she was a peerless beauty had helped him decide.

She sat up on the furs, slowly waking up again. In the last days she had thoroughly enjoyed her new condition, the luxury of this simple tent being far more than she had ever experienced before.

His eyes fell on her breasts, not huge, but round and perky as he loved them. Not many girls with a thin stature like her had breasts like that. She shook her blonde and long hair, which was newly washed. He would never have let her in his tent, if she hadn’t been thoroughly cleaned up beforehand, even in this cold weather.

“Loïck... What’s bothering you?” She said in a curious voice, seeing him sitting in his chair without saying a word.

“Shut your mouth.” He said with irritation, looking away from her, still full of anger. Besides, he shouldn’t give her any power over him. His mother had taught him the dangers of women, and how not to succumb to them. The first and most important part was to never let them into your head.

She looked annoyed for a second, but then rose up and clothed herself in a dress and a cape of wool. He didn’t know where she was going, but refused to ask her. Because if he asked her, it would mean he cared. Which he obviously didn’t. Plus, he just told her to shut up. It would be contradicting if he asked her a question now.

He nevertheless watched her leave the tent, fully remembering the round and soft bottom under the thick layers of wool.